For Zippy, Trent, 3D and those Crooklyn Daze  - It’s worth the entire read.

NYIT
Several years ago, Zippy, myself, and brother Trent were attempting to better ourselves by taking continuing education classes at the New York Institute of Technology.  The course we were enrolled in was a Macromedia Flash class enabling it’s students to make their websites interactive and multimedia capable. The class met every Saturday afternoon through the early winter.  Ironically, years later I have yet to use any of the skills learned, or not learned in that class.  I went on to become a teacher.  Zippy and Trent went on to pursue careers in web development, multimedia marketing, and graphic design. One would think the time and money I spent on the class were wasteful, but, and there is always a but when Zippy, Trent and myself venture about the great big apple and it’s surrounding boroughs, there was another class held after NYIT’s afternoon session.  The class we held was drinking, bar hopping, bedlam, and self-destruction.  The lessons, and now famous stories experienced from our own alcohol-ridden curriculum have proven to be priceless.

Enter Armpits
A neo hippie, tech savvy woman named Tina taught the class.  Tina believed in the unbridled, world uniting power of the Internet, and not using soap, deodorant, or any sort of hygienic products. Immediately, when class commenced there was a funk in the small, stagnant room.   The funk emanated from Tina, from pits, or from Armpits.  This is what she instantly became know as to the three musketeers.   Tina lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.  This detail is important so please file for future reference, but for present, prevalent information it too is vital.  Williamsburg is the bastion of “too cool to be in school”, “starving artists”, “woe is me”, “let me leave behind my upper class suburb surroundings and upbringing so I can go metropolitan, get a tattoo, listen to emo rock, eat Thai food, and pontificate on the meaning behind bullsh*t, obscure European films”. So now knowing the mailing address of Tina, you, the reader, can see how by not taking a shower, growing your armpit hair out, and using soap is a political statement, and, or a form of cultural rebellion.  To break it down for the peeps, she stunk, and was privileged enough to have an apartment with plumbing; she should have used it, and shaved down. Be a lady.

While class was being held Zippy would walk right in front of “Pits” and crack as many windows as possible, supplying the sufferers with clean, pure, wholesome mid town New York oxygen.

Class Dismissed
Once the class came to an end, the real learning began, and serious, profound debates were sounded. For example, “Where do you want to hit first?” “What are you going to start class with, beer, a gentlemen’s drink?” “Who’s joining us?” “This is going to be a great session.”

Editor’s Note
Good people, loyal readers, I would like to let you know that all of the events that are about to be told actually happened all in one day.  The confusion lies in which detail took place during what Saturday session.  Dates and times are fuzzy, so I will throw together a potpourri of laughs, and chaotic happenings.  There is one common thread throughout all of the events though, Vodka and Redbull.  Incoming.  All hands on deck.

Class Dismissed Resumed
The three of us would make our way down town to eventually cross the river and venture into our home turf, Brooklyn.  Several bars were visited as we made the southern exodus.  Numerous friends, and accomplices were met and conversed with.  If we were in your neighborhood then a call would be put in, and friends would be united.  The menu of drinking always started with beer, but eventually the chalkboard scratching words would be uttered by Zippy.  This is when there would be an eclipse of the alcohol star and moon. Brief darkness would fall on Trent, myself and the other constituents of the bar when Zippy would say,” I’ll have a Vodka and Redbull.” From here on in Trent and myself knew there was going to be fireworks in Brooklyn, or at the last watering hole we visited before crossing over into Crooklyn.   Trent and I would shake our heads at one another like two research scientists coming upon a very interesting, perhaps ground breaking, but yet volatile discovery. He’s a grown man, a brother in arms, who are we to question.

Formula:  Zippy  +  Vodka  + Redbull  =  Bedlam

The darkness would pass, the chatter of the bar would resume, and the afternoon would slowly turn into night.

Shotgun!
One late afternoon, early evening session brought us to a watering hole called, if I remember correctly “The BQE”.  It was located under, well, you guessed it, the Brooklyn/Queens Expressway.  It was in walking, stumbling distance from Trent’s loft.  On our way there one of us decided it would be a good idea to pick up some garbage cans and begin throwing them around the street.  There is a good possibility some of the cans hit some parked cars.  There is also a very good possibility that on the streets of Brooklyn such noise will bring attention to yourselves.  It’s also very possible that a homeowner, a car owner will storm out of his apartment with a shotgun.  It also very, very possible that a semi-conscious friend screamed, ”That dude has a shotgun.”

A quick, sudden dash - we made it to the BQE and continued drinking.  No shots fired.  No lessons, none, learned.  I’m not making Zippy a scapegoat for our collective, reckless behavior, but his vodka, redbull drinking did elevate the intensity, and added to the rambunctious group dynamic. I love you Zippy.   If Zippy was drinking Red Bull then others were motivated to emulate, and join in with the band. “Redbull and Vodka for me too.”

Bike Demolition
After an intensive session, I recall a bicycle being ‘borrowed’ and then used as a battering ram to knock over a large collection of tin garbage cans.  The thing about the tin garbage cans, well, they were located inside of Trent’s building just outside of each loft door.  His building was an old converted warehouse, the walls, the ceilings, the floors were all concrete. Sound got trapped in the hallways, and never escaped. So how loud do you think it was when all of us took turns riding the bike full blast into six to eight garbage cans, alternating from one neighbor to another?  LOUD.

Obnoxiously loud was the resetting up of the large cans that were now treated as bowling pins, and the selection of the next vodka and redbull crash test dummy.

“Dude, you go now. Charge!”

The selected rider stormed into the cans, leaving very large black skid marks from the bike’s tires, and catapulted himself into the pins.  One of Trent’s neighbors, a man more intoxicated and high than us, maybe even ossified, stormed out of his loft to see what all the ruckus was.  He yelled at us for about 30 seconds, and left the same way he came, suddenly.  Not one of us understood one, not one sole word he said.  He was born in this country, and not one word was legible, but he was sincere, and succinct. Respect.

Full Contact Cement Wrestling
Often Zippy’s vodka and redbull drinking would lead to wrestling matches in the streets of Brooklyn, and downtown Manhattan.  The ring was the street.  Obviously, there was no padding on the deck.  It was cement.  Oddly enough Zippy would attempt to push his opponent’s, his friend’s face, into the concrete.  It was, I guess one could say, all in good fun.  Side Note/Shout Out - Tyler you are a saint.  Tyler received many a tackling, sparring session with Zippy.  He always kept his cool, laughed, and damned the evils of vodka and redbull.

“I Lost My Favorite Sunglasses”
A tie in with full contact cement wrestling is one monumental match that took place in the filthy gutters of Greenwich Village.  After hours, I mean hours of drinking, and inhaling redbull and vodkas, Zippy and Trent wrestled in the damp, dirty, streets, drawing much attention to themselves, and me as I laughed at them.  There were no injuries, luckily, but there was a casualty - Zippy’s favorite sunglasses were lost in the may lay.  Probably, they ended up in the sewers, never to be donned by Zippy again.   Those passing by were both frightened and amused, a typical NYC reaction.

“You Have To Leave Now”  - A Fitting End
3D, a roommate of Trent’s, was a fine bar keep at The Village Lantern, and a generous friend.  We would saddle up at his fine establishment and be treated to some fairly priced drinks, free.  Of course this would lead to trouble, especially when 3D asked us to sit away from the actual bar, and take over a booth right in front of the open bay window. Sorry 3D, but being a bar tender, a friend in the know, and and Irishmen you should have known not to situate us in front of an actual live movie screen.  As the cast of downtown, Greenwich Village characters would pass by the loud, open windows of The Village Lantern, well we would insult them, and get ourselves involved in some sort of colorful conversation. If the on screen talent were ladies, well then we were gentlemen, and acted accordingly.  We were a rowdy audience.  3D would eventually have to act the role of the theater usher, bartender, and bouncer (to his own friends), and say,” You have to leave now.”

3D was in the right, and we were in the wrong.  Redbull and vodka was in the wrong.  Those hilarious, often foolish benders were extraordinary times.  Now am I just beginning to process the staying power those Crooklyn daze had on myself, my brother, our friends and the life long bond formed in the bar and streets of down town Manhattan, and Brooklyn.  Make no mistake, there was hell to pay the following morning, sometimes mornings. It was worth it, every damn time.  Since those hell raising Saturdays, I’ve never been the same, I’m for the better, full of tales and grins that still come to my face when reminiscing; Brooklyn isn’t the same, she’s for the worse.  She misses those Saturday sessions.

It was worth it, every damn time.

The Hook - I Didn’t Forget
Months, if not a year or so later, the Saturday sessions continued without any classes at NYIT.  We changed the entire curriculum and syllabus, go straight to the bars, no classroom needed.  Trent, Zippy, 3D, myself and a few other lads were enjoying a lovely summer afternoon, patronizing an outdoor lounge in Williamsburg.  Zippy made a run to the mac machine. He returned with a huge smile on his face, and a long lost acquaintance, Armpits Tina.  They bumped into one another at the mac.  We bought her a drink; she showered that day.  She had no idea what she gave birth to.

Brooklyn has never been the same, neither have we.

It was worth it, every damn time.

Next Up: Eat, Drink and Be Merry For Tomorrow…

Resist. Multiply. Don’t Drink Vodka and Redbull