Memoirs of an Aspiring Guido
I have recently moved to the big apple from Winnetka Ill, a north shore suburb of Chicago. Winnetka is a place rich with Nordstrom Catalogs, Jeep Grand Cherokees, and soft spike golf shoes; sadly however, it is nearly void of guidos. I traveled here to NY City to seek my fortune and broaden my horizons. It was not until a group of friends that hail from the Northern Jersey suburb of Franklin Lakes led me on an expedition that would change my life forever. Much of the night was a blur; a veritable whirlwind of L.A. Looks hair-care products and manicures that would rival the Sistine Chapel. I look back on it now and it pains me to think that I went through the first 24 years of my life without ever knowing that grown men could wear colored sunglasses inside; without ever knowing that an IROC isn't just a car, it's a way of life; but most of all without ever knowing what it meant to be a guido.
It was the middle of August and I was in Manasquan, NJ. I had never been to the Jersey shore before, but 5 dear friends who needless to say all have last names the end either with an "A" or an "O" guaranteed me a great time. I had showered and changed in to my finest Anglo-Saxon outfit: conservative Banana Republic head to toe. As I sat in the living room I heard my friends arrive. Rather, I heard them start the car 3 miles away and drive to pick me up. I opened the front door and was greeted by about 200 decibels of pure bass. In Winnetka, the most anyone does to augment the appearance of their automobile is an occasional bumper sticker or even a textured steering wheel grip. This "ride"; however, took it to a whole new level. In front of me loomed a midnight blue BMW 5 series with those razor thin racing tires and chrome rims that looked more like serving trays than wheels. The iridescent glow of neon lighting from the undercarriage of the car perfectly accented the chrome howitzer sticking out the back which I can only assume was some sort of exhaust pipe. As I crammed in the back seat, I immediately discerned that my choice of outfit was a poor one. 3 of the 4 guys had on what appeared to be wetsuits and the fourth was wearing a skintight shirt with collars large enough that the car might have taken flight if we were to open a window while driving. The smell of Versace cologne was thick in the air as we approached our destination: DJais Nightclub in Belmar. After cruising by the line waiting outside 2 or 3 time we finally parked, turned off the stadium sound, and got into line. If the Incredible Hulk turned brown instead of green, then thatís who I happened to be standing behind in line that night. The sheer size of the dudes waiting to get in this place was enough to make any 5'8 155 lb. Midwesterner a little uneasy.
I paid my cover charge and walked into heaven. First and foremost, allow me to compliment the women that flock to the guido. Within the first 2 minutes of being there I became convinced that women were created simply to wear black jazz pants. My friends and I stood in the back for a while downing Coors light by the fistful. They were busy looking hard and I was trying to look approachable. It didn't take long to figure out approachable doesn't mean jack sh*t when it comes to the jersey shore. It was time to get aggressive. What I didn't realize is that, unlike the typical pristine Midwestern girl, these Jersey Girls can dish it out. I was greeted with such pleasantries as "Get the F- away from me, Limpdick" or "You wish, jackass". I loved every minute of it. I finally met one young vixen named Tammy that decided my right thigh would be the perfect place to exhibit the benefits of a daily Thighmaster workout routine. Despite the miniature glowstick that was in her mouth, I still managed to kiss her goodnight. Inevitably, as the night progressed, the shirtless male population increased dramatically. Suddenly, I was surrounded by pectoral muscles bigger than my head and shoulders wide enough to comfortably rest a mid size family sedan upon. To say they were huge would be a gross understatement. I mean, I go to the gym 6 days a week and I even drink those protein shakes, but any guy in this place could squash my head like a peeled grape without thinking twice. Last call came and went, but before we left one of my friends had to exchange words with some guy that looked more like a freight train with highlights than regular human. I managed to not get involved and avoided the possibility of this man-beast turning my skull into paste. Back in Manasquan, I indulged in the house party scene until my chin hit the floor. I awoke with the right side of my face stuck to the linoleum kitchen floor of some beach house covered with keg spillage, plastic bankers club vodka bottles and , of course, other guidos. As I stumbled home I made the following pledge. Never again would I underestimate the power of the chain necklace. Never again would I have the audacity to step foot on the Jersey shore wearing any kind of shirt that had sleeves, and most importantly I realized, I had to get to a tanning bed, stat!
I used to mock the Guido. But that of course is jealousy. Why are we jealous? Here's a guess. The girls we hang out with like watching Felicity re-runs and wear shorts on the beach. The girls the guido hangs out with party like rock stars and have belly bracelets. The cars we drive are fuel-efficient. The cars the guido drives pull ass. 10 reps at 225 is pretty good for us. The guido did 10 reps at 225 when he was still breast-feeding. So the next time some gentile from Greenwich CT wearing a woven belt from the Gap and Khaki dockers looks down his nose at you, unleash one of those tree trunks you call an arm and turn his face into a Picasso. I can only offer a heart felt thank you to all the Guido's and Guidette's who aided me along this path to redemption. I may not be Italian, and I may not even be from Jersey, but rest assured that Dep hair gel courses through my veins as my heart pumps in rhythm with the bone crushing beats emanating from the Jersey Shore.
Brad originally from Illinois now New York