Category Archives: Humor Piece
Hipster Romeos do not intimidate me. Sure, they have many things going for them that I do not: they have the look, they have cultural “tastes”, they have a demeanor, which most single, under-30 New York women have come to expect. It’s a mix between Andy Warhol-femme and Brandon Davis-macho. At some undocumented point in cultural history, one woman down on Essex Street swooned, and it created a domino effect to rival anything The Eisenhower Administration ever augured. Obviously, all of this frustrates me. How the hell do I compete against such debonair excess? When I shop for clothes, I show up at a Target with an American Apparel catalogue, stake out a salesclerk, and spend the afternoon picking out inexpensive monochromatic t-shirts. Here’s the truth: I can’t compete. I just cannot. So, with that realization, I decided to embrace who I am. Instead of trying to lock horns for the affections of waifish females on a hipster’s level, I decided to bring them down to mine.
I went out, and bought a dog. A 19 year old puggle, to be exact.
Scientific studies have shown that an “average handsome” gentleman with a dog sets off a powerful pheromone in women. Presently, NASA is trying to convert it into rocket fuel. This means: I walk into a bar on East 2nd Street with Rufus on a leash, and it’s lights out, Ryan Adams. Sure: the little guy is blind in both eyes and only understands one command in Mandarin (“Ni-Pei!”, “Beg.”), but I rescued him. And doesn’t that alone – ladies – make me infinitely more sexy? What I’ve discovered is a seduction technique of Three Mile Island proportions.
So, to all the Hipster Romeos in the five boroughs, I throw down the inappropriately short cut-offs. It’s a level playing field: between you and your Frye boots and me with my blind, crossbred mutt. May the best poseur win.
1. You’re a Republican, I’m a Democrat.
2. You’re a fancy Manhattan socialite, I’m a grubby bootblack from Brooklyn.
3. When we woke up together this morning, we both shared the same thought: “Why do I want to call you Sheryl?”
4. Hold it, wait! Let me pull my pants up from around my ankles. I said, I think we rely on sex to fix all our problems.
5. I don’t think I could ever really love you. You smoke, you drink, and you insist that my heroin habit is far worse.
6. I read the Sunday New York Times for “Arts & Leisure”. You read it for news. Nerd.
7. I like watching late night episodes of Law & Order: SVU. You keep complaining that the rest of nunnery isn’t so appreciative.
8. What the hell is so wrong with giving you a quadratic equation for your birthday?
9. Apparently, I can’t reject your “break-up”. Another lie from Sports Night – GODDAMN YOU, AARON SORKIN!!!!
10. I want you to be my Cindy.
This was an extra bit from my Lady Gaga entry that would’ve made it a bit long. Enjoy, and again, have a great weekend!
“Writing a record is like dating a few men at once. You take them to the same restaurants to see if they measure up, and at some point you decide who you like the best. When you make music or write or create, it’s really your job to have mind-blowing, irresponsible, condomless sex with whatever idea it is you’re writing about at the time.”
So, does this mean my blog gave me chlamydia?
These days, I like to stay away from celebrity skewering. It’s just too easy. But every once in a while, one celebrity comes along – usually with a complete lack of self-awareness – and escalates “Vainglorious” to “Are you fucking kidding me?” and then gives it a full kick shift into “Holy bat-shit, whack job, fucktard Batman!”
That celebrity was pop diva Lady Gaga and it was in this month’s Blender.
The feature was “Collect Call From…” where Blender tails a rock star for a full week via one random phone call each day. What the dear Lady gave the world is a sneak peek into her life as a hipster nutjob. I wanted to share some snippets with you all from each day. Enjoy.
“I met Paris Hilton the other night, but I don’t make a big deal out of it. I grew up in Manhattan and we went to the same private school on the Upper East Side, though not at the same time. It was a sweet moment, because she’s such a figure in pop culture and I write about everything she stands for.”
Glad to hear you could keep your shit together.
“I was very excited because my room is this gorgeous penthouse with a white baby-grand piano in the living room. When I saw it, I started to cry. I played for a couple of hours, then gave my assistant a heart attack because I wouldn’t take a shower. I was like, ‘I’m not showering. I’m being brilliant and writing.’”
You go, girl.
“Some artists want your money so they can buy Range Rovers and diamond bracelets, but I don’t care about that kind of stuff. I don’t want the five dollars in your pocket. I want your soul.”
First off, this is moving way too fast, I just met you. Second off, where in the world is the store that’s selling your album for $5?
“…I just found out I will have sold a million albums by next week! I’ve been crying like a baby for, like, 30 minutes. … Tonight we’re going to go down to an Irish pub and have a brew to celebrate. I’ll put on my Night Porter hat and some vintage Ray-Bans and maybe some suspenders. My sexy-Nazi look. It’s not politically correct, but I’ve got to keep pushing buttons, right?”
When you were a kid, your parents bought you the wrong pony, didn’t they?
“…I’m really serious about never wearing flip-flops in public.”
“I found a warehouse that could bring me vintage Chanel, and now I’m sifting through it all. It’s very important to me that the music exists not just in the audio sense but in the visual sense, as well. I really care about how music looks. The other night I saw Grace Jones perform. I went backstage to meet her afterward, and her foot was bleeding from her shoes. I said ‘You’re fucking bleeding, Grace,’ and she said ‘I know I’m fucking bleeding, darling.’ The perils of being a woman … That one moment is enough to feed my creativity for the next 15 years.”
Is this the part where everybody else in the drama club tells you “You’re so deep.”, and then we all start singing RENT?
“I love the gays so much it’s scary. I’m pretty serious about everyone being on time to rehearsal, and the other day my gay dancers got stuck in the subway in London and were late. If it had been anyone else I would have been freaking out, but I was like They’re probably just shopping or something – they’ll be here soon. And they were! They were late because they were getting their hair cut. It looked great, though, so I didn’t care.”
But you just said… I don’t… aaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhhhh!
Happy Friday, everybody. Have a great weekend.
“Barack Obama and Santa Claus Save Earth”
Aliens invade the planet Earth on Christmas Eve and take the First Family hostage. Joe Biden is frozen in suspended animation (a la the plot device in Demolition Man). President Barack Obama is left without an ally… except for the Big Guy In Red. Santa Claus and Obama team up to kick some extraterresterial butt. In the final showdown, the aliens unmask themselves to reveal they are really Bobby Jindal and Sarah Palin. As Obama outnerds Jindal on Battlestar Galactica Risk, Santa puts Sarah Palin in a headlock. As their alien spacecraft falls to Earth, Palin and Jindal escape. Obama and Santa are able to land the ship in the Potomac River and the two rescue the Obama Family with the help of Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer and Tiny Tim.
It’s a Christmas miracle!
Meanwhile, deep in the far reaches of space, Palin and Jindal summon the Dark Force spirit of Barry Goldwater and inform him that they have failed their Sith Master. Goldwater then delivers the classic closer “You idiots! So much for a neo-conservative Christmas!” and delivers a two-way bitch slap across their faces.
I never expected to meet my wife on a downtown N Train. It just happened. I was sitting by myself, reading Jon Friedman’s Rejected when she decided to get onto the train, and into my heart, at 14th Street-Union Square. That my heart is big enough for both the present and subjunctive tense should tell you that I have a lot of love to give. I don’t know what about her got my attention – the long brown hair, the snow white complexion, the nerd glasses, the red lips – but I did know, in that moment, this was the woman I was going to spend the rest of my life with.
Here’re three things you need to consider when meeting your soulmate: personality, sense of style, and eye contact. First thing I ever noticed about her was that, after settling in, she pulled a copy of Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norell by Susanna Clarke from her bag. This book (in case you don’t know) is about dueling magicians, set in England. So, clearly, she is very into magic. Or, British people. Or, she finished all of Harry Potter and was just trying to keep the buzz. Second, the sense of style – she wore jeans and Chuck Taylors, a rather distinct coat that says “I’m a grown-up, but only on Mondays.”, and one of those scarves that I see all New York women wearing when they turn 24 and decide “Enough is enough, time to get serious.” So, this meant she was either a librarian, or manager of a medium-staffed advertising firm. Either one works for me. Lastly, she never once made eye contact with me, save for quickly peering at the subway ad above me advertising Dr. Zizmor’s Fruit Peel. This meant she was most likely shy, and I don’t blame her: even with a two day old beard and hat hair, I still looked pretty damn desirable.
Then came the most exciting part: sitting in silence as our train crossed over the Manhattan Bridge into Brooklyn. You live in Brooklyn, too! Crazy! We should get married at the first mixed faith lesbian vegan synagogue we can find! At that point, I was still trying to pretend as if my book was holding my interest, but it wasn’t (though on a side note, you should pick up Rejected, edited by Jon Friedman, as it is a very entertaining read and Jon, I happen to know, is a very nice, gracious person, and could use the money in these Recessive times). As she sat there thumbing through her book, concerning herself with the things that modern-day city women concern themselves with (which I imagine is paying the rent and Oprah), I thought “Our first child will be named Jack. What if it’s twins, like in Star Wars? Okay, Jack and Eve – one after my favorite painter, the other after my mother.” This thought brought me to my next question: “Hey, what is her name anyway?” There’s an unspoken rule that you’re not supposed to pick up women on the subway. Sure, when Robert Redford does it, it’s romantic. But when anybody else does it (save for my friend Neal, who used to appear on a soap opera as “John Handsomepants, Gorgeous Jackass”), it’s creepy. So, because of my crippling social anxieties and need to always be New York Cool, I am forced to guess my future wife’s name.
Margaret. She looks like a Margaret. No wait – Lisa. I haven’t met or talked to a Lisa in a long time. Lisa and Matt Fried. It’s got a nice ring to it.
Our train pulled into Atlantic-Pacific in Brooklyn, and lo and behold, Lisa is getting off of the train with me! More excitement: Lisa is walking across the platform to catch the R Local. She lives near me! It’s written in the stars! But, like all good love stories, there’s always a complication. That complication came in the form of “Cute Girl In A Hat”. She was already standing on the other side of the platform, reading some self-help book about bears in the woods and purpose. Lisa decided to put some distance between us (this was another sign that she was clearly intimidated by me, and was still too shy to want to engage in conversation) and walked a few feet down the platform. “Cute Girl In A Hat” stood between us. Lisa! Wait, no! I want to talk to you, but I can’t! I fear the gods of New York Cool – Lou Reed and Ryan Adams – will judge me harshly! But I love you! Dearly and deeply. I want to wake up next to you every morning, and I want to help you edit the graduate thesis you’re writing in my head! At that point, “Cute Girl In A Hat” looks up at me and smiles. I can’t lie; the thought of hurting Lisa actually crossed my mind. This new girl was, in fact, a very cute girl in a hat. I hadn’t been this torn since my AP English class, senior year of high school, where both Jessica and Andrea (my own Betty and Veronica, minus any actual romantic relationship) sat in the same class with me, and I tortured my soul daily with their existence. But things are different now, dammit! I had to make a choice, because that’s what a man does. As my new President said “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change we seek.”
So, despite a gaze and a smile, I looked past “Cute Girl In A Hat” and still focused on Lisa, who by then was gazing down the tunnel behind me, waiting for the R train to show up. It finally did. We walked into the same car. I walked to the other side, near the door. Lisa sat across from me and waited patiently for her stop. “Wow,” I thought “so this what being in love is like. It feels great.” The R train pulled up to Union Street and I got off. Lisa decided to stay at her place that night. It was totally understandable – I mean we did just meet. But let me, tell you: I knew. I smiled that night as I watched the R train pull away. It carried on it the woman to whom I would one day make the pledge “‘Til death do us part.”
You never expect to meet “The One”, but you don’t argue with fate when it happens. You just smile politely, say “Hi.”, and then, you wait until fate chooses for you two to meet again, so that you actually can get her phone number. Or, at least find out if her name actually is “Lisa.”