The main problem that I have today is that I can't be the boys in Low Cut Connie. It's not going to happen. I've got to pick up dinner for the family, tuck some kids into bed and then stay up way too late working so that I can do the same thing again tomorrow. Sure, there can be some beers getting cracked while that nocturnal working gets done, but it can be nothing like the shenanigans that these fellas from New York are kicking up at any given moment.
It might just be an exaggerated effort being made to make it sound like everything they're doing, everything Adam Weiner is howling about is going to lead to the most well-earned and satisfying hangover imaginable, but there's nothing at all wrong with that. Even if these are fictions being sung about in these fiery chugs of bluesy and boozy rock and roll, they are the kinds of fictions that we all aspire to. We're looking to find excuses to become the fearless, alcoholic and not just sex-addicted, but sex-acquiring, traveling charmers that this foursome already plays up. It all sounds so glorious.
What we wouldn't give to just pile into the van for the trip that they try to take to Rio in the song of the same name. It gets stalled in Toledo because a baggie of weed was found in the vehicle by some nosy officer of the law, but the anticipation and the possibilities of what was going to or what they were hoping to do in Rio, are enough to buy the tickets. The promise of what the weekend could hold is a thousand times better than anything Vince Vaughn or Bradley Cooper could have ever dreamed up. It's about men being animals - gluttons on everything that you get scolded for indulging in. It's about bottles and bottles of booze, smashed against the streets below hotel rooms. It's about bringing strangers back to those rooms. It's about feeding all of the witty and ingenious devils within. They can be - with the right kind of nurturing - the greatest wingmen we could ever want for.
*Essay originally published June, 2012