I’m comedian Vinnie Vitale, I’m 30 years old now. I have a steady job, a steady girlfriend, and recently moved into my own apartment.
Life is going great.
And I feel more uncomfortable than ever.
Stability. It scares me. It’s like an unfamiliar guest that shows up at my door when I least expect. I’m never sure how to welcome him. I’m more inclined to bid him farewell in advance so I can get on with my unstable life.
I’m accustomed to “instability”, the lingering pest that overstays his welcome and prevents you from ever getting you life together.
He makes you stay out late at night, pushing you have another drink. When you get home, he raids all your cabinets. You wake in the morning on your couch – because instability “made you sleep there” — only to realize the motherf*cker cleared out your fridge too.
Your apartment’s a mess; it’s a Tuesday; you don’t have time to brush your teeth because you’re already 30 minutes late to work – and f*ck, where are my pants?! Did instability take those too? I swear, I’m never inviting him over again. That guy’s a d*ck.
If society has it’s way, instability and I won’t be hanging out much longer.
And I think I’m okay with that.
In fact, I’m even willing to give up a thing or two to prevent him from sticking around.
At least for a month at a time…
Originally this post was supposed to be about my experience giving up whiskey for a month. I did give up a whiskey for roughly a month; in light of recent events, I have decided to start drinking it again.
It all started Sunday evening, June 8th when I parked my car in a Tuesday street cleaning spot in Hoboken. After contemplating the inconvenience of moving my car again in two days, I parked anyway on the basis of “f*ck it, I don’t feel like looking for another spot right now.”
What’s Murphy’s Law? If something can go wrong it probably will? I don’t know who Murphy is or why he has his own law, but my parking decision was more like Murphy’s Snowball Butterfly Chain Reaction Effect Law.
The Magic Show
It’s rarely a good idea to drink on a Monday night. It’s an even worse idea when it’s at a work dinner party with your boss, who doesn’t even drink. Bad things can happen. For example, you can get robbed outside Port Authority on your way home.
In all fairness, I would not say the link between drinking and getting robbed is completely direct; but it probably had something to do with it. When you’re sober and a straggly-looking Jewish guy in a baseball cap with long hair and a Merlin-inspired beard approaches asking to use your phone, you may be more prone to consider the possibility of him robbing you.
With a rolling suitcase behind him, he appeared a lost tourist when I encountered him while texting on my phone, head down, practically colliding. He anxiously requested to use it and before I could muster a response, somehow it wound up in his possession. He continued to walk briskly while dialing and I grew annoyed demanding he give it back.
Then he came to a stop and put the phone to his ear, but instead clumsily dropped it down a stairwell. “Oops, sorry man,” he stated in a dumbfounded tone.
“Dude! What the f*ck?” I looked at him scornfully before hopping over the gate and crawling under the stairs. As I frantically felt around the ground in the dark for an iPhone, my hand brought up an empty phone case. He had made my iPhone disappear.
Furious, I emerged from the stairwell on a warpath for this guy. Only he, too, had disappeared. I searched around the area but he was nowhere to be found. Yet, something intrigued me.
Across the parking lot where the initial interaction had occurred I noticed two suspicious characters talking: a ghetto-rich white guy in a wife-beater wearing a fitted baseball hat, gold chain, and brand new shoes; and a disheveled black guy in dirty clothes and a cap, holding a plastic bag—with a rolling suitcase behind him.
I would spend the next 2 hours trying to bring down an entire thug operation where criminals pose as lost tourists in order to hijack unsuspecting patrons’ phones. It took 3 minutes of qualitative analysis for me to figure it all out. That’s me, Vinnie Vitale. Vigilante of justice. Drunk and full of terrible judgment.