Bromance. Broship. Bro Code. Brohood. These concepts have been circling around my head for a couple days now.
On Friday, not the day or tipping point in particular, Paul and I decided to head out to Armory Square for a couple pints. We haven’t been out for a long while, and the last time we all (Carl and Erica included) was around the start of the ALCS. We hit up The Blue Tusk, meeting up with an entourage made up of my brother, his girlfriend, and a handful of other great people/friends. Paul and I then headed to Kitty Hoynes for our standard Guinness, and we ended up running into Brian, another great friend of mine.
Bromance. We have our quirks, which are our own things, but we get everyone around us involved.
For those just tuning in: Paul and I have have been close since we were respectively 16 and 20. We’re Felix and Oscar from Neil Simon‘s The Odd Couple as much as we are J.D. and Turk from Scrubs. Respectively, Paul is more Cox to my J.D; he has that snarky, sarcastic attitude down, which is seasoned with poignant rants, both quoted from the show and original. He likes the Red Sox and New England teams where I am a dedicated New York everything; he’s also more Irish than I, and I am significantly more Italian than his not being Italian at all. There is a correlation of Boston fans to being Irish and New York fans to being Italian.
Additionaly, we have our Monday night bro night, which is scheduled with How I Met Your Mother, The League, GoldenEye/Super Mario Kart (N64), and The Blacklist.
Most of us guy friends shake hands and embrace with the one-armed hug. It’s respectable and comfortable to do so. The ultra conservatives may not be too cool with this, but they can turn the other cheek. Until improv, I was never really as comfortable with the guy-to-guy contact, especially hugging. When I was in Italy, adapting to the double kiss was a stretch, and my ignorant and American awkwardness almost had me lips-to-lips with a distant relative. Oops.
When you’re comfortable and settled in your bromance, whether it is small or elaborate, you’re allowed to have your things and quirks. Like any relationship, these stupid looking aspects are never stupid, but unique. There is a significant difference between fun and obnoxious, which will be focused on in a little bit. However, these fun aspects get better with age. When someone says, “They always do that,” or “Here we go again,” you know you’re doing something right.
Frankly, I’d rather look foolish than obnoxious any day. The line can be crossed, and once expense of others is compromised these antics are no longer fun. There is a difference between looking like a goof and looking like an asshole. Once the antic, celebration, or action is complete it should be done and over. Once the scenario carries on significantly, people begin to feel uncomfortable and sorry for you. They leave not because they are truly offended by your idiocy, but because they feel bad that you’re immature or an idiot.
For us real-life people in actual situations, acting like an idiot should happen on stage while performing improv–improv is all about the extreme (something I’m growing accustomed to as of recently, hence my hoarse voice today)–and… and… hmm…
I lost my train of thought, which is not pleasing in the least bit. This is never cool when it happens, so maybe the second scenario will come to me later on while writing this post.
This whole Bro Code nonsense is being touched upon, because of my going to Rosie’s Sports Pub and Grille on Saturday night with a couple friends. Tipperary Hill is not really my scene any more, and my time is spent at The Blarney Stone when my feet end up in the area. Rosie’s is a close second, which is followed by a three-way tie of: Coleman’s, McAvan’s, and Nibsy’s; the latter of the three is the most comfortable pub.
However, Rosie’s is a great place to watch sports and Syracuse University games especially. Like all Coleman-run establishments, they have music going on a few days each week. The last time, pre-Halloween, a post of mine mentioned that there was a good band playing inside (opposed to the band that was playing outside). This Saturday a DJ controlled the tunes, which turned the sports pub into a dance club. The bass was thumping, and the music was at a reasonable volume.
Regardless of my not expecting this, the DJ was actually pretty damn good. He had a great mix, and he blended and transitioned the songs impeccably. My head was bobbing, and my feet were tapping, and there was much resisting to break out into sweet ass dance moves.
There were many [white] people out on the dance floor, but that was the dynamic of the place that night. It’s difficult to try to think of some fun suburban white people jokes, but I cannot think of anything except “the scent of mayonnaise filled the air, attracting the suburbanite dynamic to where the dancing was at.” The pub, thankfully, did not smell like the outskirts of an Abercrombie & Fitch [slash] Hollister [slash] American Eagle (EEEEEEEEEagle!) store. The alternative–not punk or hipsters–suburbanites (“WT”) did have a significant impact on the dance floor, and we all can pick them out by their grinding and overdone makeup–the fashion of disillusioned and inexperienced dancing that would get you kicked out of a middle school dance, or Catholic School prom. And the guys… well… the late-20’s to 30-somethings displayed their oh-look-I’m-under-21-and-still-got-into-a-bar-and-got-my-hands-around-a-Bud-Light attitudes.
The (give-or-take) 30-year-old guys in question acted like a cage full of monkeys at the zoo, competing over nothing: no food, no women. They yelled to make simple conversation with each other, laughed in high-pitches, randomly bear-hugged, ran around in circles, and they often slapped each other on the shoulder/upper-back region.
So, how are they allowed to shift the paradigm of Bromance? It’s like they are practicing some rebellious or occult version of proper etiquette. They get the most attention, and they seem to go home with someone each time.
Baffling. I’m not jealous, because this is far from my approach from life. Maybe it was college years ago, but definitely not now.
And this is where my maturity (or conservatism, some of you may call it) illustrates itself. These were the cool guys in high school, still riding that wave 12 years later. I’m friends with the cool guys in high school, but this branch welcomes the people doing things with their lives. Those other guys cloak their arrogance with blind confidence.
The bold and obnoxious still make a point. They still dwell in their simple and past wins. They still get ahead of the soft-spoken. And their monkey-like activities concerning their broships are colorful mating calls, more so than the group standing off to the side holding a coherent conversation. This is why Al’s Whiskey and Wine Lounge, The Old Toad, and other low key venues are my cup of tea… or tumbler of scotch, because there is nothing better than letting a spirit breathe while it’s being sipped, respectfully-consumed. It’s aesthetically pleasing, warming the mind and body and soul for a prominent aura.