ThursDATE: They’re Playing Our Song

photos by eryc perez de tagle

Him:  So that was the afternoon I got my acceptance letter to Sarah Laurence College.  And I got a scholarship, so I told my parents to suck it.

Me:  Haha – good for you.  That was a great story.

Him:  Thanks.  You know – I don’t know what it is, but there’s something about you…

Me:  Heh.  Thanks.  But give it a second – you’ve only known me for 15 minutes.  I get progressively less charming with time.

Him:  Oh, I don’t believe that.

Me:  It’s been proven scientifically.  Oh hey – I love this song.

Him:  Neutral Milk Hotel?

Me:  Yeah – I always really liked this one.

Him:  Oh my God, me too…  This could totally be our song!

Me:  Huh?

Him:  When we come here five years from now, on our anniversary – we can ask the bartender to play it because it’s our song!

Me:  Heh – all right, all right.  You’re getting ahead of yourself, just a little bit, no?

(pause)

Him:  Haha – yeah, I’m just joking, silly!

Me:  Oh.  Of course.  Of course you are…  heh…  So, what do you do for work?

Him:  I’m a freelance grant writer.

Me:  Oh?  Wow.

Him:  I know – you didn’t picture yourself with a grant writer, did you?  Nobody does – every time I ask that question, nobody does…

Me:  I…  I don’t know.

Him:  Do you like kids?  I love children.

Me:  I have some nieces and nephews and I gotta say, I like them so much more than I thought i was going to.

Him:  What does that mean?  That sounds horrible.

Me:  Hm.  I guess it does, in a way.  What I mean to say is – I wasn’t prepared for how much I was going to actually like/love them.  They’re really quite wonderful.

Him:  That sounds better – do you want kids?

Me:  I don’t know.  I went through a phase where I thought I did, but now I’m wondering if there aren’t advantages to not having them too…  I’m a writer and a comic and it’s pretty enticing, not having to slow down your work load because you had a kid.

Him:  Um, ew.   We’ll have to work on that answer, mister!  I want two kids – a boy and a girl.  Holden and Hanna – after Salinger and Woody Allen.

Me:  Really?  Holden?

Him:  You’ll get used to it.  So have you thought about a survival job?

Me:  What?

Him:  Well freelance writing and comedy can’t pay that well, can they?

Me:  Well they can, but in my case, no.  I barely scrape by.  But I’m kind of okay with that.

Him:  But how are you going to support a family??

Me:  What?  I just said that I might not have one.

Him:  I know – I was just kidding!  Even so, what about Holden and Hanna?

Me:  I don’t…  What do you do for fun around here?  When you’re not grant writing?

Him:  I hope you know I plan to retire by the age of 50, if at all possible…

(long pause)

Me:  I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.

Him:  Oh you!  You always say that!

Me:  I do.  Always.  For the last 25 minutes.

Him:  You know, I’m starting to think you’re not even looking for a boyfriend.

Me:  I’m not.

Him:  What??

Me:  I’m not – well not actively, at least.  I pride myself on  not being the type of guy that needs to find validation through having a boyfriend.  Not that I’m dead set against it, I’m just not desperately searching for one.

Him:  Ugh.  I wish you would have said that online.  I feel like my time has been wasted.

Me:  I’m sorry you feel that way.

Him:  Aw!  Our first fight!  I’m sorry too – I didn’t mean that thing about wasting my time.

Me:  …

Him:  I’m just kidding!  Let’s have another drink.

Me:  No.

Him: No?

Me: No.  But thanks for meeting up.  Jerk.

SaturDATE

Him:  Come over.

Me:  No.  You come over here.

Him:  No.  You come over here.

Me:  Noooo…  I have writing to get done, and I should bake and photograph stuff…

Him:  Your stupid blog….

Me:  Yes.  And I have to re-write the show.  It got picked up for a run.

Him: Come over!

Me:  No.  Come over.

Him:  Come over.

Me:  How was your week?

Him:  Come over, it was fine.

Me:  I have to write.

Him:  You’re always writing!

Me:  Tell me about it.  Plus remember last time?  You kept shushing me, even though it was the middle of the day.  You were worried that your landlord was listening to us talk.

Him:  He is stalking me, I think.  I think he’s listening to me have sex and hang out with my friends.

Me:  I didn’t know that.  I only knew that you wanted me to whisper at 3pm.

Him:  Come over.  I won’t shush you.

Me: Of course you will.  It’s 1am.  Is your roommate home?

Him: Yes.  We’ll have to be quiet.

Me:  No.  No way.  I’m not coming over.  I live alone for a reason.  One of those reasons is, I don’t like to tiptoe around after 11:30pm.  Come here.

Him:  No….

Me:  Every time I come over there we make out for a while and then you send me home.  I tell you you’re pretty over and over again and you roll your eyes at me.  Then I go home with a boner.  I think you’re playing games.

Him:  I’m not playing games.

Me:  I know you are, but I like you anyway.

(pause)

Him:  If you come over, we can talk about how good your show was.  Plus, I’m really in the mood for sex.

Me:  What’s your address again?

Him: Hahahahahahaha! 

Me:  Ugh.  I’m such an ego maniac.  Fine.  I’ll come over.

Him:  Don’t expect me to gush about your show if you do.

Me:  You just said…  okay fine….

(20 minutes later, at his place)

Me:  You still have crates of Honest Tea in your kitchen.  That’s the real reason I came over, you know, because I knew you had at least 75 bottles of Honest Tea lying around, and maybe you’d give me one.

Him:  SHHHHHH!!!  Do you want some Honest Tea?

Me:

#1) Do I want some Honest Tea?  No.  It’s waaaaay to late for me to have caffeine.  I’m like an old lady – can’t have it after 8pm.

#2) Do I want some Honesty?  No.  We live in a Society.  Things grind to a halt if we start being honest with one another.

Him:  I hope that joke’s not going into the show.

Me:  It wasn’t, but now I’m going to put it in, just to be willful.

Him: Nice.  Good luck making it work.

Me:  Thanks for all your support.

Him:  Will you come over some time and help me hang things?

Me:  Pictures and stuff?  Sure.  Although I kinda dig the minimalist vibe going on here.  Also, won’t you just shush me when I bang nails in the wall with the hammer?

Him:  SHHHH.  No.  I will take a break from shushing you.

Me:  Well, I suppose it would be wrong of me to deny you help.  I’m so tall and you’re such a cute shawtie.

Him:  Never mind.  I have Architect friends that will help me hang my pictures.

Me:  YOU’RE FRIENDS WITH ARCHITECTS????  Wow.  I should network more.

Him:  Great.  Everything’s a joke with you.

(we kiss for a while)

Me:  You’re super pretty.

Him:  You always say that.

Me:  It’s annoying?

Him:  It’s manipulative.

Me:  I know.

Him:  See?  You’re being manipulative.

Me:  Of course I am.  Everyone is.  At all times.

Him:  What a terrible view of the world.

Me:  Not at all.  An infant can manipulate its mother, and the mother can manipulate the infant.  Every relationship is a negotiation.  If you behave this way and say these things, I behave this way and say these things – and so forth.

Him:  It just sounds terrible, manipulation.

Me:  It has a terrible connotation, the word.  But what’s wrong with manipulating someone to feel good about themselves, especially if it’s true.  Especially if they really are pretty as hell?

Him:  Nothing, but I don’t manipulate people.

Me:  Yes you do.  You manipulated me into coming over by promising sex and an ego stroke about my show.  BTW, I haven’t gotten either yet.  You look super sexy in those shorts.

Him:  You’re doing it again.  I don’t want to feel like you’re part of a movement.  I don’t want to be part of a movement.

Me:  Well then don’t hang out with a bunch of other Asians who feel like sitting down in front of a tank.

Him:  Oh wow.  The jokes never stop.

Me:  They never do.  They never ever do.

Him:  I just don’t want to be part of a movement where we all sit around and compliment each other all the time.

Me:  Yes.  It sounds awful. Look.  It’s not damn movement.  I just think you’re attractive and I say so.  I give compliments, when I think a show is good, or a comic is funny, or a guy i kiss is pretty…  Can we just kiss?  I want to kiss you.

(we kiss for a while longer)

This isn’t going to escalate to sex, is it?

Him:  I don’t really feel like it tonight. 

Me:  You’re the one being manipulative, I think.  Who booty calls someone and then no booty?

Him:  Don’t say that!  My friends always say that about me and it drives me nuts. 

Me:  Your ARCHITECT friends?  They’re probably right.  But you’re still likable.

Him:  Stay over.

Me:  Writing.  I have to do my writing.

Him:  Okay.  I’ll walk you out.

Me:  Can I have some Honest Tea for the road?

Him:  Sure, do you want one? 

Me:  No.  I just think it’s funny you have crates of it in your kitchen.

Him:  Thanks for kissing me.

Me:  Thanks.  You’re sweet, and kind, and I’m lying.  I barely like you, but there’s something about you I can’t get away from.

(pause)

Me:  Will you say it?

Him:  Me?  Sure, I guess.  Right now?

Me:  Yeah.  This has been going on for a while now.  Just try to fit it into the narrative.

Him:  How’s this? 

(pause)

Thanks for coming over.

Jerk.

Me:  That works.

Five Things

Gentlemen.

Here are five things not to say on a date with me:

#1:  “I know you’re a comic, but seriously, what job do you do – you don’t seem that funny?”

No.  Wrong.  Seriously.  Not the right thing to say.  That IS what I do I pay my rent doing this.  I’m not at work right now, and you’re not paying me to be funny.

Remember when we ordered our appetizers and you were condescending to the waitress?  Right after that you gave me a cocky smile and said “I’m a surgeon,”  with the intonation that one might say “I’m heir to a vast fortune.” And what did I do?  I smiled and asked what type of surgeon you are.  I did not look at you suspiciously, and then patronizingly point out that you don’t seem like a surgeon.  I really wanted to though.  I really wanted to say “That’s not true!  Surgeons are smart, and they wear hospital scrubs, not Old Navy Jeans.”

#2:  “I like your blog, but what’s with all the Asians?  I just don’t get it.  I tried having sex with an Asian once and I don’t know.  It’s just not for me.  Ick.”

Nope.  That ain’t gonna get you laid, kiddo.  Up until now, I’d been thinking, wow, he’s attractive, and sort of nice. I hope he’s a sweet, down to earth white guy, and not an entitled, mildly racist white guy who acts ‘over’ everything.

Maybe you didn’t mean it to sound racist, but we’ve only known each other for four minutes.  Don’t say that my friends are ‘ick.’  Also – nobody pressured you to have sex with an Asian.  Well maybe some Asians did, at some point, but that’s not me, or my friends from the site.

Guys – if you want to get laid, you have to hide your racism.  You have to hide it.   2011.  Get with the program.

And why do we hide something?  Because we’re ashamed of it!

Great!  Now you’re learning!

#3 I try to live my life for Jesus.

Not with me you don’t.

Here’s an idea.  Try to live your life for yourself.

Also, creep-o, after you talk about Jesus and God and how religion is good for the world for an hour, don’t offer to blow me ‘real quick before you go teach your class.’  It undermines the sanctimoniousness image you spent so long cultivating!  Also.  Less teeth next time.

Jokes.  There won’t be a next time.

Jokes.  There wasn’t a ‘this time.’  I said no.

#4: “Wow, two auditions and two rehearsals?   You should get more sleep!  You look exhausted!  Seriously!  You look awful!”

Thanks.  You’re right.  I am exhausted.  You’re tiresome.

I just complimented you on your hair and your choice of clothing, and you come up with that??  Also, we just met.  Don’t tell me what I ‘should’ do with my life.  Everyone knows you wait until the third date before you start the gentle browbeating that will continue for the rest of the relationship.

Also. Floss.  When I kissed you I could tell you ate a BLT three days ago.

Floss.

#5: “Ugh!  I’m so glad you don’t act as GAY as you seem like you might online.”

Wow.  Really?

So.  I run a website where I talk about how much I hate homophobia, and you contacted me off that site. Did you think I just meant straight people being homophobic?  Where do you think straight people get the permission to say stupid, insensitive, homophobic shit?  From Gays like you!  They overhear you saying shit like that in restaurants and on subway cars and they think, hm, I’ll try that out on my Gay co-worker – HE’LL LOVE IT.

How about, love yourself?  How about accept your brothers? How about, stop tearing other people down for qualities you hate inside yourself?

Because, that’s what that is:  If you look down on someone, or are grossed out because they act ‘too Gay,’  it’s you showing your own self-loathing.  It’s you saying, okay, maybe I’m Gay, but I’m not as Gay as that guy – I’m one of the good ones!

Guys, we’re all one of the good ones.  We all have the capacity for goodness inside us.  Don’t punish yourself, or your Gay brothers/sisters for something that Straight people have taught you to hate inside yourself.  Reach out with love in your heart and you’ll find the love you’re looking for.  If you have a racist or homophobic thought, acknowledge it and laugh at yourself, and let yourself off the hook.  It takes the power away from it.  Eventually, you’ll stop thinking that way.

Or don’t.  I’m not going to tell you how to live.  Except on this blog.  And all the time.  I’m annoying like that.  You’re welcome.

Sometimes it’s me.  Sometimes I’m the…

Jerk.

What Makes You Smile?

Be very, very quiet.

I’m hunting a wabbit.

Er, more specifically, I’m braising a rabbit.  An entire rabbit.

I’m going to bake this bunny into pie.

I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, Michael, did you buy a frozen rabbit from the butcher, make him cut it into 1/8 pieces with his band saw, braise it, and then pull out the bones, like you would for pulled pork?

Yes.  That’s exactly what I did.  I braised it with scallions, onions, and celery.

Yes.  I feel bad about it.  But only because today is opposite day.  (no it isn’t – I’m late by a few days – GET OFF MY BACK)

It was a special occasion.  I had a tech rehearsal for my sketch team, Thunder Gulch.  We put up a new show every month on the first Monday.  It’s hard work, and I usually bake something simple for tech rehearsals, because they’re long and arduous.

But this one was more like a party.  It was Shannon O’Neil’s  birthday, first of all.  And then secondly – one of my team mates (he’s shy and doesn’t want me to say his name)  was offered a job as a writer on the Daily Show with Jon Stewart.  Both of those people are actors on my team, so it was party time.

My friend Kris came over.  He helped me braise the bunny and bake it into 20 miniature pies.  I’ve known him for almost a year now.  He’s got a good head on his shoulders and he learns stuff quickly.  Also, in case you don’t have eyes, he’s super cute.  So pretty.

So, this is the first time I’ve tried to make mini-pies.  There’s about 15 people involved in making Thunder Gulch happen every month – 6 actors, 7 writers, a director and a tech person.  I wanted to make at least 20 pies.  I wanted there to be more pie than people could eat.  Usually that doesn’t happen if I make a single pie for 15 peeps.

I braised the rabbit etc at a reasonable temperature.  400 maybe?  I don’t remember.  I don’t cook my pie fillings from recipes, I just go by instinct.

We added potato after the bunny had braised for a few hours in its own juice.

My butcher said it would thicken up the filling without using cornstarch or a butter roux.  He was right.

For good measure, flavor, and texture, I also added some collard and turnip greens i was making for this week’s lunches.

Give them some fiber, right?  Let the funny idiots have a little fiber, I say.

Look at that guy.  What an idiot. But not a constipated idiot.

Fiber.

(Not-Opposite Day:  Get your fiber, guys)

Me:  Come on, Kris – you’re the boss.  You’re the boss of that bunny.  Get that meat off the bone.  Pull it.

Him:  I just want to do it right.

Me:  Okay, but quickly, huh?  Aren’t there sweat-shop workers in your family?  Aren’t you Chinese?

Him:  Great.  A sweat shop joke.  Made by a white person.  Just what the world needs.  More of that.

Me:  Touche.  I shall think of a good poop joke.

There was a carefully staged spill!!!  We got some bunny bits on the floor!!

Kris was nice enough to clean it up.

Look at those socks.  Cute.

So, Kris is currently working on a really cool project for his thesis.

He wants to know What Makes You Smile?

Him: Smiling is one of those innate reactions in human life. This isn’t to say that happiness is the only reason why we smile, in fact, it isn’t. There are an infinite amount of reasons to smile and there are various types of a smile. I am fascinated, however, by what makes others smile. The kind of smile I am looking for is a Duchenne smile, or simply put a genuine smile. I see this thesis as a way of being able to change someone’s life by simply talking to them. In a world where digital interaction is on the rise and physical declining, the act of having a conversation in-person can be seen as refreshing. By asking people I have never met “what makes you smile?” an unfamiliar experience is made which can then inspire those to talk to those around them and re-create the experience.

Um.  Isn’t that the nicest thing you’ve ever heard?

You should contact him, and get interviewed.  Unless you’re too cool for that sort of thing.  You’re probably too cool for that.  You’ll probably hang around on Data Lounge all day complaining about stuff that doesn’t matter, instead.

Well, as long as you’re having fun. That’s my philosophy.

No, scratch that.  That’s not my philosophy.  I’m pretty sure the Columbine kids were having fun.  And Stalin.  He had a blast.  Manson was a good time Charlie.

New philosophy:  Don’t have any fun, if you’re an online hater.  Just hate.  It’s what you do.  It’s who you are.  Have fun!  (Opposite Day)

Anywhore.

Contact Kris, if you want to interview with him about what makes you smile.

Contact me if you want to hear sweatshop and poop jokes.

Or if you have a question you’d like me to answer.  Like, should you leave your  boyfriend?  Or, why does your younger brother act homophobic around you?  Or, how can you smile through dinner (and serve pie) when your condescending hipster friends say things like ‘you should put that in your comedy routine?’

Reminder:  Poop comes from my butt.  It’s where half of my sex happens too.  (The other half happens in YOUR butt).

Calm down.  WE WASHED OUR DIRTY GAY HANDS FIRST.

(Opposite Day – we never wash our hands because we’re filthy homos!!)

Kris liked tidy little flat top pies.  I favored bulging, abundant ones.

We put an egg wash on top of them and sprinkled with coarse sea-salt.

We spiced the filling with French Tarragon and Cumin.

What’s that hater?  Those two spices don’t work well together?  You’re wrong.  Go fuck yourself.

(Opposite Day – no sex for you.)

Big thanks to Thunder Gulch for a great tech rehearsal and a great show last night.  Big thanks to Kris Louie for helping me with these 20 pies – THEY TOOK FOREVER!!!

Big thanks to the Data Lounge for being massive Jerks this weekend.

As for the rest of you?  I love you all and don’t think you’re Jerks.

(Opposite Day)

SaturDATE: Vinny’s Deli

Him:  My friends say I’m self absorbed but I don’t think I am.  I just like focusing on myself, and what I’m doing, and I get wrapped up in it to the extent that I don’t notice other people.

Me:  That doesn’t sound self absorbed at all.

Him:  You’re an idiot.

Me:  You’re adorable.  Hey, let’s duck into this deli.  I want some coffee.

Him:  Okay.

Vinnie:  Hey, Mike!!!  What-a can I a get for you?

Me:  I’ll have a large coffee – milk, no sugar.

Vinnie:  And-a you friend?

Him:  I’m good.  Unless.  Do you carry Four Loko?

Me:  He’s kidding.  You’re kidding, right?

Him:  Jerk –  It’s the middle of the afternoon.  You’re not the only funny person in the world.

(I smile.  I love when people call me a Jerk now.  I also consider that he might be right: There might be other funny people in the world.  Nah.)

Me:  Just the coffee, please.

Vinny:  Comin’ right up.

(Another Customer enters.  He’s clearly old friends with Vinny.)

Another Customer:  A!!!!!!!   O!!!!!!!!  Look who it is!!!  It’s Vinny.  Vinny the fuckin’ HOMO!!!

(Vinny is not a homosexual.  He has a wife and children who I am well acquainted with.  His deli is next door to my apartment and I’ve been going there for years.)

Vinny:  You are!!!!  You a fuckin’ HOMO!!!

Another Customer:  You!!!  You’re the fuckin’ HOMO.

Vinny:  All the dick you suck, and you think-a I’m a HOMO???

(Pleasegivememycoffeepleasegivememycoffeepleasegivememycoffee)

Vinny:  Hey-a Mike!  You think-a I’m a big HOMO?  Or this-a guy?

Another Customer:  Yeah!  Who’s a bigger faggot, me or him?

(Long pause.  I consider saying something diplomatic.  I consider just walking out.  Instead:)

Me:  Why don’t we try this?  Why don’t you two bend over and pull your pants down?  Then, I’ll take turns fucking you both and we’ll see which one enjoys it more?  Then we’ll know who’s a bigger HOMO!!!!  A!!!!!  O!!!!!!  On second thought, maybe I’ll just take my coffee and continue on my date with this attractive, polite young man, since you two are both dumpy, middle aged idiots.  Capiche?

(Silence.  I pay for my coffee.  There is a long pause.)

Me:  Now is where you tell me to have a nice day.

Vinny:  Have a nice day.

Me:  Thank you. O!!!!!!

Surprise Ending!!!  I’m never going back to that deli!  It’s the closest and most convenient to my house, and I won’t ever set foot in there again!  I’m not humorless and I know Vinny was joking, but I still won’t do it!  I don’t need that energy in my life and I don’t need to associate with people that put that energy out into the world.  I don’t wish him ill, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to send his kids to college with my candy bar money.

P.S.  The rest of the date went really well.  He’s so sweet and cute, and kind!  You can’t let someone steal your joy, kids.  Don’t let your whole day get ruined just because of the actions of one –

Jerk.

The Easter Lamb

This is Jonathan.  He came over on Easter Sunday.

He contacted me online, because he saw my post about Cups baked goods.  Sometimes that happens.  People send me emails saying, hey, can I bake with you?  Sometimes I say yes.  He sent me a really cute pic of himself but this is the pic that sealed the deal:

I mean, right?

This guy sent me a picture of his dog, through the kaleidoscope of a frosted pink donut.

Clearly this guy is a weirdo with a sense of humor.  Just like me!

Also, he’s pretty easy on the eyes.

We wanted to make a savory Lamb pie, in honor of Easter.

You know.  Cause we’re so into Jesus and stuff…

He’s a great guy (Jesus) and his followers are always so kind and non-judgemental!!!

His followers do a lot of good for the world.  Except for the Crusades, and Imperialism, and West-ward expansion, the Genocide of the Native Americans, the Genocide of the South American Natives, the financial enslavement of Africa and Colonization in general.  (Dont forget Asia – they did a lot of fucked up shit there too). They’re good people, if you except all that stuff.  While we are forgiving them, let’s forgive how the Catholic church’s stance on condom use contributes to illnesses like AIDS and such.  And how they try to reprogram homosexuals to hate what they are.  That’s not just Catholics, that’s Christians across the board for the most part.

BUT IT’S OKAY CHRISTIANS!!!  WE SARCASTICALLY FORGIVE YOU.

Wow.  Tangent.  Sorry.

We braised the Lamb of God in Guinness beer with mixed veggies.  Jonathan brought over fresh herbs for us to chop into the filling too.  Thyme and Oregano, I think.  I took the juices and made a gravy to thicken the filling.

Yeah.  I braise now.  It’s kind of how I roll.

Here’s some interesting things about Jonathan:

I’m 24 years old, a resident of Crown Heights and moved to NY from GA in July. I grew up mostly in Georgia and Tennessee, where I attended an all boys Presbyterian high school. I’m now pursuing my masters, work part time for a nonprofit and part time as an urban design consultant, and I also do illustration/sculpture as a hobby and occasional income source. I run far more than would typically be considered healthy, but I can’t help it. I cook 5 or 6 days a week and splurge on baking whenever I can. I love music and performed for years with a chamber choir and an ensemble whose repertoire consisted largely of gospel and spirituals.

Jonathan.  You forgot to tell them that you’re incredibly hot.

Jesus!

Maybe hotter than Jesus, now that I think about it.

He is risen indeed.

What?  Don’t roll your eyes!

I had to show him how to roll the dough out.

It’s all perfectly innocent.

Perfectly.

We did a shitload of cocaine.

I’m kidding.  That’s flour, dummy.

Jonathan didn’t believe that I’m a total idiot.  So I got out the old uke and proved it.

I mean.  We had to do something while the pie was in the oven…

Holy moly!  I spiked the crust with Smoked Hungarian Paprika that I bought at the Brooklyn Meat Hook.

Good call?  Yes.

Great call.

We put an egg white wash on the pie, then sprinkled it with coarse sea salt.

It made a savory coating on top.  Crunchy, on top of my flaky recipe.  NOICE!!!

We ate the Lamb of God pie.

We didn’t share any with our Christian neighbors.  Mostly because I don’t think my neighbors are Christian, either.

Look.  I changed my mind.  If you’re Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim or part of any major religion that causes war and suffering and judgmental self hatred in the world, I forgive you.  NOT sarcastically.  I forgive you, just because I love you.  And if you don’t believe in religion?

Well, then, I love you even more.

You’re all perfect, wonderful creatures.  You have God inside you.  You don’t need religion to know that.  You are loved.  You are loved.  God is love, as they say.

Can I have a kiss?

Enjoy the love and forgiveness.

Jerks.

SaturDATE

It’s Saturday, and I’m asking you on a date.

Come see my show?  My comedy band is doing a show at UCB Theater this Thursday April 28th at 6:30 pm.

The show is directed by the hilarious and talented Pamela Murphy.

Here’s a video where I ridicule a straight guy and make him think he’s contracted Hep C.  It explains everything:

If you come to the show, we’ll all go out for drinks afterwards.  Maybe I’ll drink to much and make out with you.  Let’s be honest.  I’ll probably do that even if I don’t drink too much.

Won’t that be fun?

The show co-stars Marcos Sanchez, Ari Scott (who took this photo)  and Daniel K. Isaac.  They are beautiful and much more charming/likable than me.

Thank God.

Just kidding.  There’s no God.

Prove me wrong, Easter.  Prove me wrong.

Just kidding.  That would be weird to have zombie Jesus walking around Williamsburg.  Actually.  Would anyone  even  notice?  Doesn’t a zombie Jesus just resemble a hungover hipster?

I love you guys.  You’re beautiful and perfect.  Come to the show and call me a Jerk.

Jerks.

Mysterious Stranger

I was visited by a Mysterious Stranger.  A few weeks ago.  It was surreal.

He had a secret agenda that he revealed to me.

He wanted to bake a pie.

What?  You look disappointed.  Did you expect the sort of ominous, post-apocalyptic cloak and dagger that I was hinting around at?

C’mon…  Don’t be naive. I bake pies, give advice, and talk about my cringe-worthy dating life.

So as I was saying, the Mysterious Stranger wanted to make a Lemon Custard Pie.

(Ominous Film Noir Sound Cue)

That’s right.  He held me hostage.  I was his prisoner, and he wouldn’t leave until his hunger for Lemon Custard Pie had been sated.

What?  What’s your problem?  Why are you rolling your eyes?

Well, knock it off.  I’m just writing in a genre.  In this case the genre is new-future post apocalypse film-noir.  Get into it.  Everyone is doing it these days.

Sometimes people want to come bake with me, but they don’t want to show their face on my blog.  For whatever reason.  In this case the guy who wanted to bake with me is a prominent politician who affects real change in the State Government of New York.  Also, I’m lying.

Anyhow.  What makes you think I’m going to drop a dime on my baking partner?  We got a good thing going on here, see?  I ain’t about to jeopardize that for some skinny pipsqueak who’s rolling his eyes at me.  So wipe that look off your mug and listen up…

I never tried this custard type before, capiche?  It was a squirrely kind of recipe – kind that bakes in the oven, instead of the stove top.  You follow my gist?  Good.   It’s more difficult this way, because the custard tends to separate.  I’m not sure lemon was  great choice either, owing to the high acidity rate of lemons.  Then again, I ain’t no science egghead, so maybe the acidity and the custard separating ain’t got much to do with one another.   I can’t say.

Man.  Writing in this genre is difficult.  I should have watched His Girl Friday a few more times.

What am I talking about?  I got a whole life to live.  I’m supposed to watch iconic old movies more than ONCE?

Oh stop it.  Stop with the silent treatment.

I’m not going to tell you who it was who came over.  He’s famous.

He’s a wealthy Persian.  His family pretty much own half of Iran.  It’s ridiculous.

Also.  Again – lying.

Anyway.  I decided to try piping the whipped cream onto the pie with a pastry bag I improvised out of a Ziplock.

I need practice.  After a couple of  ugly whipped cream towers I decided to just smash them all together and do my normal, rustic whipped cream look.

Rugged.

We had a good time, even though the custard separated, and I really need practice piping on whipped cream.

What?  No.  I’m not going to tell you.

Because.

It spoils the fun.

Okay fine.  He’s a high powered lawyer.  Isn’t.

He’s a professional assassin.  No.

Retired Yakuza, now runs a bingo hall in Canarsie.  Nope.

He’s a middle school teacher with a heart of gold that isn’t yet embittered by the New York public school system.  He really wants to help those kids.  Not at all.

He’s a cowboy.  He’s a hunter.  He’s a sailor.  He owns a cannery.   He provides  home health care to the elderly.  He’s a boatswain.  A tailor.  He is Cheryl Crow.  He’s left handed.  He’s right handed.  He doesn’t have any hands due to a freak accident that occurred on an Artic expedition.  He’s a wedding photographer.  He’s a jerk.  I’m a Jerk.  He wanted me to tell you that we all are Jerks.  He wants you to love him, but he’s a total Jerk and he wants you to eat all the pie.  He wants us all to be Jerks together.  He thinks the iPad should run Flash.  He’s a cruise director for Carnival Cruise lines.  He’s a big ol’ softie.

This has devolved into madness.

Enjoy the Mysterious Stranger.

Jerks.

SaturDATE: I’ve Already Figured You Out

Sometimes people ask me on dates.  They tend to go horribly.  These are their stories.

(Law and Order Sound Effect)

Him: Come home with me.

Me: No.  Do you think this sweater is too heavy for the springtime?

Him:  Come on.  Come home with me.

Me:  No.  It’s late and you’re drunk and I’m not and I’m tired.

Him:  Come home with me.  We’ve been flirting with each other for a long time now.  Come on.

Me:  No.  9 months is a long time?

Him:  Come on. (hails a cab)  Get in the cab.

Me:  No.  I’m going home.

Him:  Yes.

Me:  Okay fine.

(Montage:  Snuggly cab ride.  Surprised cab driver.  Deli visit for food and beer. Fumbling with keys.)

Him:  Do you want a beer?  I’m having a beer.

Me:  Yes.  I’m going to start drinking at 3 am.  Good idea.

Him:  Great, I’ll open you one.

Me:  No, wait.  I changed my mind.

Him: Fickle.

Me:  More like, sarcastic.

Him:  I like that.

Me:  I like you.

Him: I know.

Me:  Don’t worry.  I don’t get weird.  I let things develop naturally.  We’ll have two kids, one Korean girl named Ellen, and one African boy, named Sh’Africa.

Him:  Sounds like you’re telling Africa to be quiet.

Me:  I’m not.  I like the names Sean and Africa.  Sh’Africa. If anything, I think Africa should be louder.

Him:  Why?

Me: All that suffering?  Isn’t there a lot of suffering and economic inequality?

Him:  I’ve never been.

Me:  Me neither.  I’m operating on what I’ve read in liberal news media and what I’ve seen in movies like Congo.

Him:  Take your coat off.

Me:  Certainly.  I’ll just throw it on the floor here.

Him:  You’re funny.

Me:  You’re pretty.

Him:  Make out with me.

(We do.)

Him:  Take your shirt off.

Me:  Yessir.

(We take our shirts off.  Bitchin’ make out session.)

Him:  Take your pants off.

Me:  Yessir

(We take our pants off.  Bitchin’ make out session.  It’s getting hard to contain ourselves.  Get it?)

Him:  Let’s get naked.

Me:  How dare you.  No, wait.  I changed my mind again.   That’s a great idea.

Him:  Are you a bottom?

Me:  What?  Oh.  Sex?  Oh!  Sex!  Okay.  Yes.  No.  I’m versatile.  I’m the opposite of whatever your favorite thing to do is…

Him:  Then you’re a bottom.

Me:  I am indeed!

(We get naked.  Bitchin’ make out session.  Then, suddenly – he loses interest entirely. The evening goes limp.)

Him:  I was afraid of this.

Me: What?

Him:  I was afraid that this would happen.  My penis stops working after a while.

Me:  No!  Stop it!  It’s okay.  Cut yourself some slack.  You had a lot to drink.  I watched you.

Him:  No.  What?  No.  I don’t have whiskey dick.  Hahaha.  No.

Me:  What?

Him:  I have a thing that happens.  Once I get someone naked and it’s obvious that I can sleep with them, I lose interest.

Me:  Heh.  You’re funny.

Him:  Please don’t make fun of me.  It’s a real problem.

Me:  I was going to say, why don’t we just go to sleep and give it a shot in the morning.

Him:  Ha.  Right.  No.

Me:  What?

Him:  I think you should leave now.

Me:  WHAT?

Him:  It’s like this.  I already got you naked.  You already said you’d give me what I want.  It’s kind of like I’ve already figured you out.  I’m not going to be interested anymore.

Me:  What?  Heh.  Ha.  I uh…  hm…

(He starts putting on clothes.  He starts handing clothes to me.  I start putting on clothes.)

Him:  Yeah.  It’s best if you just go home.

Me:  I’m much farther away from home now than when you talked me into the cab.

Him:  I’ll call you a car.  You should go home.

Me:  No.  I’ll take the train.  I should never have come here.

Him:  Oh stop.  I had fun.

Me:  Yeah it was a blast.  You’re a real great host.  Thanks for having me over.

Him:  It’s a real problem, okay?  I have a problem with sex.  I’d appreciate some sympathy.

Me:  Awww… Sweet baby…  Hey.  I’m going to say something – please don’t take it the wrong way, okay?

Him:  Okay.

Me:  You’re an asshole.  I don’t mean like self-absorbed like me and my comedy friends.  I mean for real.  You’re a real, true, asshole.  I’m going to leave my card.

Him: What is this?

Me:  I want you to check out my site, but wait a few days…

Him:  Why?

Me:  Because when people act like assholes on dates with me, I put it on the internet.  Is that my coat?  Thanks.

Him:  What?

Me:  Yeah!  You’re famous!  Congrats!  And hey.

Enjoy playing mind games with someone else, Jerk.

(Surprise ending:  I laughed about him the whole train ride home.  I didn’t feel bad about myself.)