I was talking to a friend this weekend about my “crew.” A crew used to be “a group of friends” back in the late 1990s, but the meaning of that term, along with the meaning of a friend in general, was largely lost with the substantial rise in popularity of ‘friending’ anyone and everyone on Facebook, especially those whom you have not and will never meet and in spite of the fact that this person, unbeknownst to you, is a morbidly obese recluse of the opposite sex, actually ten years older than s/he claims, who goes by a different name, masturbates to your picture, and has appeared on Catfish: The TV Show twice during the tenure of your friendship. No, real friends are dead, these days people consider that dude that shit on their lawn last night as a friend. (Not that there is anything wrong with that, but to be clear, that guy is actually my friend and he’s not at all sorry about what he did and/or where he did it.)
Given the changing nature of friendships—once snug luxury yachts where you felt warm and safe with those who love you, but now slut-ridden oil tankers full of strangers, STDs, and shame—I now think in terms of crews much like Kanye West thinks in terms of cliques, the latter of which requires much taller money than I am capable of producing. In fact, at this moment, the only thing I can stack on a 10-spot is a 5-spot and a shitload of change. But thankfully I don’t have to worry about money to hang out with my crew quite like Kelis does. I don’t have to worry about much when hanging out with my crew, which brings me back to the initial conversation I had with my friend—how many people necessitate a crew?
According to some people, the biggest problem with a crew like mine is that it’s not a crew at all. My crew, on a good day, is composed of two people, one of whom doesn’t even live around me but nevertheless likes to party and is not in the least sorry about this. The other person is me. Turns out, most of the time we can party at a distance but still be part of something bigger than us (that phenomenon being our two-person crew). For those who would suggest this is not a crew, I would invite you to accompany us to a happy hour outing and follow us around the rest of the evening. If we are not, in fact, a legitimate crew, we sure think we’re one.
And when we are separated, I am a crew of one. But what makes a crew of ten better than my crew of one and occasionally two? Wolves are supposed to travel in packs but thanks to the Hangover movies, it is now understood and accepted that a single wolf can travel in a pack of one. Look at the U.S. Army—once a disjointed organization of thousands of brave souls fighting against the gay and lesbian threat, it is now an Army of One. Pairs are no less common and just as accepted. Married people are crews of two, albeit generally unhappy and commonly out-of-shape crews, and family members band together in crews all the time–only a communist would deny that Donnie and Marie were a crew, and a hyper, sparkling one at that. Any good CEO or Executive Director has an assistant, and every good man has a woman supporting him, or some bullshit like that.
Anyway, although the question remains unanswered, my crew is destined to never expand beyond two because there is not a third person I enjoy as a friend in real life, preferring instead to chat online with obese transgendered women moonlighting as men I could never score in real life.