Eugenie Blanchard, who was considered the world's oldest person, died in the French Caribbean island of St. Barts on Thursday. She was 114, but listed her age as 33 on Jdate so she would come up in searches.
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Thursday, November 4, 2010
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN, IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME
The Location: A cafe downtown. One of those places with a French name you have to struggle to pronounce where everything is made of wood. There's a big community table in the center with smaller two-person tables along the walls. You can order at the register, but then you're not allowed to sit down.
The Waitress: A heavyset black woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties. A very cheerful, upbeat kid. She's an actress. I know this not just because she's a waitress, but because I overhear her talking to the frumpy woman in her fifties, sitting two tables over. The frumpy woman who is somehow involved in the production of an all-black soap opera will be back next week, so that the waitress can give her a head shot. This makes the waitress giddy, as she walks over to our table.
Waitress: Hi! So you guys ready to order?
Me (looking at the Colombian): Are we?
Her (the Colombian): Yep. What's the soup of the day?
Waitress: Spinach.
Her: Mmmm...Sounds yummy. (Then to me) Would you share that with me or would you like your own? (I mentioned being interested in soup as we perused the menu, but spinach? I wasn't sure I'd ever had spinach soup, and I wondered if it could actually be any good. I was on the fence until I saw it was $6 a bowl).
Me: I'll share.
Her: Cool. We're eating spinach. Like Papaya.
Me: No, it's spinach. Not papaya. You know what spinach is, right?
Her: Like Papaya.
Me:(inching in closer to the Colombian so the waitress can't see as I give her a "what the fuck are you saying look?") Papaya is a fruit. Spinach is a vegetable.
The Colombian looks at me confused. The waitress doesn't know quite what to say. I jump in and order my sandwich, and the waitress leaves.
Me: Papaya? What was that?
Her: You know, you eat spinach and you get strong like Papaya.
Me: You mean Popeye? The sailor man?
Her: Yes. That's what I said.
Me: You said Papaya.
Her: I said Po-peh-yeh.
Me: That's how you say Popeye in Spanish? Po-peh-yeh?
Her: Yes.
Me: If this were a first date, I would've walked away thinking you had some kind of brain injury.
Her: If this were a first date, I would've walked away thinking you were an asshole.
Me: Fair enough. Sorry. (It's just easier to apologize).
The waitress was entering our order into the computer a few feet away and heard the whole thing. I saw her smirking. Maybe she'll re-enact it during her audition for the frumpy lady.
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The Waitress: A heavyset black woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties. A very cheerful, upbeat kid. She's an actress. I know this not just because she's a waitress, but because I overhear her talking to the frumpy woman in her fifties, sitting two tables over. The frumpy woman who is somehow involved in the production of an all-black soap opera will be back next week, so that the waitress can give her a head shot. This makes the waitress giddy, as she walks over to our table.
Waitress: Hi! So you guys ready to order?
Me (looking at the Colombian): Are we?
Her (the Colombian): Yep. What's the soup of the day?
Waitress: Spinach.
Her: Mmmm...Sounds yummy. (Then to me) Would you share that with me or would you like your own? (I mentioned being interested in soup as we perused the menu, but spinach? I wasn't sure I'd ever had spinach soup, and I wondered if it could actually be any good. I was on the fence until I saw it was $6 a bowl).
Me: I'll share.
Her: Cool. We're eating spinach. Like Papaya.
Me: No, it's spinach. Not papaya. You know what spinach is, right?
Her: Like Papaya.
Me:(inching in closer to the Colombian so the waitress can't see as I give her a "what the fuck are you saying look?") Papaya is a fruit. Spinach is a vegetable.
The Colombian looks at me confused. The waitress doesn't know quite what to say. I jump in and order my sandwich, and the waitress leaves.
Me: Papaya? What was that?
Her: You know, you eat spinach and you get strong like Papaya.
Me: You mean Popeye? The sailor man?
Her: Yes. That's what I said.
Me: You said Papaya.
Her: I said Po-peh-yeh.
Me: That's how you say Popeye in Spanish? Po-peh-yeh?
Her: Yes.
Me: If this were a first date, I would've walked away thinking you had some kind of brain injury.
Her: If this were a first date, I would've walked away thinking you were an asshole.
Me: Fair enough. Sorry. (It's just easier to apologize).
The waitress was entering our order into the computer a few feet away and heard the whole thing. I saw her smirking. Maybe she'll re-enact it during her audition for the frumpy lady.
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Sunday, October 31, 2010
THE NEW YORK SHLONG CLUB
My apologies if you typed some variation of "shlong in New York" or "NY Shlong" into google and you were brought here by mistake, but maybe you can find what you're looking for at New York Sports Club - or as I now call it, "The New York Shlong Club."
The Colombian got me a free one month membership to NYSC over the summer, and I've been going pretty religiously ever since. I'm definitely seeing results, but in addition to tighter abs and bigger biceps, I'm also seeing a lot of cock - and unfortunately, it's not my own. I shower at home and I won't step into the bacteria trap of a jacuzzi at the gym, but I do enjoy a good bake in the sauna, which is where I've come within inches of some of the most shriveled up shvantzes I've ever seen. For the life of me, I can't imagine what women or gay dudes find attractive about these things, or why they'd touch or put them in their mouths. I'm ready to seek treatment just from being in the same sauna with them. I suppose it's better than having to tip-toe around discarded, used tampons lying on the shower floor in the lady's locker room - something the Colombian told me she was informed about during a Spanish conversation with the gym's Mexican cleaning lady - but that still doesn't make me okay with the too close for comfort pecker proximity I've been subjected to lately. One would think that the more flabby and out of shape you are, the less likely you'd be to flaunt your naked body. Such logic apparently does not apply at the NY Shlong Club, and I was forced yesterday to witness a rotund man in his late fifties repeatedly scratch (at least I hope he was just scratching) his diminutive dick, while sitting barely a foot from me. By the twentieth or so "scratch" I decided to leave before I got unwillingly inducted into the NY Semen Club. To think, when I first joined the gym, I got annoyed that people weren't wiping down the equipment after they used it.
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The Colombian got me a free one month membership to NYSC over the summer, and I've been going pretty religiously ever since. I'm definitely seeing results, but in addition to tighter abs and bigger biceps, I'm also seeing a lot of cock - and unfortunately, it's not my own. I shower at home and I won't step into the bacteria trap of a jacuzzi at the gym, but I do enjoy a good bake in the sauna, which is where I've come within inches of some of the most shriveled up shvantzes I've ever seen. For the life of me, I can't imagine what women or gay dudes find attractive about these things, or why they'd touch or put them in their mouths. I'm ready to seek treatment just from being in the same sauna with them. I suppose it's better than having to tip-toe around discarded, used tampons lying on the shower floor in the lady's locker room - something the Colombian told me she was informed about during a Spanish conversation with the gym's Mexican cleaning lady - but that still doesn't make me okay with the too close for comfort pecker proximity I've been subjected to lately. One would think that the more flabby and out of shape you are, the less likely you'd be to flaunt your naked body. Such logic apparently does not apply at the NY Shlong Club, and I was forced yesterday to witness a rotund man in his late fifties repeatedly scratch (at least I hope he was just scratching) his diminutive dick, while sitting barely a foot from me. By the twentieth or so "scratch" I decided to leave before I got unwillingly inducted into the NY Semen Club. To think, when I first joined the gym, I got annoyed that people weren't wiping down the equipment after they used it.
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Saturday, October 30, 2010
THE HALLOWEEN POST - A REPEAT
By the time I saw the second Batman and the third Superman roaming the chilly streets of the West Village tonight, I couldn't wait to get back home and mock them on the blog. Then I remembered I already did that last year. So if you didn't read last year's post, here it is again:
I don't remember ever seeing as many people in Halloween costumes as I did on Saturday night. Maybe it's because Saturday night was the first time I've left the house on Halloween in I think, ever. I don't get the whole dressing up thing and I'd never go to a party where I was required to wear a costume, but if that's your thing, then god bless you. Maybe I'm a smug, cynical douchebag who thinks he's too cool for dress up, but I just think it's kinda silly. So by the time I was done rolling my eyes at the fifth Superman with the sock enhanced crotch I'd seen in as many minutes, I barely had the energy to do the same at the gay pirate who couldn't figure out how to work the Metrocard machine. But I mustered up the strength because, well, as I said above - that's just downright silly.
I saw a fair share of women in military uniforms. I wasn't aware that "push-up" bras (or as I like to call them , "Please, Please, Please Look At My Tits and Think They're Really This Big" bras) were standard issue nowadays, but you live and learn. I thought the boyfriend/girlfriend duo dressed respectively in a Mets and Yankees Jersey and cap were trying too hard to be cute, and I wanted to tell the guy I saw in drag to just go home, if he wasn't even gonna try a little.
I didn't want to actually smack anyone until I got on the packed train and was forced to listen to a loud, balding, sweaty guy dressed as John Cusack from "Say Anything." I only know who he was supposed to be because loud, bald, sweaty guy announced it to like five different people after he bragged to each of them about how drunk he was gonna get later. I just saw some schmuck in a trench coat holding a boom box. I don't even remember if I ever saw "Say Anything," but apparently it's cool to like that movie for some reason. I'm pretty sure John Cusack didn't have either a severe glandular problem, or Malaria, in that film, so I think it's understandable that I didn't get the costume given all the sweating.
At some point during the ride, loud, bald, sweaty guy became loud, bald, sweaty, bloody guy when he cut his hand on his boom box and started dripping blood on the floor. I was so annoyed by his loud, bald, sweatiness that I wanted to scream at him like I was his alcoholic father: "You see what happens when you carry stupid shit around like a boom box, you fucking imbecile?! We're packed in here like sardines and you're walking around with a radio from the eighties? What the fuck is wrong with you? If you need props and have to explain your costume, then it's stupid! Next Halloween you're staying home!" When the 1989 John Cusack impersonator couldn't find a tissue, he began to suck on the cut and soon had blood all over his mouth. For the next ten minutes, all I heard was, "Is it on my face? Seriously. Is it on my face?" I knew then I'd definitely be staying home next Halloween.
But I'm glad I went out this Halloween. On what other night of the year could I see four different "Shirtless Jdate Guy" costumes? Yes, that's a real costume - I think. These were guys just walking around in jeans and no shirts. There was no logical explanation for them not to be wearing shirts other than the fact they were in costume, and given that they had nothing else to offer besides shirtlessness, I just assumed they were dressed (or not dressed in this case) as "Shirtless Jdate Guys." The only thing missing was a cardboard cut out of a profile they could stick their faces in, in which they list their heights at least four inches taller than they actually are, and lie about how much money they make. I can only hope that these guys went to parties where they found women in "46 But List Their Ages As 34 To Come Up In Searches" costumes. I hear those are very popular.
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I don't remember ever seeing as many people in Halloween costumes as I did on Saturday night. Maybe it's because Saturday night was the first time I've left the house on Halloween in I think, ever. I don't get the whole dressing up thing and I'd never go to a party where I was required to wear a costume, but if that's your thing, then god bless you. Maybe I'm a smug, cynical douchebag who thinks he's too cool for dress up, but I just think it's kinda silly. So by the time I was done rolling my eyes at the fifth Superman with the sock enhanced crotch I'd seen in as many minutes, I barely had the energy to do the same at the gay pirate who couldn't figure out how to work the Metrocard machine. But I mustered up the strength because, well, as I said above - that's just downright silly.
I saw a fair share of women in military uniforms. I wasn't aware that "push-up" bras (or as I like to call them , "Please, Please, Please Look At My Tits and Think They're Really This Big" bras) were standard issue nowadays, but you live and learn. I thought the boyfriend/girlfriend duo dressed respectively in a Mets and Yankees Jersey and cap were trying too hard to be cute, and I wanted to tell the guy I saw in drag to just go home, if he wasn't even gonna try a little.
I didn't want to actually smack anyone until I got on the packed train and was forced to listen to a loud, balding, sweaty guy dressed as John Cusack from "Say Anything." I only know who he was supposed to be because loud, bald, sweaty guy announced it to like five different people after he bragged to each of them about how drunk he was gonna get later. I just saw some schmuck in a trench coat holding a boom box. I don't even remember if I ever saw "Say Anything," but apparently it's cool to like that movie for some reason. I'm pretty sure John Cusack didn't have either a severe glandular problem, or Malaria, in that film, so I think it's understandable that I didn't get the costume given all the sweating.
At some point during the ride, loud, bald, sweaty guy became loud, bald, sweaty, bloody guy when he cut his hand on his boom box and started dripping blood on the floor. I was so annoyed by his loud, bald, sweatiness that I wanted to scream at him like I was his alcoholic father: "You see what happens when you carry stupid shit around like a boom box, you fucking imbecile?! We're packed in here like sardines and you're walking around with a radio from the eighties? What the fuck is wrong with you? If you need props and have to explain your costume, then it's stupid! Next Halloween you're staying home!" When the 1989 John Cusack impersonator couldn't find a tissue, he began to suck on the cut and soon had blood all over his mouth. For the next ten minutes, all I heard was, "Is it on my face? Seriously. Is it on my face?" I knew then I'd definitely be staying home next Halloween.
But I'm glad I went out this Halloween. On what other night of the year could I see four different "Shirtless Jdate Guy" costumes? Yes, that's a real costume - I think. These were guys just walking around in jeans and no shirts. There was no logical explanation for them not to be wearing shirts other than the fact they were in costume, and given that they had nothing else to offer besides shirtlessness, I just assumed they were dressed (or not dressed in this case) as "Shirtless Jdate Guys." The only thing missing was a cardboard cut out of a profile they could stick their faces in, in which they list their heights at least four inches taller than they actually are, and lie about how much money they make. I can only hope that these guys went to parties where they found women in "46 But List Their Ages As 34 To Come Up In Searches" costumes. I hear those are very popular.
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Friday, October 29, 2010
Miss Abigail's Guide to Dating
I'm generally not one for gimmicky off-Broadway shows about dating and relationships (a trip to "I Love You, You're Perfect Now Change" a few years ago had me thinking, "I Love You You're Perfect, Now Give Me My Money Back"), but "Miss Abigail's Guide to Dating, Mating and Marriage," playing at Sofia's Downstairs Theater, is actually very entertaining. Miss Abigail, played by Eve Plumb, aka Jan from the "Brady Bunch," offers dating and mating advice to the stars and to the audience with the help of her loyal Mexican assistant Paco, played by Manuel Herrera - think Fez from "That 70s Show." But what sets this production apart from cheesy sitcoms set in the seventies, is that this show is actually funny. The writing is clever, and Plumb and Herrera are skilled improvisers able to effortlessly interact with the audience. And there is quite a bit of audience participation, so if you're like me, and you don't like a room full of people staring at you, don't sit on the aisles or in the front row because there's a good chance you'll wind up on stage.
There's nothing particularly earth shattering about the advice given about dating and mating (it's mostly along the lines of look your best, smile at someone you're interested in, don't stalk anyone, etc.), but there are enough laughs to get you through the hour or so production without having to sneak a peak at your phone to see what time it is. The mostly female, and seemingly unattached, audience was howling with laughter most of the time - good news for the producers and any single guys looking to meet a chick. There's some time for mingling at the bar before the show, so if you're a dude in NYC looking to be in a room in which you're seriously outnumbered by available women who actually wanna be in a relationship, forget the teacher on Match.com whose profile is full of spelling errors, don't bother with the forty-year-old on Jdate who lists her age as twenty-four so she can come up in searches, stop wasting your time with the woman on E-Harmony who lists her weight as 110 because she's secretly on the metric system, and head down to Sofia's Downstairs Theater and catch "Miss Abigail's Guide to Dating, Mating and Marriage." Just don't linger in front of the theater too long before the show because there's a Scientology Center next door, and one of their Dianetics disciples may try and Katie Holmes your ass like one tried to do to the Colombian while we waited outside for the show to start. Also, grab a bite somewhere outside the theater district before you come. The $11 turkey sandwich at Dean and Deluca's next to the theater was good, but for eleven bucks, I wanted the Scientology guy to feed it to me, and give me at least five bucks back.
I've got two free tickets to give away to the show, so if you're interested, email me and I'll randomly select a winner. Emails with "Miss Abigail" written in the subject must be received by 5pm today to qualify.
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There's nothing particularly earth shattering about the advice given about dating and mating (it's mostly along the lines of look your best, smile at someone you're interested in, don't stalk anyone, etc.), but there are enough laughs to get you through the hour or so production without having to sneak a peak at your phone to see what time it is. The mostly female, and seemingly unattached, audience was howling with laughter most of the time - good news for the producers and any single guys looking to meet a chick. There's some time for mingling at the bar before the show, so if you're a dude in NYC looking to be in a room in which you're seriously outnumbered by available women who actually wanna be in a relationship, forget the teacher on Match.com whose profile is full of spelling errors, don't bother with the forty-year-old on Jdate who lists her age as twenty-four so she can come up in searches, stop wasting your time with the woman on E-Harmony who lists her weight as 110 because she's secretly on the metric system, and head down to Sofia's Downstairs Theater and catch "Miss Abigail's Guide to Dating, Mating and Marriage." Just don't linger in front of the theater too long before the show because there's a Scientology Center next door, and one of their Dianetics disciples may try and Katie Holmes your ass like one tried to do to the Colombian while we waited outside for the show to start. Also, grab a bite somewhere outside the theater district before you come. The $11 turkey sandwich at Dean and Deluca's next to the theater was good, but for eleven bucks, I wanted the Scientology guy to feed it to me, and give me at least five bucks back.
I've got two free tickets to give away to the show, so if you're interested, email me and I'll randomly select a winner. Emails with "Miss Abigail" written in the subject must be received by 5pm today to qualify.
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Wednesday, October 20, 2010
I LIKE THE EVENING LIFE
I stood outside some dive bar in SoHo a few weekends ago, wondering how much I'd have to slip the bouncer NOT to let me in. The Colombian and I were standing in line at 1AM to get into a tiny, dark room with a bar whose only illumination came from the never ending flashes of iPhones and Blackberries owned by people who must document every time they get shitfaced and then immediately notify all their Facebook friends via mobile upload.
I thought the gods of getting to bed at a reasonable hour had smiled upon me when the bouncer looked at his clipboard and said, "Nikki? There's no list for Nikki" in response to one of the women in our group telling him we were there for Nikki's birthday party. "Okay, no problem," I imagined myself saying to the big, black dude who was acting as the dive's gatekeeper. "We'll just be on our way then." But the bouncer sighed, lifted the velvet rope and said, "I'm only letting YOU guys in. Anyone else shows up for Nikki and they may not get in. Guys with shorts are definitely not getting in." Shit! I thought. Why was this guy being so agreeable? What happened to not getting in if you're not on the list? Why couldn't he make us wait in the thick, soupy humidity until we got tired and went home? If only I had a pair of shorts with me, I could have avoided feeling like an old man in a child's playground. Amidst the deafeningly loud, pulsating music, the smell of cheap booze and imminent sex wafted through the air, and all I could think in my best Danny Glover voice over was, "I'm too old for this shit." At thirty-nine, I don't feel or look old, and when I go out on a Saturday night, I don't need to be the oldest guy in the room.
So it did me some good when the Colombian and I took a ride out to Brooklyn last weekend to hear a reading of short stories. I thought we were just going to experience something literate, something cultural, which we did. But I had no idea we would be sitting in god's waiting room while doing so. The youngest guy in the room besides me looked to be around seventy. If not for the chilly air outside the theater, I'd have thought we were in Fort Lauderdale. The closest things resembling Blackberries or iPhones in the room were the cheap, little flip phones you get when you sign up for the $29 a month Senior Citizen Plan that gives you 450 anytime minutes and unlimited calls to Meals on Wheels and 911. The room smelled of moth balls, old lady perfume, and a stale fart, and the only things preventing anyone from getting in were uncooperative walkers. I looked around the room and couldn't help thinking that more than half the people there would likely be dead very soon, some by intermission. But it felt good, even comforting, to be fifty years younger than the oldest guy in the room, and it felt great to be home and in bed by 11:30.
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I thought the gods of getting to bed at a reasonable hour had smiled upon me when the bouncer looked at his clipboard and said, "Nikki? There's no list for Nikki" in response to one of the women in our group telling him we were there for Nikki's birthday party. "Okay, no problem," I imagined myself saying to the big, black dude who was acting as the dive's gatekeeper. "We'll just be on our way then." But the bouncer sighed, lifted the velvet rope and said, "I'm only letting YOU guys in. Anyone else shows up for Nikki and they may not get in. Guys with shorts are definitely not getting in." Shit! I thought. Why was this guy being so agreeable? What happened to not getting in if you're not on the list? Why couldn't he make us wait in the thick, soupy humidity until we got tired and went home? If only I had a pair of shorts with me, I could have avoided feeling like an old man in a child's playground. Amidst the deafeningly loud, pulsating music, the smell of cheap booze and imminent sex wafted through the air, and all I could think in my best Danny Glover voice over was, "I'm too old for this shit." At thirty-nine, I don't feel or look old, and when I go out on a Saturday night, I don't need to be the oldest guy in the room.
So it did me some good when the Colombian and I took a ride out to Brooklyn last weekend to hear a reading of short stories. I thought we were just going to experience something literate, something cultural, which we did. But I had no idea we would be sitting in god's waiting room while doing so. The youngest guy in the room besides me looked to be around seventy. If not for the chilly air outside the theater, I'd have thought we were in Fort Lauderdale. The closest things resembling Blackberries or iPhones in the room were the cheap, little flip phones you get when you sign up for the $29 a month Senior Citizen Plan that gives you 450 anytime minutes and unlimited calls to Meals on Wheels and 911. The room smelled of moth balls, old lady perfume, and a stale fart, and the only things preventing anyone from getting in were uncooperative walkers. I looked around the room and couldn't help thinking that more than half the people there would likely be dead very soon, some by intermission. But it felt good, even comforting, to be fifty years younger than the oldest guy in the room, and it felt great to be home and in bed by 11:30.
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Friday, September 10, 2010
¿ De que estas hablando, lady?
It's difficult enough communicating with someone from a different planet (you know, the whole
Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus thing), but when they're also from a different continent, things get even harder to understand. Case in point:
Her: Remember the movie yesterday?
Me: What movie?
Her: The movie yesterday.
Me: What movie? We saw a movie?
Her: Yes. You don't remember? Yesterday!
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about. Did I even see you yesterday?
Her: How could you not remember?
Me: I was pretty sure I didn't see you yesterday, but after all this movie talk I don't know anymore.
Her: I watched it with you on your sofa.
Me: What?
Her: Yesterday.
Me: Not when. What?
Her: The movie called "Yesterday."
Me: Who's on first?
Her: What?
Me: The movie with the woman in Africa who gets AIDS?
Her: Yeah. That was sad wasn't it?
Me: That's what this whole thing was about?
Her: It was so sad.
Me: Horrible.
Her: Aren't you glad I got you to watch a foreign movie instead of another episode of Family Guy?
Me: Yes, I always prefer being depressed over laughing.
Her: You didn't like it?
Me: Who said I didn't like it?
Her: You did.
Me: When?
Her: When we spoke.
Me: When? Yesterday? Third base.
Her: What does that mean?
Me: Abbott and Costello. You don't know Abbott and Costello? Who's on First?
Her: Who's on what?
Me: You know Diff'rent Strokes, but not Abbott and Costello?
Her: Which one is Diff'rent Strokes?
Me: Watchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?
Her: Ah, si. De que estas hablando, Willis?
Me: I can't believe you don't know "Who's on First?" We'll watch it on Youtube sometime.
Her: When?
Me: Tomorrow.
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Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus thing), but when they're also from a different continent, things get even harder to understand. Case in point:
Her: Remember the movie yesterday?
Me: What movie?
Her: The movie yesterday.
Me: What movie? We saw a movie?
Her: Yes. You don't remember? Yesterday!
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about. Did I even see you yesterday?
Her: How could you not remember?
Me: I was pretty sure I didn't see you yesterday, but after all this movie talk I don't know anymore.
Her: I watched it with you on your sofa.
Me: What?
Her: Yesterday.
Me: Not when. What?
Her: The movie called "Yesterday."
Me: Who's on first?
Her: What?
Me: The movie with the woman in Africa who gets AIDS?
Her: Yeah. That was sad wasn't it?
Me: That's what this whole thing was about?
Her: It was so sad.
Me: Horrible.
Her: Aren't you glad I got you to watch a foreign movie instead of another episode of Family Guy?
Me: Yes, I always prefer being depressed over laughing.
Her: You didn't like it?
Me: Who said I didn't like it?
Her: You did.
Me: When?
Her: When we spoke.
Me: When? Yesterday? Third base.
Her: What does that mean?
Me: Abbott and Costello. You don't know Abbott and Costello? Who's on First?
Her: Who's on what?
Me: You know Diff'rent Strokes, but not Abbott and Costello?
Her: Which one is Diff'rent Strokes?
Me: Watchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis?
Her: Ah, si. De que estas hablando, Willis?
Me: I can't believe you don't know "Who's on First?" We'll watch it on Youtube sometime.
Her: When?
Me: Tomorrow.
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Thursday, August 26, 2010
DIARY OF A DISILLUSIONED DATER: THE BOOK...AND TALES OF LOST URINE
The book about my dating misadventures is done. It's actually been done for a while now, and I've been searching for an agent and publisher to help me share with the world my stories of Jdate disasters, long awkward silences during first phone calls, and uncomfortable and embarrassing sexual exploits. Words such as "hilarious," "touching," "sweet," "moving" - and did I say, "hilarious?"- have been used by big shots in the book business to describe what they read in my manuscript. But because of the current state of the publishing world, due in large part to Kindles, Nooks, and other devices that allow people to read books for a fraction of what it used to cost, publishers and agents only want to invest in the types of projects they think are sure money makers. It seems like they're mostly looking for inspirational estrogen fare like "Eat, Pray, Love," or thrillers involving girls with dragon tattoos. Right now, a book about dating written by a man is uncharted territory without a proven track record for bringing in the cash. I get that it's a business, but it doesn't mean I have to like it. Anyway, if you've enjoyed reading this blog, and you're somehow connected to the literary world, send me an Email, and try and hook a brother up. It would be most appreciated.
Now back to our regularly scheduled blog:
I generally don't like to repost old blog posts, especially after I've shamelessly asked readers to help me get published, but what happened to me over two years ago, recently happened again. Some minor details have changed, but the basic story is the same.
THE LOST PISS REDUX
You wouldn't know it from reading this blog, but from time to time I actually do fornicate with members of the opposite sex. I choose not to write about it because I'm a gentleman, and because this isn't Penthouse Forum. Being the responsible fornicator that I am, though, I get tested regularly to insure that no one gave me anything that will require a trip to the pharmacy. So a few weeks ago, I paid a visit to my doctor, dealt with his bitchy receptionist, and submitted my fluids for review.
The blood work came back okay within a couple of days, but they told me the results of the urine test had not yet been received. I was told to call back in a few days. I did, and still no results. "What's the holdup?" I asked the woman who answered the phone.
"The lab must be backed up," she told me, attempting to rush me off the phone. "Try back in a day or two."
When I called back two days later, and they still didn't have results for me, I asked to speak to the doctor.
"He's with patients now, but I'll leave a message for him to call," the woman said.
I gave him until the following morning not to return my call - then I called the office again. This time I dealt with a slightly less bitchy receptionist who admitted that my test results should have come in a while ago. "No shit," I thought to myself. "So can you call the lab, and find out what the deal is please?" I asked very politely - my pleasant tone masking my desire to want to scream at her, and every incompetent shithead that worked there.
"Let me get back to you," she responded. "Your number is ***-***-****, right?"
"No. It's ***-***-****," I said. "That number you have for me hasn't been good for like two years. I asked the other receptionist to change it when I came in for the tests."
"Okay. Got it," she said, and I hung up, knowing she didn't get it. If she was in fact going to call, she would call the old number - which she did, causing me to call back the next day. This time I got yet another Mensa candidate on the phone who informed me that someone tried calling me to tell me that the lab lost my urine, but they couldn't get a hold of me. I wonder why. In the meantime, somewhere at the lab, there was a cup of missing piss, and it had taken them almost two weeks to let me know about it.
"Come in again," she said. "We'll take another sample. You don't need an appointment. Just come when you can, and we'll see you right away." Wow. Now I was a VIP. "If we lose your urine, you can come in without an appointment." That's a great slogan for their business cards.
When I came in that very day, and announced to the receptionist who I was, she immediately had Holly the nurse take me to a room near the bathroom. I didn't have to say a word. She knew exactly why I was there, and handed me a cup with a bit of a smirk. It was as if I was the talk of the office - the annoying pain in the ass who keeps calling about his piss. I wasn't at all appreciating the vibe I was getting from Holly, and then when I turned around on my way to the bathroom, cup in hand, I noticed a "post it" note hanging on a bare wall in plain view for everyone to see.
The note read:
Marc (my last name) and the word "Gonorrhea" written under it.
This "post it" wasn't hanging on a bulletin board in a private room amongst other "post its" with names of patients and their ailments. It was being showcased in a part of the office where every doctor, nurse, receptionist, drug company rep, patient, and plumber could see it. I was surprised there wasn't a spotlight flashing on it. I bit my tongue, and simply said to Holly, "That's great. Now everyone thinks I have gonorrhea."
She laughed - not with me, but at me, and said, "Don't worry. Nobody comes back here. I just put it up there to remind me what to test for when you came in."
Nobody comes back here?!, I thought. I'M fuckin' back here, aren't I? This "post it" is hanging inches away from the bathroom so everyone who has to give you a urine sample, or take a dump comes back here!
I walked into the bathroom, came out, gave Holly a nice warm sample, and went on my way. This time the lab managed to do what they were supposed to, and eventually billed me $88 for it, which as a side note, I ain't paying. "Lose my piss and make me anxious for weeks, wondering what STD I may have, and you don't get paid." - That's the slogan on MY business card.
Anyway, the results were good, and I'm free to go about and fornicate as usual - responsibly, of course.
However, I can not let Holly get away with publicly embarrassing me like that. How many people out there now think I have gonorrhea? What if a potential date goes to that doctor, and right before we're about to get intimate, she says in a disgusted tone, "Wait a second. Do you go to Dr. Seidman? I thought your name sounded familiar. You're the gonorrhea guy. I'm not fucking you!"
So, Holly, here's where I exact my revenge. Maybe more people saw your "post it" than will see mine, but you never know what can happen on these crazy internets. This shit could go viral...pun intended:
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Now back to our regularly scheduled blog:
I generally don't like to repost old blog posts, especially after I've shamelessly asked readers to help me get published, but what happened to me over two years ago, recently happened again. Some minor details have changed, but the basic story is the same.
THE LOST PISS REDUX
You wouldn't know it from reading this blog, but from time to time I actually do fornicate with members of the opposite sex. I choose not to write about it because I'm a gentleman, and because this isn't Penthouse Forum. Being the responsible fornicator that I am, though, I get tested regularly to insure that no one gave me anything that will require a trip to the pharmacy. So a few weeks ago, I paid a visit to my doctor, dealt with his bitchy receptionist, and submitted my fluids for review.
The blood work came back okay within a couple of days, but they told me the results of the urine test had not yet been received. I was told to call back in a few days. I did, and still no results. "What's the holdup?" I asked the woman who answered the phone.
"The lab must be backed up," she told me, attempting to rush me off the phone. "Try back in a day or two."
When I called back two days later, and they still didn't have results for me, I asked to speak to the doctor.
"He's with patients now, but I'll leave a message for him to call," the woman said.
I gave him until the following morning not to return my call - then I called the office again. This time I dealt with a slightly less bitchy receptionist who admitted that my test results should have come in a while ago. "No shit," I thought to myself. "So can you call the lab, and find out what the deal is please?" I asked very politely - my pleasant tone masking my desire to want to scream at her, and every incompetent shithead that worked there.
"Let me get back to you," she responded. "Your number is ***-***-****, right?"
"No. It's ***-***-****," I said. "That number you have for me hasn't been good for like two years. I asked the other receptionist to change it when I came in for the tests."
"Okay. Got it," she said, and I hung up, knowing she didn't get it. If she was in fact going to call, she would call the old number - which she did, causing me to call back the next day. This time I got yet another Mensa candidate on the phone who informed me that someone tried calling me to tell me that the lab lost my urine, but they couldn't get a hold of me. I wonder why. In the meantime, somewhere at the lab, there was a cup of missing piss, and it had taken them almost two weeks to let me know about it.
"Come in again," she said. "We'll take another sample. You don't need an appointment. Just come when you can, and we'll see you right away." Wow. Now I was a VIP. "If we lose your urine, you can come in without an appointment." That's a great slogan for their business cards.
When I came in that very day, and announced to the receptionist who I was, she immediately had Holly the nurse take me to a room near the bathroom. I didn't have to say a word. She knew exactly why I was there, and handed me a cup with a bit of a smirk. It was as if I was the talk of the office - the annoying pain in the ass who keeps calling about his piss. I wasn't at all appreciating the vibe I was getting from Holly, and then when I turned around on my way to the bathroom, cup in hand, I noticed a "post it" note hanging on a bare wall in plain view for everyone to see.
The note read:
Marc (my last name) and the word "Gonorrhea" written under it.
This "post it" wasn't hanging on a bulletin board in a private room amongst other "post its" with names of patients and their ailments. It was being showcased in a part of the office where every doctor, nurse, receptionist, drug company rep, patient, and plumber could see it. I was surprised there wasn't a spotlight flashing on it. I bit my tongue, and simply said to Holly, "That's great. Now everyone thinks I have gonorrhea."
She laughed - not with me, but at me, and said, "Don't worry. Nobody comes back here. I just put it up there to remind me what to test for when you came in."
Nobody comes back here?!, I thought. I'M fuckin' back here, aren't I? This "post it" is hanging inches away from the bathroom so everyone who has to give you a urine sample, or take a dump comes back here!
I walked into the bathroom, came out, gave Holly a nice warm sample, and went on my way. This time the lab managed to do what they were supposed to, and eventually billed me $88 for it, which as a side note, I ain't paying. "Lose my piss and make me anxious for weeks, wondering what STD I may have, and you don't get paid." - That's the slogan on MY business card.
Anyway, the results were good, and I'm free to go about and fornicate as usual - responsibly, of course.
However, I can not let Holly get away with publicly embarrassing me like that. How many people out there now think I have gonorrhea? What if a potential date goes to that doctor, and right before we're about to get intimate, she says in a disgusted tone, "Wait a second. Do you go to Dr. Seidman? I thought your name sounded familiar. You're the gonorrhea guy. I'm not fucking you!"
So, Holly, here's where I exact my revenge. Maybe more people saw your "post it" than will see mine, but you never know what can happen on these crazy internets. This shit could go viral...pun intended:
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Monday, August 23, 2010
ДѮЛ Зяч шщ
I took the Colombian to Coney Island this past weekend. She'd never been, and I wanted to check out the supposedly revived area. The last time I'd been there was when a film I wrote ("The Apartment"*) was in the Coney Island Film Festival a few years ago, but it was nighttime then and I could barely see past the homeless guy who was peeing near the entrance to the theater. Last Saturday, when I saw Coney Island in daylight for the first time in maybe twenty years I could only surmise that tales of its revival have been greatly exaggerated. The place is as skeevie as ever. We both agreed that we could wait at least another twenty years to go back, and that neither of us wanted to suffer the consequences of eating a Nathan's hot dog. So we headed elsewhere for dinner.
I suggested Lundy's, a famous seafood place not far from where I grew up in Sheepshead Bay. But at some point after I moved, Russia apparently annexed that part of Brooklyn. The Lundy's building is now home to a Russian gourmet food market with an outdoor cafe at which we decided to eat since unbeknownst to me and my non-internet having phone, Lundy's has been out of business since 2007.
The waitress greeted us with "Privet," and seemed a bit surprised that we weren't Russian - not shocking since the Colombian and I were probably the only non-Russians within a five block radius. The hostess was Russian, the cashiers were Russian, the customers were Russian, the Mexican busboys were Russian, the packaged food had backwards "R"s on its labels, and I'm pretty sure that the two guys in their sixties sitting in a Lexus just outside the cafe, wearing gold chains and chain smoking were KGB.
I was starting to feel like maybe the whole thing was a ruse. Maybe the Colombian was part of a group of deep cover Russian agents that started relationships with unsuspecting horny American men and got them to hand over state secrets. Her English is kind of Russian-y sounding, but I just assumed that was her South American accent. Maybe she got me to take her to that restaurant so she could tell me on her home turf about her true identity, and turn me against my country. My suspicions heightened when a man and a woman in their fifties sat next to us. He was a successful looking man in a sports jacket, and seemed way too polite to be from Brooklyn. I pictured him driving down from Connecticut in his BMW to meet his date - a sassy, street smart Russian broad who was probably pretty tasty twenty years and forty pounds ago. She had only a hint of a Russian accent, but it was impossible for me to know if she could hide it completely when deep inside enemy territory. Within mere moments I could tell this was a first date. The polite awkwardness and the exchange of basic information probably already shared on the first phone call, but shared again just to have something to jump start a conversation, made it obvious. If this woman was a spy, she was good. Real good. I turned to the Colombian and motioned for her to look at the Russian and the guy from Connecticut.
"First date," I whispered. "Probably Match.com."
She looked over, smiled and nodded.
"Hopefully it won't get too awkward. Otherwise, we're gonna have to move. It's too painful."
"My ex is very good looking. Six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds," the Russian said.
The Colombian gave me a "She didn't just say that!" look, and the guy from Connecticut nodded and smiled. He was being totally cool and relaxed about it, while she not only spoke about her ex, but gave measurements. That was too rookie a mistake for her to be KGB. I instantly felt more at ease. But just to be sure:
"Are you Russian?" I asked the Colombian.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"Never mind."
Then we listened in again on our neighbors. "I went on a date once with this guy from Queens," the Russian said. "We got a flat tire and he started calling Triple-A. I grabbed the phone out of his hand and said, I'LL fix it. He insisted on not letting me fix it, but I told him 'either I fix it, or you call me a cab.'"
Wow, I thought. This broad won't be able to infiltrate her way into a second date, let alone the Pentagon. Why was I worried? Again, the Colombian made a face.
"You don't say that on a date, right? It's not just me," I said to the Colombian, covering the sides of my mouth just in case the Russian WAS a spy and could read lips using only her peripheral vision.
"No. Of course not. That's senseless," the Colombian responded in that Russian-y sounding English that made me paranoid again.
We stopped listening to the Russian and the guy from Connecticut because we just wanted to finish up and leave before we choked on the cigarette smoke blowing at us from the four young Russians sitting in front of us, but we left the restaurant, wondering what happened on the date. The Colombian thinks the guy from Connecticut drove his date home and just never called again. I think he'll hang in there long enough to drive over a nail so she can change his tire and oil up his lug nuts.
(*If you'd like to see "The Apartment," it'll be playing next month at "The Williamsburg International Film Festival" in Brooklyn. Email me for the exact time and place.)
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I suggested Lundy's, a famous seafood place not far from where I grew up in Sheepshead Bay. But at some point after I moved, Russia apparently annexed that part of Brooklyn. The Lundy's building is now home to a Russian gourmet food market with an outdoor cafe at which we decided to eat since unbeknownst to me and my non-internet having phone, Lundy's has been out of business since 2007.
The waitress greeted us with "Privet," and seemed a bit surprised that we weren't Russian - not shocking since the Colombian and I were probably the only non-Russians within a five block radius. The hostess was Russian, the cashiers were Russian, the customers were Russian, the Mexican busboys were Russian, the packaged food had backwards "R"s on its labels, and I'm pretty sure that the two guys in their sixties sitting in a Lexus just outside the cafe, wearing gold chains and chain smoking were KGB.
I was starting to feel like maybe the whole thing was a ruse. Maybe the Colombian was part of a group of deep cover Russian agents that started relationships with unsuspecting horny American men and got them to hand over state secrets. Her English is kind of Russian-y sounding, but I just assumed that was her South American accent. Maybe she got me to take her to that restaurant so she could tell me on her home turf about her true identity, and turn me against my country. My suspicions heightened when a man and a woman in their fifties sat next to us. He was a successful looking man in a sports jacket, and seemed way too polite to be from Brooklyn. I pictured him driving down from Connecticut in his BMW to meet his date - a sassy, street smart Russian broad who was probably pretty tasty twenty years and forty pounds ago. She had only a hint of a Russian accent, but it was impossible for me to know if she could hide it completely when deep inside enemy territory. Within mere moments I could tell this was a first date. The polite awkwardness and the exchange of basic information probably already shared on the first phone call, but shared again just to have something to jump start a conversation, made it obvious. If this woman was a spy, she was good. Real good. I turned to the Colombian and motioned for her to look at the Russian and the guy from Connecticut.
"First date," I whispered. "Probably Match.com."
She looked over, smiled and nodded.
"Hopefully it won't get too awkward. Otherwise, we're gonna have to move. It's too painful."
"My ex is very good looking. Six foot one, a hundred and ninety pounds," the Russian said.
The Colombian gave me a "She didn't just say that!" look, and the guy from Connecticut nodded and smiled. He was being totally cool and relaxed about it, while she not only spoke about her ex, but gave measurements. That was too rookie a mistake for her to be KGB. I instantly felt more at ease. But just to be sure:
"Are you Russian?" I asked the Colombian.
"What?" she asked, confused.
"Never mind."
Then we listened in again on our neighbors. "I went on a date once with this guy from Queens," the Russian said. "We got a flat tire and he started calling Triple-A. I grabbed the phone out of his hand and said, I'LL fix it. He insisted on not letting me fix it, but I told him 'either I fix it, or you call me a cab.'"
Wow, I thought. This broad won't be able to infiltrate her way into a second date, let alone the Pentagon. Why was I worried? Again, the Colombian made a face.
"You don't say that on a date, right? It's not just me," I said to the Colombian, covering the sides of my mouth just in case the Russian WAS a spy and could read lips using only her peripheral vision.
"No. Of course not. That's senseless," the Colombian responded in that Russian-y sounding English that made me paranoid again.
We stopped listening to the Russian and the guy from Connecticut because we just wanted to finish up and leave before we choked on the cigarette smoke blowing at us from the four young Russians sitting in front of us, but we left the restaurant, wondering what happened on the date. The Colombian thinks the guy from Connecticut drove his date home and just never called again. I think he'll hang in there long enough to drive over a nail so she can change his tire and oil up his lug nuts.
(*If you'd like to see "The Apartment," it'll be playing next month at "The Williamsburg International Film Festival" in Brooklyn. Email me for the exact time and place.)
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Tuesday, July 27, 2010
DINNER WITH SCHMUCKS
"I don't believe you have diarrhea!" she said.
"I don't believe you don't believe me," I responded.
Thus began one of the most asinine arguments I've ever had with another human being.
The Colombian and I were supposed to have dinner with some of her friends this past weekend, and I made it clear when the plans were first discussed that I had no interest in going. I have no problem with her friends. Their husbands on the other hand, I actually kind of can't stand. And by "kind of can't stand," I mean "really can't stand."
I'd met the two husbands in question a couple of weeks ago at yet another self-thrown birthday party at a lounge. While the women split off into their own little group to discuss whatever it is women discuss when they're alone together (Oprah? yeast infections? I don't know), I was stuck listening to a couple of Wall Streeters share their views on the economy.
"Hussein is gonna fuck our shit up, if he's not stopped" said a short, paunchy overpaid Goldman Sachs employee, wearing a watch that cost more than the car I drove in college.
"Fuckin' Hussein, man! Mother fuckin' Hussein! How the fuck did he even get elected?" asked the other height challenged Westchester resident, wearing an expensive suit that was a size or two too big, and looked like his mother bought it for him when he was twelve so he'd grow into it by his Bar-Mitzvah.
"Someone needs to take this motherfucker out," the first guy exclaimed right before I excused myself and walked away. I didn't want to hear something that would lead to me being subpoenaed, so I left the two balding Napoleans with the seven figure incomes at the table, and spent the next twenty minutes nursing a Sprite at the bar. So it wasn't surprising that the Colombian refused to believe that I was experiencing gastrointestinal distress less than an hour before we were supposed to meet her friends and their racist, plotting husbands.
"All of a sudden you have diarrhea?" she asked suspiciously, after she forced me to get graphic by not believing my "I don't feel well" excuse.
"That's usually how it happens. It's kind of an all of a sudden thing."
"You're lying!"
"You want me to text you a picture?"
Silence.
"Just take something and come."
"I can't leave the house in this state."
"You knew you didn't wanna come and now you're using this as an excuse."
"I know it seems that way, but the fact remains, I ain't leaving the apartment."
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
She went alone, and in an ironic twist of fate, I was spared from experiencing filthy nastiness spewing out of two assholes.
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"I don't believe you don't believe me," I responded.
Thus began one of the most asinine arguments I've ever had with another human being.
The Colombian and I were supposed to have dinner with some of her friends this past weekend, and I made it clear when the plans were first discussed that I had no interest in going. I have no problem with her friends. Their husbands on the other hand, I actually kind of can't stand. And by "kind of can't stand," I mean "really can't stand."
I'd met the two husbands in question a couple of weeks ago at yet another self-thrown birthday party at a lounge. While the women split off into their own little group to discuss whatever it is women discuss when they're alone together (Oprah? yeast infections? I don't know), I was stuck listening to a couple of Wall Streeters share their views on the economy.
"Hussein is gonna fuck our shit up, if he's not stopped" said a short, paunchy overpaid Goldman Sachs employee, wearing a watch that cost more than the car I drove in college.
"Fuckin' Hussein, man! Mother fuckin' Hussein! How the fuck did he even get elected?" asked the other height challenged Westchester resident, wearing an expensive suit that was a size or two too big, and looked like his mother bought it for him when he was twelve so he'd grow into it by his Bar-Mitzvah.
"Someone needs to take this motherfucker out," the first guy exclaimed right before I excused myself and walked away. I didn't want to hear something that would lead to me being subpoenaed, so I left the two balding Napoleans with the seven figure incomes at the table, and spent the next twenty minutes nursing a Sprite at the bar. So it wasn't surprising that the Colombian refused to believe that I was experiencing gastrointestinal distress less than an hour before we were supposed to meet her friends and their racist, plotting husbands.
"All of a sudden you have diarrhea?" she asked suspiciously, after she forced me to get graphic by not believing my "I don't feel well" excuse.
"That's usually how it happens. It's kind of an all of a sudden thing."
"You're lying!"
"You want me to text you a picture?"
Silence.
"Just take something and come."
"I can't leave the house in this state."
"You knew you didn't wanna come and now you're using this as an excuse."
"I know it seems that way, but the fact remains, I ain't leaving the apartment."
"Fine!"
"Fine!"
She went alone, and in an ironic twist of fate, I was spared from experiencing filthy nastiness spewing out of two assholes.
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Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, June 25, 2010
THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF ANKLE SOCKS GO I
I squirmed uncomfortably in my metal folding chair at a flamenco performance at Prospect Park last night, wondering why I'd suggested it as a night activity to the Colombian. Then I remembered. She likes flamenco dancing, and I like her. It was one of those compromise things that people do when they're in actual relationships - something I'd forgotten about while dating the tired, poor, wretched refuse that comprises the NYC dating pool. I tried my best to get into it, but watching other people dance doesn't do it for me. If only napping with your eyes open were possible, I could have soldiered through with ease. Instead, I decided to focus on the bright colors of the dancer's costume while forcing a head bobbing smile. I kept telling myself to think happy thoughts. First, I remembered that the concert was free, and that kept me smirking for about twenty seconds. When the cheap Jew in me could no longer sustain my feelings of joy, I recalled a conversation I had with my seven-year-old niece about the death of Gary Coleman. "Gary Coleman died?" she asked, surprised. "Oh my god! Grandma has his grill." That one got me through another minute and a half.But between the beating my ass was taking from wiggling around on some cheap NYC Parks Department issued chair, and the fact that the temperature was in the nineties, I couldn't get into a comfort zone. "You're bored?" the Colombian asked, slightly irritated that I wasn't enjoying the performance. "No. Not at all," I answered, irritated that she was irritated. If not for me, she wouldn't even have been there. I was the one that found out about the performance after a good thirty seconds of online research. How could she be so ungrateful? I started to feel like maybe I wanted to be there alone. While dating NYC's unwashed masses, I'd forgotten about the other thing people do when they're in actual relationships - get on each other's nerves.
I looked around at some of the people in the audience who were there by themselves, wondering if they were happier being alone. To my right sat a woman in her late forties who spent ten minutes before the show telling me how the government was responsible for the economic collapse. "Sure," I told her. "Because they deregulated Wall Street." "NO!" she shouted. "Because they send subliminal messages through magazines." Her solitude was clearly involuntary. I searched for another example of happy isolation , and caught a glimpse of a shirtless, tattoo-ridden man in his fifties, sitting alone, with his face in his hands, his head shaking as if he was in mourning. Ah, but these people are nothing like me, I thought. I'll never wind up like them. I could be alone and be perfectly normal and happy. And then I saw the old man above.*
There he sat, as uninterested in the performance as I was with no one sitting next to him. I pictured him being there because it was cooler than sitting in his non-air conditioned $300 a month rent controlled apartment. A man who had no wife or significant other, who went everywhere alone, carrying a newspaper and every pen he owns in the front pocket of a blue blazer. With a few exceptions, we were dressed a lot alike. I was in shorts, a t-shirt and sneakers, and I wondered if this man decided long ago that he'd just rather be alone. For a brief moment I envied his ability to openly display his boredom, and I thought maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I turned into him in thirty years. But then I realized that I could never pull off the knee socks look, so I put my arm around the Colombian and told her how happy I was to be there with her.
(My apologies for the poor formatting. Apparently, blogger doesn't react well to pictures of old men in camo shorts).
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Thursday, June 17, 2010
MARTIN AND GINA FOREVER
I sat in my apartment last weekend wondering what it is I'm looking for in a relationship. Things are going well with the Colombian, but while she's back home visiting her family, I've had some time to reflect. What do I want from a woman? Is it companionship, good conversation, someone who'll laugh at my jokes, a hand job on the sofa while watching Family Guy reruns together? Well, yes. I want all those things, but what else? There has to be something more. Otherwise, why bother dating? I could be perfectly happy sitting on my sofa alone, laughing at my own jokes and watching cartoons. And when it comes to hand jobs, no woman has ever given me one as good as the ones I've given myself.
While I struggled with my dilemma, fate, assisted by a packed subway car, forced me to sit next to a man whose wisdom pointed me in the right direction. He told me that his girlfriend is currently doing time for shooting her best friend in the stomach, and I figured who better to offer advice about love than a man with such impeccable taste. "The problem today," he theorized, "is that don't nobody want what Martin and Gina had. Ain't no mo' faithfulness and shit in the world."
I wondered to myself who Martin and Gina were. Perhaps they were tragic lovers in a Shakespearean play I hadn't read, or in an opera by Verdi I hadn't seen. I feared seeming ignorant when I asked, "Martin and Gina?" But the relationship expert I had the fortune of sitting next to looked at me without the slightest hint of judgment and said, "Yeah, you know Martin and Gina. They was perfect together." And then it hit me. Of course! How could I have overlooked one of the great couples of our time? I was looking for examples of the perfect relationship in literature and art, and in my own head, when all I needed to do was turn on BET.
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While I struggled with my dilemma, fate, assisted by a packed subway car, forced me to sit next to a man whose wisdom pointed me in the right direction. He told me that his girlfriend is currently doing time for shooting her best friend in the stomach, and I figured who better to offer advice about love than a man with such impeccable taste. "The problem today," he theorized, "is that don't nobody want what Martin and Gina had. Ain't no mo' faithfulness and shit in the world."
I wondered to myself who Martin and Gina were. Perhaps they were tragic lovers in a Shakespearean play I hadn't read, or in an opera by Verdi I hadn't seen. I feared seeming ignorant when I asked, "Martin and Gina?" But the relationship expert I had the fortune of sitting next to looked at me without the slightest hint of judgment and said, "Yeah, you know Martin and Gina. They was perfect together." And then it hit me. Of course! How could I have overlooked one of the great couples of our time? I was looking for examples of the perfect relationship in literature and art, and in my own head, when all I needed to do was turn on BET.
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Monday, June 14, 2010
RAID ON AUNT B.
We waited for the night watchman to retire at midnight, our hearts pounding three times with every tick of the clock that hung above the entrance to the latrine. We were an eight man unit until Feldman dropped out. He claimed he was hurt, but we knew he was just afraid. I couldn't blame him. We were young, gutsy, and stupid, and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.
When it was time, we moved liked a well-trained platoon through the untamed bush of the Highlands. Bartell led us with silent hand signals. His cool cockiness gave us the strength to advance when most of us wanted to retreat back to home base. We knew capture was a very real possibility, and that the consequences of a failed mission would be dire.
We were less than a hundred yards from our target when Burger went down. I found no signs of a wound, but the blood was everywhere. "Go without me," Burger whispered angrily, as he shoved me away. "I can't leave you," I told him. But when I turned my back on him to motion for help, he got up and ran back to base.
We entered quietly from the South side in three teams of two. Bartell closed the door behind us, and we were mere feet from our prey. The near total darkness made it difficult to see, but our fearless leader pointed and we obeyed. "You, over there....You, there," he mouthed until each of us was assigned a target. I stood at the foot of a bed, lit only by the moon, anxiously awaiting further instructions. For a moment I wished I was Burger. But then, Bartell urged me on. He gestured for me to make my move, and I did. I nervously reached down towards my mark, my hand inches away, when suddenly my arm stopped. I could move it no more because it was being held back by a force I could not fight. What we had feared most was happening. The lights were flipped on, and all I could see as my body trembled, were a pair of ass cheeks so big that the short shorts in which they were imprisoned could have clothed a small village.
Betty, or Aunt B, as the entire population of Camp Nachas called the girls' head counselor, had busted up our raid and nearly broke my arm. There she stood, all two-hundred dowdy, cellulite ridden pounds of her, screaming for us to get back to our bunks immediately. My five bunk mates ran, leaving me with Aunt B. and a room full of giggling twelve-year-old girls. I was humiliated, as Aunt B. held onto my arm, leading me out of the girls' bunk, down a hill and into the camp director's office. "Who was with you?" he demanded to know, as I wondered why I couldn't be a pussy like Feldman or get nervous nose bleeds like Burger. I wanted to tell him that we were just young, stupid kids. Hell, only three of us had pubes, and I wasn't one of them. I only went on the raid because Bartell told me it was cool. I wasn't even sure what to do once we got there. Now I was being grilled like a twelve-year-old P.O.W. by a fat chick who made poor fashion choices, and a middle-aged orthodox Jew who was pissed that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night to deal with a horny kid.
I didn't give up my friends, but I did get docked from Color War. It was a small price to pay for a fond memory of my summers at Camp Nachas.
When it was time, we moved liked a well-trained platoon through the untamed bush of the Highlands. Bartell led us with silent hand signals. His cool cockiness gave us the strength to advance when most of us wanted to retreat back to home base. We knew capture was a very real possibility, and that the consequences of a failed mission would be dire.
We were less than a hundred yards from our target when Burger went down. I found no signs of a wound, but the blood was everywhere. "Go without me," Burger whispered angrily, as he shoved me away. "I can't leave you," I told him. But when I turned my back on him to motion for help, he got up and ran back to base.
We entered quietly from the South side in three teams of two. Bartell closed the door behind us, and we were mere feet from our prey. The near total darkness made it difficult to see, but our fearless leader pointed and we obeyed. "You, over there....You, there," he mouthed until each of us was assigned a target. I stood at the foot of a bed, lit only by the moon, anxiously awaiting further instructions. For a moment I wished I was Burger. But then, Bartell urged me on. He gestured for me to make my move, and I did. I nervously reached down towards my mark, my hand inches away, when suddenly my arm stopped. I could move it no more because it was being held back by a force I could not fight. What we had feared most was happening. The lights were flipped on, and all I could see as my body trembled, were a pair of ass cheeks so big that the short shorts in which they were imprisoned could have clothed a small village.
Betty, or Aunt B, as the entire population of Camp Nachas called the girls' head counselor, had busted up our raid and nearly broke my arm. There she stood, all two-hundred dowdy, cellulite ridden pounds of her, screaming for us to get back to our bunks immediately. My five bunk mates ran, leaving me with Aunt B. and a room full of giggling twelve-year-old girls. I was humiliated, as Aunt B. held onto my arm, leading me out of the girls' bunk, down a hill and into the camp director's office. "Who was with you?" he demanded to know, as I wondered why I couldn't be a pussy like Feldman or get nervous nose bleeds like Burger. I wanted to tell him that we were just young, stupid kids. Hell, only three of us had pubes, and I wasn't one of them. I only went on the raid because Bartell told me it was cool. I wasn't even sure what to do once we got there. Now I was being grilled like a twelve-year-old P.O.W. by a fat chick who made poor fashion choices, and a middle-aged orthodox Jew who was pissed that he'd been woken up in the middle of the night to deal with a horny kid.
I didn't give up my friends, but I did get docked from Color War. It was a small price to pay for a fond memory of my summers at Camp Nachas.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
TOO HOT FOR THE WHITE HOUSE PRESS CORPS?
Who could resist those luscious lipstick stained teeth, those seductive, slinky outfits from the Sears Roebuck Seniors Collection, the sultry Shemp Howard hairdo, or the hypnotic Herman Munster smile?...I'll tell you who - THE JEWS! First they force Debrahlee Lorenzana out of Citibank, and now this! They should all go back to Poland, or Germany, or wherever it is they came from!
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Monday, May 17, 2010
THE UPSIDE DOWN QUESTION MARK
I won't sniff and tell, but things had been going well with the Colombian until shortly before she left town a couple of weeks ago for work. I liked seeing her name pop up on my caller ID, and would think of subtle, clever ways to ask her out on the next date before the one we were on ended. We were clicking intellectually, physically, but just not sarcastically. There was dead air on the phone when I told her that I was firing my dentist because I found out he drives a Hyundai. She looked at me cross-eyed when I mentioned over dinner that I'd been talking to a guy at work whose breath was so bad, I was afraid that my inhaling it would make my breath smell like his. And I was almost entirely convinced that we had no future when I told her how much I admired the use of the upside down question mark at the beginning of a Spanish sentence.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"This way I know it's a question right away and I don't have to wait till the end of the sentence to find out."
"Okay," she said, glancing quickly at her watch.
"It was a bad -- never mind."
The brief silence that followed wasn't quite awkward, but it wasn't comfortable either. I wondered how I could be with a woman who didn't find even my lame jokes hilarious. She was supposed to laugh at everything I said. She was supposed to stroke my ego. How dare she not even acknowledge that she knew I was kidding? How dare she not get me. She'd be leaving the next day for her trip, and I was already planning on not calling her when she got back.
But then, while the Colombian was away, I went out with a whore.
"I've been to this restaurant before," said the whore. "I was on a date then too. The guy was such a loser. I knew he was a loser before we even met."
"So why'd you go out with him?"
"For the free dinner."
"Remind me to ask for separate checks."
"Ha! That's funny," she said, and I wished for a moment that she was the Colombian, so she wouldn't have thought I was joking, because I wasn't.
When I got home, I texted the Colombian and asked her if she wanted to see Cirque Du Soleil when she got back. She responded: "¿ Howd u know I love cirque du soleil?"
I guess she does get me.
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"What do you mean?" she asked.
"This way I know it's a question right away and I don't have to wait till the end of the sentence to find out."
"Okay," she said, glancing quickly at her watch.
"It was a bad -- never mind."
The brief silence that followed wasn't quite awkward, but it wasn't comfortable either. I wondered how I could be with a woman who didn't find even my lame jokes hilarious. She was supposed to laugh at everything I said. She was supposed to stroke my ego. How dare she not even acknowledge that she knew I was kidding? How dare she not get me. She'd be leaving the next day for her trip, and I was already planning on not calling her when she got back.
But then, while the Colombian was away, I went out with a whore.
"I've been to this restaurant before," said the whore. "I was on a date then too. The guy was such a loser. I knew he was a loser before we even met."
"So why'd you go out with him?"
"For the free dinner."
"Remind me to ask for separate checks."
"Ha! That's funny," she said, and I wished for a moment that she was the Colombian, so she wouldn't have thought I was joking, because I wasn't.
When I got home, I texted the Colombian and asked her if she wanted to see Cirque Du Soleil when she got back. She responded: "¿ Howd u know I love cirque du soleil?"
I guess she does get me.
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Friday, April 23, 2010
A ROOM FULL OF RACHELS
I don't like using the term "Jap" to describe that certain type of whiny, obnoxious woman with an overly exaggerated sense of entitlement. The word is offensive to Jews, Americans, and princesses - not to mention the Japanese. Instead, I've always referred to those Real Housewives of NYC wannabes as "Rachels." I'm not quite sure why, and I apologize to any women named Rachel who may be reading this, but the name seems to fit. When I think of the name Rachel, I see a mousy woman from Nassau County with a nose job, wearing sunglasses that cover her whole face, holding an overpriced designer handbag, trying to hail a cab in front of Saks, while yapping on her cell phone about the amazing shoes she just bought with daddy's credit card. Maybe I've been traumatized by all the "RACHELnycs," and the "RCHLINTHECITY77s" on Jdate, or maybe I was molested by a woman named Rachel and I've suppressed the memory and I now take it out on all other women named Rachel, but that's what I use to describe a woman who will demand a minimum six-carat diamond of her fiancee. Again, if your name is Rachel, sorry. It's not you, it's me.
So when my friend invited me to be his guest at some "Single Jews Who Like to Throw Their Money Around To Show How Much They Support Israel, But Are Really Just There To Hook Up" benefit, I was hesitant to go. I had no interest in standing in a room full of Rachels looking for their "Iras" - the guys who actually want to buy a woman a six-carat diamond. But I went anyway because I grew tired of my friend begging me to come just so he wouldn't have to go alone. As expected, I was surrounded by a group of Jewish Wall Streeters in search of their Rachels, and I spent most of the night playing with my cell phone, wishing I wasn't too cheap to get an iPhone so that I could have more to do with my phone than figure out what time it was in Helsinki.
I'd ordinarily have just chalked the evening up to a waste of my Tuesday night and of my friend's two-hundred-fifty bucks, but after my date with the Colombian last Saturday, I knew I'd gone to the benefit for a reason. I needed to learn to appreciate how amazing it is to be with a "non-Rachel" - someone so devoid of pretention that she suggested we go to the Guggenheim on Saturday afternoon during "Pay What You Wish" hours. Someone who actually picked up the phone when I called and didn't make me chase her. Someone who told me she doesn't understand women's obsessions with diamond rings, and that she'd wear a ring out of a Cracker-Jack box, if the right guy gave it to her. Someone whose ass I'll hopefully be sniffing real soon.
So when my friend invited me to be his guest at some "Single Jews Who Like to Throw Their Money Around To Show How Much They Support Israel, But Are Really Just There To Hook Up" benefit, I was hesitant to go. I had no interest in standing in a room full of Rachels looking for their "Iras" - the guys who actually want to buy a woman a six-carat diamond. But I went anyway because I grew tired of my friend begging me to come just so he wouldn't have to go alone. As expected, I was surrounded by a group of Jewish Wall Streeters in search of their Rachels, and I spent most of the night playing with my cell phone, wishing I wasn't too cheap to get an iPhone so that I could have more to do with my phone than figure out what time it was in Helsinki.
I'd ordinarily have just chalked the evening up to a waste of my Tuesday night and of my friend's two-hundred-fifty bucks, but after my date with the Colombian last Saturday, I knew I'd gone to the benefit for a reason. I needed to learn to appreciate how amazing it is to be with a "non-Rachel" - someone so devoid of pretention that she suggested we go to the Guggenheim on Saturday afternoon during "Pay What You Wish" hours. Someone who actually picked up the phone when I called and didn't make me chase her. Someone who told me she doesn't understand women's obsessions with diamond rings, and that she'd wear a ring out of a Cracker-Jack box, if the right guy gave it to her. Someone whose ass I'll hopefully be sniffing real soon.
Friday, April 9, 2010
HIS DOG LIKES PURDY GOILS
I thought I'd heard every lame pick-up line ever uttered by a man desperately trying to get a woman to acknowledge him. "You have any Irish in you?...Want some?" or "Your legs must be tired 'cause you been running through my mind" are just a couple of sad examples that come to mind of cavemen verbally trying to knock their female prey over the head with a club. But primitive as they are, if they go back to their caves at the end of the night with no woman to drag behind them, they can at least say they tried. I'd always admired that sort of "Me Wanna Fuck You!" approach to picking up women, mainly because it's not one I'd ever felt comfortable using. If "Hi" doesn't work, I'm pretty much out of material.
But my admiration turned to pity when I watched one such homo erectus try to pick up a woman in front of my building last night. She was speaking on her phone with what sounded like a South American accent.
"You from Sweden?" he asked her when she hung up. He looked like he was flexing a little through his wife beater, as he yanked on his dog's leash to prevent it from sniffing its master's prey.
"No," she said, smiling condescendingly, but in a way that made it seem like she was doing it politely.
"Poland?"
Poland, Sweden - same thing, I thought as I watched Cro-Magnon Man drown.
"Colombia," she said, as she tried to walk away.
Please don't tell her your sister went to college there, I thought. But he seemed to have run out of things to say until he could no longer control his dog, who began ferociously sniffing the chick's shoes. If its owner couldn't close the deal, the dog was determined to drag this chick back to its cave and be sniffing her ass before morning.
"My dog likes purdy goils," the guy said in a Brooklyn accent reminiscent of The Bowery Boys. It was his "Me Wanna Fuck You" Hail Mary, but it didn't work. She smiled again, pet the dog and went inside.
Turns out she was visiting a friend in my building. I know because I said "Hi" in the elevator and it worked. I didn't drag her by her hair back to my apartment, nor did I sniff her ass. But I have her number and all that may change soon.
But my admiration turned to pity when I watched one such homo erectus try to pick up a woman in front of my building last night. She was speaking on her phone with what sounded like a South American accent.
"You from Sweden?" he asked her when she hung up. He looked like he was flexing a little through his wife beater, as he yanked on his dog's leash to prevent it from sniffing its master's prey.
"No," she said, smiling condescendingly, but in a way that made it seem like she was doing it politely.
"Poland?"
Poland, Sweden - same thing, I thought as I watched Cro-Magnon Man drown.
"Colombia," she said, as she tried to walk away.
Please don't tell her your sister went to college there, I thought. But he seemed to have run out of things to say until he could no longer control his dog, who began ferociously sniffing the chick's shoes. If its owner couldn't close the deal, the dog was determined to drag this chick back to its cave and be sniffing her ass before morning.
"My dog likes purdy goils," the guy said in a Brooklyn accent reminiscent of The Bowery Boys. It was his "Me Wanna Fuck You" Hail Mary, but it didn't work. She smiled again, pet the dog and went inside.
Turns out she was visiting a friend in my building. I know because I said "Hi" in the elevator and it worked. I didn't drag her by her hair back to my apartment, nor did I sniff her ass. But I have her number and all that may change soon.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Maybe I shoulda had a Vdate
Do 3D avatars spend entire dates talking about their exes, or yawning, or refusing to shut up during a movie? A company called Tangowire is offering the opportunity to find out during their free Virtual Dating trial this Thursday, April 8th. This may be exactly what I was looking for. I don't have to leave the house or shower before my date, and if necessary, I can hit the big "X" in the right hand corner of the screen and make her go away. If only real life were that simple.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
YOU USING THAT UTERUS?
"I'm out w/the biggest a-hole," my friend, Karen, texted me the other night while I was home watching TV, and her date was away from their table.
"He ask u how big ur tits are?" I typed back, happily turning my attention away from some show about making cakes.
"He told me to give my uterus back."
"To whom? To him? Huh?" I texted back, confused, while dying to hear all about it. I love me a good bad date story.
But Karen never texted back. I waited an hour and a half before I called her, trying to imagine a circumstance in which telling your date to give back her uterus was acceptable. I could think of only one: When you want your date to get her friend to blog about what a douche you are.
Turns out, Karen's date was offended by her lack of desire to have kids and insisted that if she wasn't going to use her uterus, she should give it back. He didn't specify to whom, or whether it would be for a refund or exchange, but he followed up his demand by telling Karen that she wasn't a real woman, she was selfish, and a freak of nature. He then asked her out again.
When Karen asked him why he'd even want to see her again, he told her he likes to give women at least two whole dates before ruling them out. Karen told him she needed one whole date to rule someone out, but that her uterus hated him at hello.
"He ask u how big ur tits are?" I typed back, happily turning my attention away from some show about making cakes.
"He told me to give my uterus back."
"To whom? To him? Huh?" I texted back, confused, while dying to hear all about it. I love me a good bad date story.
But Karen never texted back. I waited an hour and a half before I called her, trying to imagine a circumstance in which telling your date to give back her uterus was acceptable. I could think of only one: When you want your date to get her friend to blog about what a douche you are.
Turns out, Karen's date was offended by her lack of desire to have kids and insisted that if she wasn't going to use her uterus, she should give it back. He didn't specify to whom, or whether it would be for a refund or exchange, but he followed up his demand by telling Karen that she wasn't a real woman, she was selfish, and a freak of nature. He then asked her out again.
When Karen asked him why he'd even want to see her again, he told her he likes to give women at least two whole dates before ruling them out. Karen told him she needed one whole date to rule someone out, but that her uterus hated him at hello.
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