(photo by Jack Slomovitz)
Him: I’m sorry I’m late.
Me: Stop it, you look gorgeous.
Him: Ha. Thanks. So what’s your deal?
Him: Yeah, so you make these pies or what?
Me: Oh. My site. Yeah, I make a lot of pies. I got good at them and it’s taken me a lot of places.
Him: So, what? If I start dating you you’ll just be obsessed with pie the whole time? You’ll just bake pie and feed it to me? I get to eat all the pie? Where is it? Did you bring pie here?
Me: We’re taking a walk in the park in the middle of the day.
Him: I’m joking, stupid. I thought you said you do comedy?
Me: Um. I do.
Me: You’re a buyer for Macy’s?
Him: Yeah, I decide what does and does not go into Macy’s. I have so much power. Just kidding.
Me: I bet you have a certain amount of power.
Him: Not really.
Me: Oh. Okay. Admittedly I don’t understand it. So…
Him: So what is it? I’m confused. You’re giving me all these different stories here.
Me: What’s what? Huh?
Him: You bake pies?
Me: Is this a real conversation?
Him: No, yes. But you said you write music and do comedy. But which is it? Who am I talking to right now?
Me: Me? My name is Michael?
Him: But what do you… which Michael am I speaking with? The comic or the baker or the guitar player?
Me: I don’t… All of them? None? How am I supposed to address that?
Him: I want to hear your music. Is that your guitar?
Me: No, this is a baritone ukulele. I just came from practice.
Him: Ukuleles are smaller than that. That’s almost a guitar.
Me: Okay then, it’s a small guitar. But the guy who sold it to me said it was a ukulele.
Him: I want to hear a song. Do you have a recording?
Me: Yeah, there’s recordings of us singing, but I could just sing something for you now. Nobody’s around.
Him: Oh God no. No. I’d like to hear a recording. Alone.
Him: Well, if it’s terrible, what am I supposed to say?
Me: Yeah. If I play you a song, and it’s awful, you lie and say it’s great.
Him: Why would I do that?
Me: Because, we live in something called a society. It doesn’t work unless we lie to people about certain things.
Him: I’d rather hear a recording.
Me: I’d rather you did too.
Him: Ew! You just said you don’t want to play for me anymore.
Me: That’s correct. That’s what I just said.
Him: Ew. You’re supposed to convince me that you’re good.
Me: I am?
Him: Yeah. You’re supposed to convince me that you’re worth listening to.
Me: I don’t think I am going to do that.
Me: Look at it from my perspective: I meet a guy online. He thinks I’m cute. He invites me to meet him for a walk in the park. I say yes. When I get on the date he seems annoyed at my choice of professions. He even fringes on ridicule. Then he cringes at the thought of listening to a song that he, himself, asked about. Then he challenges me to convince him that I’m not terrible before I sing to him, because he’s so incredibly sensitive! He couldn’t possibly be called upon to dredge up a compliment for my shitty, shitty song….
Him: Ew. You make me sound bad.
Me: It gets worse. You then try to make me sell myself to you, and convince you I’m not terrible, before you will deign to hear me play.
Him: That’s your job as a performer.
Me: My job as a performer is to perform. I have put the work in. I have written and re-written and performed. And performed. And you know what? After more than a decade here in New York, it’s finally my job.
Him: I guess you’re sensitive about that?
Me: I guess I am. Are you sensitive about your job?
Him: Not at all.
Me: Really? It was a shitty line you sported this spring.
Him: NO IT WAS NOT.
Me: No. It wasn’t. But you just proved my point.
Him: Hey, buddy… my taste is superb. You don’t just get this job i have randomly…
Me: Right. And you don’t just get the one I have either. So next time…
Have some fucking respect.