The aftermath of Mike Brown's drunken antics. Photo: Mike Abu
I hope to God, if there is one, that my landlord doesn’t read this article. I’m not concerned so much about the maintenance guy giving this page a gander. He’s a nice dude, but never really fixes anything in my apartment, anyway. I’m OK with not getting my deposit back, but I really like my apartment and an eviction at this point would likely be justified by the next 800 or so words. But fuck it … You all want to know how I live, right?
Think of this article as an episode of Cribs without the pretentious, rich ass-clowns making you feel bad for not having a hot tub propped up on stripper poles encrusted with platinum-framed mirrors in the middle of your arcade room. Although, my apartment is just as eccentric in certain ways—I have a life-size John Stockton vinyl die-cut that adorns my living room ceiling.
Let’s get one thing out of the way right now: I’m messy. I’m not messy like those people on that Hoarders show. I try not to let things smell bad. But my busy, jet-setting lifestyle and distrust of maid services (be it topless or otherwise) don’t allow for a clean pad. At least I’m not lazy—I believe you have to disperse some energy and effort in order to make a mess.
I personally don’t look at my messy apartment as a mess, it’s my own special brand of Feng Shui, the ancient Chinese art of creating positive energy with how all your shit is arranged.
Messy or not, my roommate Abu is in a constant battle with the pile that my apartment has become, so much so that he pays his rent by doing the dishes. It’s a perfect arrangement, but in retrospect, maybe we smashed so many dishes the other night because Abu didn’t want to do them and not because we were mad at girls and the world.
I’ll get to that part in a minute. First, let me explain my kitchen. I am no Betty Crocker. Cooking absolutely trips me out. It’s not my strong point. My skills around the stove tap out at about Rice-a-Roni. In my house, the kitchen’s primary functions include a fridge to keep my Natural Lights cold, a surface to tape a Jazz season schedule to (along with other various flyers and pornographic materials) and a dirty counter top I can do shots of Beam off of.
I still have half a birthday cake in my fridge that Angela gave me when I turned 30 a year and a half ago. It’s one of those picture cakes. I don’t have a copy of the picture anywhere and I really like it. Since I don’t use my fridge for much of anything else, why the fuck should I throw this cake out? Besides, the fucker is hard as concrete by now.
As most of my Facebook friends know, the other night Abu and I were having one of our routine conversations about girls and why they suck and why we don’t (even though I know nine times out of 10 it’s the other way around). It was 3:30 a.m. and we both happened to be nearly blackout drunk. Luckily, Abu was smart enough to record the conversation and post it on YouTube and our Facebook walls.
It’s a four-part series that can be found if you go to YouTube and search “Mike Brown and Mike Abu discuss girls,” or just creep my Facebook wall. It’s definitely some of the dumbest shit I’ve ever done drunk, recorded or not. As one Facebook comment so eloquently said, “I feel like I’m watching an episode of Intervention.”
Our disgruntled frustrations were quickly taken out with a punch to the fridge. I don’t know why, but I have a habit of fighting inanimate objects (like walls and trees) when I’m upset. My record vs. trees is roughly 4-3. But with walls? Well, the wall always wins in a fight. I’m definitely 0-3 in that category. Abu felt the same way last week and put all our kitchen knives in said wall before we began smashing all of our dishes with a hammer.
The hammer was conveniently located within arm’s reach of where I was sitting near my gas stove. While hammering our dishes we also attacked a banana and two frying pans that somehow got in the way, kind of like friendly fire.
Our kitchen also contained a working blowtorch and a vase full of roman candles—two items that should never be around people as drunk as Abu and me. The burn marks are surprisingly minimal, not nearly as evident as the cuts on my hands. The fact that I was sitting in front of a gas stove when I lit the roman candle was a wake up call as to what my epitaph would be if I had blown up Abu and myslef. ‘Here lies one very stupid, stupid man.’
The last time my kitchen saw carnage like what Abu and I unleashed on it was when our friend Bernard got blackout drunk and peed all over it right in front of me while I begged him to stop. It was seriously the longest pee I have ever seen a man take and it was all over my cereal and rice cooker.
I can’t lie though, destroying your kitchen and lighting off illegal fireworks indoors is pretty fun. So fun that a lot of people, in all seriousness, have been asking me if they can come over to my apartment and break some stuff. The answer is no. I’m just not that punk rock, sorry.