I don't know which is worse, having houseguests or being one. When I was in college, I never gave the issue much thought. Youth is synonymous with crashing on your buddy's couch and waking up, slobber-faced with a woody and a stiff neck from using a textbook as a pillow. If you are lucky, you didn't catch an STD from some troll with a beard and an extra Marky-Mark nipple that after 10 shots of cheap tequila told you they're your soul mate at last. Now you've got a hangover and a stalker and the buddy whose pad you are crashing at probably has a Polaroid of you and Jabba the Hut that looks like someone riding a mechanical bull behind a dumpster. John, if you are reading this, I want that picture and I'm willing to pay big bucks.
There is the other scenario; you've gotten out of school, moved to New York City to pursue a career in stand-up comedy and set up shop in a tiny apartment where the bathtub is conveniently located in the kitchen. One day the phone rings and it's your brother who is in town with his new girlfriend and needs a place to stay for the night. First instinct is joy. It feels great to have company! The only friend you've made in the three weeks you've been here is the nut down the hall who likes to have a few beers and then hold court about how the world is going to end tomorrow. The social life is not so good right now. Every attempt to meet paranoid city girls ends in them kicking you in the shin and blowing a rape whistle.
One night turns into a week and your initial excitement over family bonding is replaced by a daily reminder of all your brother's habits that got on your nerves growing up. The random farting that ambushes your nostrils like a rag-tag pack of Iraqi insurgents. The underwear with the bacon strip that always seems to turn up in the kitchen near breakfast time hanging like a dirty surrender flag on the edge of your sit-up bench. Your shrinking wallet that had three twenties in it last night which have now morphed into five singles Canadian while you slept. The long distance calls to Alaska that nobody seems to know who placed. The grunting sounds that come in the middle of the night which not only keep you from sleeping but are also a constant reminder of the fact that you haven't gotten laid since Abe Lincoln took a bullet. When it is time to say goodbye, you are ready to resume your castaway status.
Eventually, you get settled in your career, you get married, and life is good. The place looks nice from the feminine touch that has methodically removed all items of yours into the Siberia of storage. Bruce Lee posters, beanbags, and the futon with the mysterious stain have all been replaced by things that "match," smell like a spring breeze, herbal teas, and are soft and squishy. You are home but it isn't the home that you envisioned with six car garage full of Ferraris, so you just bury yourself in your work until the phone rings and your buddy from way back when announces he is visiting. The wife is less than thrilled and demands that you clean so the place looks nice when your buddy arrives. You explain that your buddy doesn't care if things are all neat, but the pleas fall on the deaf ears of authority and you are handed a toilet scrubber and some bleach.
Your friend arrives and everything is nice and polite. "Those are really nice stuffed animals"
"Could you pass the whole wheat toast?"
"What is this extra fork for? Clams?" Eventually you and your buddy who is single hit the town and have a few. "Dude, what is up with that little fork at dinner? What has happened to you, man? Look at those titties over there quick, while she's standing by the air conditioner."
You stagger in the door at 7 a.m. as your wife is going to work. She gives you the salty eye that says "You are gonna pay" before she leaves in a cloud of emotional gunpowder. You inform your buddy that his stay will have to be cut a bit short and before you can give details, he runs to the bathroom for a vomit-a-palooza. You promise to visit him in L.A. where he lives. Then you can be the houseguest and he can be the host without the watchful eye of "Da Massa."
Time goes by and you have to go to L.A. for a job. Of course you're going to crash at your buddy's house who he shares with a guy named Rob that you've heard is a bit strange. Your buddy picks you up from the airport in his convertible and you cruise around town like a couple of high rollers while the sun shines. "Look, there's a movie star eating sushi!" Ha ha. "Hey I just got a ticket for jay-walking!" "Ha Ha." "Why does my pizza have wheat grass on it?" It's all a barrel of monkeys.
You meet Rob who seems cool, have a couple of drinks, and fire up the grill. Three guys having a cookout. Just keepin' it real son! That night you crash on the couch. You need a good rest for the job interview the next day. You are awakened by a crashing sound. A S.W.A.T. team has kicked in the front door and you are told to get on you knees, produce ID slowly, and clasp your hands behind your head. Rob is in cuffs with his face being mashed into the sofa. "What is happening?" you ask. Your buddy says it's going to be OK. Just a big misunderstanding.
Apparently the house has been under surveillance because someone has reported that a strange smell was coming from the garage. The feds thought Rob was "cooking," that he had a crystal meth lab in there like some bad HBO Undercover.
Fortunately, it turned out that he was secretly making skin products for men and burnt the exfoliating solution that he had been mixing. More tax dollars at work. The S.W.A.T. captain begrudgingly apologizes but you miss your job interview. You can't wait to get back to N.Y.C. to your wife and fuzzy toilet seat covers.
What is the moral of all this? This is it: friends and family, if you want to visit me, get a hotel, and when I visit you I promise, I will do the same. I never got the job I went to interview for but I did have a cameo blooper on the show Cops. Not exactly what I had in mind, but that's showbiz folks!
Catch DC Benny on the first Friday of every month at the Zinc Bar at 9 o'clock. Also check out www.DCBenny.com.
