Wednesday, September 28, 2011

The Dinner Date

            Now, y’all know my opinion about dating and what a soul crushing, debased act it is. Every time, we foolishly dare to connect with another person, desperately hoping our skin won’t crawl in disgust as we volley back and forth stale preliminary questions like “What do you do?” and, “So, where are you from?” all night, ad nauseum.
            And this is the ‘adult’ way of doing things.
            Getting to know someone.
            What a crock of shit.
            I’m not saying it’s bad for people to eventually have to go out on dates. Sometimes, especially in our isolating world here in New York City, we must walk this plank and stand before each other as mutual firing squads, to judge and be judged in return.
            Completely forgetting of course, that all good, or at least memorable situations, have come without planning or reason. Think of the last time you hooked up with someone. Let me take a wild stab at how that went down.
            You were at a bar.
            You were drunk.
            A totally random situation appeared; an old flame walked in the door or someone you’ve had a crush on just broke up with their cheating mates and is now hunting for the four-alarm fire revenge fuck. Either way, I can assure you the last time you felt the burn in your blood pump hard was due to a total accident. 
            So let’s say it’s been awhile and horniness is eating away at your skull (and each person’s version of this is different. I have friend named Ole Cunny Bill who complains its ‘been awhile’ after just a week without sex. Some guys got all the luck. Others, like me, can go for months without sex. I am a sexual camel and can store fantasies away during long periods of draught). There’s no lucky situations walking through those bar doors and you realize, sadly, you must yet again face this frightening abyss:
            The Dinner Date.
            Can I first say this? Do not even try to be civilized. Forget the age-old ideas of chivalry or class.
            SKIP DINNER.
            Go right to the drinks. Shots even. The less you learn about that person on the first date will only lend itself to a second one.
            It’s not natural to eat in front of someone you want to fuck unless you’ve already fucked. Before that every sound, gesture and movement will lead to judgment or painful discoveries of seriously nasty things a previous good lay could have potentially forgave for the time being.
            Get them hammered. At least then, any frightening aspects of their personality will bubble to the surface thanks to the truth-telling chemicals in alcohol. Ask your bartender about them. Chances are, the barkeep knows more about the person’s sexual life then they remember after 8 Jager bombs.  
            But if you do insist on being an ‘adult’ and attempt some idea of sophistication and propose a dinner date, or accept one, allow me to paint several nightmare scenarios so when you spot one, tell the date you have to use the restroom and look for the fire exit.         

            BAD EATERS

            I’d like to take a moment and thank my Mother here for curing me of any bad habits I may have let slide into adulthood. She was such a Nazi about eating, I thought this tyrannical rule was unjust and unfair. However, now, and only now just what she was trying to teach me becomes crystal clear.
            Bad Eaters. These people are the most disgusting, stomach churning types of folk to ever live. Let me give some examples.
            Chewing with their mouth open. Especially when they are speaking. I can’t tear my eyes away from the crunched up torn strips of beef and salad on your gums when you tell me how much you love to work with children. You could be Mother Teresa and I wouldn’t even hear it. All I hear is the chomping down and the squish of food between your smacking lips. Also, what is with those people who drive their forks and knives hard into plates? Have you experienced this? They stab down, the metal screeching against the porcelain plate, like the dish owes them money. It’ll make your ears bleed. How about the super thirsty person? Chugging water, the little sops echoing out the glass, is equally gross. You just back from the desert? What the fuck is your problem? Picking their teeth as they listen to you talk. The list goes on and on. I actually morally judge these people. Since the majority of our time with a partner is eating and fucking, you had better make sure at least one of them is done without a mess.       

            This is an unpardonable offense. Especially if you work in food service. Nothing makes me want to stab people more then when they mistreat wait staff, especially if I want to be naked with someone. I’m on the side of the working class. I served front of house for ten years before graduating to bartending.
            I once had some drinks with a very pretty Russian girl named Tatyana or Svetlana or one of those names with a heavy Iron Curtain ring to it. We had several Martini’s already on 1st Avenue, wandered into Tompkins Square Park, groping each other wet lipped beside a couple of homeless junkies, and stumbled inebriated into Flea Market (my favorite French restaurant in the Village). I was in full desire to kiss every part of her skin when I got her home.
            Suddenly, she hails, in that loud Russian conquering way.
            “Waiter! Two Martini’s.”
            All the passion crept out my pores and my penis began to crawl back inside itself.
            She turned and smiled.
            “What?” She says, her voice thick with accent.
            I try to pretend I don’t see her coldly ignoring the server already irritated by her yelling across the room for a drink. I try to ignore how crass she speaks to the help. I think I even saw her snap at a busboy for bread.
            My service industry alarm system started to ring…loud.
            Keep in mind people, just because they are serving you doesn’t make them your servants. I don’t know what the Bolsheviks teach their kids about manners, but I got the fuck out of there and left 'ole Ivanka to her horrid, self important ways.           

            THE SILENT TYPE
            Here is a fact:
            Being shy after 25 means you’re an asshole.
            My heart goes out to the emotionally awkward, but if you can’t have a decent dialogue after 25, it doesn’t mean you’re a well meaning, quiet person, it means either you suffer from some undiagnosed psychological issue or you’ve watched to many emo-art films mistaking coyness for the illusion of mystery. I don’t know where some of these people learned their social skills from, but trying to get them to speak like regular people is like pulling teeth.
            Reticence is not interesting. You know what’s interesting?
            To Your Fellow Human.
            I get it. Maybe you don’t like your date that much.
            If you don’t like someone, don’t go out with them. Save everyone’s time. I’ve heard this from both sexes. “Oh, I just had to see…” See what, motherfucker? You don’t have to have lean to close to smell shit, right? If you have an inkling that you’re don't dig this person, leave it at that. Nature gave you instincts for a reason. And just because you couldn’t start a fire or change a tire to save your life, doesn’t mean you are completely out of the race. 
            Please allow Social Darwinism to run its course.       
            Till next time!

This chick is not mysterious, she's just a bitch.

This is a sex drive killer. Gross!
Keep the eating where it counts.

This kid, when you're not around, thinks about ways to kill rude people slowly with silverware. 

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

"The Lady Will Have The Red From Portugal..."

            This goes out to all the ladies.
            Here, come a little closer. Break out the Prosecco and the truffles, put on some Terence Trent D’Arby records, and gather around the campfire with me and discuss a problem that no doubt has been on your minds for some time.
            The ultimate question:
            What The Fuck Is Wrong With Men?
            Seriously, what is going on with Men? This is an immortal question and I know you are curious. You ask your gay friends about guys, hoping that they might have the answer.
            They do not. They are gay men.
            Gay men are very different from straight men. They are looking for someone totally different to sit on their face. Gay men know about gay men. Straight men crave women.
            So, you sit at the bar and ask your girlfriends, hoping they might be able to shed some light on this perplexing question. However, they are equally confused, left vainly to conjecture about what’s going on in the minds of men.
            They want to know why men are typically clueless.
            They want to know why men are selfish.
            They want to know what we are thinking.
            Sorry, fellas, but this is the part in the blog where I expose our secrets. It is high time the world knows the truth.
            Obviously, this is merely Part One of a very long conversation.
            It is a proven fact the women are by far more complicated--physiologically, emotionally, and psychologically--than men could ever dream to be. If women are like the wild and beautiful flower that grows strong, brilliant with all variations of color and petals of beauty, then men are sacks of dry dirt. It is embarrassing how un-complex we actually are. It is because women are so generally complicated that we seem complicated. In reality, our simplicity creates the confusion.   
            Taking off the 3D glasses helps, ladies. Our shit is definitely in 2D.
            Even I, who have toted the fact that I was raised by all women, sadly, and with great revelation came to terms with my doltish, stubborn, simple, elementary nature as a man.      
            Men only give a shit about 5 things, and the accumulation of these five things keep us happy building roads and civilizations chalk full of  tall buildings, being trash collectors and desk clerks, satisfied with our own little existence.
            Let the horns blows for here is the five-point track of what men really give two shits about:  

            FOOD, YUM.

            Now, I didn’t realize this until I got older, but essentially, we can talk all manner of philosophy and discuss the metaphysical nature of the universe, the corruption of politics and the endless parades of useless, bloody wars that span the entire history of time, but really, in the end, I would be just as satisfied, if not more so, with a well-cut steak. No mystery here, ladies. When you’re mother said the way to a man’s heart was not through his pants, but through his stomach, she was not lying. Yes, men like to play at being Don Juan. Yes, we like to play at being the successful, virile type. Yes, we all wish we could be Don Draper. But in the end, we’ll settle with the A1 sauce and some decent BBQ. That’s why male vegans are not to be trusted. Essentially, they are against the natural pull of our DNA to forgo rhyme and reason for some of that Fried Chicken and Greens.
            We really do care about the woman at work you hate that you think is trying to take your job, we do.
            “What are you thinking about?” You ask, noticing us drifting off. Don’t get mad—we just hungry. Let’s settle the food issue first. Then I promise, you’ll have our full attention.    



            Every morning we are reminded that our bodies want something. Our bodies ask us a question, and it’s in the form of a boner. Relentless, like clockwork, something beyond our control completely extends from our bodies demanding with rock hard dominance that something must happen. And, no doubt somehow fiendishly connected, are our balls. Each hour, 3.1 million sperm are created, pushing against our flesh for release. No wonder we can’t think straight half the time. So now, after the food problem is solved, we occasionally (a.k.a. three times a day) wish we could let those little friends fly to fulfill our biological imperative.  

            Which generally has something to do with…

            FREAKY SEX. YEP.
            The dinner is amazing. He’s not like the usual men you date. He paid when you went to the bathroom. You sit back down:
            “Oh, you didn’t have to do that...”, you say, smiling.
            He, without effort, folds his wallet back into his pocket, humbly saying back:
            “It was my pleasure,” he purrs with a little spark in his eyes.
            After that, dating a nervous, tight-lipped hipster who pulls out wet, crumbled dollars from his pocket to pay for dinner becomes an embarrassing, self-debasing act. The other one, the one with a job, was actually nice, steady, and fun to boot. He can charm the waiter. He smells great. The half-grown beard on the ‘boy’ you like’s face becomes laughable.     
            A woman after dating a man with certain class will never go less on the next date. Not a smart one, anyways. Men are just the same, but about sexual perversion instead of social class. Every man is a freak just waiting to happen. A man, once exposed to certain proclivities of perversion, can never go back.
            Ladies, you know what you’ve done to your ex’s. He asked you to do things, and, most of them felt good. Now he can never go back. He was shown some form of experimental activities, and the experiment is finally over.
            Now it’s just the facts, ma’am.  

            But don’t forget…

            THE NO BABY PROBLEM.
            This is a big one.
            It’s the No Baby Thing. I’ve analyzed this for years. Now we all know why men have to pretend they are in charge of everything.  This definitely goes back to the essential jealously of never having babies. It’s true. Imagine the cavemen, after fornicating (which seemed like a natural thing to do), nine months later some creature literally crawls out of his mate. The male cavemen watched in awe (as they do even in modern times) at the miracle of life. Right then and there, the males knew they were insignificant, not putting two and two together that they had anything to do at all with this pregnancy. Thus, they left the cave and picked up a stick to start hitting things with it.   
            We can’t have babies, so we build roads and shit. We go on to build cities and walls and nuclear weapons, all because of that first sight of the baby popping out of our mates.
            Our bodies barely change as we get older, unlike the constant metamorphosis of the female form. We pretty much either get stronger or weaker, get fat or slim down. But the chemical makeup stays the same. We are the blunt instruments. And we know it. That’s why we created Pop Tarts and Sham-Wow rags. What else is there to make if you cannot create life?     
            And that’s why we have this problem…

            Pass it on.
            Why do you think we were all hung up on that whole surname business for the last thousands of years? Since we know that we are only ruled by freaky sex, ego, and food, we still hope to somehow raise ourselves out of the primordial mud by doing ‘something’ in the world. This has manifested in several ways, from inventing things like Electricity to Facebook. This is very important to us. Our ego, our ever fragile, silly little ego is all we have to prevent against the truth that men, pointless unless something heavy needs to be lifted, are a blip on the Earth, and only money, sex, and power can make us stand out. We strive for some kind of immortality, and like Gandhi or Hitler, to give it our all and leave some kind of mark on this planet.

            So there you have it ladies, mystery solved. And I know this list doesn’t paint the male sex in the most flattering manner and lesbianism is now being considered, however I ask one favor ladies. Just try to understand our unbearable simplicity. It will make everything far more understanding between the sexes. After all, you wouldn't hate on a retarded kid, would you?

            Till next time…       


This girl is great and all, but somtimes...

...we'll settle for this. Yum!

These are the little bastards controlling our minds!

Any guesses why we build shit like this?

Monday, September 5, 2011

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

            I already see it on the streets.
            The frustrated eyes. The saddened wet cheeks. Couples moving together down the sidewalk, angrily speaking in muted tones, not able to face each other. I hear the F bomb and see one storm off. Uneasy circling of feet under the cafĂ© tables lining Bedford Avenue. Gloomy tragic faces drinking heavily alone, their backs curved over the bar in defeat.
            I approach one lone man at the bar this week with a little banter.
            “How are you?” I ask.
            Little grunts come out.
            “Another shot?” I ask.
            “Fuck yeah, why not?” He mutters.
            I pour the shot.
            “So what is it, women or money?”
            The man looks up, face full of three days of unshaven misery.
            “Why can’t it be both?”
            He has a point.
            Another woman on the other end is furiously bitching to her friend. I try to make some light humor but scorn is painted across her face.
            I overhear: “And that son-of-a-cowardly bitch doesn’t even have the balls to tell me he fucked her! Like I wouldn’t know! I knew he was a whore from the start. I met him at Union Pool for Christ’s Sake! Back to the fucking Chelsea free Clinic. They know me by name now!”
            I dodge that end of the bar for a while, fearing my obvious association with the male race.
            And so it is. The weather is changing. The moods are changing.
            After an Earthquake, a Hurricane, and some poorly timed rain patterns, some strange, vapid humid air sits bulky, wetting our backs, sweat dripping down.
            And it’s stagnant.
            It’s muggy.
            It’s stale.
            The End Of Summer Is Here.
            And with it, comes the end of the Summer Romance.
            No call backs. Sudden realizations of a person’s past. Stood up three times in a row. Accidental discoveries of who they've been texting at night. All of this adds up to the big breakup. The send off. Like a snake shedding its own skin in order to shine a new coat.
            With Fall coming, it’s best to start fresh and start looking for that Winter hibernation buddy.  
            But sometimes it’s hard to know that you’re stuck in one of these overcooked romances.
            Here are three examples that are sure signs that your current situation needs to be kicked to the curb:

            Face it. You can’t change ‘em. Remember when they said they weren’t “looking for anything serious right now”? You don’t need a code breaker for this one. They don’t like you that much. It’s harsh, but true. Trust me, if anyone really likes you, you will never hear these words come out of their mouth. It’s sad. Yes, you're wanted in the meantime when they’re not fucking that other person in their life (and there is always someone else). You’ll be there if they’re sad, or hurt, or didn’t pay their Netflix bill on time, sure. But like a substitute teacher, you’re the one day babysitter of their genitals until the tenured professor comes back into town.
            And no matter what you say to this person, things will not change. You missed the boat. And maybe because you’re sick, you like people who don’t quite like you back.
            But they are so mysterious! They are so elusive! They are so….unattainable. That look in their eye that seems like mystery is actually them fantasizing about your rivals naked sweating body crooning in orgasmic ecstasy.
            “What are you thinking about?” You dare to ask.
            “Nothing,” they say, eyes darting to the floor, their foot circling slowly under the table.
            Like a tumor, it’s best to cut this one out, because it will kill you in the end. Bonus thought though: They are probably obsessed with someone who really doesn’t like them as much, and the little carousel of pain spins round and round. All you can hope for is that their pain is as horrible as yours, which it won’t be, you little sniveling masochist. Buy a voodoo doll.


            I often times wonder what I would ask God if he/she existed. One of the questions, once we get past the problem of evil and where the human race is headed, is why in the world do we have the most amazing, toe-curling, unforgettable sex with the most shadiest people in the world. Everybody remembers that one person who rocked their world. And let me guess, you met them 20 minutes before you fucked, you didn’t know their name, it happened without planning or reason, right out of the blue, an orgasm that shattered every other memory of one to smithereens.What is with this?
            You would never let them meet your friends.
            You would never let them meet your parents.
            Yet, you yearn for their touch like crack rock. They walk near you and your stomach drops. After several encounters, a creeping sensation arises. You want to know more about them. Who is this person that makes you feel this way?
            Like a horror film, you don’t want to open that door. That’s when the machete wielding truth of their actual existence comes out, and it will only make you want to vomit. Yes, they are married. Yes, they are actually escort girls. Yes, he’s slept with 356 people, only 9% of the time with condoms. Yes, she spends most of her time with her legs up like rabbit ears on an old TV set. That’s why they’re good at what they do. That’s why you need to run (okay, fuck one or two more times, just to get it out), run far away and fast, before you ask questions like:
            “So, what do you do the other nights you’re not with me?” and start to feel that little bile crawl up your throat.

            THE LOVE VAMPIRE

            Admit it.
            You have one of these hanging around.
            The person with that look in their eye. You know who they are. They act like they’re your best friend. They ask you if you need help moving. They always look at you, head half cocked to the side and ask: “How are you? Really? Do you want to talk about it?”
            Then one drunken night you accidently sleep with this person and you happen to be exceptional in bed. And it’s over. They are sunk.
            You like them, but you don’t like them. They’re nice, but nice is a nice way of saying fuck off.
            Now you’re the evil bastard, toting one of these love vampires around. You try to break it off, whatever it is, but you just keep finding the vampire right back at your throat, demanding love. And when they argue the case for you to love them like Perry Mason, this draws a whole new line of desperation in the sand. The only way you can kill a vampire is to use the holy water of being a dick. Or a bitch. Choose your gender's preferred sense of evil.  
            Which, in the end, will only make them pine for you more.
             And the vicious cycle continues, so start looking for that voodoo doll with your name on it.
            ‘Till next time love birds. Go out and start taking applications for that Winter snug buddy. It's coming, right around the corner. Like Hurricane Go Bag shopping, you don't want the only thing left to be an open bag of Cheetos and a busted flashlight. 

Someone who really loves you named this after you!

Sorry dude, she actually strips on the West Side .

"I love you soooooo much!"