Check out this hilarious new web series about dating:

 

More episodes at: http://lifeonearthshow.com.

DIARY OF A DISILLUSIONED DATER: SAMPLE CHAPTER

First off, I'd be remiss if I didn't first welcome all the folks who've visited this blog from dykefinders.com and Black Lesbian Planet. I hope you've all enjoyed what you've read. Perhaps you can speak to one another in the comments section. If I can bring even one lesbian couple together, then the four years I've spent on this blog were well worth it.

Anyway, below is a sample chapter from the book I wrote with the same title as this blog. Hope you like it, and if you do, please spread the word.

OCTOBER 14: DON’T BE DISAPPOINTED

It finally happened – or did it? I’m not really sure. I’m still trying to figure out what exactly I did with Marty Applebaum’s niece.

About a half hour before I was going to leave my apartment tonight to meet Tammy, I noticed an email from dad that he had sent a few hours earlier. The subject was “Have a good time on your date.” The body read: “Don’t be disappointed.”

Don’t be disappointed? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I started to panic, and immediately called dad to find out what he meant, but mom picked up.

“Your father’s sleeping. It’s past eight-thirty. What’s wrong?”

“I’m supposed to meet Marty Applebaum’s niece in less than a half hour, and he sends me an email saying ‘don’t be disappointed.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why should it mean anything? He wants you to enjoy yourself. That’s all.”

“Then he should’ve said ‘enjoy yourself.’ Not ‘don’t be disappointed.’ Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I wasn’t involved with this. I have no idea what he meant. Just go on the date. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“She could be two-hundred pounds.”

“Your father would never set you up with someone who was two-hundred pounds.”

Once again, mom was right. Dad would never set me up with someone who was two-hundred pounds – but he did set me up with someone who was two-hundred fifty pounds.

I sat across from Tammy in Starbucks, waiting for the hour I had allotted for this date to go by. After the general pleasantries about work, family, and how dad knows Marty, we had little to say to each other. I wasn’t really that interested in making an effort to keep the conversation going because Tammy was an absolute pig – both in terms of size and demeanor. She snapped at the kid who made our coffee for taking too long and she practically swallowed her Cinnamon Swirl whole. 

How to Keep Your Hair and Get a Good Woman

I know a lot of women read this blog, so for those of you who want a quick tutorial about how to treat and prevent hair loss, weak and brittle nails, depression and anemia by eating foods containing Biotin (Vitamin B7), check out this video that I produced, starring my very special lady. After you've watched it, liked it, subscribed to the YouTube page and shared it with all your FB, Twitter, Google +, and Instagram friends, you can come back to this blog and read about how hard Jdate sucks and about all the bad dates I had before I met the beautiful woman in the video. It's in Spanish, but it has English subtitles. You just need to click on CC. Be sure to click on the video to watch on YouTube because blogger is weird about video embedding.

For my male readers, if you're wondering how I managed to score a woman like this after all those bad dates, stay tuned for my new tutorial video, "How to Meet and Keep Women That Don't Make You Wish You Were a F$%#ing Eunuch."

CHECK OUT MY NEW SITE

Don't you hate when you click on a link to a blog, all excited at the prospect of reading or watching something that will kill at least a few minutes in an otherwise not so exciting day, only to land on a page that hasn't had a new post in over a year? Yeah, well, sorry about that. I've been out of the dating scene for a long time now, and I have nothing left to say on the subject...other than I don't miss it...at all! If I ever had to date again, I'm not even sure what I'd write in my online dating profile. I'd probably start with something like, "I like to work hard and play hard...but always in baggy sweatpants...so you'd never know." Yeah, it's probably better that I'm out of that scene. But if you're still in it, or enjoy reading about it, please feel free to look around. There are years of bad date stories for you to enjoy, if you need a distraction from work, your kids, Facebook, or life in general.

For all those who've emailed about updates about the Diary of a Disillusioned Dater book, that's still up in the air. Various agents and publishers have all thought it was "very funny," "hysterical," and "very well written," but the publishing business being in the midst of the shit storm it's in has made it challenging to get the book published in the traditional manner. There's always Kindle Direct Publishing, but I don't want my poor old Jewish grandmother to have to tell her friends that her grandson writes books, "but only for the computer." There's also been some talk of a possible TV show based on the blog. I'll keep you posted, I promise.

In the meantime, once you're done wasting valuable time here that could have been used liking a picture of your friend's lunch on Facebook, check out my new site at http://www.urirosenrauch.com/. There's lots to read there too.

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An Open Letter: A Repost

After hearing about some of the Colombian's friends' dating woes, it's clear that my open letter dated May 23, 2008, didn't reach as many men as it should have. Therefore, I'm reposting it in the hope that no other woman ever has to go on a date with a guy who tells her his sexual connection with his ex is so strong that he sleeps with her whenever he sees her. (An actual guy actually said that to one of the Colombian's actual friends on an actual date). So this is for you, ex-girlfriend fucker, and for the other clueless men like you. Please read and learn:

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GUYS WHO SCREW MY SHIT UP

After numerous discussions with single women, it's obvious that my cause is not being helped by a lot of the single guys out there. Their idiotic, childish, self involved behavior has heaped so much baggage upon so many available, desirable women that a dude like me doesn't stand a chance. As such, I feel compelled to address these unintentional cock blockers.

So:

To the guys out there who think "Wanna come over and fuck?" is a great opening line in an IM session, it's not. If it were that easy, nothing in the world would ever get accomplished. The entire infrastructure of our society would collapse. People would be screwing in the streets, instead of doing their jobs. There would be utter chaos, and we'd all wind up living in caves without electricity or plumbing.

To the guys who post pictures of themselves in their profiles without shirts, I've yet to meet a woman who thinks that's a turn on. No one gives a shit how much you can bench press, so put down the steroids and the barbells, walk away from the mirror you flex in front of all day, and pick up a book. Reading is fundamental, and you're probably gay anyway.

To the guys who tell chicks they "can get lost just staring into their eyes" on first dates, that'll only work if the chick is really into you. But if you're the type of guy who uses lines like that ten minutes after meeting someone, I can't imagine there are any chicks out there that would actually be into you anyway. Just tell her she has really pretty eyes. It's a compliment without being creepy, and you need to learn how not to be creepy.

To the guys who invite women to an event and tell them: "Your ticket is $65. You can pay me when I see you," that's something you tell your guy friend, not someone you hope to see naked. Unless, of course, you wanna see your guy friend naked, in which case, get in touch with the guy who poses shirtless on Jdate.

To the guys who insist on ordering for their dates in restaurants, stop taking your dating cues from movies from the 1930s. "The lady will have the lemon pepper shrimp " is not something you should be saying unless the lady has told you that's what she wants, and has given you the okay to order for her. Otherwise, let them order their own damn food. They're your dates, not your three year old daughters.

To the guys who say they're gonna call after a first date, but only intend on calling if nothing better comes along, stop being selfish douchebags. If you're not motivated enough to call her based on her own merits, just say, "It was nice meeting you," and go home. Odds are she wasn't interested in you anyway, so why not just go your separate ways like mature adults?

To the guys who practically show their dates their pay stubs, and brag about the apartments they just bought, just tell your dates you're insecure little shits with small dicks instead. At least they'll appreciate your honesty.

To the guys who ask women out via barely comprehensible text messages, grow up. You wanna text message people things like "LOL," or "ROFLMAO"? - go hang out in the mall with the other 14 year old girls and their Sidekicks, or pick up a goddamn phone, and ask a woman out like a man.

To the guys who lie in their profiles about their height, weight, or amount of hair on their heads, and then get pissed off when women do the same, the lying women are the ones you should be with. Why?- because you're both fucking liars! Let the herd of truth distorters be thinned so the rest of us who are honest can meet each other.

And finally to the self-proclaimed "players" who secretly video tape their conquests, and show the footage to their friends, as cool and as uber-hetero as you think that is, you too may wanna email the shirtless Jdate guy. You clearly don't respect women, and wanting other dudes to see your hairy balls and ass clearly indicates that your overcompensating by trying to bang as many women as possible.

It is to all these men, and to the others like them that I haven't mentioned in the interest of brevity, that I say:

You are the stinking turds nestled safely at the bottom of the dating pool. When you're discovered, women go running out and never want to jump back in. Remedy your ways, or don't go swimming anymore!

Sincerely,

Marc F.
5/23/08

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HE'S JUST NOT THAT INTO YOU...LITERALLY

A while back I set up two friends. It didn't work out, and there was a disagreement among the two parties about whether the relationship had actually been consummated. He said it was, she said, and I quote: "He only stuck it in a little."

I found her claim of not having had sex with my friend illegitimate, since in my estimation, once it's in, it's in, even if it's only in a little. I've since lost touch with her, but I still speak to him and when her name comes up in conversation, the phrase, "But only a little" tends to get tossed about. For example, he might say, "I once took Nicole to that restaurant," and I'll say, "But only a little." Or I might say something like, "That was around the time you dated Nicole," and he might respond, "But only a little." We understand it makes no sense, but that's kind of the point given that having just a little bit of intercourse makes no sense either. So this friend and I got together this weekend with our lady friends, and at some point, "But only a little" was uttered by either me or him, I can't remember. It was a random "But only a little," having nothing to do with his ex. Sometimes we just say it to each other because we've run out of things to say. It's kind of like our own personal "Anyway," or "So what else?"

His current girlfriend, in whom I can only hope he is sticking it all the way, asked: "What are you guys talking about?"

"Nothing," I said, knowing this was just the beginning of the interrogation by his need-to-know-every-fucking-thing girlfriend.

"What's only a little?" she asked, and I turned to my friend and motioned for him to give her the backstory, which he did. As regular readers of this blog know, I'm firmly against the mentioning of exes, either on dates or in actual relationships, but she would never have let this thing just go, and the story needed to be told.

Surprisingly, she was good humored about it, much to our relief, and followed up the storytelling with, "She's right. A little doesn't count."

I wanted to say, "Sure it does. Once it's in, it's in!" but in addition to having a policy against discussions of exes, I also have a policy of not discussing anything sexual with other women in front of my current woman. I subscribe to the "If nothing good can come from it, then shut the fuck up" school of relationship etiquette. It has served me well over the years when I've adhered to the rule, not so well when I haven't. So rather than deal with a conversation later at home that would go something like:

Her: Why are you talking about sticking it in a little or a lot with another woman?

Me: It was a joke. We were just making fun.

Her: Funny? That's funny to you?
I decided to just say, "Okay," and let the conversation die a natural, quiet death, which it did...until later that night when it was resurrected from its shallow grave in the restaurant and found its way into my apartment.


Her: Why are you talking about sticking it in a little or a lot with another woman?

Me: I didn't say anything. I PURPOSELY didn't say anything.

Her: What a jerk Alan is. Talking about that in front of Jeanette.

Me: I know, right?
Better to throw him under the bus than take even an ounce of blame, I thought.

Her: He probably had it in all the way, but he's so small...

Me: Whoa, sista! Getting kinda personal.

Her: THAT'S personal? He actually sat there and talked about penetrating his ex girlfriend in front of her...and me! I hope she dumps him.

Me: I hope so too.
But only because I don't like doing couples nights out. Otherwise, they could marry and have fifty kids for all I care -- just as long as they don't invite me to any of their birthday parties.

Her: I don't wanna go out with him anymore.

Me: Done.

Her: And by the way, it definitely counts.

Me: What does?

Her: Sticking it in a little.

Me: Thank you!
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If only online dating were like shopping at Home Depot, but free...

Here's a video my partners and I produced to promote a film we made called Mandate. The film will be available online sometime in the near future. Stay tuned for details. (And no, that's not me in the video).

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Does He Cheat? Confessions from Men: 50 Signs Your Partner May Be Cheating

For about three weeks, Does He Cheat? Confessions from Men: 50 Signs Your Partner May Be Cheating sat on my desk at work amidst a sloppy pile of books I was either reading, or had intended to read, clearly visible to all passersby. My coworkers now look at me differently, as do the handful of clients who have seen my reading list. I'm sure none of them noticed the yellowed copy of Moby Dick that sat in the pile that I told myself I'd re-read, but never got past the first page. (Truth is, I can't remember if I actually ever read Moby Dick, or if I've lied about reading it so many times that I actually believe I've read it). No one saw Salman Rushdie's Midnight's Children, which after page 100 turned into a coaster for my morning green tea. The Dancing Wu Li Masters I'm sure went entirely unnoticed, too, by people who are confident that I'm a dude who's into dudes, who thinks his dude is cheating on him. And you know what? I don't even care. I make that sacrifice for you -- my female readers -- so you'll know if you should read books like Sterling Anderson's and Stephanie Dart's user's manual for the cheating male; a veritable reference guide against which you can check if your mate's behaviors require immediate attention.

Does your husband's phone go straight to voice mail for hours at a time? Look that shit up. It's in there. That may be a sign he's cheating.

Does your guy have a weekly poker game? You may be picturing a sausage fest in some smoke filled, suburban finished basement, but the type of "poke her" going on doesn't involve chips or cards. It involves your man poking her - her, as in, not you. Well, maybe. There's only one way to know for sure -- buy the book and Anderson and Dart will tell you.

Dating a fellow who enjoys looking at naked ladies on the computer? He may be a cheater, according to Anderson and Dart. Does He Cheat? warns women that porn "is a gateway drug to becoming unfaithful," and while I would confidently wager that most guys, who like to rub one out while watching ladies touch each other, are not cheaters, I'm sure there are some that are. It probably isn't fair for Anderson and Dart to cast such a wide net in the process of trying to catch a few bad fish, (or more accurately, bad guys who smell like fish. Yeah, I went there), but this isn't science, and the authors make that clear in the preface: "We heard hundreds of ways to manipulate and deceive a wife or girlfriend. The frequent flyers made it to this book. None of what is written here is etched in stone."

The 50 signs, drawn from hundreds of interviews with cheaters, are conveniently divided into a cheater's confession followed by a section entitled, "Advice to You." So if your guy is calling you to tell you he's too drunk to drive home, Does He Cheat? suggests you offer to pick his ass up. His reaction will tell you whether he's to be believed.

Much of the book contains fairly obvious common sense advice, and as a guy reading it, I couldn't imagine a woman needing to be told that if her man gets all tongue tied trying to explain a 3 AM phone call, he's probably up to no good. And some of the other signs listed that a man may be cheating may or may not be indicative of infidelity, like purposely picking a fight to have an excuse to leave. I used to do that with an ex all the time, but it wasn't because I wanted to be with another woman, I just wanted to be withOUT my ex. Again, this is a guidebook, not a bible, and women reading it should treat it as such, lest they accuse their men of doing something he wasn't going to do until they got up his ass about it.

Ladies, use this book wisely, but certainly check it out if you suspect your man is cheating -- like I apparently do.
LOOKING FOR SOME MORE STUFF TO READ, WHILE AVOIDING DOING ACTUAL WORK? CHECK OUT MY NEW SITE AT: http://www.urirosenrauch.com
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MICHELE BACHMANN: PILF

I support Michele Bachmann's run for president. There, I said it.

I'm a liberal, pro-welfare state New York Jew. I'm not only pro-choice, I think there should be government funded drive-thru abortion centers in every city in the country. I think gay dudes and gay women should be allowed to marry, and if they could find a way for gay guys to have babies, I'd be for that too.

Drugs: legalize all of 'em. Tax the rich, feed the poor, and remove the word "God" from anything paid for by the government. I believe in Creationism as much as I do Santa Claus, and if you think climate change is bullshit, I think you're a fucking moron.

So why do I support Michele Bachmann's run? For the same reason I used to email good looking, idiots on dating sites. You know, the type whose picture looked too good not to click on. And then when you'd actually read the stupid shit they wrote, you'd roll your eyes, but would still email them out of morbid curiosity in the hope that maybe, possibly you'd get to bang a stupid chick from Match.com. I remember one such scholar I emailed from Mamaroneck. When I asked her how close that was to MaManhattan, she declined my message.

But with Bachmann as president, we're all guaranteed to get fucked. It's a sure thing. She may actually be stupider than GW, but gosh, ain't she purdy?

This country is in desperate need not of jobs, not of economic reform, not of better education, but of a president we'd like to fuck. So let's elect a Commander in Chief the same way we determine who's the most popular on Jdate.

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HOW THEY GOT HERE

Haven't done this in a while. Here's a list of my favorite keyword searches that landed people on this blog.

"A picture of dick and balls": I knew that was gonna happen with the post about the cock and balls photo. Sorry for wasting your time, dude.

"How to eye fuck without being creepy": That was totally gonna be the tagline for this blog before I went with what I have now. Guess I never fully deleted the text from the blog code.

"Cunnilingus Eastern Orthodox": I'm more a student of the Western Orthodox School of Cunnilingus (easier on the jaw), but I hope you found what you were looking for here.

"Dating blog he ran out of things to say": True, but then I wouldn't have checked my analytics and discovered that people are coming here after searching for: "diamond lundy nude twit pussy."

"My girlfriend and i were at the shore together and two days later i find on her phone that she had taken a picture of herself there and texted it to some guy she knows at work. i asked her about it and she said he was gay then she said he was married and then he was both and then it was a joke what do you think is up.": Google is a search engine, not a friend you go to for advice, but since you asked already, your girlfriend is full of shit and you should dump her.

"Semen Club NY": Went there once. Waited in line for an hour and the whole place smelled like bleach.

"Do you shave your balls?": Shave, no. Trim, once in a while. But only when it's looking too rabbinical down there.

"I sucked my Jewish grandmother's tits": And I remember rolling my eyes as a kid when I heard mine say, "Come give grandma a kiss."

"Unwiped ass licking": And I thought the grandma titty sucker was left with a bad taste in his mouth.


"Why wouldn't Holly take me to the bathroom with her?": She probably got tired of all the unwiped ass licking.

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In Search Of Mrs. Friedman - "Lost on Treasure Island" Review

Steve Friedman is a douchebag. That's what I thought when I first read in his memoir, Lost on Treasure Island, how he trolled for desperate, needy women at 12-step meetings all over Manhattan. But when I was done reading the book, and I had sufficiently reflected on the trials and tribulations of a man who would do a "fake-chin quiver" and tell women after meetings that "their stories resonated deeply" with him -- all in order to screw the type of damsels in distress who admit in meetings to blowing strangers to feel accepted -- I realized that Steve Friedman is every guy who wishes he had the balls to do something that I always imagined only Larry from Three's Company would ever do.

When the story begins, Friedman comes to New York City from the Midwest for an interview at GQ, but he wants more out of the big city than just a new and exciting job and an escape from the trail of pissed off exes he's left back at home, not to mention from the current girlfriend he's been cheating on. He wants to find love and a wife, in that order, which wind up being the treasures he'll find most elusive on the island that will become his new home.

Whether you root for him, against him, or aren't quite sure how to feel about a man who sleeps with married and engaged women, refers to John Tesh as "a blond Frankenstein" in a profile purely to be mean and advance his own writing career, and needs to be admonished by an old lady at a12-step meeting not to "fuck the newcomers," Friedman is a skilled writer who isn't afraid to make himself look bad if it results in the telling of an intriguing and entertaining story.

Though he may not have been fishing out of the same pond as your average New York guy looking for love in all the wrong places, (his job at GQ put him in direct contact with Hollywood starlets like Mary-Louise Parker and Barbara Hershey), his struggles to meet the one are no less frustrating and demoralizing to him than they are to mere mortals who have to settle for being turned off or rejected by teachers, receptionists and office managers from Match.com. Not that Friedman doesn't turn to the Internet in search of Mrs. Friedman, but when he does, he even then finds a famous woman who proceeds to toy with his mind and his heart, leaving him attending 12-step meetings with a better understanding of what's truly important in life -- and it isn't trying to score easy blow jobs from severely damaged women. Whether Friedman's epiphany at the end of the book results in a more successful search for "the one," only Friedman will know. Those in search, however, of a funny, engrossing book that will make them at varying times want to high-five, smack, or hug its narrator, should read Friedman's Lost on Treasure Island.

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ANTHONY WEINER: CONGRESSMAN, COCK TWEETER, OUTCAST

Should Anthony Weiner resign? Should every horny thirteen-year-old boy who sends dirty notes to the first girl in class to grow tits be forced to quit the eighth grade? Should the kid in camp who gets caught sniffing a girl's panties during a midnight raid be forced to pack his duffel bags and go home? If you answered yes to any of these questions, you may be right. But I don't think any of them need treatment. They all just need to get laid. In the cases of the eighth grader and the camper, they eventually will. I'm not so sure about the congressman.

Even if his wife stays with him, he'll never see her naked again. If she leaves, and he winds up back on the prowl, what woman is gonna wanna fuck him? Guys that look like him usually need to work at a bank or be next in line to be mayor of New York City to get laid. Short, unemployed Jews with big schnozes and pictures of themselves with their shirts off are a hard sell on Jdate. Sure, he could pay for it, but he doesn't seem the type. If he were, this whole thing could've been avoided. Get caught banging prostitutes while being paid to serve the people of New York= resign and get a show on CNN. Get caught tweeting pictures of your cock = become a social pariah and wind up on Celebrity Rehab, crying about how hard it is not to tweet pictures of your cock.

I actually like Weiner. I heard him speak once at my father's synagogue and remembered thinking I'd vote for him for something. His rants on the house floor against the right have impressed me. And not that it affects me in any way, but the guy is packing substantial sausage - that's gotta be worth something. But politics and penises aside, the man is fucked...and sadly for Weiner, I don't mean that literally.

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THE UNION SQUARE BONER

I spent a good part of my day on Saturday in Union Square Park. The meeting the Colombian had in the neighborhood that was only supposed to take forty-five minutes, wound up taking around two hours. While I waited for her, I killed time eavesdropping on the telephone conversation of a girl who sat next to me on the steps facing 14th street. When I grew tired of hearing her tell her friend how much she hated some girl named Jennifer, who's apparently a "pig who hooks up with guys 'cause otherwise no guy would look at her," I made my way through the farmer's market. An angry Asian fruit stand worker barked, "NO GANIC!" at me when I politely asked if he had any organic apples, and I watched a grown man throw a pretty embarrassing tantrum when his wife/girlfriend was taking too long buying bread. But by far the highlight of the day was when the Colombian and I sat on a bench in the park digesting the dinner we had eaten a few blocks away at Gustorganics -- a place that in my opinion should do a better job cleaning their bathrooms, if they're gonna charge $17 for a veggie burger, and $22 for a plate of risotto. I get that "ganic" ingredients cost more, and that Manhattan retail rents are outrageous, but how much does it cost to buy a shmateh to wipe the piss off a toilet seat? And while I'm on the subject, ladies, why not just lift the seat altogether if you're not gonna sit on it?

But I digress.

As we sat on the bench, we noticed two couples going at it. One young man in his twenties appeared to be fingering his girlfriend on a bench, while she talked on her phone (either her boyfriend wasn't doing it right, or she's a really good multi-tasker), and about twenty feet from them, stood a man in his late forties, making out with a woman of undetermined age. The guy in his forties and his woman were going at it pretty intensely, and unlike the young girl being fingered, this woman seemed into it. I was seconds away from telling both couples to get a room, when the woman with the older guy ended the makeout session, gave him one last peck goodnight, and walked away.

The fortyish guy stood there triumphantly, watching his kissing partner leave. He had a grin of satisfaction on his face, like a teenager who'd just made out with the head cheerleader. He was visibly proud, happy...and hard. I didn't notice at first, but the Colombian pointed to the bulge in his plaid shorts that weren't quite short shorts, but were too high above the knee to be in style. He had to have felt it, but he seemingly didn't care if the whole park, or the whole world for that matter, knew he was excited to have made out with a woman. He was standing directly across from us and I half expected him to walk over and offer to show us what he was packing behind his shorts. But before he could, I decided to take the Colombian home and show her what I was packing behind mine.

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THE COCK AND BALLS PHOTO

My apologies if you landed here after googling "the cock and balls photo." I know this isn't what you were looking for, but put your cock and balls back in your pants and stick around for a bit. This may interest you. A couple of weekends ago, the Colombian and I took a ride out to Brooklyn. We'd been hanging out in Williamsburg for the day and decided to catch the tail end of the New York Photo Festival in Dumbo on the way home. But upon our arrival in the Disneyland of Brooklyn, we chose to buy dinner with the thirty dollars we would have spent on the festival. There are events that sound cool and interesting until you're peeking through the window of some gallery, being shoved aside by a group of rowdy Puerto-Rican bridesmaids who are walking from their cars to a wedding photo shoot on the Brooklyn Bridge promenade, wondering if you wanna spend money to look at photographs you could probably see online for free. The dinner at Siggy's in Brooklyn Heights was quite good, and during our post-meal constitutional through the neighborhood, we decided to head back to Dumbo for a change of scenery.

We walked past the gallery we had originally decided not to enter, and the Colombian tried to drag me in. "But I don't wanna pay for this," I said, feeling cheap, embarrassed, unsupportive of the arts.

"Come on," she insisted, leading the way. I followed her sheepishly, hoping they wouldn't ask to see our tickets, and they didn't. The place was closing in about ten minutes and they let us give a quick snoop around. (So go ahead and post that tip on one of those sites that let's you know how to get shit for free, but please give a Jew his props when posting, tweeting, etc.)

I can barely remember most of the photos -- not because they were bad, just unremarkable -- except for one. Can you guess which from the title of this post?

As I made my way from the section featuring photos of extremely long haired Argentinean women (I think that's what they were), I stumbled upon a group of photos of some random young guy. The first few photos of him were a blur -- a headshot, in front of a tree, in a car -- I don't know. I was rushing through the gallery, trying to soak in as much free photo gazing as I could before they closed. But as my eyes glanced across the wall, my stare became momentarily fixed upon a photo of this blonde haired guy in his twenties with his cock and balls hanging over his pants. I started to wonder why the photographer thought this was art, and why the festival organizers agreed with him. But more importantly, I wondered why I was still looking at the picture for more than a second. I quickly turned away, my heterosexuality still intact, and I noticed a middle-aged guy standing a few feet away, looking at me.

"Interesting photograph," he said.

"Yeah, that's one way to describe it," I uncomfortably responded.

"What do you think it means?"

"Probably that the guy in this picture needed some quick cash."

"What does it mean to you?" he wanted to know.

"Honestly, not much."

"Are you a photographer?"

"No," I said, purposely keeping my response curt. Where the hell had the Colombian gone? I thought to myself scanning the room for her.

"I figured by the way you were admiring it, you were."

Admiring? Who's admiring? I thought. I saw a guy's shlong and nuts and it took me by surprise, okay? There was no admiring going on!

"No, just here to look at the pictures," I said, hoping he'd leave me alone.

"Does it excite you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Does the photograph excite you? I'm a photographer. I like to know what excites people about photos."

Suddenly, I felt like Dudley in that episode of Diff'rent Strokes where the guy from WKRP In Cincinnati gets him to take his shirt off in his bike shop. I wanted to just tell the guy to go away before I found myself full of wine coolers and posing for a picture in his studio somewhere under the Manhattan Bridge overpass with my junk hanging over my jeans. It's a good strategy -- hang out in front of a picture of a cock and balls, wait to see a guy you like "admire" said picture, and then go in for the kill -- but not on my watch, Mr. Carlson. Does it excite you? Shit, if I ever tried that line on a woman, I'd get kicked in the sack.

Before I could answer his question, the Colombian made her way over to where we were. I grabbed her hand and gave her a kiss in order to send a clear message that I had no interest in having my picture taken, and that I wasn't admiring anything. He smiled, and said, pointing, "We were just talking about this photo."

"Oh, really?" the Colombian asked curiously. "What were you talking about?"

"I think they're closing. We should go," I said.

"Are these your photos?" she asked, ignoring me.

"No, but I'm a photographer," he said, handing her a card. "If either one of you ever wants to have your picture taken..."

"We should do that," she said to me, excited.

"Yeah, sure," I said, nervously smiling at him before he smiled back, wished us a good night, and walked away.

"Why are you talking to some stranger about a picture of some guy's balls?" she asked, chuckling, teasing me, but also wanting to know why I was talking to some stranger about some guy's balls.

"Can't one guy admire another guy's balls without it meaning anything sexual?"

"Let's go home," she said, yanking my arm. "I think we got our money's worth already."

"Okay, let's stop for a drink first. Suddenly, I'm in the mood for a wine cooler."

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THE HIGH FIVE FOR SEXUAL INTERCOURSE

Unattached ladies of NYC, your prince awaits at 00:19...



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JPLEASE STOP EMAILING ME

JDATE SENT ME THIS:

From: JDate Special Offers

Sent: Friday, May 06, 2011 12:22 PM

Subject: Make mom happy this year - meet a special girl!

This Mother's Day, turn mom's kvetching into kvelling

The next time she asks what you're doing to meet a nice Jewish girl, give her the answer you know she wants to hear. Hurry, JDate's Mother's Day special expires Sunday, May 8th!

___________________________________________________________________
I SENT JDATE THIS:

Dear Jdate,

Thanks for the great Mother's Day gift idea. I was struggling with what to get mom this year, and had your email arrived in my inbox before the one below, I would have definitely taken you up on your offer:

From: IKEA Special Offers

Sent: Friday, May 06, 2011 10:17 AM

FREE Breakfast on Mother's Day!

This Mother's Day visit the IKEA restaurant before 11am and enjoy a free breakfast. Enjoy fluffy scrambled eggs served with a side of hash browns, scrumptious bacon plus a hot cup of coffee, all for FREE! Offer valid Sunday, May 8, 2011. Pricing and participation may vary. One free breakfast per person. See your local store for details

But that's not why I'm writing you. I unsuccessfully used your services for a while a few years back (well, I once got a hand job from a divorced woman with three kids who I met on your site, but she lived somewhere in New Jersey and given the hundreds of dollars I spent and thousand of emails I sent on your site, I'd hardly consider that successful), but now I'm married to a very jealous woman. She's accused me of being unfaithful many times and has taken to checking my email to insure I'm not communicating with other women. My cell phone is tapped, and I'm pretty sure she recently implanted a tracking device somewhere inside me. I can't be certain about the tracking device, but she always seems to know where I am, and lately sitting is less comfortable than usual. Anyway, you can imagine her reaction if she were to see that I've been getting emails from a dating site, not to mention a Jewish dating site. In addition to being very jealous, she hates Jews. She thinks I'm Irish. Anyway, she's threatened to kill me if she ever found out I was even thinking about cheating.

I've tried to opt-out of your emails, but I don't remember my password to your site and can't log in to change my preferences. So please, please, please, remove me from your email list before it's too late...Gotta go, I hear her coming...
___________________________________________________________________
JDATE WROTE BACK:

From: "JDate Support" memberservices@jdate.com

Sent: Friday, May 06, 20 11 3:01 PM

We regret to learn you will be leaving JDate. If you have any suggestions or comments as to how we can improve a member's experience, please feel free to share this with us. You will certainly be missed! Per your request, I have removed your profile and email from our database. Please allow up to 2 weeks for e- mail notifications to stop. You are welcome to reactivate your subscription at any time! We wish you all the best!

Alayne C
____________________________________________________________________
So it's likely my mother will be kvetching this Mother's Day, but it won't be because she doesn't have a Real Housewife of NY for a daughter-in-law who I met on Jdate. It'll probably be because the Ikea eggs were bad.

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I AM THE GRINGO

I'm frequently confounded by things, like the success of anything produced by Tyler Perry, or the fact that the New York Times thinks for even a second that I'm going to pay them to read more than twenty articles a month on their site. But I'll just turn the channel if I see a tall black dude in drag, or I'll switch to a different browser when the window pops up on my screen that says, "To keep reading, sign up today." Unfortunately, I have no such options when forced to speak a language with which I have only a fleeting familiarity.

The Colombian has gone back to the motherland to visit her family and to produce a documentary, and due to constraints of making international calls from there to New York, the burden of initiating calls has fallen upon me. "Just ask for me," she said, when I told her I'd be uncomfortable speaking to her family if she didn't pick up when I called. I told her I thought it would be rude just to ask for her without engaging in even the slightest bit of small talk with her mother or grandmother, or any of the other three dozen or so friends and relatives that always just happen to be over, celebrating some event or holiday...or revolution.

I grabbed a pen before she left and I asked her to tell me exactly what to say.

"Just say, 'Hola. Jo soy Marc. Eeesabel, por favor."

"Jo?" I asked, perplexed. "What's Jo? I thought it was Yo."

"Jo is fine too," she said.

"Is Jo slang? Who says Jo?"

"That's how they say it in Argentina."

"But I'm not calling Argentina. How do they say it in Colombia?"

She sighed, exasperated by my unabashed gringo-osity.

"Anyone who speaks Spanish will understand what you mean when you say Jo."

"But why am I saying jo? Why can't I say yo? What's with you people confusing the Js and the Ys? First you say Neuva Jork, and then Nueva Yersey...Make up your damn minds"

"Say whatever you want."

"And Eeesabel? Do I have to say that too? Are they gonna make fun of me if I ask for Isabel."

"No one's gonna make fun of you," she said, trying to reassure me. "They can't speak English, so why would they make fun of you for not speaking Spanish?"

I believed her until I called the other day and I heard some jerk-off laughing, as he handed her the phone.

"Ih-saw-bel, pawer farvawer," he told her, mocking me, doing what he thought was a funny sounding gringo impression, but what sounded more like Mr. Furley ordering escar-GOTS. This is what qualifies as humor over there? I thought. Tyler Perry must be fucking huge in Colombia.

"Who was that asshole?" I asked when she picked up.

"That was my uncle," she said, laughing, too.

"It's make fun of the gringo day over there, huh?"

"Oh, stop. Don't take it so seriously."

"I'll remember that next time your English gets a little questionable. Whenever you say 'instead that,' instead of 'instead of,' I'm gonna record it and send it to my uncle, so he can laugh at you."

"So how's my favorite gringo doing?" she asked, unfazed. "I miss you."

"Ah, screw jou and jour whole family...I miss jou too."

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YOU NEVER GET A SECOND CHANCE TO UNDO A FART IMPRESSION

The Colombian and I were invited to yet another self-thrown birthday party in a bar last weekend, and I had to go. And by "had to go," I, of course, mean, "was forced to go" by the Colombian. "My friends will be there...I never get to see them anymore...It'll be fun" were just some of the things I thought I heard her say after I whined that I didn't think I could stomach another get-together in some loud bar with people I barely know. I'm starting to think that I should start drinking, since these gatherings only seem to be fun for the inebriated attendees. For me, they're as exciting as NPR on the weekends. Although the Icelandic Xylophone festival (or whatever the hell that was) I was forced to listen to while in the shower recently -- because I didn't want to get the floor wet, walking from the shower to turn off the radio on the other side of the bathroom -- was slightly more entertaining than most self-thrown birthday parties I've been to. So like NPR does on Saturdays and Sundays, I said "Fuck it," and decided to go through the motions, making the least amount of effort possible. I'd go to the party, be polite, and nothing more. I was not going to be "on" and try and impress her friends.

Before the party, we stopped off for Chinese food, and when the waiter pointed at what little was left of my chicken and broccoli and asked, "Does gentleman want to take home for later?," I thought: Fuck yeah! At $15 a dish, you're damn right gentleman wants to take home for later! Gentleman might get the munchies when he gets home! So off we went with the smallest size take-out box they had -- half filled with a few slivers of chicken and a handful of broccoli florets-- stuffed into my jacket pocket. It wasn't until we got home after the party that I realized something was rotten in the state of my winter coat.

"What's that smell?" I asked.

"Don't look at me. It's you," she said.

"I know I was the first to smelt it, but I didn't dealt it."

"Huh?" she asked confused. (There's that language barrier thing again).

"Wait a second," I said, sniffing, pulling the leftover Chinese out of my pocket. "I've been walking around smelling like a fart all night and you didn't say anything?"

"I thought it was from what you ate. What was I going to say?"

"It wasn't from what I ate. It was from what I DIDN'T eat! Shit! No wonder your friend Lisa was looking at me funny the whole night. She thinks I'm a farter."

"Ah, so what? Who cares what she thinks? "

"Why, did she say something?"

"What should she say?"

"That I was cool, funny...handsome."

"Next time make more of an effort...and finish your food at the restaurant."

Nah, I thought. Let her friend think what she wants. She probably won't come near me anyway the next time I see her...if there is a next time. I finished off my leftovers and fell asleep to two guys banging on wooden planks on NPR.

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JPICKS: ANOTHER THING JDATE SUCKS AT

I haven't been on Jdate in years now, but I still recall the tinge of excitement I felt when I got an email from them informing me that someone had contacted me. Could it be the beautiful, intelligent, funny, sweet woman I'd been searching for? I would think. Had she found me amidst the sea of men posing with their shirts off who lied about their heights and their incomes, and whose profiles contained such poetic gems as: "I like to work hard and play hard"?

And no matter how many times I'd log in only to find that I'd been emailed or teased (is that what they called it? I forget) by a blue box from Ghana whose desired age range for the man of her dreams is 0-99, I'd naively remain hopeful each time I got a Jdate email. Now, after so much time has passed without seeing the word Jdate in my inbox; without having to look at that red heart in their logo that's supposed to represent love for Jews, (I guess); without having to be mocked and ridiculed and have $40 a month charged to my Amex; without experiencing any love for Jews, only agita for me and everyone out there who had to listen to me bitch about that fucking site, the memory of all that heartache is returning now that Jdate has decided to get in on the Groupon fad.

So because Jdate is trying to create new sources of revenue by providing me with "JPicks" that are as useful to me as a West African woman without a digital camera, I need to relive the horrors of those fruitless months looking for Jew love in all the wrong places. Although come to think of it, the woman from Ghana might have been a queen or an heiress to a large fortune that only I could help her withdraw from the Swiss bank account in which the money was stuck due to her father the king being kidnapped by rebel forces. With JPicks all I get is a discount on an overpriced falafel plate at a restaurant IN FUCKING LOS ANGELES!

Thanks Jdate!

Value:	$40
Discount:	50%

You Pay: $20

GET THE DEAL

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YOU'VE GOT HATE MAIL - THE PERFECT 3RD DATE

I've always been a believer in an activity themed third date. There's only so much left to say to a person after a few phone calls and a couple of dinners. But if it's too cold out to rollerblade or ride bikes, and you don't want to seem too cheap too soon by taking your date to a movie, try taking them to a show, specifically You've Got Hate Mail.. I caught You've Got Hate Mail at the Triad theater on the Upper West Side a couple of weeks ago, and if the guy/girl you're with enjoys sexual humor, it's the perfect place to take them. The entire show consists of five actors sitting at laptops facing the audience, while they read aloud the emails/texts they're sending to and receiving from each other. It all starts when a cheating husband, played by the show's co-writer Billy Van Zandt, mistakenly sends an email intended for his mistress to his loving and naive wife, played by co-writer Jane Milmore. The communications and miscommunications, intentional and unintentional, that ensue are what drive this hour and a half long show that reminded me a bit of an episode of Three's Company -- if Mr. Roper were banging Janet and Mrs. Roper found out. And there's a reason for the sitcomy vibe of this show - Van Zandt and Milmore have produced and written over 300 hours of television comedy. But with You've Got Hate Mail, there's no laugh track, and they don't need one. The night I was there, the audience laughed at every single line that was meant to be laughed at, and there were a lot of 'em. It's fun, it's funny, and it's $35 a ticket with a two drink minimum. So take someone you're trying to impress, and get all that talking/getting to know you stuff out of your system on the first two dates.

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WHERE TO MEET SINGLE WOMEN

I walked through the East Village on Saturday night wondering why so many people were willing to wait in lines to get into tiny, crowded, grungy bars so they could drink while attempting to have conversations over deafeningly loud music. I wonder this every time I walk by such a bar, but I'm particularly fascinated with people's fascination with bars in this part of town. People flock to them on weekends like the East Village is Mecca during the Hajj and Mohammed himself is sitting shit-faced at the bar next to some guy in skinny jeans and a bow-tie. To me, any neighborhood where you can almost step in piss, shit, spit, vomit and cum all on the same block, is a neighborhood I'll visit on the rare occasion (next time in gollashes), but it's not one I'd wanna live in - and certainly not at East Village prices. I felt bad for the poor souls, especially the guys, who had to wait outside in the cold, the heat, the rain, the snow, running the risk of potentially getting pissed, shitted, spitted, vomited and cumed on, all to get into a bar in the cool part of town in the hope of maybe meeting a woman.

As the Colombian and I walked Southwest through the obstacle course of human excretions on our way to see a play in the West Village, we stopped in at Whole Foods. My exercise kick has forced me to eat healthier, and the Colombian has now gotten me into taking vitamins and supplements. She had gotten it into my head that I needed to take probiotics, so I darted past the overpriced produce and ran up the stairs to the vitamin/supplement section, eager to get started on eliminating the bad bacteria that lurks inside me. What I found in searching for the right probiotics was a wealth of choices - too many, in fact - and a lot of women - too many, in fact - with digestive issues. Next to the non-refrigerated probiotics there sat at least 5 shelves worth of products with words such as "Colon Cleanse," and "For Gas, Cramping & Constipation" written on the packaging. I witnessed at least ten young, attractive women checking out the various shitting aids in the fifteen minutes I stood there trying to make sense of CFUs and Lactobacillus strains. I wanted to run back to where I'd seen the desperate men waiting in line to tell them that they could be meeting women at that very moment at Whole Foods, or wherever else Gas X and stool softeners were sold. There was no need to humiliate themselves by hoping to be deemed worthy by some bouncer with an attitude and a clipboard in the East Village when so many available, gassy women awaited them at Duane Reades and Rite-Aids all over town. They needed to know that cover charges, dress codes and $10 beers didn't need to be part of their mating rituals, just an open mind and a poor sense of smell were required to meet the one. If I could have gotten to the roof, I would have shouted it from it, if had a Twitter account, I'd have tweeted it, if I were on Facebook, I'd have made it my status: "Run, don't walk, all you single, horny men to the personal care sections of your local drug stores and supermarkets. The women you seek are there!"

The Colombian laughed when I told her my idea to open a lounge with a probiotic section, but she said that if men were nearby, most women would shy away from publicly displaying that they have gastrointestinal issues; a notion I later challenged as the woman I sat next to during the play unsuccessfully attempted to fan her silent but deadly away with the play's program.

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TOMORROW MORNING DISCOUNT TICKETS

The producers of "Tomorrow Morning," a musical about the coupling and uncoupling of relationships, are offering my readers a break on tickets. If you like musicals, shows about romantic relationships, and you get all tingly inside, like I do, when watching the price go down after entering a discount code, then you can do one of the following and save yourself over $20 per ticket (if you purchase by March 31, 2011 for performances through April 5 ,2011):

1. Visit Yorktheater.org and mention code HHCMORNING.
2. Call 212-935-5820 and mention code HHCMORNING.

AVENUE Q REVIEW

Did you ever watch Sesame Street and wonder what it would be like to see Elmo get ass fingered, The Cookie Monster simulate whacking off, or to hear The Count tell Grover to fuck himself? If you have, get help, and afterward go see "Avenue Q." I was invited a while back by the producers to come see the show for an event they called "Blogger Night." Being congenitally unable to turn down free tickets to anything, I jumped at the chance. But as the night of the show drew closer, I started to wonder if I wanted to schlepp to the theater district and sit through a musical for two hours. I was still recovering from what felt like three (or maybe it was ten) of the most torturous hours I spent sitting in a theater watching Les Miserables eight years ago. Call me uncultured, call me unrefined, but I just can't get down with people breaking into song for no reason. So I told the Colombian to go with her sister, but she insisted on going with me. Apparently, chicks just love doing things with their men - a concept I sometimes need to be reminded of. I refrained from giving her the tired, old "We're not gonna be able to talk during the show anyway, so what's the difference who sits next to you?" routine, and I agreed to go with her, thinking that would at some point get me out of going somewhere else with her I didn't wanna go. (Because that's how men think, even the good ones like me. ... Then again, maybe it's just me).

So off we went on Wednesday night. I had done little research about the show and for some reason, based on the very little I read, I thought it would be like "Rent" with puppets - not that I'd ever seen "Rent," or really knew what that was about either. I shmuckily thought the "Q" stood for "queer," and I didn't think it would be something a straight dude would be into. But I was wrong. "Avenue Q" was a delight. Shit, it rubbed off on me! Just kidding. The show is fucking awesome! And I'm not the type of person who says that often about anything. I'll spare you all the plot summary and character breakdown, since you can get that at the Avenue Q website, and I'll just say if you're reading this blog because you like my sense of humor, you'll definitely get a kick out of "Avenue Q." When I wasn't laughing out loud, I had a smile on my face. Sure, they broke into song for no reason, but the songs were funny and original, and breaking into song is kinda the point of a musical anyway, right? In addition to the only act of Puppet 69 I'd ever seen, there were very clever Sesame Street/ Electric Company spoofs that played on TV screens every so often above the stage that complemented the action on stage. So if you'd like hearing a closeted homosexual puppet sing about how he wants to eat his made-up girlfriend's puppet pussy, or if you just wanna see a really great show with an extremely talented cast, and of course, hear puppets say "fuck," check out "Avenue Q."

They're offering discount tickets to my readers (as low as $55) until 5-26-11 when you use code AQBLOG12 at broadwayoffers.com, on the phone or at the box office. Yes, my tickets were free, but had I known the show was this good, I'd have gladly paid $55 a pop for tickets. This from someone who took the Colombian to The Food Emporium around the corner from the theater for dinner after the show, so you know it must be good - the show, that is, not the Food Emporium. (Someone made a store just for me, someone's got my kind of quality my ass!)
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A TIME OF GIVING

I've learned many things these past few months while dating the Colombian. I've learned to enjoy certain films, books, art, and food that I otherwise might not have been exposed to had I not been dating her. I've learned, or I should say I re-learned, that it's not worth arguing with a woman who thinks she's right. I've learned from her friends that asking a woman what she does for a living right after meeting her is frowned upon by the fairer sex. I'm not sure why, but I wasn't going to argue with them since they think they're right. I've also learned about love, compromise, and respect, but that's not where I'm headed here.

What I've learned that will prove to be a valuable lesson for the remainder of my years on this earth is that Costco by far has the best deal on earth on condoms. I paid for a 40 count variety pack at Costco, what I paid for a 6 pack at Duane Reade (around $14). There's one downside, though, if you can even call it a downside. Of the 40 condoms, 20 are unusable, at least for me. The Trojan "Ecstasy" condoms that come in the gold packaging and the "Her Pleasure" ribbed condoms in the purple packaging are simply too big for me. When wearing them, I feel like a nine-year-old wearing his father's shoes, and unless I undergo a miraculous length and girth growth spurt, I'm left with 20 condoms I can't use. There's absolutely no indication on the packaging that these rubbers are supersized, or for a horse, but when calculating the per condom cost, I've still come out way ahead - no pun intended - so I'm willing to share my good fortune with you, my loyal readers.

If you like free stuff, or are too cheap to practice safe sex, and are hung like a blue whale, or are currently sleeping with or plan to sleep with someone similarly endowed, the condoms are yours. I'll be leaving them in the original box on the benches near the dog park in Union Square Park tonight at around 7 pm. This is a first come (again, no pun intended), first served offer, so if you're in the area and you want them, get there fast before the homeless get to them first and use them to carry their empty soda cans.

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IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A GOOD DATER

What would you do if you saw these picture on a dating site? Roll your eyes? Point and laugh? Copy and paste the picture into an email and announce to your friends and family that THIS is why you've given up on dating and are becoming a eunuch or a nun? Before you bust out the castrating shears or the habit, a new dating site called DateBuzz is giving you another option. Imagine if you could filter your searches so that you no longer have to see the shirtless guy posing in front his Trans-Am, or read the profile written by the teacher who is "definatley looking for someone inteligant" - unless of course, you're into that. DateBuzz allows you to tag pieces of profiles you like or dislike so your search results get smarter. If Jdate had this feature, I never would have posted this, this, this, this, this...well, you get the idea.

The premise behind DateBuzz is to not only help members sift through the wretched refuse found on most dating sites of poorly written profiles and self-taken cell phone pictures, but to create a community of daters that provides feedback to its members. If the picture of you leaning over so that your breasts cover your buddha belly isn't working for your target audience, they'll let you know so you can change it. If you're not getting positive feedback about listing the bible as your favorite book (because everyone knows "the bible is my favorite book" is code for "I'm illiterate," except, of course, for you), you'll know it's time to expand your reading selection, or to start reading, period. By the same token, if people like that you volunteer at a nursing home once a month, perhaps others may be encouraged to do the same, if for no other reason than to make themselves seem more attractive to you and the rest of the dating community. (Or they could just lie about it, but at least they'd be lying about something other than their incomes or weights).

Of course, DateBuzz is susceptible to the same pitfalls as other dating sites. The best looking will likely get the lion's share of the positive feedback and many will filter their searches so that only the hotties pop up. But the idea of a site that organically cleanses itself of the dull and inane, while encouraging the attractive - physical, emotional and intellectual - at least in theory - is long overdue. Forget the "dating guru" who can't get a date herself, or the "relationship expert" who looks like the only relationships he's ever been in charged him by the hour. Who better to tell you what's good and what sucks about your profile than the people you're trying to attract? If DateBuzz succeeds, the community it's trying to create will have your dating back, so that you don't wonder why no one is responding to your profile that includes a picture of you flipping off the photographer. And if this site serves no greater good than discouraging people from listing "House of Payne" as a show they never forget to TiVo, it will have performed a much needed service for daters, as well as human beings everywhere.

HOROWITZ HOT

My friend Horowitz thinks any woman with blonde hair (bleached or real), a flat stomach, a fake tan, and a set of Lee Press on Nails is hot. I'm not a contrarian by nature, so I just nod whenever he points out a woman, or shows me a picture of a woman he believes to be "hot." A mutual friend who's in on the "Horowitz Hot" joke called me last night to let me know that our buddy was dating someone new. I tried my hardest to refrain from asking the obvious questions: What does she look like? Did she audition for Jersey Shore? Does she wear sweatpants that are a size too small with "Juicy" written on her ass? Does she say "axe" or "eeyx" instead of "ask?" What cosmetology school did she go to? But my resolution for the new year, as well as what's left of this one, is to be non-judgmental.

"You meet her?" I axed.

"Yeah, last night," he said.

"And?" I asked in my non-judgmental attempt to find out what she looked like, if she auditioned for Jersey Shore...

"I gotta tell you. She's hot! Not Horowitz Hot, but like people with taste hot. She's breathtaking," he said, surprised.

"Breathtaking? How's that possible? Would Horowitz even be attracted to a woman who was genuinely attractive? I mean, I know beauty is subjective, but would Horowitz be attracted to a woman most men across vast cultural divides could agree was objectively hot, like Christie Brinkley?"

"Christie Brinkley! Shit! How fuckin' old are we?"

"I'd still do Christie Brinkley, even though she's in her fifties. I'd probably do her in her sixties too, but that's my point. She's this ageless beauty that someone like Horowitz couldn't appreciate ...or could he? I don't know."

So much for the New Year's resolution. At first, I thought I was jealous that he was dating someone someone else called "breathtaking." The Colombian is beautiful, easily the best looking woman I've ever dated, but I chalked my discomfort up to petty little thoughts like: Why should his girlfriend be hotter than mine? Then I thought I was bothered by the fact that a man with low standards was being rewarded with a prize meant for someone with good taste, like trailer trash who win the lottery and move into a palace. Surely, they couldn't appreciate the finer things in life, so why bother wasting such treasures on them?

"She seemed really into him too," my friend said.

"He's a happy-go-lucky, good looking guy. I could see that. What does she work in a bowling alley or something?"

"She's a psychologist and she teaches at Columbia."

"Breathtaking AND educated? What am I missing here? Has Horowitz ever even a read anything besides an Archie comic? He thinks saying "whatnot" makes him sound intelligent."

"Whatever, she's into him. Come out with us tomorrow night. We'll get Chinese like the rest of the Jews in the city. You can check her out yourself."

So I'll meet her tomorrow, and I'll try my best to be non-judgmental and accept the fact that my friend with no taste has a breathtaking, educated girlfriend. But I have to admit, part of me is hoping she shows up in sweatpants with "Juicy" written on her ass so I know everything is right with the world.

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THE "FUCKIN' CUNT" STORY

Every time I listen to the Colombian recount a recent occurrence at the NY Shlong club (aka new York Sports Club), I keep thinking I'm watching an episode of some old sitcom in which the main characters retell events of a robbery or kidnapping to the cops from their own points of view. Like in the version J.J. retells, the sexy female ringleader has the hots for him, or in Potsie's retelling, he makes the girls swoon with his singing, Ralph Malph is killing with his comedy in his version, Carmine "The Big Ragu" is a world renowned dancer in his, and they all wind up foiling the bad guys'' master plan in some sort of heroic act. The point is, the sitcoms and the Colombian's story all contain a kernel of truth mired in a pile of bullshit. And that's where the similarities end. The way the Colombian has been telling the "Fuckin Cunt" story to friends, no one, especially me, comes off as a hero.

In her version, we were both working out at the NYSC. That much is true. She was on the stairmaster and I was apparently standing right next to her climbing the stairs on the same machine. That's the only way her version makes any sense. But I digress. Suddenly, along comes a big, bad muscle man who declares that he intends to turn the fans off in the room because it's too cold and his muscles need to be warm at all times. The Colombian protests and tells him that she and her fellow stair climbers are really hot and she'd appreciate it if he left the fans on. In the midst of some form of roid rage, Schwarzenegger then calls the Colombian a "fuckin' cunt." Upon hearing the insult, instead of defending her honor, I immediately run away in fear for my life, leaving her to fend for herself against a crazed, fire-breathing, musclebound troglodyte.

In the true version that would be revealed at the end of the episode, I was in another part of the gym when this all went down. When the Colombian told me the story, I suggested she report the guy to the management because a. he could be dangerous, and b. if he is dangerous, he's more likely to kick my ass than hers. The end.

I know the Colombian is just teasing me when she tells her version. Plus, I think she gets a kick out of saying "fuckin' cunt" in a New Yawk accent. But now all her friends think I'm a pussy, which I am, but that's none of their business.

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LET US PRAY: TALES OF A VAGINA-PHOBE

On the Upper West Side of Manhattan, there are those who engage in sexual intercourse and those who do not. These are their stories:

Rudy is an orthodox Jew who in over thirty years of existence has yet to penetrate a woman. Some might say he's merely adhering to the Jewish law prohibiting sexual contact with a woman who is not your wife, and some might say he suffers from an acute case of vagina-phobia. Others just think he's gay. As far as I'm concerned, the jury is still out, but I just love his date stories - especially the one he relayed to me this past weekend.

Rudy met a girl online. They had a nice chat walking through Central Park and things were going smoothly. At some point, the girl asked Rudy, a software engineer, back to her apartment to see if he could fix her Mac. I thought this story was headed in the same direction as the experience I once had with a woman who asked me to fix her computer, but Rudy's story was much better. After he played with her Macbook, she invited him to her bedroom and told him how much she loved the gap in between his two front teeth. She was so turned on by the chasm that she proceeded to lick the gap, getting hotter and wetter with each stroke of of his gum with her tongue. They wound up in her bed with the girl on top of Rudy, licking and moaning. Just as things were about to take a turn for the naked, Rudy abruptly stopped the proceedings in their tracks. Looking at his watch, he declared, "It's getting late. I have to daven mincha (pray the afternoon prayer) before dark." The girl looked at him stunned and befuddled, as he got up off the bed and walked into the hallway in front of her apartment and started to pray. After his fifteen or so minute communion with God, he knocked on the door but was refused re-entry. As he told the story, I could sense he was relieved by the fact that he was sent packing and was spared from having to actually see a vagina. I explained to Rudy that god probably would've been cool with him missing the afternoon prayer and that next time he finds himself in a similar situation, he should let the girl keep licking. He nodded and told me I was right, but I could tell from the look in his eyes that the vagina-phobe will have another story for me soon.

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