Tag Archives: Dating

Owning A Dog; Or, How I Plan To Sleep With Your Hipster Girlfriend

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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.

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10 Signs That This Relationship Isn’t Going To Work Out

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.

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Chink In The Armor

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I’ve never been refused sex, and then asked to leave someone’s apartment. However, it has now happened. I can scratch it off my bucket list. Next up: being slapped in the face by Jackie Mason.

Believe me, I was surprised. Imagine doing the walk of shame at 4:30 in the morning, except no shame actually occurred, thereby making it just a walk. Would you be surprised if I told you it’s the second weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me? In my New York dating/sexual experience? The number one thing on that list involved me being refused sex after I asked if she had condoms. But that’s a story I’ll save for another time and place.

In this case, she apologized to me. She told me it wasn’t me, it was her. She gave me a reason that I couldn’t argue against, but was still frustrated to accept: “Look, if I’m going to have sex with a guy, I need to know that I can date him.”

Huh.

The whole reason this happened was because she asked me the corresponding question as things were beginning to… pick up. Obviously, at 4:00 in the morning and after a couple of Jamesons, my rapier wit is not at its sharpest. So, with Fate against me on this one, I only had the capacity to do one thing: I was honest with her. “I’m not looking for a girlfriend. No, it’s not you. I’m just not actively seeking out a relationship right now.”

If you just heard something, it was the sound of my libido getting choked to death by a far more savvy feminine intuition.

Honestly though, what the HELL else was I supposed to say? It’s either: be douchebag #679 in this woman’s life and then never call her again, or just be honest. Maybe I’m too altruistic from all the “You should’ve been an English major.” guilt my parents used to lay on me, but I advocate honesty in all scenarios. Plus, I believe that karma is a bitch when you decide to mess with it.

The next morning, I sat on my couch nursing a hangover and wishing I subscribed to the Sunday Times. I thought about what went down a few hours earlier. You can’t hate someone for being honest with you, whether it’s in the name of personal integrity, or because they just want you gone. When I first started dating in NYC, I still bought into the Nick and Norah fantasy; I wanted to be some girl’s knight in shining armor. How exactly I was going to pull that off – being the runner-up for Mr. Post-Grad Insecurity back then – I didn’t know. I just trusted that somewhere, a divine screenwriter had my back. As I’ve gotten older and remained single, I’ve learned to want the exact opposite. I want to be no one’s knight in shining armor. Why? Because the thought that someone would need that frightens me. The only reason that person buys into such a concept is because he/she wants somebody else to fix their problem. They’re assuming that happiness starts with the right significant other, and then they’ll just work backward.

Been there, done that, got the gray hairs. Not really interested in a second go-round.

If you were to ask me “Have you ever dated anybody that wasn’t asking to be rescued?”, my answer would be: “Yes.” I have been with one such person. And, because of the experience the two of us shared, I believe that “saving each other” is not a requisite for a healthy relationship. I believe if you’re ever going to make a relationship work, it’s got to start and end with honesty. Even if it’s ambivalent, it’s still someone’s point of view. So, I’m actually happy for the way things worked out. This woman was honest with me. That’s all I ever ask for these days. I genuinely hope that wherever she is, she finds what she’s looking for in this world.

As for me, I mounted my steed (a beat-up pair of Chuck Taylors), readied my sword (a copy of the Sunday Times picked up at my bodega), and proceeded to Camelot (a Sunday brunch of coffee, eggs, and bacon). I may not be perfect boyfriend material, but I don’t feel as if I ever have to be. I just have to be me.

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Matt Fried, Just Call Me “Cupid”

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Feeling 8th Grade Sexy

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My second date got scrapped. I was bummed out when I got the e-mail late yesterday afternoon. I was looking forward to seeing this girl again, but I’ve learned that you can’t cry over what can’t be helped. It wasn’t me, which kind of sucks, but I’m glad to know I stood a fighting chance.

I knew this girl by answering her profile in “The Singles Issue” of Time Out – New York. I answered four profiles, and got two responses. I take no shame in admitting that I still indulge in internet dating. It seems like to not do so means that you’ve missed some giant social loop – like if you’ve never been to Disney World or a baseball game. Anyway, I liked her. Our first date was really easy-going and there was a lot of nice chemistry. But, as you may imagine, her being an attractive twentysomething woman in New York City, I wasn’t the only guy she was meeting. So, after one previously cancelled date, the ax fell before we could even get together again. Suffice to say, she was left exhausted by the response of guys, and many of those guys – I can guess – were varying degrees of creepy. She wanted a break, and that’s completely understandable. I can’t begin to tell you some of the dating hangovers I’ve experienced since I moved here. The fact that she was being honest with me was highly appreciated.

As I said, this was a bummer, but whatever, y’know? Look, since I started seeing a therapist last year, I’ve learned I’m never going to fully eradicate that needy emo boy inside of me, but I can certainly teach myself patience and open-mindedness. It just kind of sucks, because – as I mentioned – I liked this girl. I couldn’t help but to hope that maybe it could have gone somewhere. But as I always preach, I believe that the universe watches your back; especially when you’re trying to do the right thing. So, as I walked home from the gym today, listening to Beyonce, I crossed paths with cute post-hipster girl on 6th Avenue in Brooklyn. I check out all women when I can, but I’m always trying to be furtive. This one however didn’t, and we ended up locking eyes for a good thirty seconds – even I walked past her in sweats and a knit cap.

Sure, she’s not walking up to me and handing over her phone number, but I’ll gladly take a prolonged check out stare. Because – when you don’t get upset over the small stuff – you usually see that there’s always more than enough willing options. Somewhere inside of me, the needy emo boy is finally learning a little happiness.

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Peter O’Toole On Women

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“I’ve never looked for women. When I was a teenager, perhaps. But they are looking for us, and we must learn that very quickly. They decide. We just turn up. Never mind the superficialities — tall and handsome and all that. Just turn up. They will do the rest.”

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How To Be The Self-Loathing Nice Guy (In 5 Easy Steps)

1) Just Throw In The Towel

I once read an interview with Bill Maher in which he admitted a preference to masturbation over actual sex. He even went so far as to say that – at the end of dates – he had refused women’s invites, and then ran home to the privacy of a box of tissues. I was too young to get if he was being ironic or not, but I still understood that it was one of the stupidest things I’d ever heard. What man would actually shoot himself in the foot to avoid being with a desirable person? Answer: Me.

2) It’s Not You, It’s Me.

What is dating in this city, if you can’t enjoy it? Day after day, many of us are our own worst enemies when it comes to admitting that someone may be attracted to us. For me, I’ve been in this weird funk for the last month and a half. Admittedly though, I haven’t had much time to think about hooking up with someone. Following Thanksgiving (when I found myself single again after a month), I was greeted with a crush of work that only allowed for eating, sleeping, and the occasional late-night porn romp. Eight straight shows, over a period of four weeks, including producing two Matt Fried Hours within two weeks of each other. Don’t get me wrong, it was fun, but fun in a “You can pick up your sanity on January 3rd.” kind of way.

3) “You know who’s awesome? This guy, standing right next to me!”

It’s not as if I’m asking for pity from anybody. But somewhere, in the midst of all my professional madness, my personal confidence decided to take an early vacation. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or boredom, or that I couldn’t help myself, but nothing was clicking with myself and the fairer sex. And I couldn’t break out of it. My friend, Chris, related it to a hitting slump in baseball: if you swing at any- and everything, you’re bound to strike out every time. In my case, even a decent line drive was a tall order. When something like this happens, I tend to choose to ignore it and just focus on what needs to be done. In other words, I wanted to be left alone. And when I say “left alone”, I mean by any means possible. So, exit likable, attractive Matt Fried. Enter painfully honest, under-sexed, stressed-out Matt Fried. Ladies, I’m so sorry.

4) There’s a great view from my condo at Stab My Face City

Okay, fine, I’ll admit it: I’ve been a self-loathing dick for the last month and a half. And, in being one, I don’t think I made it easy for the women who recently have wanted to be involved with me. I’ve been purposefully derailing certain opportunities and I’ve been getting stressed out over work for no reason. I’ve been doing all of this, because – for all of my accomplishments thus far – I can still sometimes let my insecurities get the best of me. It usually only happens when my priorities are out-of-whack. When I’m willing to be the hardest on myself, because I feel like I thrive on that kind of pressure. If I don’t sell a show well, or I don’t get something in on deadline, I’ll be dropped off the planet the next morning. Does any of this sound psychopathic, because it kind of is? But here’s what I’ve learned: if you let yourself get caught up in big expectations, you tend to miss the great results that happen anyway.

5) Self-realization

By January 3rd, my plate was cleared. Of the eight shows, five of them sold well and two nearly sold-out. It was a good run. Then, of course, I look back on my behavior and all I can do is roll my eyes. Self-defeatism. It’s a fun little phase that often leaves you frustrated, feeling like a Detroit Lions fan. I don’t like to think that I blew any opportunities, because I’m past thinking of life in absolutes (except when it comes to The Replacements, who unquestionably rock, and Voltron, which unquestionably rules). However, I didn’t like this guy I became for six weeks: someone who holds people at arm’s length because he’s scared, or worse, lazy. Where the hell is Sinatra when you need him?

My New Year’s resolution this year was very simple: “Don’t stress out about what I can’t control.” After going through all this, maybe I get what Bill Maher was trying to say. Sometimes, self-defeatism – that need to shoot yourself down – is easier. It’s a weird form of self-preservation. But, what exactly are you trying to preserve: your better judgement, or your self-perception? Either way, the old adage is true: it isn’t her, it’s you… you Zach Braff-posing idiot.

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