Diary of a Disillusioned Dater

DIARY OF A DISILLUSIONED DATER: SAMPLE CHAPTER

2012-01-18T10:00:00.000-05:00

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

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

OCTOBER 14: DON’T BE DISAPPOINTED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She could be two-hundred pounds.”

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

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

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

I still felt an obligation to dad and Marty Applebaum to be nice to Tammy, so I tried to fill the dead air as best I could, but Tammy kept giving me one word answers to my questions. I was about to ask her about her shower routine when an old Chinese man walked by our table, and asked in a thick Chinese accent if the newspaper on the seat next to us was ours.

“Nee How,” I said to the man. “It’s all yours.”

“Nee How,” he said, smiling, as he took the paper and left.

“You speak Chinese?” Tammy asked, confused.

“Not really. But I’m taking classes,” I lied just to say something.

"Of all the languages you could learn, why waste your time on Chinese? Why not learn something useful like I don’t know – German, or something?"

"Because China is on its way to becoming the world's largest economy. If you wanna take advantage of that, you need to speak the language."

Her eyes lit up for a moment – like she hit the jackpot.

"So, like, you're into finance and stuff?" she asked in such an excited tone that if she were a guy, she would have had a boner.

"Not really. I just wanna be able to have an actual conversation with the Chinese guy I buy my bootleg DVDs from. I've been buying movies from him for over a year, and I'd like our relationship to move on to the next level. And somehow I don't think he's gonna learn English."

Maybe I'm a really good actor, or maybe I don't convey sarcasm well, but for some reason, she didn't get it. I'm guessing it's because she's a moron.

"So, what – you're into Chinese men?" she asked in a disgusted tone, her she-boner now subsiding.

"No. I just think it would be really cool to be able to speak Chinese."

"I see," she responded, disappointed that I wasn't the rich international man of finance she was hoping to land – and we spent the rest of the hour quietly sipping our drinks.

I sat there wishing I actually did speak Chinese and that the Chinese man hadn’t left, so I could have someone to talk to. When the hour was up, we stepped out of the Starbucks together, and Tammy asked me if I’d mind walking her home. She said she didn’t feel safe walking home alone at night, and I figured it was the least I could do for Marty Applebaum’s niece since I was never going to see her again.

We arrived at her building, and I was giving her the old "It was great to meet you, take care of yourself" routine, when all of a sudden she lunged at me. I thought she was going in for the cheek kiss, but our lips touched, and she thrust her tongue into my mouth. I pulled back, fearing for my life, but she lunged in again for a second attack. I saw her lips moving closer to mine in slow motion, and I felt trapped. I didn’t want to insult Tammy by pulling away a second time, but I didn’t want to lead her on either. I wondered why this couldn’t be happening with someone I actually liked, or was attracted to, when all of a sudden, I heard Shmegs’ voice egging me on: “First get laid. Then meet someone you like. It’s been a year.” I looked at Tammy – all two-hundred-fifty pounds of her – and wondered how bad it would be if I listened to Shmegs. Maybe I’d be in for the ride of my life. Maybe I wouldn’t be disappointed at all. Before I could decide what I wanted to do, she made the decision for me. Tammy’s tongue was in my mouth again, and her hand was down my pants.

I followed her up the stairs to her second floor walk-up. As she struggled to lug her oversized body up each step, I feared she’d fall back and crush me. I envisioned the emergency room surgeons desperately trying to remove my face from her gigantic ass cheeks, while mom watched in horror, as I gasped for each breath.

“You think he’s disappointed now?!” I could hear her crying to dad. “Breathe, Ray. Breathe!”

When we got to Tammy’s apartment, she grabbed my hand and led me to her bedroom. After more than a year of celibacy and numerous failed dates, I was seconds away from fucking Marty Applebaum’s fat niece.

“Get naked,” she ordered.

As I took off my clothes and watched Tammy take off hers, I was both excited at the thought of actually having sex, and repulsed by the sight of Tammy naked. The only thing preventing her gargantuan, drooping breasts from touching the ground was her Buddha like belly, which was likely the only thing preventing me from finishing before we even began. I stood there completely naked and completely erect, feeling weird, even ashamed, that anything in the room was turning me on. I worried that Tammy might confuse my raging hard-on with a desire to want to be her boyfriend when all I wanted to do was bust a nut in something other than a tissue. I feared having to go with her to Marty Applebaum’s retirement party, or to her niece’s graduation, or to some family wedding all because of what I was about to do. I felt guilty that I was using her just to satisfy an urge, and even guiltier that I wasn’t the least bit attracted to her, despite my boner’s insistence to the contrary. I was bothered by the fact that I couldn’t just take care of business and worry about the consequences later like most other guys. I wondered why I was so goddamn impossible, when I heard Uncle Jerry’s voice telling me, “You’re impossible because no one is good enough for you” – but I knew Tammy certainly wasn’t. She wasn’t attractive, interesting, intelligent, or nice, but then I remembered that she seduced me, and I used that to soldier through. If there were to be any hurt feelings on her part, they were of her own doing. I was just trying to be a nice guy by walking her home. I had no idea she used the “I’m afraid to walk home alone” line to get guys to fuck her.

As she pulled me into her bed and on top of her, I felt like a bear cub nestled in its mother’s bosom.

“Wait,” I said, stopping her before she could pull me in all the way. “Do you have condoms?”

She reached over to her nightstand and opened the drawer to reveal what looked like at least thirty female condoms. She grabbed one out of the drawer and ripped it open with her teeth like a fat, horny lioness tearing into a carcass to feed her young. I was surprised she didn’t growl as she handed me the wrapper and proceeded to insert the contraceptive.

“I’ve never seen one of these before,” I said, studying the insertion instructions on the packaging – more to avoid watching her put it in than to actually learn how.

“Okay. It’s in,” she said.

“In where?”

“In me!” she screamed, impatiently. “Stick your cock in.”

I tried to oblige, but I couldn’t find anywhere to stick anything in. Granted, it had been a while, but could I have possibly forgotten how to screw? Tammy noticed my look of confusion.

“Are you a virgin?” she asked.

“No!” I said defiantly, like a five-year old who’s been asked if he was a baby.

“Then fuck me already!”

“I’m not wearing my glasses. I’m having trouble – ”

“Gimme a break,” she sighed – and an image of Nell Carter popped into my head, which didn’t help matters.

She was losing her patience and I was losing my wood. Then suddenly, from in between the thigh and belly fat emerged what looked like a plastic bag with a ring around the opening.

“Stick it in there?” I asked, pointing.

“Yes!” she moaned – and I did.

I pumped away at that plastic bag for twenty minutes with my eyes closed, trying my best to think of someone else besides the behemoth from whose vagina the bag was protruding. I wasn’t sure if I was inside her at all, or if only the Glad Bag was on the receiving end of the pounding. When she screamed, “Cum with me!” I started frantically flipping through my mental rolodex of images of women so that I could blow my wad and be done, but nothing was working. The guilt, disgust, and severe back pain I was feeling prevented me from experiencing anything remotely ejaculatory.

“I’m cumming,” I said, giving her my best cross-eyed orgasm look.

“Me too!” she moaned, as she pulled me in even closer.

My face was now buried in a pool of her breast sweat while she continued to moan, and I almost cried. When it was finally over, she released me from her bear hug. I pulled out of the Ziploc and quickly scanned the room for my clothes, so I could get dressed, go home, and bathe for a week. But then the guilt set in once again. I couldn’t leave this sad, lonely, overweight woman alone after I’d just violated her. It was clear she had sex with men so quickly after meeting them as a way to prevent them from rejecting her. She obviously didn’t want to be alone. Though I could totally relate to her desire for companionship, I was dreading the thought of having to lie next to her for the remainder of the night, possibly even having to cuddle, when I head her say, “You should go.”

“Excuse me?” I asked, not sure I heard her correctly.

“It’s late. I have work in the morning,” she said.

What I should have seen as a gift from god – the ultimate get out jail free card – actually insulted me. I was worried about violating her and hurting her feelings, when she was the one who violated me, and hurt my feelings. She basically used me as a human dildo, and was now kicking me out into the street, feeling completely used and entirely unsatisfied. Was this what dad meant by “don’t be disappointed?” Did he know she did this to guys? Did Marty Applebaum tell Norman that his fat niece fucked guys on the first date and then sent them packing?

I got dressed and watched Tammy pull the sheets over herself, as if she was suddenly embarrassed to be naked around me. For a moment I knew how Jonah must have felt. Tammy had completely taken away my upper hand. I was the one who was supposed to be rejecting her.

“We’ll talk,” she said, as I put my shoes on and walked out of her bedroom.

“Yeah, say hi to Marty for me,” I shouted back, as I closed her apartment door behind me.

I walked the thirty blocks home in a state of bewilderment. This was the “walk of shame” to end all walks of shame. I thought about stopping and asking a man I saw hailing a cab on Columbus Avenue if screwing a plastic bag without cumming actually counted as sex. I envisioned him answering, “You must have just fucked Tammy. Welcome to the club.”

I considered calling Shmegs to tell him what had happened, or responding to dad’s email, but I’m too embarrassed. Helen and Norman will definitely be hearing about the Starbucks portion of our date, but the rest of the story I’ll have to take with me to the grave.

At this moment, I’m no closer to meeting “the one” than I was when I first asked Shmegs to set me up with Linda. I’ve been rejected, humiliated, disillusioned, and now molested. I had hoped that by now I’d have had a romance that lasted more than three dates – or at least had intercourse with something not made of polyurethane.

Tonight, in my most recent moment of weakness, I logged back on to Jdate, hoping to find some fresh faces. I thought bathing in the cesspool of Jdate would wash away the shame I felt from fucking Tammy that my forty-five minute shower couldn’t. But I found the profiles of the exact same women who ignored me when I was a paying member.

I was actually pleased to see these Jdate Superstars still just as hopeless as I was waiting for their Jdate princes. I took solace in the fact that they hadn’t yet found the men of their dreams, and it wasn’t just me they were rejecting. I scrolled through a dozen pages of pictures I’d seen only weeks earlier, and somehow despite their forced smiles for the cameras, they seemed sad and defeated. I wondered if the men they were writing to were ignoring them like they did me. What once looked like The Hadassah catalogue now looked more like an online version of “Auto Trader” magazine. These women looked used – or certified pre-owned at best. They’d been around the block more than a few times, and the long numbers after their user names might as well have been a listing of the mileage they’d accrued.

When I read one woman insisting in her “About Me” section that: “I’m not into the drug scene! If it's not legal, it's a drug. Don’t try and tell me otherwise. Just keep moving!” I imagined the baggage she was carrying around with her from her ex-boyfriend the pothead, and I kept moving – right off the site.

I even logged on to Match.com to see if they were still overstocked with women, but their excess inventory looked scarily like what Jdate had to offer – despondent and discouraged women with poorly written profiles. I thought about signing up for Match’s free trial and emailing the woman whose entire profile consisted of the phrase “I like dogs, shopping and Bingo.” I was going to write her that I knew of a fixed Bingo game at a retirement home I could take her to, and that we could go dog shopping with our winnings. I then remembered that she ignored me when I emailed that to her on Jdate.

I officially have no prospects and no hope.

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

2011-12-07T15:16:00.007-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ladies, use this book wisely, but certainly check it out if you suspect your man is cheating -- like I apparently do.

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SILENCE! THE MUSICAL

2011-11-21T15:52:00.003-05:00

$39 Tickets* - Save 35% on SILENCE! - The sellout "killer" sensation!

New Block of Tickets On Sale!

“As IRREVERENT, FILTHY, & FUNNY as The Book of Mormon! The difference is you can afford the tickets.” –NY Post

"Subversively Funny- Deliriously Tasty… Don’t Bring Grandma, Please!" - NY Times

SILENCE! The Musical - The Unauthorized Parody of The Silence of the Lambs

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Musical Comedy is served… with fava beans and a nice Chianti. SILENCE! The Musical is a hilarious parody based on the Academy Award winning film. Rookie FBI agent Clarice Starling matches wits with the brilliant but insane cannibal, Dr. Hannibal Lecter in order to catch the serial killer known as Buffalo Bill. Clarice faces her own demons while racing the clock to unlock Lecter’s clues before another innocent girl is killed and skinned by Buffalo Bill. This laugh-out-loud naughty satire features a singing chorus of floppy-eared lambs narrating the action as Buffalo Bill gleefully dances a hoedown while kidnapping hapless Catherine Martin. Even Dr. Lecter, scary as ever, sings about the life he’d like to lead someday outside the prison walls.

“This LEWD, LYRICAL and LAUGH-YOUR-BUTT-OFF musical parody of Silence Of The Lambs shines bright!” – Daily News

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1- CLICK HERE or visit SilenceTheMusical.com and enter code HHCGEN39. Please select the REGULAR SEATS (FBI HEADQUARTERS) section on the online seating chart.

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3- Bring a print out of this offer to The 9^th Space Theatre at P.S. 122, 150 First Avenue. Box office is open for walk-up sales. See hours below.

RESTRICTIONS: Offer valid through December 30th. Offer may be revoked at anytime and is subject to availability. Not valid on prior purchase. Offer cannot be combined with other discounts or promotions; blackout dates and restrictions may apply. Maximum of 4 tickets total with offer.

Box Office Hours:

Monday/Tuesday/Thursday 4pm to 8pm

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IF YOU'RE IN NYC THIS WEEKEND COME TO WILLIFEST

2011-09-21T17:26:00.001-04:00

MICHELE BACHMANN: PILF

2011-08-31T11:41:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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NEXT TIME YOU THINK ABOUT DATING A BANKER...

2011-07-26T09:53:00.007-04:00

HOW THEY GOT HERE

2011-07-09T12:16:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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An Open Letter: A Repost

2011-06-22T11:47:00.002-04:00

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

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GUYS WHO SCREW MY SHIT UP

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

So:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Marc F.
5/23/08

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

2011-06-20T10:36:00.005-04:00

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

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

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

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

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2011-06-17T17:43:00.002-04:00

ANTHONY WEINER: CONGRESSMAN, COCK TWEETER, OUTCAST

2011-06-15T14:59:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

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If only online dating were like shopping at Home Depot, but free...

2011-06-13T12:33:00.004-04:00

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

THE UNION SQUARE BONER

2011-06-02T13:19:00.000-04:00

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

But I digress.

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

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

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THE COCK AND BALLS PHOTO

2011-05-29T05:29:00.001-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

"Interesting photograph," he said.

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

"What do you think it means?"

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

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

"Honestly, not much."

"Are you a photographer?"

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

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

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

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

"Does it excite you?"

"Excuse me?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2011-05-09T16:05:00.000-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her: Funny? That's funny to you?

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

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

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

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

Me: I know, right?

Better to throw him under the bus than take even an ounce of blame, I thought.

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

Me: Whoa, sista! Getting kinda personal.

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

Me: I hope so too.

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

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

Me: Done.

Her: And by the way, it definitely counts.

Me: What does?

Her: Sticking it in a little.

Me: Thank you!

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THE HIGH FIVE FOR SEXUAL INTERCOURSE

2011-05-08T23:52:00.001-04:00

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

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JPLEASE STOP EMAILING ME

2011-05-06T15:59:00.004-04:00

JDATE SENT ME THIS:

From: JDate Special Offers

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

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

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

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

___________________________________________________________________
I SENT JDATE THIS:

Dear Jdate,

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

From: IKEA Special Offers

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

FREE Breakfast on Mother's Day!

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

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

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

From: "JDate Support" memberservices@jdate.com

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

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

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

I AM THE GRINGO

2011-04-23T12:46:00.002-04:00

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

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

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

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

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

"Jo is fine too," she said.

"Is Jo slang? Who says Jo?"

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

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

She sighed, exasperated by my unabashed gringo-osity.

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

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

"Say whatever you want."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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YOU NEVER GET A SECOND CHANCE TO UNDO A FART IMPRESSION

2011-04-15T12:41:00.002-04:00

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

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

"What's that smell?" I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, did she say something?"

"What should she say?"

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

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

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

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JPICKS: ANOTHER THING JDATE SUCKS AT

2011-04-06T10:16:00.006-04:00

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

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

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

Thanks Jdate!

Value:	$40
Discount:	50%

You Pay:

$20

GET THE DEAL

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

2011-04-04T17:18:00.005-04:00

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

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2011-03-23T08:58:00.003-04:00

WHERE TO MEET SINGLE WOMEN

2011-03-07T16:24:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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TOMORROW MORNING DISCOUNT TICKETS

2011-03-07T11:46:00.005-05:00

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

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

AVENUE Q REVIEW

2011-01-21T17:30:00.002-05:00

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

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

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

2011-01-05T14:36:00.001-05:00

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

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

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

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IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A GOOD DATER

2010-12-28T12:27:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

HOROWITZ HOT

2010-12-24T13:21:00.003-05:00

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

"You meet her?" I axed.

"Yeah, last night," he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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THE "FUCKIN' CUNT" STORY

2010-11-10T13:19:00.004-05:00

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

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

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

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

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LET US PRAY: TALES OF A VAGINA-PHOBE

2010-11-08T11:01:00.003-05:00

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

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

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

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World's Oldest Person Dies At 114

2010-11-04T16:12:00.002-04:00

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.

COMMUNICATION BREAKDOWN, IT'S ALWAYS THE SAME

2010-11-03T13:07:00.002-04:00

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 NEW YORK SHLONG CLUB

2010-10-31T15:34:00.005-04:00

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 HALLOWEEN POST - A REPEAT

2010-10-30T23:36:00.002-04:00

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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Miss Abigail's Guide to Dating

2010-10-29T09:49:00.003-04:00

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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I LIKE THE EVENING LIFE

2010-10-20T15:28:00.002-04:00

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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¿ De que estas hablando, lady?

2010-09-10T15:16:00.001-04:00

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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DIARY OF A DISILLUSIONED DATER: THE BOOK...AND TALES OF LOST URINE

2010-08-26T11:25:00.003-04:00

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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ДѮЛ Зяч шщ

2010-08-23T17:32:00.002-04:00

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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DINNER WITH SCHMUCKS

2010-07-27T13:19:00.005-04:00

"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 STILL DON'T GET THIS

2010-07-26T09:36:00.003-04:00

At 10 PM on a Sunday night, people waiting in line to pay for overpriced, sour yogurt:

THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF ANKLE SOCKS GO I

2010-06-25T22:26:00.014-04:00

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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MARTIN AND GINA FOREVER

2010-06-17T17:14:00.001-04:00

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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RAID ON AUNT B.

2010-06-14T10:18:00.003-04:00

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.

TOO HOT FOR THE WHITE HOUSE PRESS CORPS?

2010-06-08T14:27:00.005-04:00

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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THE UPSIDE DOWN QUESTION MARK

2010-05-17T16:33:00.000-04:00

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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A ROOM FULL OF RACHELS

2010-04-23T11:03:00.002-04:00

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.

HIS DOG LIKES PURDY GOILS

2010-04-09T11:57:00.001-04:00

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.

Maybe I shoulda had a Vdate

2010-04-02T15:23:00.011-04:00

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.

YOU USING THAT UTERUS?

2010-03-25T16:03:00.001-04:00

"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.

CLOTHING OPTIONAL DATING

2010-03-10T13:34:00.002-05:00

A few weeks ago, I met a rather persistent Jew. Within ten seconds of us being introduced, he asked me if I was married. When I said no, he asked me if I wanted to be, and he handed me his card. I admired his balls-out salesmanship, but I told him I was good. When he said he'd keep his eyes open for me anyway, I thanked him , walked away, and threw his perforated around the edges, straight out the inkjet business card into the closest trash can. I'll let a friend or relative set me up, but not the president of Moishe's Matchmaking. I don't want to have to buy his village a goat if I wind up marrying the woman.

I'm guessing this guy googled me and found an email address I sometimes use because he emailed me the day after we met. He wrote that he was "confident" he could find me someone, and he signed off asking this rather perplexing question: "Do you mind if a woman wears pants?" I re-read the question, wondering if perhaps I'd misunderstood what type of service I was being offered. Are pimps now wearing $49 suits from Sears and driving beat up station wagons? Will white suburban youth suddenly think it's cool to talk and dress like orthodox Jews from Brooklyn?

I thought maybe I'd been missing out all these years by refusing to use a matchmaker. Here I was wasting valuable time going out with fully-clothed woman after fully-clothed woman, when I could have been getting pants-less dates. How much easier could it be? My mother always tells me that I can't expect the woman of my dreams to come knocking on my door, but having her show up to a date in her underwear has to be the next best thing.

I quickly wrote back: "Between pants and no pants, I vote for no pants every time." I don't think Moishe got my joke and my passive aggressive blow-off because he emailed back saying, "Great! I have the perfect girl for you. What's your phone number?" I haven't written back because I'm afraid some half naked woman WILL come knocking on my door while Moishe waits in front of my building in his Buick Roadmaster, waiting for his pants-less ho to come back.
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AGAIN WITH THE EX-BOYFRIENDS!

2010-03-08T17:48:00.002-05:00

Instead of turning this post into another rant about how some woman I went out with couldn't stop mentioning her ex-boyfriend, I've decided to perform a public service. So for the single ladies out there who can't get through a first date without using the phrase "My ex-boyfriend," please carefully read the following:

Although it's good to know that at least one human being on the planet was willing to date you, when you say "My ex-boyfriend," men simply hear, "The Guy That Used To Bang Me," as in: "The Guy That Used To Bang Me works at Goldman Sachs," or "The Guy That Used To Bang Me is Asian," or "The Guy That Used To Bang Me loves Pinkberry." Say it enough times and we'll wonder why anyone ever wanted to bang you.

If you're talking about him a lot, you're thinking about him a lot, which leads us to believe he probably dumped you and you can't deal with it. People who are ready to date new people, don't sit around talking about old people. More importantly to the male mind, people who are ready to fuck new people, don't sit around talking about old people they fucked.

Even if you feel you MUST mention your ex-boyfriend because he's a crucial character in the story you're telling, there are ways to keep him out of the discussion. For example, you can simply not tell the story that involves your ex-boyfriend. I've gone on dates with women who were divorced, and they never once mentioned the men they were married to for 4, 5, even 10 years. You should be equally as reticent about the Jdate guy you went out with for six weeks before he got bored and stopped sexting you when he was horny.

The only time it IS acceptable to use the phrase "My ex-boyfriend" on a date is when that phrase is followed by "gave me herpes," or "isn't over me and has vowed to ass rape anyone I date." We'll appreciate the heads up. Otherwise, please just stick to the stories about your job, your roommate or your cats. It's a lot easier for us to nod politely and smile when we think we have a shot at becoming the next guy you used to bang.

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CHEERLEADERS

2010-02-19T10:47:00.001-05:00

I've been speaking with a couple of male friends as of late who, for the time being, have voluntarily taken themselves out of the dating game. The main reason for their lack of desire to date is that they claim they don't want to be anyone's cheerleader. They're tired of having to convince a girlfriend that everything's gonna be okay when she hates her job, her body, her roommate, her life, her dog, etc. It's too exhausting, they say, and they'd rather just be alone.

I get it. I've spent a fair amount of time trying to convince teary eyed girlfriends that their asses didn't look fat in their jeans, when all I really wanted to do was tell them to "Put the fucking jeans on, and let's go already!" As I listened to my friends speak, I wondered if women ever feel the same way. Isn't it in their natures, after all, to nurture? Wouldn't a woman lovingly tell a boyfriend or husband that his ass looked perfect in his Levis without the slightest hint of anger or resentment?

But I suppose no one really likes to be a cheerleader - a fact that hit home this past weekend as I worked on a freelance writing gig at the NBA All-Star game in Dallas. I watched the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders sitting on the side of the court waiting to rehearse, and they could not have looked more bored and disinterested. They put on a good show when the cameras were rolling, like a man does when he's telling his weeping woman that she doesn't look like she's gained any weight, but I knew the cheerleaders' hearts weren't in it. As I watched them do their cheers, I wondered if their boyfriends were tired of convincing them that their asses looked good in their tiny short shorts.

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ATTENTION FILMMAKERS & SCREENWRITERS

2010-02-18T11:08:00.004-05:00

This festival is being run by friends of mine, so if any of you out there are filmmakers or screenwriters, or if you you know of any, please check it out, or pass along the info.

When One is The Happiest Number

2010-01-27T22:15:00.004-05:00

I sat in a movie theater last Saturday night on date number three with a woman I'd met at a party a couple of months ago. Watching a seven-thirty show in a Manhattan movie theater on a Saturday night can feel like seeing a movie at the local theater in Mayberry. The theater gets so crowded you'd think it was the only one in town. But instead of Aunt Bee sitting next to you, you wind up sharing an armrest with some overdressed Real Housewife of the Upper East Side. I like to grab an aisle seat whenever possible, so between getting up to let people in before the movie starts, and getting up to let them out to pee after it does, there's a lot of movement and internal sighing. I've always longed to sit in that single, unattached seat next to the wall that's reserved for the handicapped - never more so than last Saturday night as I was forced to listen to the never-ending movie play-by-play delivered by my date.

"Oh, he's such an asshole. I hate him," she said EVERY single time Alec Baldwin appeared onscreen.

"Awww. They're so adorable together," she'd opine whenever Meryl Streep and Steve Martin had a scene together.

I stared jealously at the sixty-ish looking man who'd grabbed the handicapped seat because there were none others left, and I listened to him howl with laughter, as his wife sat in the row in front of him laughing hysterically too. They seemed so happy to be able to enjoy the movie without having to sit next to each other for the two or so hours, and I longed for that as well. When I asked my movie partner out again after our second meeting, I was on the fence about how I felt about her, but I liked her enough to give it another shot. But as the week before the movie date progressed, I'd grown tired of the hour long phone conversations during which I was forced to hear how much she hates her boss and her roommate. The fact that she was now publicly and annoyingly adding Alec Baldwin to the list of people she couldn't stand, made me start to feel the same way about her.

"Oh my god. What kind of a douchebag does this?" she asked loudly during the scene in which [spoiler alert] Alec Baldwin unwittingly flashes his cock and balls into a webcam, as he tries to seduce Meryl Streep.

"I was wondering the same thing," I thought to myself, as I watched the sixty-year-old guy sitting all alone almost piss himself from laughing.
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AIN'T NOTHIN' GOIN' ON BUT HER RENT

2010-01-14T08:22:00.001-05:00

I've heard the phrase "Would you like to meet my daughter?" uttered from the mouths of mothers many times during my dating career. I'm not quite sure what it is about me that mothers of single daughters find so appealing, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I have a penis and I'm single. These mothers never really know much else about me, and I can only surmise based on the desperation with which they ask me to date their offspring that their daughters also have penises. I've never gone on a second date with a "mother set-up," so I can't attest to the actual genders of these mostly unwilling participants in their mom's attempts at matchmaking.

Yesterday was the first time a father offered to set me up with his daughter, and I realized immediately why women are just better at pimping out their daughters.

"My daughter lost her job last February. I've been paying her rent ever since. $3500 a month. You single? You wanna go out with her?" was how he tried to sell it.

"Sure," I thought. "And in a few months, when we're a couple, she'll want me to pay her rent.
I've got an extra $3500 a month I've got nothing to do with. Why not?"

"I have a girlfriend," I told him.

"Take a look at her picture," he said, as he busted out the wallet photos of his daughter like he was showing me his newborn baby. Only she was forty-one.

"I have a girlfriend," I told him.

I wasn't sure if he really wanted to introduce his daughter to someone so she could live happily ever after, or so he could live happily ever after with an extra 3500 bucks a month in his pocket. I felt bad for the poor guy, so I thought I'd give him a quick tutorial on Manhattan real estate.

"You know, she can get a decent one bedroom on the Upper East Side for like $1800. There's no need to spend that kinda money on rent," I said.

"She likes living in the Village with a doorman in a fancy building," he said, beaten.

Forty-one years old, jobless, broke and only wants to live in a $3500 a month apartment. I'd rather date a chick with a dick.
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THE PILLOW PEOPLE

2010-01-06T17:07:00.000-05:00

I've been spending a fair amount of time in the Boro Park section of Brooklyn lately, while my grandmother is in a rehab center recovering from back surgery. If you're not familiar with the area, think of a 19th century Polish shtetl with double parked minivans. If that doesn't paint a picture for you, imagine Yentl with Blackberries. For the past few weeks, I've been shopping in their messy little grocery stores with refrigerators that are never set to the right temperatures, containing milk that expired three days before it arrived at the store. I've been eating the kosher, greasy pizza served to me by a kosher, greasy man who sees no need for wearing gloves when handling food. And most of all, I've been in awe at how these people dress, act and live.

But there's an odd comfort being amongst what an ex-girlfriend used to refer to as "The Pillow People." (She'd see them on her way to work in Williamsburg, carrying what she thought were pillows but were actually bags containing their tallises and tefillin). I actually lived in Boro Park until I was three, and although we weren't "Pillow People," I feel safe when I know they're around. Maybe their presence reminds me of the times as a child when my grandfather would take me for pizza at that exact same kosher pizza store I ate at today. Or maybe I just feel at ease knowing that if any shit goes down, the Pillow People will have my back. They'll throw a motherfucker off a roof if they have to. I've heard stories.

This afternoon, as I strolled up and down the streets of what seemed like the set of a modern day rendition of Fiddler on the Roof, I was reminded of the time a friend set me up with a girl from Boro Park. I told him she and I couldn't possibly have anything in common, but his argument that at least I wouldn't have to call her on Saturdays was enough for me to want to meet her. I was just out of a long relationship and having Saturdays off seemed like a good idea at the time. I don't remember the pre-date phone conversation with the Boro park girl, but I do recall the sound of her monotone voice. I felt like I was talking to a humorless, robotic salesgirl at B&H Photo, only I wasn't buying a camera - I was asking her out. I remember taking her to some kosher restaurant and being grateful that her Yiddish accent somehow disappeared in person, while at the same time lamenting the fact that I'd dragged my ass all the way to Boro Park for a date that would go nowhere. She was pretty and perfectly polite, but when she told me that she usually dates "Litvish" guys, I knew I was out of the running without having a clue at the time what "Litvish" meant - not that I even really wanted to be a contender.

I used to look down on the Pillow People, wondering how they could live the sheltered lives that they do, but I wonder now if these Pillow People aren't somehow better off not having to deal with Internet dating, and dates who can't stop talking about their exes.

THIS DOG TOOK A SHIT ON MY SOFA

2009-12-30T13:36:00.004-05:00

Her owner is a woman I went out with a while ago who's become a friend. When she called me last night, telling me she and her dog desperately needed a place to crash since the heat in her apartment suddenly stopped working, I was hoping my hospitality would be rewarded with something other than four small piles of steaming turd atop my sofa cushions.

A perfect ending for 2009 in the life of the Disillusioned Dater.

Happy New Year to you all!

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THE EX-BOYFRIEND

2009-12-29T10:09:00.000-05:00

I'd gone out on three dates with the lawyer from Chelsea before I finally realized she wasn't over her ex. During our first phone call, she mentioned that she liked my picture because my eyes were the same shade of blue as her ex-boyfriend's. I didn't have the heart or desire to tell her my eyes are green, but the mention of an ex five minutes into a conversation with a potential blind date was strike one. On our first date, she mentioned that her ex-boyfriend lives around the corner from the cafe at which she suggested we meet. Coincidence? Probably not. Strike two. On our second date, she not so subtly worked into the conversation that her ex-boyfriend is a banker when the subject of the financial crisis came up. I was kind of liking her a little by then, so I considered that a foul tip. She was still alive. By our third date, she was telling me how her ex-boyfriend loved Chinese food as we shared a plate of vegetable dumplings. Swing and a miss. She was down on strikes. We left the restaurant and I ended our evening together telling her I had to wake up early the next morning.

"On Christmas Day?" she asked.

"I've got some work to take care of," I told her, hoping she'd get the hint.

"Okay, well call me if you get done early. Maybe we can catch a movie."

Part of me wanted to say, "Yeah, sure," and then just fade away into the distance, never to see her again, while she asked her friends why all guys sucked and never called when they said they would. I thought for sure that her ex would either be in or would have been somehow involved in the making of the movie she'd wind up picking. Instead, I decided to be honest.

"I like you, but it seems to me that you're not over your ex," I told her.

"How could you possibly know anything about me and my ex?" she asked angrily.

"You mentioned him during our first phone call and on every one of our dates. It's obvious you still think about him a lot."

Then it started to get ugly.

"So you're keeping track of everything I say?" she asked.

"Uh, no."

"Just the stuff about my ex-boyfriend, huh? You clearly don't have any exes," she insisted.

"Actually, I do. I just don't mention them on dates."

"I don't see how you can judge someone for having a past."

"I'm not judging you. I was dating you to get to know you, not your ex."

"Why do you have to be so jealous and insecure?" she demanded to know.

I took a deep breath and wondered how I wound up being the one who needed to defend himself against an accusation of being mentally unbalanced.

"If I was jealous, wouldn't I be the one to keep bringing him up? With all due respect, you're the one that can't seem to have a conversation without mentioning him."

"You know what? Then don't call me!" she said before jumping into a cab.

I'm sure the Sikh cab driver spent the entire drive home listening to how her ex-boyfriend loves taking taxis, or wearing turbans.
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The Girl Who Cried Cute

2009-12-16T15:10:00.002-05:00

I think we can all agree that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But when the beholder in question has not the slightest ability to gauge someone's level of physical attractiveness, that beholder's perception of said physical attractiveness should not be trusted. It took me two dates with two different women that were described to me as "cute" by one such beholder to realize this.

When I demanded to see a picture the third time she tried to set me up last night, I was sent a photo of a woman who resembled Susan Boyle. "It's not a great picture," and "She's cute in person," were what I thought I heard this so called friend say before I told her that I'd pass. I just wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible until she hit me with:

"No offense, but you're not exactly Brad Pitt."

Now it was on.

"I never claimed to be Brad Pitt, but I'm a lot closer to him than your friends are to Angelina Jolie," I told her.

"So all my friends are ugly then?"

"No. Just the ones you've tried to set me up with."

"Do you realize what a jerk you sound like?"

"You basically told me I was a troll, and now I'm a jerk because I'm not attracted to your friends?"

"I didn't say you were a troll. I said you weren't Brad Pitt."

"So if I'm not a troll and I'm not Brad Pitt, what am I?"

"You're cute," she said.

I liked it better when I thought she thought I was a troll.

THE F-WORD

2009-12-05T15:40:00.005-05:00

I pride myself on being a gentleman on my dates. I'm always on time, I open doors, I don't engage in inappropriate touching, I pay, and I don't burp or fart. I think that puts me in the top five percent of eligible New York bachelors. So I was a bit shocked to learn from the friend who set us up of my recent date's displeasure with my excessive use of the f-word during our time together.

"Who uses that word on a first date?" he wanted to know.

"She started it."

"How?"

"We started talking about hand sanitizers and she said she uses them all day because the people she deals with at work are disgusting. I told her that I'm also OCD about Purelling, but I never feel totally clean after using it."

"So how do you get from that to what you said?"

"I told her I read an article about how hand sanitizers are completely ineffective at killing the bacteria in feces, and that feces was pretty much the main reason I used hand sanitizer. "

"And what'd she say?"

"She kinda nodded and said, 'Oh, really.'"

"You couldn't tell from that that she was turned off?"

"Guess I read her wrong."

"She thinks you're obsessed with germs and...christ, fuckin' feces. What's wrong with you?"

"She said that she shakes a lot of hands for work, and I said that five out of six people don't wash their hands after they use the bathroom. So over eighty percent of the hands she's shaking probably have fe--- Yeah, I see your point."

"See a professional about that, man," he said before hanging up.

I would, but I'd probably have to shake their hand first.

MAN BREATH

2009-12-01T09:56:00.003-05:00

I stopped showering before first dates a long time ago. I remember when I was in my twenties and early thirties, I'd leave work early on the day of a date to rush home and soap myself down so I could feel nice and fresh. Now, if there's no sweat before a date, there's no shower. I do, however, make sure I'm presentable: I do my Mr. Rogers routine and change from my sneakers to my shoes before I leave. I brush my hair, make sure there's nothing in my teeth or in my nose, and I suck on a Tic-Tac, Altoid, or whatever else I have handy. So I don't think it's unreasonable for me to expect the same of a woman who's meeting me for an after work cup of coffee.

In short, she was nothing to look at, perfectly nice, but the breath...oh the breath! It wasn't the type of halitosis resulting from not eating all day, or from eating something spicy. It was MAN BREATH! The type that I always envisioned Sipowicz from NYPD Blue having, or a brand of foul smelling respiration emanating from some old guy sitting on the back of a bus. I tried to stay out of it's path, but every time I moved my head slightly, it found me like a heat seeking missile made entirely of dirty socks that had just come off the feet of someone who'd run a marathon in them and then filled them with dog shit.

When we left the cafe and were about to part ways, I felt like offering her a Tic-Tac, but I didn't want to embarrass her. I doubt a little one calorie breath mint would have done the job required of a colonic anyway. This breath started way down deep and needed to be destroyed at the source like the Death Star in Star Wars.

THE ATTITUDE OF GRATITUDE

2009-11-16T17:43:00.002-05:00

Every so often, whenever I read through old blog posts and realize how bitter I've become, I like to pause for a moment and think of things for which I'm actually grateful. And since we're so close to Thanksgiving, I figured now would be as good a time as any to be appreciative of the wonderful gifts I've been given. So here are a few of the things I'm thankful for (in no particular order):

- The engraved sign hanging on the bathroom door in my doctor's office that reads: "PLEASE DO NOT URINATE WITHOUT PERMISSION!"

- The Chinese waiter at dinner last weekend who kept referring to me as "gentleman" and my friend as "lady" - as in: "You like some more water, gentleman? How 'bout you, lady?"

- Being able to watch my eighty-year-old great aunt try and park her car.

- and this commercial:

Like I Need More Excuses Not To Leave The House

2009-11-02T18:02:00.000-05:00

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.

The Manhattanite

2009-10-28T11:57:00.004-04:00

A long while back, I IM'd some woman on Jdate. I remember our conversation not only because it was enraging, but because that IM session was one of maybe ten I'd had during my entire Jdate career. And ten is probably being generous - unless getting declined counts as having an IM session with a woman, in which case I've had many more. But what triggered my memory of the instant messaging session in question was having almost the exact same conversation with the same woman on the phone last night.

I'd gotten this woman's number from a friend who had gotten the number from her friend who had apparently found the number scribbled on a piece of toilet paper that got stuck to the bottom of her shoe while she was peeing on the seat in a Starbucks bathroom. I can think of no other logical explanation since that appears to be how much thought was put into this set-up by the parties involved.

Though the IM exchange with this woman was at least two years ago, I was almost immediately overcome by a feeling of deja Jdate.

"So where in the city did you grow up?" she asked.

"Brooklyn," I said.

"Brooklyn isn't the city," she said, and I knew right then by her condescending, "You're Bridge and Tunnel trash and I'm not" tone that I'd spoken to this shithead once before. I quickly ran to my computer and opened the email my friend sent me containing this woman's picture. I knew that Jewish nose looked familiar.

"It's a borough of New York City," I responded, wondering why I was again defending myself to this elitist schmuck - only now I was speaking the words instead of typing them angrily on my keyboard.

"Technically, I suppose. But I don't consider Brooklyn 'The City.'"

"Not technically. It's an actual borough. I know. I grew up there."

"You know what I mean. It's not Manhattan."

"That's why they call it Brooklyn. So I take it you grew up in Manhattan," I said, pretending we'd never spoken before.

"Born and bred," she said proudly.

"Uh huh. So do you only date guys who grew up in Manhattan?" I asked, hoping she'd say yes and hang up on me.

"No, but there's something to be said for native Manhattanites."

Like what? You're all obnoxious douchebags with big noses who given your ages and extremely average looks shouldn't be so fucking picky?... Oh wait, that's just you!

"I actually enjoyed growing up in Brooklyn. Some of my fondest memories are from that time in my life. Brooklyn was great," I said before I told myself to stop trying to prove to her that I'm worthy of her attention.

"Yeah, well, do you have any other pictures you can send me?" she asked, putting to rest any doubt that this was the same woman from Jdate. I remember her asking me the same thing over two years ago. "I have a certain type of look that I like. Do you have any pictures where I can see you more clearly? "

Sure. And do you have any pictures in which your face doesn't look like it has a raging hard-on? YOU have a certain look you're into? So do I, and the "before" model in a rhinoplasty ad ain't it. Why didn't your fancy Manhattan daddy take you to a fancy Manhattan plastic surgeon when you were a teenager, or why didn't he at least get you Photoshop lessons? These were all things I wish I had typed to her over two years ago and now I was wishing I had the balls to say to her on the phone.

Instead, I asked: "Are you on Jdate?"

"Yeah, are you? Do you have other pictures on there?"

"No."

"No, you're not on Jdate, or no you don't have other pictures on there?"

No, I don't want to talk to you anymore or ever again.

J-JOBS

2009-10-15T09:02:00.000-04:00

I didn't think I'd see or hear anything sadder this week than what I witnessed at a Lenny Kravitz concert on Monday night. As twelve-hundred sweaty people pushed and shoved each other so that they could record the show on their iPhones and Blackberries and be the very first of their friends to post it on Facebook, I noticed two women practically raping one of the event staff guys. They were dressed in their best groupie uniforms - tight jeans, heels, and tit- revealing tops - and they were molesting the Irving Plaza employee in an effort to get closer to the stage, get noticed by Lenny Kravitz and I guess have him fall in love with them, or whatever it is groupies think is gonna happen after they double-team rock stars. Rubbing up against the crowd control guy might have actually gotten them closer to the stage, or maybe even backstage, if these skanks were remotely attractive...and not fifty-years-old. I watched as the guy they were trying to bribe with their pre-geriatric sexual advances backed away as if to say, "I don't wanna fuck you two! Why would Helen Willis' son want to?" The anger I felt watching the two menopausal nymphos trying to manipulate some poor guy to get what they wanted, turned to pity as I watched them strike out with yet another of the venue's employees. But my anger quickly resurfaced as my view of the stage became obstructed by two giant Israeli dudes who insisted on treating those of us stuck behind them to a fifteen-minute air guitar duet, during which they serenaded and high-fived each other. I got so caught up in the utter gayness of it all that I thought about feeling up the event staff guy to get him to throw the two douches out.

After the concert, the image of the grandmas throwing themselves at some random stranger stuck with me and I couldn't imagine a more cringe inducing display of desperation and a cry for attention until I spoke to my friend last night. He told me about a girl he's been dating whose roommate blows every guy she goes out with from Jdate. I resisted the urge to ask for her screen name, as my friend explained to me why the woman with whom his new girlfriend shares an apartment constantly has her mouth full.

"She thinks it's the only way she can get guys to call after the first date. And if they don't call, they'll at least remember the blow job," he told me.

I wondered if the Geritol groupies began their careers by sucking off men they met from personal ads in the Penny Saver or from 1-900 chat lines, or whatever the 1980s equivalent of online dating was. And if so, would the Jdate Blow Job Girl inevitably wind up being rejected by a roadie at some concert she showed up to inappropriately dressed twenty-years from now?

I think the only ones in this story who had any meaningful kind of connection were the two Israelis. I'm sure when they blew each other after the concert it was true love.

BERTA

2009-09-21T15:27:00.000-04:00

Three people in as many weeks have told me I'm smart for not being married. If these people were unhappily wed guys in their thirties or forties with obnoxious little kids and wives with fat asses, I probably wouldn't have remembered what they said. I've heard the cries of regretful married men too many times. But these anti-marriage advocates are women over sixty-five. One is ninety-four. I didn't really have the opportunity to question the two younger Golden Girls about why they're so opposed to the sacrament of holy matrimony, but I did ask the ninety-four year old. She was my grandmother's hospital roommate until late Saturday afternoon when I came to visit.

I walked into the hospital room and saw Berta dressed in her best old lady suit and matching hat, sitting in a chair next to her hospital bed with her purse on her lap . I barely had time to kiss my grandmother hello before Berta let me know she was pissed.

"Do you believe I'm waiting two hours for the ambulance to come to take me for my rehab? Two hours!" she said in some kind of accent I couldn't quite make out.

"Yeah, well. I'm sure they're on their way," I said, trying to move past her so I could get back to my grandmother.

"This is some racket they run here. They're all in cahoots. The doctors, the nurses, the ambulance company...and they want me to write them a check for the ambulance."

The next thing I knew, I was writing a $55 check to First Response Ambulette because Berta couldn't read the name of the company off the napkin that the nurse had written it on.

"What's an ambulette?" she asked.

"I guess it's kind of like an ambulance, but smaller. Maybe with less equipment inside. I don't really know," I said.

"I'll give them an ambulette alright. They won't take me unless they have the check, but I'll just stop payment. That's all. Two hours they making me wait. They could wait to get paid too."

"Sure, you could do that," I said, feeling guilty that I'd spent the first few minutes of my visit to my grandmother dealing with a stranger's ambulette issues.

"They said I could pay by credit card, but I'm 94 years-old and I never had a credit card. That's what's wrong with today's society. People buy things without money. If I wanna buy something, I buy with money. Pssht, with credit cards they want me to pay."

"Mmm Hmmm..."

"They're all crooks. I wouldn't be surprised if Palm Gardens doesn't even know I'm coming."

And then the next thing I knew, I was calling Palm Gardens nursing home to make sure they were expecting Berta. I thought about explaining to Berta that the odds of an entire nursing staff and an ambulette company conspiring to steal fifty-five bucks from her were slim. But before I could, she said: "You're a nice boy. Are you married?"

"Nope," I said.

"You're smart," she grumbled.

"You think so? Is marriage that bad?"

"Ah, the women out there today," she said as she waved her arm at me in disgust. "Better to stay single."

I wanted to ask her if she'd been reading my blog when the ambulette driver walked in. She gave him a good five minutes of shit for being two hours late and accused him of being involved in the big scheme to steal $55 off her.

"I'm just a driver," the ambulette guy said in his defense. "Whatchoo complainin' 'bout really isn't my...I mean this isn't like my..."

He struggled to find the word and I could see him sweating a little. Berta had gotten him so flustered that he forgot how to say "responsibility," if he ever knew the word to begin with. Instead, he regrouped and said, "this isn't my, you know, my liaison."

I thought for sure Berta would tear the guy a new one for not having a basic grasp of the English language. "People can't speak English in today's society," I could hear her saying in my mind. "I wasn't even born here and my English is better than yours, you fuckin' idiot!" I felt a little bad for the guy. But after I tried to intervene to make sure the driver knew where to take her, and he told me to mind my own business, I wanted Berta to abuse the dumb illiterate bastard. Instead, she kept complaining about how crooked everyone there was, as they rolled her out of the room tied to a gurney.

I wanted to go after her and ask her why exactly she was so anti-marriage. I thought a 94 year-old woman has to have some pearls of wisdom to share. But Berta was too busy carrying on and accusing the staff of larceny.

I think Ol' Bertie was so angry at the nurses and the ambulette company that she didn't really want to educate me anyway. She probably thought that teaching someone else's grandson about life wasn't her liaison.

Ménage à true?

2009-09-09T00:06:00.000-04:00

The closest I've ever come to being involved in a three-way was when I got a hand job from an ex-girlfriend while she was on the phone with a friend. None of my close friends have ever been with more than one chick at a time because if they were, I know I'd have heard about it many, many, many times.

So when this guy I kinda sorta know kept bragging to me this weekend about the "two hottties" he "banged last night," I was doubtful to say the least. I've been to plenty of social gatherings during which I've wound up talking to some drunk guy who feels the need to confess his sexual exploits to me, either real or imagined. "I was just with this Puerto-Rican chick," "Dude, you should have seen this piece of ass I went out with the other day," "You ever do a Saudi Arabian chick? You should!" are all things I've been forced to listen to while standing next to some guy at some party. When I don't know these so called men, I usually give them the benefit of the doubt and just assume they're telling the truth. But when a guy, who I have trouble believing has ever had sex with anyone, tells me he had a ménage with two of the best looking women I've seen in a while, I'm less inclined to extend him that same courtesy.

"What? You don't believe me?" he asked after he told me what he did with the ladies in question.

"Why shouldn't I believe you?" I said.

"I don't know. You seem kinda suspicious."

"Me, suspicious? Nah. Why? Because I can't imagine any woman, let alone two at a time, wanting to so much as talk to you?" I thought, but actually said: "No. Not at all."

"You want me to ask them to come over?"

"You're goddamn right I do! I want to hear both of these women say that they fucked you last night in an actual three-way, and that neither one of them was paid to do so," I thought, but actually said: "I believe you, man. It's cool."

He walked away angry and I wondered why he needed so desperately for me to believe him, or why the other guys in their thirties and forties at the other parties needed to prove how cool they were. Are they stuck in a state of arrested development so severe that they can't move beyond the "Dude, smell my finger" stage of their sexual development? Or am I so goddamn cool that guys just wanna impress me? Maybe they know that that hand job/phone call was the closest thing any of us have gotten to a three-way, and they want me as their leader.

WHAT I LEARNED THIS WEEKEND

2009-08-31T11:17:00.002-04:00

1. There's a reason I don't usually talk to strangers.

I was trying to be polite when the old Jew who sat next to me in the park started babbling about the state of the world in which we live - at least I thought he was an old Jew until he blamed 9/11 on the Jews. I was offended not by his antisemitism, but by his lack of originality. I wanted to tell the Dane Cook of conspiracy theorists that blaming the Jews for 9/11 had been done to death by mental patients way more talented than him, but I just got up and left before he was able to see my horns.

2. There's a reason I've never been to Crumbs Bakery (until yesterday)

I don't have a problem paying four bucks for a cupcake so big you need a fork to eat it, if the cupcake is actually good. I have a better, more appropriate name for this place - "Stale." I'm not sure which was worse - the fact that I could only finish half the cupcake because one more bite would have put me into a diabetic coma, or the fact that I sat next to the future cast of NYC Prep while I was eating it. If I'm gonna force feed myself a dry, shitty cupcake just to get my money's worth, I don't need to listen to a group of 9th graders whose handbags cost more than my mortgage payment use the word "like" fifteen times a sentence.

3. Fareed Zakaria is "a antisemite schmuck" - according to my great aunt.

I have nothing against the guy. I'm pretty sure he knows who's responsible for 9/11 - the Mexicans.

THE EMPEROR IS EATING PINKBERRY

2009-08-24T16:24:00.003-04:00

I know I'm in the minority, but I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Pinkberry tastes like ass! I don't get the long lines out the door, nor do I understand how people can stomach putting that vile, overpriced slop in their mouths. Maybe Pinkberry puts something in its yogurt that appeals only to those with more estrogen in their systems than testosterone since the lines out the doors are always comprised mostly of women. But to me and my balls, Pinkberry tastes like the milk they used was sour coming out of the cow, and throwing fruit on it doesn't disguise the grimace inducing hideousness of its flavor.

So when last night's date called a half hour before we were supposed to get together and suggested we meet at Pinkberry instead of at Starbucks, as previously planned, I hesitated.

"You don't like Pinkberry?" she asked.
"Not really, but that's cool. It's about the company anyway," I said.
"Hmmm. I really want Pinkberry."
"Don't worry about it. I'll sit with you while you eat."
"I don't know. It'll be weird if only I'm eating. I guess I'll have to push it off for another time."
"Yeah, well. Pinkberry isn't going anywhere."
"No. I mean our date. I really, really want Pinkberry. I was away for most of the weekend and there were no Pinkberries near me. I've been thinking about it since Friday."

I could have suggested that she get the yogurt before we met, but if she was gonna cancel a date because she was fiending for some Pinkberry, then far be it from me to get in between a girl and her curdled yogurt addiction.

"Well, enjoy it," I said, without offering to reschedule.
"Uhh, ooookay. I will," she said, as if she was annoyed that I wasn't interested in coming in second to a nine dollar cup of turd.

The friend who tried to set us up already gave me hell for not going out with her and force feeding myself the yogurt. But I'm pretty sure Ms. Pinkberry isn't for me, and I can only hope that her ass got bigger with each spoonful.

WHAT THE F&$% ARE YOU TALKIN' BOUT, WILLIS?!

2009-08-20T16:18:00.000-04:00

I was speaking to a client the other day who was bemoaning his newly divorced status. He's glad to be rid of the ex, but he's not having any luck on Match.com and E-Harmony. I wasn't aware that they even let Jews on E-Harmony. I thought it was some Mormon run site that doesn't allow "certain people" who don't measure up to its high standards to join - kind of like what they do at restricted country clubs, and at diners in Mississippi in 1951.

I very facetiously suggested that he try Jdate, and he said: "Yeah, man. Lay Date - that's where it's at. I keep meaning to set up the profile, but I've been lazy."
"What'd you call it?" I asked.
"Lay Date. I hear it's pretty easy to get laid on there."
"It is? How come no one told me?"
"I know a bunch of guys who've gotten laid from Jdate."
"Really? Like who?"
"They say the women are horny as shit."
"Really? Like who?"
"People go on there just to hook up."
"Really? Like who?"

I know I'm a bad example of successful Internet intercourse, but since when the fuck is Jdate like an episode of Entourage? Have there been drastic changes to the site since I last subjected myself to being treated like a digital leper?

I certainly won't be back to find out, but I gotta admit that I'm kinda hoping my client doesn't get laid from Jdate, so I'm not the only one.

SPEAKING OF VAGINAS

2009-07-27T18:12:00.001-04:00

As I was sitting on a bench in Central Park the other day, I overheard a guy in his early twenties tell a friend that he "loved vaginas" and that they're his "favorite part of a woman." What he said made me smile - not because it was particularly funny, but because I remember telling a friend the exact same thing when I was that age.

Back in my twenties, I suppose the vagina was my favorite part of a woman. It didn't really matter whose body the vagina in question was attached to. As I've grown older, slightly wiser, and more discriminating, I'm less inclined to plug any hole that's offered me. I still do very much like vaginas, but they're no longer my favorite part of a woman.

My favorite part is now the part of a woman that makes her sweet and kind and funny and cool and smart; the part that stops her from whining about every thing and everyone that she hates, and tells me to stop when I whine about the same things; the part that lets me be me without trying to mold me into someone she thinks she wants to be with; the part that's independent and doesn't need some guy to complete her; the part that picks up the check once in a while; the part that doesn't play by rules written by bitter, damaged women; the part that doesn't think it owns the truth no matter the subject; the part that doesn't need a four-carat diamond to make her happy; the part that gets my sophomoric, sarcastic humor; the part that makes me smile when I see her and disappointed when I know I won't.

So I've gone from being a 20 year old kid who really likes pussy to being a 38 year old man that sounds like one. But I don't care. That's what I want.

SKANKVILLE/YORKVILLE: WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE?

2009-07-19T18:12:00.000-04:00

Maybe I need to leave the house more often, or maybe the Upper East Side has suddenly become New York's red light district, but I couldn't believe how many women I saw standing on street corners last night in tit-revealing tops, super short skirts and stripper shoes - the kinds with the ridiculously high heels and the straps everywhere. I'm generally not one to complain about scantily clad women, especially when that special brand of summer horniness kicks in (guys, you know what I'm talking about), but there was something a bit sad about these women. They all seemed like they were trying too hard - like a guy at a club wearing a muscle shirt who flexes every time he raises his beer.

Whether they had the bodies to pull it off, or whether they looked like the woman on 73rd street whose breasts were literally outside her top (it wasn't pretty, but I had to look), they all looked uncomfortable - both physically and emotionally. Give me a slim chick with a pretty face in a t-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, and I'm good. That's exactly what I was wearing last night and no one looked at my tits with pity in their eyes.

THE YAWNER

2009-07-12T19:53:00.001-04:00

Many months ago, I allowed a woman I vaguely know to set me up on a blind date. She's someone who happens to travel in the same circles as my mother - and by "same circles," I mean they see each other at weddings, Bar-Mitzvahs and funerals. It was at one such event in a chapel in Brooklyn where my date with The Yawner was arranged. As the mourners shed their tears over the passing of a loved one, my mother and this woman worked out the details of a setup the seeds of which could not have been planted at a more appropriate venue. I can only imagine how the conversation went down:

My Mother: Do you have anyone for my son?
The Woman: I have a friend who has a daughter. She's in her mid-30s and has a vagina. I think they'd be perfect for each other.
My Mother: Make it happen.

I wasn't given The Yawner's phone number, and the oh so clever introductory email I sent her got immediately bounced back. I took the message from the Mail Delivery System as a sign and decided not to tell the woman that she'd given me a bad email address. I hoped that the whole thing would just go away. But before I could forget the chick's name and throw out the Subway napkin on which I scribbled her incorrect email address, my phone rang.

"So did you email her?" the voice on the other line asked with bated breath.

"I tried, but the address you gave me is wrong," I said.

"Hold on. It's ******_*******@yahoo.com. Wait, maybe it's hotmail...or aol. How are you spelling her last name?"

"Exactly how you told me - *******."

"Try *********," she said. "Maybe that'll work."

"Emails are kinda like phone numbers," I explained. "They have to be exact."

"I'll call you back with her phone number," she said before hanging up, and before I could say, "Please, don't bother."

Within five minutes, the woman called back with The Yawner's number and insisted that I call right then and there. I believe the phrase she used was: "she's waiting for your call." If there's one thing I dislike more than completely random setups where the matchmaker makes no real effort to actually insure that the two people in question are a match, it's a matchmaker who's a pest. I told her I'd call as soon as possible, and I did that evening.

The date was uneventful until about an hour or so in when my companion let out a huge yawn. And by huge I mean one of those yawns that are so over the top they seem fake - like the person acting out the yawn wants to send a clear message that they're bored and wants very much to be elsewhere. I received the message loud and clear, paid the check immediately and wished her well before we went our separate ways. I found it ironic that she was the one who felt the need to yawn since I had spent forty-five minutes listening to her describe what she did for a living. I can't recall what it is she said she does, but I remember nodding a lot and saying, "cool" every so often, as she told me.

When my mother called me a few days later to see if I'd gone out with The Yawner, I told her what happened.

"Maybe she was just tired," she said in The Yawner's defense. "Yawning is a normal bodily function."

"So is farting," I said. "But there's a polite way to do it and an impolite way. I don't lift up on one cheek and ask my dates to pull my finger."

"Oh well. Forget about her then," she said.

And I did until last week when the woman who set us up approached me at a Bar-Mitzvah I couldn't get out of attending.

"So ***** is engaged," she said to me, clearly trying to make me feel like I lost out.

"Great," I said. "Good for her."

"He's a great guy. A doctor."

"I'm sure they'll be very happy together."

"Oh, she's ecstatic. Absolutely ecstatic."

"Well, I wish her the best."

"Now we have to get you married off!"

"That's okay. I'm good," I said, fake yawning.

"Whatsa matter? You're tired?" she asked.

Just of you and this conversation, I thought.

"Try not to yawn," she said. "There are some single women here. No one likes a yawner."

Oh, the irony, I thought. Luckily, someone came over and pulled her away. A few more seconds of her condescension and I would have asked her to pull my finger.

Never Judge a Book By Its Do Rag

2009-06-16T16:00:00.005-04:00

I sat in a subway car yesterday afraid I might not make it out alive. Huddled in a corner near me was a group of street toughs discussing what I thought was a gang hit.

"He dead, son!" the apparent leader of the group told one of his soldiers.
"What?! Nah!" he responded.
"Yeah, motherfucker. He DEAD!" the leader exclaimed, as I tried my best to look away, hoping they wouldn't notice me.

I waited anxiously for the train to pull into the next station, so I could get off before they realized I was a witness to a confession of murder.

"He dead? F'real?" a third member of the group asked the leader.
"Bitch, I'm telling you. Megatron is dead! He got killed in the first movie!"

WHY I MAY BE BANNED FROM MACY'S AND OTHER UNCOMFORTABLE FACTS

2009-06-14T17:21:00.011-04:00

Last Thursday, as my friend and I were finalizing the details of the mountain biking expedition we went on yesterday, he mentioned that I should wear boxer briefs. Being a strict boxer guy, I asked why the boxer briefs were necessary. He said that the seams on boxers would rub up against the bike seat and "rip my ass apart." "Rip" is not a word I like to hear used in reference to my ass, so I made my way over to Macy's on Friday to get the boxer briefs. I know wearing old school boxers puts me in the minority, at least among the under-eighty crowd, but the few times I've worn boxer briefs, I've felt like I should be standing on top of a bar in Chelsea, singing about how fun it is to stay at the YMCA. I've also never felt comfortable with the deceit involved in wearing boxer briefs. Someone should lobby Congress to make the underwear people put a warning label across the front that says, "Objects in these boxer briefs are nowhere nearly as big as they appear!"

I browsed through Macy's men's underwear section, looking for the perfect pair of ass protectors, while staring at the boxer brief enhanced bulges of the male models that appeared on each of the boxes of underwear. I've never bought a shirt or pair of pants that came in a box with a picture of a guy wearing the shirt or the pants, but I guess the unspoken slogan of the boxer brief industry is "Buy this and your dick will look big." While I can respect their no bullshit approach to marketing, it made my search all that more uncomfortable. I was trying to convince myself that I didn't need to buy the boxer briefs by comparing the seams on them to the alleged ass rippers on my boxers. I couldn't find an open box and I was afraid that the sixty-something year old woman with the name tag would perform an underwear lady's arrest, if she caught me trying to open one. I was forced to mentally trace the seams that surrounded the Calvin Klein model's package, while I ran my hands over my jeans, trying to feel the seams on my boxers. I pretended I was scratching an itch, and prayed there wasn't a security camera recording something that would wind up in inboxes and on Facebook pages throughout the world. I wasn't convinced that the boxer seams were any different, but given what it looked like I had just done, the next logical step was to buy the underwear and take the model and his bulge home with me.

I didn't wind up wearing the boxer briefs I bought during our bike ride. Instead, I wore a pair of my friend's "special mountain biker ass and ball protecting underwear" after I was barely able to sit on my bike wearing the Calvin Kleins. If my weekend didn't begin confusingly enough, it certainly ended that way. Not only did I wear another man's underwear, but my ass is killing me.

Polish Girls Really Do Love Sausage

2009-06-08T00:39:00.003-04:00

Some might think I was scraping the bottom of the barrel by allowing my friend, "D," to set me up with his Polish cleaning girl's friend, but I was open-minded when the setup was suggested. And by "open-minded," I mean bored and lonely. I hemmed and hawed until "D" agreed to make it a double date, though. He'd take one for the team, he said, by acting as his five-foot-one, two-hundred pound cleaning girl's escort for the evening, as I got to know her friend whom "D" assured me was very attractive and NOT a cleaning lady. I found it odd, even amusing that he has such a close relationship with the woman who scrubs his toilets, given that I don't think I've had more than a handful of conversations with the woman who scrubs mine. We communicate via notes that she leaves on my kitchen counter in which she addresses me by my full name and tells me what cleaning products she needs me to buy. She even asked for a raise via post-it note.

"Dear Mr. Marc ****, I need Fantastik with bleach, gloves size (m) and $10 more. Thank You," she wrote a few months ago. I responded by buying the Fantastik and gloves and leaving her an additional ten dollars every time she's come since. Not a word was spoken between the two of us, and it never once occurred to me to ask her if she had any cute, single friends she'd be willing to allow my friends to try and sleep with.

I sat with "D," his cleaning lady and her friend, Ana, at a blues club for around twenty minutes in between sets, attempting to make polite conversation with a surprisingly attractive and slim Polish woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. Despite "D"'s assurances to the contrary, I was expecting a stereotypical Slavic women with a babushka, at least fifty extra pounds, a mustache, and a bad attitude. Well, one out of four ain't bad.

Every question I asked Anastajza, the Ice Queen of Krakow, was responded to with an angry sneer that made me feel guilty for having the audacity to interrupt the conversation she was having in Polish with her friend. "I am chemist" was all I managed to learn about her before the band took the stage.

As the music got louder, I moved my chair closer to Madame Curie, and asked her if she'd ever been to a blues club before. She nodded no, turned to her friend and mumbled something that likely had a backwards "R" in it. When I followed up with, "I love the blues. I can feel it in my soul," I saw her eyes roll before she again turned to her friend and uttered what was almost definitely an insult directed at me. The ship was sinking fast and I had to bust out the big guns, or at least an indirect reference to big guns.

"It's probably because my grandfather was black and grew up in the South that I have the blues in my blood, ya' know," I said right before her eyes lit up like I'd just told her I was an heir to a large Kielbasa empire, the crowned jewel of which was in my pants.

"Really?" she asked, happily shocked that the pasty, white Jew she'd been ignoring until then could possibly please her in ways no pasty, white Jew ever could.

I nodded yes, and heard her say something to her friend who then gave me the once over and said something in Polish that sounded a lot like, "Get the fuck outta here! HIM??!! NO WAY!" Even if that's not what she actually said, Ana responded as if it was. The Polish Hazel had not only made her friend ignore me for the remainder of the evening, but she had successfully Kielbasa blocked me.

PLEASED TO MEET YOU, HOPE YOU GUESS MY NAME

2009-05-29T09:45:00.007-04:00

When last night's date called me Irv for the second time, I decided not to correct her. I wasn't quite sure I heard her right the first time she called me Irv, or maybe it was Herb, so I let it go. But when she asked, "So what's your favorite quote, Irv," I completely lost interest in her, the date, and the fact that she thought I shared a name with a large percentage of the male population of Boca Raton. The fact that she didn't know my name didn't bother me, though I found it odd given that we emailed each other at least three times before the date, and she had to have seen my name written next to the word "From" in her inbox. What made me lose interest was the way she asked me questions like she was reading them off index cards during an interview for a job I didn't want.

"So what makes you laugh?" she asked, as the interview began.

"The way my grandmother says yoo-reen when she's trying to say urine," I responded.

"Uh huh," she said, barely paying attention to my answer.

"What songs are on your Ipod?"

"Don't have one."

"O-o-okay," she said condescendingly. "Where'd you spend your last vacation?"

"On my sofa."

"Mmm hmm...So what's your favorite quote, Irv," she continued, not missing a beat.

If I were a Shakespearean scholar, or gave a shit for that matter, I might have said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." But the truth is, I had to look the quote up online to get it right, and she wouldn't have gotten the irony anyway since she actually thought my name was Irv - a fact she demonstrated yet again when we left the bar together ten minutes later and she said, "Nice meeting you, Irv. Take care."

Call It Divine Intervention

2009-05-22T14:14:00.008-04:00

No one would ever accuse me of being religious. I haven't stepped foot in a synagogue since my nephew's penile scalping over nine years ago - and unless his foreskin grows back, I don't see myself returning anytime soon. I believe in a higher power, just not one that meddles in the trivialities that comprise our daily lives. However, that belief was tested last night when I logged on to...dare I say it...the site that had been the bane of my existence for so long - the dating site every single heeb loves to hate. Though it felt like an eternity since I logged on, the old knot in the stomach returned seconds after I entered my email and password and hit the log in button. I saw some familiar faces. Some women that I remembered being my age last time I saw their pictures were now miraculously at least three years younger than me. There were others I'd never seen who looked pretty good in their pictures, but whose profiles read like they were written by lazy third-graders who were forced to write compositions about themselves by their substitute teachers. The days of the tired cliches have been replaced by twitter like essays - very short, uninteresting, and grammatically challenged. With the exception of the requisite non-Jews searching for their Jewish banker/lawyer/doctor husbands, the site still remains predominantly Jewish, and I felt like I was browsing the Emunah Women of America membership catalog. Most of the women looked like they just got off the Long Island Railroad, and I could almost hear the Fran Drescher-ish whine in their voices as I imagined them reading their profiles.

Somehow I managed to come across around a dozen women that I found interesting enough to email. I hot listed them and slowly and anxiously reached into my wallet. My American Express card sat on my desk as I scrolled my mouse over the words "Subscribe and Enjoy Jdating." I took a deep breath, but was unable to relax knowing that what I was about to embark upon would be anything but enjoyable. The odds of getting even one response from those 12 women were slim to none, and I knew I was about to spend the next thirty days glued to that goddamn site - the one I'd managed to stay away from for so long. I felt like a crackhead, who'd been clean for years, about to hand a wad of crinkled, dirty bills to a dealer on a street corner in exchange for a small rock that would ultimately cause me nothing but trouble. "Fuck it!" I said, as I let myself get taken in by the remote possibility that THIS time it might work. I clicked on the link that was to take me to the subscription page and then it happened - a truly religious experience.

A message telling me I had been infected by a virus popped onto the screen and my computer began scanning itself to remove the malicious threat. I knew the message itself and the resulting scanning were themselves viruses, but I was grateful. I "x"ed out the window warning me of the attack and immediately ran every anti-virus/spyware/malware program I had. My computer is safe and now so am I - from a month of despair, hopelessness, frustration and anger.

There was probably a virus sitting dormant on my hard drive that was triggered by something on Jdate, but I like to think that something or someone has a better plan for me.

How To Lose a Guy in 10 Words

2009-05-19T10:13:00.004-04:00

It's easy. Just update your Facebook status to: "Took a HUGGGGE shit. I love the smell of poop!"

Yes, that's an actual Facebook status from an actual woman/girl.

I've deactivated my own Facebook account because I no longer see any reason to have one, but when a friend wanted to show me a picture of some chick he'd befriended, the shitter's status update appeared on his home page. The status was followed by such comments from her friends like " u go girl" and "too funny...lmfao." Upon clicking on her profile, I was amazed to learn that she had a boyfriend, but not surprised that he didn't comment on her declaration of defecation. In her defense, she's only twenty-years old, and based on her pictures, I don't doubt that her turds are as monumental as she claims.

I wonder, however, if somewhere her boyfriend is figuring out how to dump her - pun intended.

BLAME IT ON THE DEAD GUY

2009-05-13T11:41:00.002-04:00

Last night, I was about thirty seconds into berating my idiot brother for insisting that the "George Lopez" show is hilarious (he was disturbingly dead serious), when I heard the call waiting beep on my cell phone. I looked at the caller ID and it was a woman I was supposed to go out with tonight on a second date. I told my brother I was embarrassed to share DNA with him and I hit the "send" button to switch over to the other line. After the "Hey, how are you?" pleasantries ended, I heard the words, "Listen, about tomorrow night" uttered. I knew she was calling to cancel by her tone, but her reason for canceling is one of the best I've heard yet - and by "best," I mean most disturbing. Way more disturbing than liking the "George Lopez" show.

Let's start at the beginning.

A group of us were hanging out at some bar/lounge/restaurant downtown when my friend "D" pulled me aside to tell me that one of the chicks in the group "thinks you're cute." He suggested that sharing a ride with her uptown might be a good way to get to know her a bit better. "Thinks you're cute" generally gets translated by the male brain as "she'll probably fuck you by the fourth date," and I jumped at the chance to share a cab with her, even though doing so would take me considerably out of my way. The ride was pleasant. The conversation, though not scintillating, flowed smoothly, and she seemed cool. When we got to her building, she didn't jump out of the cab. She waited for me to ask for her number, which I did. Even after her digits were securely stored in my contacts list, she continued to linger, as if she didn't want our time together to end. It was sweet. We spoke for a few minutes more and I told her I'd call her - which I did.

When a week had gone by and I hadn't heard back from her, I assumed I was being blown off. I wondered for a moment how "she'll probably fuck you by the fourth date," could so quickly turn into "she doesn't even want to go on a first date," but I didn't let it occupy my thoughts for too long. I had almost completely forgotten about her until "D" called me and asked if I'd gone out with her yet. When I explained to him that she never called me back, he assured me he'd look into the matter. I begged him not to, but he needed to get to the bottom of this mystery. He called me the next day to tell me that she said she lost my number. I sighed.

"That's such bullshit," I told "D."

"Yeah, I know," he said. "But she thinks you're cute. Call her again."

And the next thing I knew, I was dialing her number all because my brain told my fingers to look her up in my contacts and hit "send" because doing so might get me laid by the fourth date.

Our first date was perfectly fine, but I couldn't help but feel a bit of resentment towards her during the two hours we spent together. The whole "I lost his number" thing didn't sit well with me, and the fact the she never addressed it or apologized for not calling back seemed a bit uncool to me. Despite her obvious interest on the first night we met, our date almost seemed like we were on it out of obligation to a friend who had a vested interest in hooking us up. I walked her back to her building and gave her the "it was really nice spending time with you" routine with no intention of asking her out on a second date. But again, she lingered. As the doorman held her door open, waiting for her to enter, she kept on talking - mentioning all the different things going on the city that she wanted to see and do. Once again, my male brain started to interpret what she was saying. "I really wanna see the new Russell Crowe movie" meant "I really wanna see the new Russell Crowe movie with YOU and maybe give you a handjob in the theater." And since there's no arguing with that logic, I asked her out again for tonight. Though she seemed genuinely excited when she said yes, I wasn't surprised when she called and said, ""Listen, about tomorrow night..." I just assumed she was another one of those game-playing chicks who doesn't really know what the hell she wants, and I listened quietly as she continued, "I'm gonna have to cancel."

Had she left it at that, I wouldn't have said a word other than "No problem. Take Care." But she kept talking.

"Do you know Isaac *****'s brother?" she asked.

"The one who passed away?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know his brother, but Isaac and I have some mutual friends."

"Anyway, " she continued, "Him passing away at such a young age...it's made me think."

"About what?" I inquired, not believing she was going where I knew she was.

"About stuff. And I kinda don't wanna waste time."

I put her on fake hold - not because I couldn't think of anything to say, but because I had way too much to say and I didn't want her to call the cops on me after I was done saying it. I regained my composure and got back on the phone.

"You're not seriously using the death of a twenty-five year old kid as an excuse to cancel a date?" I asked. "You don't wanna go out with me again - fine. But I mean..."

"I don't wanna waste your time either," she said in her defense.

"Thanks. I appreciate that, but you coulda said, 'I don't think we're a match' and that would have been that."

All she could do was stammer and babble incoherently about how the death of someone she knew as well as I did (which is not at all) made her "think." I wanted to go into a tirade about how I wasn't interested in her anyway and that I only asked her out again because she lingered, and my penis controlled brain told me to. Instead I let her off the hook by wishing her good luck and a good night.

When I recounted the story to "D" all he could say was, "That's fuckin' classless. Too bad. You probably could've nailed her on the third date." "D"'s penis controlled brain is obviously more optimistic than mine, but clearly neither one has a clue.

My Cell Phone Would Never Get Laid

2009-05-11T13:11:00.000-04:00

I finally gave in and added texting as a feature on my phone. I resisted becoming one of the thumb typing masses for as long as I could, but was forced to give in and join their ranks. Too many people I know will only respond to a text, and as much as that makes me want to stop knowing them, I can't quite cut them out of my life just yet. So for the foreseeable future, I'll be typing punctuation free, grammatically incorrect texts like a kid spending his third year in the first grade.

I've been careful to keep the fact that I'm now a texter from those who might abuse such knowledge. As convenient as it is to have someone I'm meeting simply text me an address rather than have to listen to them try and shout it over the sound of a train pulling into the station, it's equally annoying to have that same person text me their exact location in real time as they make their way to our meeting. I don't care that you're at 42nd Street and are transferring trains, or that the cab is now turning onto Houston. Just fuckin' get here! If you're running late, THEN you can tell me where you are. Otherwise, keep yourself occupied by playing Tetris on your phone and stop wasting my texts. I only get 150 a month - and that's coming and going.

Despite the convenience, I still stand by my credo that texting is not a substitute for real communication. I don't know if I'd feel comfortable asking a women out via text, despite the fact that my phone comes equipped with a pre-fab text that says: "Would you like to join me for a date?" Now I know my phone is an older model, and I need to upgrade to one with a QWERTY keyboard so it doesn't take me ten minutes to type "I'll be there at 8," but how old is this damn phone? "Would you like to join me for a date?" is how you asked a woman out after having the operator connect you to her in Mayberry in 1957.

I'm waiting for Verizon to come out with the new phone I want. Hopefully, it'll have more game than my current phone, and I can join the rest of the male population by texting women instead of calling.

2009-05-04T16:48:00.001-04:00

I have nothing interesting to share, so please enjoy this joke in lieu of my usual cynicism and sarcasm:

A woman is in an elevator when a man gets in. He turns to her and asks, "Can I smell your vagina?" "No!" says the woman. The man shrugs: "Then it must be your feet."

I Could Be a Banker

2009-04-23T15:19:00.005-04:00

I just finished reading William D. Cohan's "House of Cards: A Tale of Hubris and Wretched Excess on Wall Street," and after 450 pages of references to "asset backed securities," "repo markets," and "credit default swaps," I now know a little, but pretty much next to nothing about banking. As such, I can say without hesitation that I am now completely qualified to be the CEO of a major investment bank, according to my interpretation of Cohan's account of the demise of Bear Stearns. So where do I go to pick up my $47 gazillion bonus? And can I get that shit in cash? - preferably small bills. People always make faces when you ask them to break a million dollar bill.

Parts of the book were really intriguing, while others read like a chemistry textbook you're forced to read because taking a science is a requirement at your college. Unfortunately, there are no pictures or diagrams taking up space in this book that would make the forty-five page chapters feel more like twenty-two.

Overall, I'd give the book a thumbs up, but spend a while reading a bit at your local bookstore before shelling out the $24 Barnes and Noble got from me. If this subject matter doesn't interest you, or if you don't truly enjoy reading about the incompetence of arrogant, Wall Street douchebags, you won't make it to page ten.

Next time on Marc's Book Club: "The Mystery Method: How to Get Beautiful Women Into Bed" by Mystery and Lovedrop. I hope that one really does have pictures and diagrams.

My Delilah

2009-04-17T11:42:00.003-04:00

Let's just jump right into this one, shall we? Below is a partial transcript, as best I can recall, from what will go down as one of the more idiotic pre-date-that's-never-gonna-happen phone conversations I've had. The sad part is that it's not even close to the most idiotic.

Her: So Amy told me you have long hair.
Me: Yeah, well, it's not short. Depends what you consider long.
Her: I love guys with long hair.
Me: Good to know. So what do you do? I wasn't really told anything about you. I was just given your number and told to call.
Her: I'm a teacher...so like, how long is your hair?
Me: I haven't measured it. What do you teach?
Her: Third grade. Is it past your shoulders?
Me: No. I'm not in an 80s metal band.
Her (confused): What do you mean?
Me: It's not that long.
Her: Good. Because I don't like guys with hair that's TOO long.
Me (internally sighing; looking at the timer on my cell phone to see if I'd been on long enough to give her the old "it was nice talking to you routine." Unfortunately, we were only three minutes in. FUCK!): So you enjoying your Easter break?
Her: Yeah. What celebrity would you say you most look like?
Me: Probably Moe.
Her: Who's that?
Me: Moe. From the Three Stooges.
Her (confused yet again; shocking given that she's an "educator"): Which one is Moe?
Me: The main guy. The one that would smack the other two around.
Her: I never really watched it, so I don't know what he looks like.
Me: Don't worry. He had a nice full head of hair.
Her: Okay. Good. You think you can email me a picture?
Me: Of Moe? Just do a google image search.
Her (giggling): No. Of yourself, silly.
Me: Sure. What's your email.
Her: something something something @gmail.com.
(I would know the address if I had actually paid attention and written it down instead of doing the fake write down like you do when taking a fake message from a telemarketer- "He's not in, but I'll be sure to give him the message about how you can lower his Con-Ed bill, Rajnij. Thanks so much for calling.")
Me: Got it.
Her: So did you send it?
Me: I'm not near my computer.
Her: But you'll send it, right?
Me: As soon as I can.
Her: Actually, I can look you up right now. Are you on Facebook?
Me: No.
Her: That sucks.
Me (in my head): You don't know the half of it, sister.

We spoke for a little while longer and I ended the conversation, telling her it was nice talking to her and that we should touch base next week - or something to that effect. This Delilah will need to find another Samson.

Needless to say, Amy got an earful from me not long afterwards. But in the chick's defense, she's only twenty-six and clearly not well versed in the ways of pre-date phone conversation etiquette. I just wonder what would have happened had I been the superficial one in the conversation, and she was forced to be polite. It might have gone something like this:

Me: So Amy says you have really awesome tits.
Her: Yeah, well, depends what you consider "awesome."
Me: I love chicks with great tits.
Her: Good to know. So what do you do for a living?
Me: So like, are we talking Cs, double Ds maybe?
Her: Double Ds? I'm not a porn star.
Me: Good. 'Cause I don't like tits that are TOO big. You know, like the ones that look like inflated water balloons. That's just classless and skanky. Especially when they're huge and they're pointed in opposite directions.
Her: Um, yeah. That's not a problem for me.
Me: Cool. But your tits are big, though, right? Can you send me a picture? Wait. Are you on Facebook? I'll ogle you and your delicious mammary glands on there.

I tried to explain to Amy how the theoretical tit conversation was just as tactless as the hair conversation, but we'll have to agree to disagree - not just about the tit/hair thing, but about why Delilah will not be hearing from me again.

Is Facebook the new blow-off?

2009-04-13T09:48:00.004-04:00

I sat on my sofa this past Saturday night trying to keep my dinner down as I watched a preview of something called "Real Housewives of New Jersey." I never thought the series could get more tactless and nauseating than some of its other incarnations, but the Sopranos wannabes featured in this version of the show actually made the "Real Housewives of NYC" seem likable. Less than five minutes into the show, when one of the housewives referred to her muscle headed, no-neck having gumbah of a husband as "gaw-jis," bile started to rise through my esophagus into my mouth, and I reached for the remote. Before I could turn the channel, my phone rang. It was my friend "H." "H" only calls to invite me out. He's not one for bullshitting on the phone, and I knew if I picked up, I'd have to leave my apartment. He doesn't take no for answer when he wants me to come out with him, so I hesitated before I answered. I quickly weighed my options - sit home searching for something less repugnant to watch than a group of over-privileged, under-educated, unattractive women, or leave the house and maybe meet one in person. The choice was difficult, but I hadn't left the apartment all day, so I opted to answer the phone if only to get some fresh air.

Within forty-five minutes, I found myself at some bar/lounge with "H." He knew some of the people there and introduced me to a woman with whom I wound up speaking for about an hour. She was kind of cute and kind of interesting, so when I felt like it was time to go home, I asked her for her number.

"Why don't you friend me on Facebook?" she said in response to my request.

Feeling like I'd just wasted an hour of my life chatting up this chick, I put my coat on, got up, and said, "Yeah, sure. Well, it was nice meeting you."

"Wait," she said. "You don't know my last name. How are you gonna friend me?"

"I'll get it from 'H'," I said.

"I'll give it to you now," she responded, as she jotted her name on a napkin. "Here you go," she continued, handing the napkin to me.

"You know, you could just have easily written down your number," I said.

"Yeah, I just think it's easier this way," she said.

"How so?" I inquired oh so curiously.

"I don't know. It just is," she said.

It just is, I thought to myself. Now that's logic with which I simply can't argue. I no longer wanted her number, nor did I want to be one of her 900 Facebook friends who would be informed when she became a fan of Chunky Peanut Butter. I wondered if "Facebook friending" is the new fake phone number, or the 2009 version of "I have a boyfriend." Or have we regressed so much socially that we can no longer relate to one another in person or on the phone? Do we only feel comfortable writing on each other's walls?

I threw the napkin into a trash can on the corner on my way home. Maybe one of those guys who collects cans will find it and friend her on Facebook. Perhaps he'll manage to get her number after commenting on her status and they can live happily ever after searching the city together for discarded empties.

Next time "H" calls, I'm sending him to voicemail and changing the channel.

I'M A SELFISH MONSTER

2009-04-05T15:31:00.002-04:00

When I was in my early twenties, I got into an argument with some chick about my lack of desire to have children. I contended that there was an overpopulation problem on this planet and that adding more people to the mix wasn't going to make things better. She either called me a "selfish shit," or a "selfish fuck." I forget which. The point is she got angry. Really angry. Like I just told her that her ass looked fat in her jeans angry. I was stunned by her outrage - even a bit scared. All these years later, I can still see that little bit of spit hanging off her lower lip, as she barked at me like a pissed-off, rabid dog whose ass looked fat in its jeans.

"Don't give me that overpopulation bullshit. You just don't want the responsibility," she said.

And then she called me a "selfish shit," or "fuck," or maybe she called me a "selfish douchebag." I don't remember if people were calling each other douchebags back then. For some reason, I feel like that's a relatively recent phenomenon. Anyway, when I asked her why she was so insistent on having kids, she told me how she wanted a family with whom to share her love, and that she wanted to be taken care of when she got older. She was seconds from bitch slapping me, so I didn't bother trying to explain to her that her reasons for wanting kids were more selfish than my reasons for not. But I knew back then, even as a young twenty-something dopey kid that arguing with someone about this subject was tantamount to arguing with someone about religion or politics. The person with whom you're arguing really isn't interested in your opinion - they just want you to believe in theirs. I ultimately extricated myself from what turned into a lecture given by a woman who fifteen-years later is divorced with four kids, who's more bitter now than she was on that day a decade and a half ago, and who doesn't look any better in her jeans.

But she was right. I didn't want the financial and emotional responsibility that comes with spreading one's seed. For years, I couldn't sleep if the woman I was dating was five seconds late getting her period. As I got older and more experienced, I realized that you really need to give it a few days before you run out and spend the thirty bucks on an EPT test. And by extension, I also learned that the CVS brand test is just as good as the name-brand at a fraction of the price. Enduring the mockery of my fifth-grade classmates for bringing Waldbaum's cola from home was not for naught. My mother tried to teach me the hard way that it's not always necessary to pay for a name - except when it comes to soda because Waldbaum's cola tastes like warm piss even when it's cold.

I hadn't thought about the lecture I received all those years ago until a recent conversation I had with a friend's wife who is a mother of two. The conversation started off innocently enough with her asking me if I was seeing anyone. When I told her I wasn't, she told me I should really get moving on finding a potential mate because raising kids at my age would be difficult, and would only get more difficult the older I got.

"I'm not worried about that," I said.

"Trust me," she said, "kids are a lot of work."

"I know, but I don't want kids."

She looked at me like I told her I hated kids and that I tortured cute little puppies for fun. I probably should've just said that I'd be up to the task of raising kids at any age, or that I'd make sure to reproduce with someone much younger than me, but for some reason I felt like telling the truth.

"I didn't know that about you," she said, like I just told her I'd done time.

I half expected her to scream to her kids to run to their rooms and lock the doors before the monster who doesn't want kids could hurt them. Instead, she pressed me on why I have no desire to be a father. "It's so beautiful...having a family...people to love" was what I thought I heard her say, but she sounded like an adult in a Peanuts cartoon - all I was really hearing was the unintelligible sounds of the trombone going "woh-woh-woh." I was starting to prefer the guilt trips my mother takes me on about not contributing to her desired brood of endless grandchildren. At least I could openly roll my eyes at my mother. With my friend's wife, I had to do it mentally.

"I really think you should reconsider," she said to me before I left, like I'd said no to a time-share she was trying to sell me.

My friend called me the next day to thank me for the two hour conversation he was forced into with his wife on the subject of my reproductive future - or lack thereof. Luckily for me, his wife unloaded on him instead of me.

"She was really upset about it," he told me. "She thinks you're pretty damn selfish."

Maybe I am selfish, but at least with all the money I'm gonna save, I'll never have to drink Waldbaum's soda again.

THE SADDEST SPAM EVER & WHY WE'RE IN THE MESS WE'RE IN

2009-03-27T09:47:00.000-04:00

From: Leoni Billingsly

To: Me

Subject: Nothing can seduce women faaster than a...

This is your penis: 8--o
This is your penis on drugs: 8=====O

Any questions?

_____________________________________________________________________

Just one. How hard is it to do a google image search for a small dick and a big dick? This is the problem with today's Guitar Hero/American Idol society. Everyone wants instant gratification or a quick buck without making any effort. The more technologically advanced we get, the shlockier we become. In 1982, on a Commodore 64, it was hilarious to see a cock and balls drawn using an "8, " a bunch of dashes, and a "0." In 2009, it's a symbol of utter laziness.

It's this type of "something for nothing" philosophy that has caused our current financial crisis. We can't simply blame the greedy hedge fund managers for the fall of our economy. The average Joe on Main Street who refinanced the house he never should have bought to begin with and cashed out because it was "free money" is just as guilty.

Bailouts and other forms of government handouts will never pull us out of the economic shit hole in which we find ourselves. Only when we're ready to roll up our collective sleeves and become actual productive members of society will this crisis end.

What this country needs is more people willing to make the effort to search for pictures of dicks! ...And I'll be more than happy to testify to that in front of Congress.

Good Thing This Ain't Iran...

2009-03-25T16:29:00.002-04:00

Or I'd be hanging by my balls from a tree in the Tehran public square. I've never written anything against Islam in my blog, but the fact that people are winding up here after googling the phrase "occam's razor pussy," leads me to believe that the content of this blog would be frowned upon by the Iranian clerics. I wonder, though, if that's some sort of new grooming device, or if it's a philosophy that states one should not make more assumptions than the minimum needed when dealing with vaginas - a belief system from which most guys would likely benefit.

NOBODY CARES ABOUT YOUR F-IN KIDS ON FACEBOOK

2009-03-20T09:30:00.003-04:00

Truer words have not been rapped:

WHEEL...OF...BAD ONLINE PROFILES

2009-03-13T11:10:00.007-04:00

When I was in college, I used to work at a place called "The Writing Center." My work there involved helping illiterate City University students write coherent sentences. I often failed. They never really wanted to learn how to write. They just wanted me to rewrite their horribly written term papers an hour before they were due. When I'd explain to them that my job was to teach them the skills necessary to write their own papers and not to write the papers for them, they were never pleased. The job was unpaid, and I only put up with the students who would "axe" me if I could help them because my work at the Writing Center was required of me as part of an advanced writing class I was taking. I had no desire to teach the illiterate masses how to write. I was simply trying to pad my law school application with as many impressive looking extracurricular activities as possible, so that I'd get into the school of my choice - not to mention the fact that there was a cute grad student working at the center into whom I was also hoping to get. I was unsuccessful on both counts.

When I visited my buddy the other day, who had a female cousin staying with him, I felt like I was back at the old Writing Center. The cousin is in from Florida, and is staying in New York for a while to see if she wants to live here permanently. A major determining factor in that decision will be if she can meet a guy and live rent free at his apartment instead of her cousin's. Her search for free room and board has begun online, and surprisingly she's yet to meet her sugar daddy. All the guys who email her are "losers," or "weird," according to her. She, however, is a great catch. After all, what guy wouldn't cream himself over an unemployed, chubby woman in her late thirties who's looking to be taken care of?

Our discussion of her online dating exploits led to me to ask about her profile. I suggested that a profile makeover might yield more positive results. Within moments, I had a laptop placed in front of me and I was reading her Match essay. It was lame and generic, and I told her so. Her reaction was not unlike those at the Writing Center. She was insulted, frustrated, and annoyed with me, but wanted me to rewrite her profile nonetheless. When I refused, she got belligerent.

"What the hell do you know anyway?" she scoffed. "You said yourself you never had success with online dating."

"You're right. I'm the last person you need to help you," I responded, hoping that would be the end of it. But it wasn't.

"Why won't you help me?" she whined.

I sighed, looked over at my friend who rolled his eyes at me, and I said, "Fine. I'll help you, but I won't write it for you. Make a list of all the things you like to do minus hanging out with your friends and family, spending a quiet evening in or a night on the town, shopping, watching Grey's Anatomy and going to the beach."

"But those are things I like," she said.

"And that's what makes you and your profile boring," I said, almost trying to piss her off, so I could get out of this exercise in futility.

"So what should I write?" she asked.

"Do you wanna meet someone interesting, or do you wanna continue getting emails from the 'losers'?"

"Someone interesting," she said.

"Then you have to pretend to be interesting too."

"I AM interesting," she insisted.

I looked over at her cousin who again rolled his eyes at me.

"Think of it this way," I said. "Every other chick on here is writing about her friends and family and how she can't live without her DVR. You need to think of all that stuff as a given. Kinda like the way they give you R, S, T, L, N, & E on "Wheel of Fortune" during the final round because EVERYONE has guessed those exact letters for the past 35 years. Now you need to come up with original letters."

She looked at me the same way the illiterates used to look at me back in college - like her paper was due in fifteen minutes, and she was gonna be forced to submit it replete with spelling and grammatical errors.

"Whatever," she said. "My profile's fine."

And the truth is that her profile IS probably fine. Like the illiterates in college who were happy getting Cs and Ds from generous professors, she'll have to be happy with the 15 emails a day she gets from the guys she calls losers, but who have the same lame ass profiles as her's filled with Rs, Ss, Ts, Ls, Ns, and Es.

FACEBOOK MOMMIES

2009-03-04T09:07:00.003-05:00

Facebook is supposed to be a place for dudes to look at pictures of random chicks. At least that was my understanding when I signed up. Yeah, sure, you can friend people you haven't seen or spoken to since elementary school and have them appear on your page, but you never really communicate with them directly. You just friend them to see what they look like and what they're up to after all these years, but mostly (if you're a guy) you wanna see if there are any chicks they're friends with that you can look at. I suspect single women are on Facebook for some of the same reasons as guys, but what do I know? I wonder how many women have looked at a thumbnail picture in the photo album of a complete stranger and thought, "Looks like you can see her tits in that one. Lemme click." I suppose some people even successfully use Facebook to get dates. I could barely get a phone number on sites designed specifically for dating, but for those who can pull it off on Facebook, more power to them. You wanna use Facebook to throw urine soaked snowballs at your friends, or see which Sex and the City character you're most like? - Great. While away your time at work however you choose.

But there's one group I think needs to be banned from Facebook - mothers with little kids.

If I see one more status update by a mommy whining about how she "misses her wittle Wendy and can't wait to see her when mommy and daddy get back from vacation" followed by 17 comments by other mommies offering words of support, I may punch my monitor. I understand that you miss your kid, but she's 1 and can't read, and I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a Facebook account, so why not just directly email the yentas to whom you wanna prove how great a mommy you are? Why must I be subjected to comments like, "Aww. Paul and I went through the same thing when we went to visit his brother in Seattle. Stay strong. You'll see her soon." I read the other 16 comments, wishing that just one person had the balls to say, "I saw the picture you posted of your kid, and if I were you, I wouldn't be in a rush to get home so fast." It's like when a friend sends an email to everyone in his or her address book, but doesn't have the sense to blind copy the recipients, and then someone you don't even know feels the need to hit "reply all" just to write back "LOL." Multiply the annoyance you feel when you get that email by 17, and that's how I feel when my news feeds are full of mommy comments.

I propose that Facebook open up a mommies only site where they can exchange pictures of their kids, lie to each other about how cute they think they are in their little outfits, and discuss Oprah and yeast infections - or whatever it is mommies talk to each other about.

In the meantime, someone just sent me a friend request. Lemme go see if he has any hot friends.

IT'S ALL STARTING TO PAY OFF

2009-02-25T10:21:00.007-05:00

Since I started this blog in May of 2007, I've gotten all sorts of emails from all sorts of people. Some offered words of support, some wanted me to share their stories, some wanted me to promote their blogs, others have asked me for advice. I've even had women ask me out. But not until last week, did I truly feel that I'd arrived. I got an email from a company offering me my first potential sponsorship deal. And that's where you make the REAL money these days, not from Google Adsense. The letter is copied and pasted below:

Hello,

I'm the webmaster of http://www.peloop.com.
I wanted to know if by any chance you would
beinterested in doing an unbiased review
(in English language) of our site
http://www.peloop.com on your
blog http://diaryofadisillusioneddater.blogspot.com/.
If you agree you can choose between
receiving a product sample or receiving a
payment. If you choose the product sample
instead of the payment the sample is yours
to keep and you don't need to send it back.
The product sample that you can get is 
Peloop - a penis enhancer
and you can see it there:
http://www.peloop.com.

Thank you

I initially hesitated, but after reading that they didn't want the sample back, I felt more at ease knowing they wouldn't send me a second-hand sample...or second-cock sample, in this case. I haven't noticed an increase in girth or length yet, but maybe that's because I can't get the thing to fit right. Although I have the adjustable version, I feel like I'm wearing a belt that's not the right size. One hole is too tight, the next one up is too loose. As a kid, my grandfather used to make holes in my belts for me with a nail and hammer when they didn't fit. Maybe I'll bring it to him. He always complains I don't visit enough, and I can't think of a better reason to go see him than to have him adjust my pecker enhancement bracelet. At 94, it's important that he feels needed. I just hope I can make it to him somehow. Brooklyn is due south and I feel like my crotch is being pulled toward the North Pole.

BANKER'S HOURS

2009-02-19T14:27:00.004-05:00

A few weeks ago, I stood on a street corner on the Upper East Side in the bitter cold on a Saturday afternoon, eavesdropping on a conversation between a guy and some woman. I was with a friend who ran into someone he knew, and as they spoke, I was left to listen in on the dialogue between a guy in a suit and a woman in a winter coat - both of whom stood maybe five feet away from me. I listened to the guy tell the chick that he used to work for Citi Group, or Lehman, or some damn bank, but was now either working or interviewing at JP Morgan. I heard the term "VP" thrown about, and I could see a little bit of drool ooze out of the side of the woman's mouth. Nothing this guy was saying was in the least bit interesting, and he had that "financial guy" air about him that just annoyed the shit out of me.

All I could think was why is he wearing a suit at three in the afternoon on a Saturday? Is that the official uniform of dudes who work in finance? Must they wear the suit at all times in case a stock needs to be traded after hours, or if a fund needs to be hedged at a moment's notice - or whatever the fuck it is that these overpaid numbnuts do. More importantly, though, I wondered why the woman in the winter coat was eating up this guy's rap like a fat guy devouring a bag of Slyders at White Castle. He was a decent looking guy in an Aryan Youth sort of way, but he seemed so devoid of character or humor or any semblance of personality.

I was going to chalk the experience up to just another case of some stereotypical Upper East Side chick looking to land a rich banker, but then I read an article in yesterday's NY Times entitled, "City Will Help Retrain Laid-Off Wall Streeters," and I wondered what it is about these greedy, contribute nothing of value to society frat boys in Brooks Brothers suits that gets our collective vaginas all wet? In defense of his plan to use "$45 million in government money to retrain investment bankers, traders and others who have lost jobs on Wall Street," Bloomberg says that such spending is necessary to encourage "innovation and hold onto the talented people who will make it happen.”

INNOVATION?...TALENT? I saw signs of neither coming from the dolt in the $600 suit. Then again, he did get the number of the woman in the winter coat.

Maybe I need to take a trip to Brooks Brothers, get a haircut and an MBA, and learn that greed is good, and personality is bad.

HOW JDATE COMPARES TO LOOKING FOR AN APARTMENT IN NYC

2009-02-10T10:29:00.003-05:00

My search for a new apartment is frustrating me almost as much as Jdate did back when I subjected myself to the misery that is online dating.

How Jdate and apartment hunting are the same:

1. The pictures you see online are always misleading. The major difference is, however, that the apartments are way smaller than they appear online. The women of Jdate are usually larger.

2. Most descriptions of apartments and women are vague and generic, and all you have to go by are the pictures before you view the object of your desire in person. Then, see #1.

3. The handful of apartments and women that seem genuinely interesting and attractive online are never available when you try and get inside them.

How they're different:

1. I've never been out with a woman from Jdate that smelled like urine.

2. An apartment never cancels an appointment to see it at the last minute with some lame excuse about how its friend just went into labor.

3. I've never had a Jdate ask to see a credit report. Although, one did practically ask to see my pay stubs.

4. After a few days, or weeks at most, you won't see the same apartments online over and over again.

5. I know I'll eventually find an apartment I like.

LET'S ALL SAY UUUUUCH TOGETHER!

2009-02-06T18:26:00.003-05:00

Grandma and Gen-X Gent Find May-December Love

Edna and Simon were married in England back in 2005. They're not so much a May-December romance as a January-December one: At 73 and 35, Edna is nearly 40 years older than Simon.
The couple met through their love of the organ (INSERT YOUR OWN JOKE HERE). Simon is dyslexic and dyspraxic, (AND DYS-FUCKING-DESPERATE). Despite these challenges, he's apparently a fabulous organ player. He had never had a girlfriend before he met and married Edna, (HARD TO BELIEVE) who has three children, all older than Simon.

WHY IS THIS CHICK EVERYWHERE I GO ON THE INTERNET?

2009-02-04T17:15:00.003-05:00

For anyone considering clicking on the ad when it pops up, I have the "one old rule" for you right here for free: DON'T SPEND MONEY ON A WEIGHT LOSS PROGRAM PROMOTED BY OPRAH! You'd have better luck trying to wean yourself off smack at the Courtney Love Rehab Center.

WHAT DO WOMEN WANT?

2009-01-24T13:15:00.002-05:00

Apparently, nothing I ever expected. An article in these week's New York Times Magazine, chronicles the sexual research done by a psychology professor from Canada. The professor had straight and gay men and women watch various video clips of heterosexual and homosexual sex, as well as clips of apes mounting each other. According to the article, 'The men, on average, responded in 'category specific' ways." Straight dudes were into straight and lesbian porn, and gay guys were into man on man action. "Any expectation that the animal sex would speak to something primitive within the men seemed to be mistaken; neither straights nor gays were stirred by the [apes]," the article states. Pretty straightforward stuff.

The women, however, were freaky."No matter what their self-proclaimed sexual orientation, [the women] showed, on the whole, strong and swift genital arousal when the screen offered men with men, women with women and women with men....AND their blood flow rose quickly as they watched the apes."

So guys, forget trying to pick up women in bars, clubs, or online. Get yourself a monkey and the women will come knocking down your door. I'm not a pet person, but maybe I'll go hang out at the gorilla cage at the Bronx Zoo.

PUSH THE BUTTON

2009-01-21T10:16:00.003-05:00

Every guy that's been in a relationship with a woman has felt this way at some point. It's kind of misogynistic, a little sad, but mostly it makes me laugh. And if you ain't laughing, then what's the point of it all?

A classic scene from a classic movie, written by one of the greats and performed by a comedic legend. Ladies and gentleman, I give you: "How to Murder Your Wife" - The button defense.

HOW THEY GOT HERE

2009-01-19T10:14:00.003-05:00

Here are some more google search phrases that landed people on this blog:

-"Eat pussy diary": Are there people out there logging their frequency of cunnilingus? And if so, why would anyone else wanna read about it?

- "Frum Pussy" - Pussy frum where exactly?

- "Frum horny" - Is this how orthodox Jews get their rocks off online?

- "How do you become most popular on Jdate?": You couldn't possibly be looking for an answer to that in a worse place. I'd still love to know how you get a view on Jdate.

-"I see the same old faces on match.com": And did you think google was gonna make you feel better about it? Welcome to online dating. It sucks. Leave your house and meet someone in real life.

-"Jdate no response to emails" / "Jdate ignored": Welcome. You've come to the right place.

- "Jdate sucks for guys": And the earth is round, 2+2=4, don't eat the yellow snow...

-"She's a ass licker": Sounds like a keeper. Don't let her get away.

- "Sit on my facebook sarah": If Sarah's into threesomes, find the ass licker above and have a party.

-"Why do rab women shave their pussy?" If you meant to type "arab women," I'm shocked to learn that they do. With the head to toe covering, why would they care about mowing a lawn no one's gonna see?

-"You don't wanna become the asslicker": Agreed!

-"Fonz shvanz": My guess is that it was never that big. Why else would he overcompensate by chasing all those high school girls? Mr. Cunningham, on the other hand, looked like he may be packing some sausage. That's why Marion was always so cheerful.

And my favorite...

"My sneaker floored the gas while my cock filled her kunt": Even though you can't spell worth shit, I admire your ability to multi-task so effectively.