Walk The Line

How was YOUR morning commute?

Spy Vs. Spy

"I want to make sure the American people understand, however, that we have an obligation to protect you, and we're doing that, and at the same time, protecting your civil liberties."

Ha. Haha. Hahahaha.
Put this guy on TV. He should have his own talk show after this whole "president" business is over.

Protecting your civil liberties by violating them.
This feller deserves the nickname "Slick" more than Bill Clinton did. I mean, really. How much shit can Bush get away with, while the country looks the other way, or dumbly nods its collective head in agreement after he "defends" his systematic deconstruction of the Constitution?

Actually, I think most people are so baffled by the state of affairs that the only thing you can do is turn away and try to live your life. I know I am. Reading the news is like catching an old Twilight Zone episode. Things can't really be this weird, right? Have we really gotten to this point? We're just experiencing some sort of extended sideshow attraction. It'll all be over soon. Right? This is just an act. Things won't really stay this way. If I just close my eyes and tap my heels together, things will return to normal. There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's no place...

"I am doing what you expect me to do," Bush said, angrily pointing his finger at us.

And we, the people, expect him to spy on us, to coddle us, to bamboozzle us, to rape us, to lie to us, to send us to our deaths, etc. And that's why he'll go on, and escape this latest "shameful act", and we'll forget about it in a few weeks, and we'll wait for the latest death toll from Iraq, and we'll shake our heads, and tune into the latest reality show travesty, and hope that in 2008 they'll have some better programming.

Hey, at least he didn't cheat on his wife, right? Cuz, like, then we'd have to do something about it.

2 More Days

Two more days until the play starts.
And now there's talk of a transit worker's strike. It might start this Friday.
Anyway, I'm beginning to feel better. Lots of soup, fruit, and TheraFlu.

There's a new poster for the play, too. This one was done by our lead actress.
If you're in Brooklyn this weekend, check us out!

Sinus sludge

I can feel the illness slowly sneaking up on me.
This afternoon it made its presence known by scratching my throat all day. Over night it has gathered in small encampments of mucus that continuosly switch nostrils like a wandering band of bedouins.
I want to drive nails into my nose to clear out the stubborn snot that blocks my nasal cavity.

All this and my play starts Thursday.
I have two dress rehearsals on Tuesday and Wednesday. I also work double shift those two days.
I'm tired.
So I quit one of my jobs today. Yay for me!

The Orsborn Foundation

Nick, a friend of my brother's stayed with us this weekend. On Saturday we went to see a show at The Upright Citizens Brigade Theater. I ran into a girl I know from one of my improv classes (she helped "Party Hall for Rent" out when we were shooting some sketches for our show last August.)

She looked at Nick and said aloud to me, "Wow! Why is such a hot guy hanging out with YOU?"

My brother replied, "It's a service we provide. He's really not that hot by himself. But when people hang out with us, they look amazing by comparison. Here, take our card."

A Good Man Is Easy To Kill

In thirty one years, I think I can safely say that I’ve never been on a proper “date”. I have never met someone and asked them to meet me for dinner or a movie or coffee with the express knowledge that this is a “date”. The word “date” implies that you want this to progress to a more romantic encounter at some point, if not this time, perhaps a few “dates” later. I have always shied away from labeling my encounters with women and have taken the more stealthy approach of “being a friend”. I have gone out with women I have gotten to know and it was always carried off as a friendly affair, just hanging out, spending time with a bud.

Surprisingly, this approach has gotten me nowhere.

Women like to say, particularly in magazine articles written for the forlorn, that it is better to start a relationship off as friends and then progress into romance. This is complete bullshit, and an honest woman will tell you as much. This is a great idea, if you’ve got the patience and libido of a monk. At some point the line must be crossed. And having built yourself up into a “friend” makes that role-reversal especially hard.

That’s why people go on “dates”. To meet people with the precognizant understanding that this may lead somewhere.

My approach of diffusing any “date” by making it clear that we’re just “hanging out” has sabotaged my efforts countless times. I am quite often called up minutes before our “date” and told that they can’t “hang out” this evening because something came up. This “something” takes on many guises (from unexpected colds to helping neighbors move) but I’m pretty sure it’s the same creature underneath: someone they are interested in “dating” rather than “chilling with”. I make the mistake of getting excited about these encounters and that makes it more painful when we don’t meet up.


FLASHBACK:

Natalie and I were co-workers at a record store in New Orleans and we had gone to a few concerts together and gotten drunk at bars several times. In fact, on one of those drunken nights at the bar, we had actually found ourselves passionately kissing and she ended up coming home with me and we slept soundly in each other’s arms, drunk and completely clothed.

(Now I like to try and pass this off as being considerate and gentlemanly, but I was basically too drunk to even think about having sex with her and probably would’ve screwed it all up had I tried. I’m a path-of-least-resistance kind of guy, so I seldom make such bold moves. I really liked her and I didn’t want to ruin it by pushing too far too soon. I figured we had hooked up and it was naturally going to progress to sex the more we hung out together and kept making out. How was I to know that her romantic interest in me was only a by-product of getting hammered and would not carry over to her sober state?)

We hung out a lot after that, but it never went anywhere. Aside from the fact that I wasn’t gay, I was essentially her “gay friend”. That safe male companion that every girl wants. I would go shopping with her, watch Morrissey videos with her, flirt innocuously with her. It was great for her. She felt loved and cherished and could use my affection to feel better when the guys she really wanted wouldn’t pay attention to her. And I got to pretend that I had a girlfriend. I mean, nobody had to know we weren’t sleeping together or anything, right? Is that all a girlfriend is? (Before you respond, the answer is yes.)

One evening in July, she had planned to come hang out at my apartment. We were going to spend the evening listening to CDs and getting drunk. I was going to take her out to dinner. She was a vegetarian and I had scouted out some of the restaurants in my area for possible selections, depending on her culinary mood. I wanted to have a nice, romantic meal and tell her, finally, how I felt and where I wanted our “friendship” to go.

The problem is, I hadn’t specified any of this. We were just friends “hanging out”.

When she got to my place we decided to take a walk around the neighborhood.

“Are you hungry,” I asked.

“Sure, I guess.”

“What are you in the mood for? There’s a nice Mediterranean place down the street, there’s a few Italian spots around the corner.”

“I want pizza. I’m not that hungry. Just a slice.”

“Well, this is Louisiana, remember?”

“Oh yeah,” she laughed. “I fucking hate this place!”

“Let’s check out the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen. It’s five blocks, but their pizza is pretty good.”

And so we walked to the Louisiana Pizza Kitchen on Carrollton, and asked for a table for two.

As we were being seated, Natalie’s cell phone rang. She answered. It was her mom.

“It’s my mom,” she told me. “I’m just gonna take this outside. It’s our Thursday night phone call. Get me a water.” She laughed and went outside.

The waitress took our drink order and I sat waiting. Five minutes passed and she didn’t return. In fact, she was standing in the window and I could see her chatting animatedly into the phone.

The waitress came back in a few minutes and asked if I wanted to order. I told her I would have a Fettuccine Alfredo and that my “companion” would be inside in a few minutes to make her order.

I watched her in the window. She looked and saw me and smiled and made a “chatty mouth” sign with her hand. I sipped at my beer. Ten minutes later, my fettuccine arrived. And Natalie was still jawing away on the phone with her mother.

I began to eat.

I tried to eat slow.

The other patrons began to notice me and whispered to each other and shot inquisitive glances in my direction. Some of them made apologetic frowns. Others just giggled to themselves and went on with their meal.

With each bite I took I wished she would come back to the table and make a show of being terribly sorry for her inconsiderate behavior. I would laugh it off and say, “No worries,” and she would order her meal and I would pay for it and then we would spend the rest of the evening getting drunk and then we would have sex in my bed with the freshly laundered sheets.

But she never came back.

I finished my meal and sat around and eventually had to ask for the check. The waitress brought it, I paid, left a tip and left the restaurant.

As I got outside, Natalie was still on the phone. It had been approximately 45 minutes. I stood and waited for her to finish talking. When she did, she said:

“I’m kinda hungry now. I’m gonna pick up some Funyons at the gas station on the way back.”

No mention at all of the fact that I just had a meal in a restaurant for the last 45 minutes, while she gabbed on the phone outside. No acknowledgement of her rude behavior. I was just a friend who had gone to get something to eat while we were hanging out. In fact, she acted as if we had just spent a couple of hours studying for exams at the library and now we were going to grab some snacks. We, apparently, were in no danger of being on a “date”.

And the rest of the evening followed that same path, and she went home early and we didn’t hook up and we didn’t sleep together and I spent two more years going through the same motions. To no avail. And now I’m a tired, bitter, old man, and I’m telling you kids to be up front with everything. There is no reason to be coy in life. That trait only belongs in Jane Austin novels. Go out and grab what you want, provided it doesn’t get you arrested. Make a show of it. Let the world know what you desire. And if you’re going on a “date”, don’t be afraid to take the quotation marks off and call it what it is.

Hell, you might even get lucky.

Why Does It Exist?

The sneaker heel.


Take the unsexy look of a pair of sneakers and combine it with the uncomfortable,non-athletic design of high heels. What exactly are they going for here? And who are they targeting?

Some things should not be cross-bred.
A sneaker is not sexy, no matter how you try to pimp it.

The Play's The Thing

For the last two months, I've been in rehearsals for a play that is about to go up in two weeks. It's called "The Young Romance Play" and is loosely based on the Young Romance comic books of yesteryear. It is written and directed by Simon Astor. Simon and I play a recurring duo, first as two beatniks in a diner, and later as two guys working a coat check room at a hotel. It's a very funny, well-written play, and we've got a good cast of performers. I'm happy to be involved.

Anyone who's going to be in Brooklyn the weekend of December 15-17, should check it out. It will be at 9pm, those three nights. Tickets should be reserved on the night you wish to attend by sending an email to: theyoungromanceplay@yahoo.com with the word TICKETS in the subject heading. Seating is limited. Just like the last time. Cuz I'm small time like that.

First Outta The Hatch

My brother and I had just had dinner this evening and were walking back to my office on Park Ave. A beautiful girl passed us and had her eyes firmly planted on Steve. After she passed, he turned to me and said, "Oh my God, that girl was totally checking me out!"

"Because you're the more attractive of the two of us," I said. "Which is proof of my theory..."

"What's that?" he inquired.

"Well, when people have children, the offspring tend to get better looking the more they have."

"What?"

"The first borns are the beta test. They're like the first batch of cookies you bake. You either leave it in too long or not long enough. The parents' genes are trying to figure out if they work well together or not. Sometimes they get it right, but often there's something that's a little off. So the next run they smooth things out and usually those ones are a little better looking. It's part of natural selection. You're the third-born, so everything's been ironed out by the time you came along. Look at me: I'm the test pattern, you're the final result."

"Hey, I think you're right," he said, listing off friends of his who either had better-looking younger siblings or slightly askew older ones. "Damn! I'm gonna be thinking about this all night..."

Nine Months

My two longest relationships both lasted nine months. I had one relationship in which we "dated" for approximately 16 months, but we only lived in the same town as each other for two of those months, and the other 14 were carried out in letters and phone calls and the occasional weekend trip to see one another. So that one doesn't really count.

The two real ones were nine months long. And I took them to term. When all was said and done, I felt like I'd squeezed a kid out of me. Or, as I had written in a notebook that I recently discovered: "I feel like I've taken the biggest shit of my life and unloaded a couple of organs as well. I am emptied."

So I guess the full gestation period for me is nine months. I am amazed by people who have been in relationships that are longer than that. I have friends who have been together for years and it just seems like something that is so out of my league I can't comprehend it. I can't imagine anyone who could put up with me for longer than nine months. And I certainly haven't met them yet.

Unfortunately, the pain of the delivery, the final moments of those relationships, are what stick out in my memory. And I lost contact with them after the "birth", so I have no idea how the "child" has developed. Whether the time we spent together affected them at all.

Hmm. What to do? Google them? And then what? Ask if they gleaned anything good and worthwhile out of our time together? Find out what good memories they might have of the relationship? And if they do have any, should I demand visitation rights? I want to remember the good times too. They're partially partially mine, right? I should be involved damnit!

I Believe I Can Fly

I believe my most recent sense of malaise is because I have contracted Avian Flu.
This has not been medically diagnosed as of yet, but I fear the worst.

This morning I woke up and looked like this:

Hibernation

I wake up every morning because I have responsibilities, not because I have any desire to do so. I would love to have a reason to bound out of bed and face a new day, but the only thing that propels me from my slumber is that I have a job that I must go to every day. And I said I'd be there. That's the contract we enter into when we take a job. They expect you to show up.

I am involved in various extra-curricular activities, but nothing really gives me much pleasure. I do these things because it seems like something I should do, but I'm not passionate about anything. And, in becoming involved in these various activities, I have added new responsibilities to my life. New reasons to wake up every day.

Distractions, I guess you could call them. They distract me from sleeping.

Which is something I feel like doing. For a very long time.

I'd like to take a nap for a few months and wake up refreshed and ready to see life from a new vantage point. Because I've lost the feeling. I have memories, but none of them arouse any true feelings. They are merely stories that could've happened to anyone. I don't know how they relate to me anymore.

I have new experiences, but I don't FEEL anything. I'm dead inside. And that's no way to be. I might as well be asleep.

So why can't I hibernate?

You Never Forget Your First Time

Her name was Kim. And I was madly in love with her. I would lay awake in bed at night thinking about her, fruitlessly willing the hours to move faster so that I could see her again. Every love song I heard on the radio was written about her. How could they not have been? She was perfect.

I was in second grade and Kim was “the new girl at school”. She had moved in to the house next door to my friend Jared and I first laid eyes on her while we were jumping our Huffy bicycles off a makeshift ramp in the street in front of his house. She was playing in her yard with another girl we went to school with. I saw her giggling and pointing in our direction. She had straight black hair, brown eyes and was wearing a plaid dress. I was smitten.

“Who’s that?” I asked Jared.

“Oh, that’s the new girl, Kim,” he replied, completely uninterested in anything but our bicycle exploits.

The following day she was introduced to the other kids in our homeroom. Even though I hadn’t spoken to her the previous day, I had had twenty-four hours worth of daydreaming about her to know that we were going to be married someday. It was fairly obvious to me that I was the most eligible bachelor in Miss Young’s second grade class and that she would go weak in the knees if only she were to have a few moments alone with me. I would woo her with my ability to pile a stack of quarters on my elbow and catch them all while swinging my arm in a downward motion. There was the thumb-trick I had learned from my grandfather, where, by bending both my thumbs in such a way, I could make it look like I was pulling my thumb apart. That always grossed the girls out and that would make her notice me, and once she had “noticed” me, it was only a small step to “dating”, and then an even smaller step to “marriage” and “kids” and maybe even a “dog”.

Unfortunately, as much as I hung out at Jared’s and attempted to win her over by showing off my skill at jumping my bike off a ramp, I never got the courage to say more than the most perfunctory greeting every morning before reading class.

My friend Tobias would listen to my pining on the nights we would camp out in a pup tent in my back yard. We would turn on the radio and every time Air Supply or Foreigner would sign about the trials of love I imagined they were talking about Kim and I.

“You should do something for her,” Tobias told me. “Find out when her birthday is, and make her a present.”

Talking to her girlfriends on the playground one afternoon I was able to finagle the information out of them by pretending I was taking a survey for class. At one point, when I asked if they knew Kim’s birthday, one of her friends shouted out, “Dave likes Kim!! You’re in love!” and I quickly had to make up some story about putting together a birthday TREE for all the kids in our class and since Kim was a member of our class it was only natural that I find out when her birthday was. Luckily none of the girls bothered to ask what the hell a “birthday tree” was, because I had no idea what I was talking about. It just came out of my mouth.

Well, to my dismay, Kim’s birthday was not until March and it was only the end of September! I decided that I would at least make her something for Christmas. I had several months of planning, so I knew it was going to be good. If I could just figure out what she wanted…

My aunt had gotten me my first camera around this time (a simple 110 pocket camera) and I brought it to school to take pictures of all my friends, but mainly to snap a picture of my “love”. As I roamed around the playground snapping pics, I saw Kim running by and quickly clicked off a shot. Later when I got the film developed the picture of Kim is just a blurry body skipping by, with two long pigtails trailing behind her. You can’t make out the features, but I would secretly look at that picture and imagine a life with that blur. We’d have blurry little kids and a blurry little house.

At the same time all this romantic longing was taking place I was involved in Cub Scouts and we had our annual Pinewood Derby coming up. My father bought the block of wood and box of wheels, nails, and decals that came with it. We spent a good month carving the block of wood into something aerodynamic and stylish and I painted it red and stuck some lightning-bolt decals on it. I though it was a pretty amazing piece of work and I was proud of it.

When the Derby finally rolled around I entered my car and waited eagerly to win the prize that sat on the table in the corner of our school auditorium. As luck would have it, one of the wheels fell off as it made its run down the track and I was disqualified. I broke into tears. I had spent so long making this block of wood into something resembling a car and it was all in vain.

Or was it?

I kept my Pinewood Derby car on my dresser, not as a reminder of my failure, but as a symbol of my burgeoning woodworking skills. I decided I would build something for Kim for Christmas. I would turn my parents’ garage into my own little Santa’s workshop.

Months went by and I still had not worked on anything, but I had elaborated on my Christmas plan. I would not only make Kim a present with my bare hands, I would personally deliver it to her house on Christmas Eve! I wondered if I should attempt to climb onto the roof of her house and deliver the old-fashioned way—down the chimney—or whether I should leave it on her doorstep?

I spent a few days over at Jared’s house, secretly casing Kim’s house for a discernible way to get onto her roof and down the chimney. This proved unrewarding and I decided that the old doorstep was the best way.

When Christmas Eve rolled around I had still not built anything. That’s the kind of slacker I am. But I decided my plan would not go untried, so I took an old shoe box and carefully wrapped up my Pinewood Derby car. I left a note inside that said, “Merry Christams, Kim. Love, Santa.” I chickened out from using my own name, and figured I could find out at school whether she thought the gift was good or not without running the risk of embarrassment.

After dinner that evening I told my folks I was going over to Tobias’ house for a bit to trade presents with him. I left, Kim’s present tucked under my arm. Tobias met me at the end of my driveway and we walked to Kim’s house. (Since the idea was his to begin with, I talked him into joining me.) It was dusk and had started to snow, so I figured we could sneak up to the door unnoticed. The question was, do we ring-and-run? Or leave it for them to find in the morning?

When we got there the lights in the living room were on and I was hesitant to approach, fearing that the entire family would hear me and open the door together and foil my plan and laugh at me. These are the kinds of irrational fears I had growing up. Tobias gave me a nudge and I eased toward the house. When I got to the porch I carefully placed the box in front of the door. Then I had a vision of Kim’s father walking out of the house the next morning and tripping on the now-ice-coated shoebox and breaking his back. He would be in the hospital for months or maybe dead and the family would all have to take jobs to get by and Kim would have to leave school to sell flowers or do laundry and I would never see my true love again. So I moved the box away from the door, but not out of sight. Then I knocked lightly on the door and tore ass out of there as fast as I could, slipping and sliding in the light dusting of snow on the ground.

When we returned to school a few weeks later I asked Kim what she’d gotten for Christmas. She told me about some dolls and a Hall and Oates record, but no mention of my Pinebox Derby car. I wondered if they had even discovered it or whether it had somehow been overlooked and then thrown away.

Later at lunch I overheard Kim talking about her Christmas presents in more detail to her friends.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “And on Christmas Eve, there was a knock at the door and my dad answered and it was a present from ‘Santa’ and it was some retarded little wooden car! How gay!” And the girls laughed.

Oh well, I thought, next time I’ll leave a Hall and Oates record. At least now I knew what she liked.

I continued to pine after Kim until sixth grade, never making the move to ask her out or talk to her about anything more than what our homework assignments were.

Towards the end of sixth grade, Kim’s father died. Not from slipping on an ice-covered package on his doorstep, but from cancer. And the family moved away and I never saw her again. But I still think about all the years I spent thinking about her and wanting to be with her. And I still have that blurry picture of her in second grade in a shoebox of old pictures at my parents’ house.

All The Girls I've Ever Loved Are Married Now

"I'm worried about you," she said.

"Why?"

"You seem content with loneliness. You've given up. Stopped looking for someone to be with."

"Didn't you tell me once that you usually find what you're looking for when you stop searching?"

"Yes. But you're not supposed to REALLY stop. Just pretend stop."

"Now you tell me."

Their words were measured

They looked at each othe for a long time without saying anything. After a few moments he looked down and picked up his beer. She never broke her gaze and waited patiently for his answer. He looked her in the eye.

"Dating me is kinda like communism," he said, taking a swig of his beer. "It's a great idea in theory, but when put into practice, it's just a mess."

Would You Like A Fresh Towel?

I sweat.
A lot.
I suffer from what is now known as hyperhidrosis.

All my life I’ve been plagued with uncontrollably sweaty hands. It’s made life a little tough. No one wants to shake hands with you, or really be touched by you. Anytime my hands have brushed someone or I’ve shaken hands or slapped someone “five”, I’ve gotten some variation of the following comment: “Ew! What have you been doing, jerking off/taking a piss/wiping your ass/washing a midget?” It gets tiresome. Over the years I’ve tried to avoid physical contact as best I can.

This has obviously hindered my dating life. I’ve read that touch is an important part in relationships, and that often people flirt with each other by touching.

I would have no idea.

I’m the guy in the corner of the room with his hands tightly folded across his chest, hoping to God that no one wants to shake his hand or be social.

A few years ago I decided to take action. I wanted to have dry hands. I had been hanging out with a girl named Amanda, and she liked to hold hands, which as I’ve stated is a big problem. She was at first put off by my swampy hands, but tried the best she could to tough it out. I wanted to remedy this nuisance and so I started researching what could be done.

I discovered that it is indeed a documented medical condition affecting a small portion of the population. (About 1%, which explains why not much has been done to cure it.)

As I read up about hyperhidrosis, I found that there were several surgeries and medications I could look into. Unfortunately, I had neither the money, nor the health insurance to afford either alternative.

But as I browsed further I came across a contraption that would electronically ZAP the problem away. And it was cheap. Only $139.95.

Needless to say, I plunked down the cash and ordered it online.

A week later, my salvation arrived. I quickly tore open the box, like a kid on Christmas morning. There were two blue plastic pieces with batteries and two sponges. I read the instructions and learned that it would take at least 20 sessions before I saw any results and that each “session” lasted an hour.

Did I have that kind of time? I thought to myself. If it means being able to hold a girl’s hand when I walk down the street with her, I had all the time in the world!

A “session” consisted of filling each blue plastic piece with a little bit of water, then placing your hand half-in and half-out of the water, so that your palm rested on one of the sponges which was situated above a metal plate which was connected to the battery. This is where the electrical shocks were distributed to the rest of your hand.

I wasted no time and immediately began the procedure.

I filled the two blue plastic pieces with the required amounts of water, set my hands in them and, like a crippled child waiting to be touched by a divine healer at a pentacostal church, braced for my redemption.

The shock that was delivered to my hands was much like the shock one gets when licking a nine-volt battery and it didn’t bother me at first. But imagine continually licking that battery for an hour and you’ll understand how much it started to bug me.

Five minutes or so into my therapy, the phone rang.

And I with both hands submerged in water being electrocuted.

I let it ring. I’ve got an answering machine, I reasoned, and I can’t be disturbed! When the machine picked up, it was Amanda. She called to ask if I would like to hang out on the Friday coming up and go to a concert with her. Oh boy, would I! And with dry hands if this all works out. I thought about calling in sick to work for the next several days and just get my 20 sessions done with immediately. I would just plop myself in front of the TV, take half hour breaks to feed myself or change the channel, and be done with this sweaty hand problem once and for all!

About 45 minutes into the treatment my hands started to become sore, and I realized I would have to take more time out between sessions in order to rejuvenate the fried nerve cells in my hands. While it might be unpleasant to hold hands with a damp sponge of a mitt, it’s probably even less charming to grip a swollen, inoperative paw.

I did two sessions that night before going to bed, confident that my days of flood-ravaged palms would soon be behind me.

The next day, after work I came home and stuck my hands back in the charged water. And for another hour I sat, unable to do anything. I started to get bored. If only I had remembered to stop by Blockbuster on the way home I could watch a movie. Instead I sat, staring at the screen saver on my computer. Every so often I would lean forward and bump the mouse with my nose so I could at least check the time when the desktop returned to life.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. And I remembered that I was supposed to have dinner with my cute next-door neighbor Michelle.

Michelle was a beautiful, petite, blond girl who was studying psychology and worked with autistic patients at a health clinic. She had originally moved in next door with her boyfriend, but he’d left a few months prior and she and I had been hanging out more and more. She had great taste in music and we traded CDs quite often. One night she was over, browsing through my collection and discovered a CD entitled “Pull My Finger”, which was a collection of genuine fart sounds. I was ready to explain that I had bought the CD to use for sound effects for a short film I had been working, but all she said was, “Put it on.” I did and we both sat there listening to various farting noises and she collapsed in my lap in fits of laughter. She then asked me to copy it for her. I was head over heels in love with her at that point.

My brother had come to visit one week and the three of us spent a night getting drunk in her apartment. Afterwards, my brother pointed out that he thought I definitely had a chance but that I should act on it within the next week or I would find myself stranded in Friendsville.

Needless to say, I should listen to my brother more.

One night I heard Michelle get home from a night of drinking. There was a lot of banging around and I figured she was real drunk. Being a man of no common sense, I figured it was a perfect time to ask her if she wanted to go to the Degas exhibit at the museum the next day. (We had talked about this several times, so I wasn’t just springing it on her)

She answered the door, rip-roaring drunk and laughed.

“Oh, hey Dave,” she said, genuinely happy to see me.

Unfortunately, standing not a few feet behind her was a 6’2” guy who looked like he just got off The Stokes’ tour bus. And he looked at me with a leering smile that said, “Sorry pal, I’m hittin’ this tonight.” Michelle introduced us and neither one of us could give a shit if we ever saw one another again, knowing full well that we never would. I apologized for interrupting, then retreated to my apartment and tried to go to sleep. At one point, yes, I had to put on my headphones to drown out the thumping of the sex happening next door.

Now that I was a resident of Friendsville, we seemed to hang out more often, and so we had made plans to go have dinner at a new Sushi place that had opened downtown.

And now she was ringing my doorbell at the designated time.

While I had my hands soaking in cheap blue plastic bins, completely unprepared to go out.

Here was the dilemma: Do I stop my procedure and go have dinner with my good friend Michelle (and she was a good friend, polite and generous and loving, and I still liked her despite the fact that I would never be intimate with her)? Or do I feign an illness and continue the electro-shock so that I may hold hands with Amanda (who wasn’t really any more of an option besides the fact that she would actually walk down the street hand in hand with me and occasionally throw me a bone and kiss me)?

In hind sight, I guess either way I was a loser. But that’s not the point.

The point is that I discontinued my treatment, hurriedly got dressed for the evening and went out to eat with Michelle.

At the sushi bar I realized how painful it was to hold the chopsticks. I didn’t want this thing to completely deaden my nerve endings just so I wouldn’t sweat. Hell, I had dealt with sweaty hands for the last 28 years, and I was perfectly comfortable folding my arms in defiance when someone reached out to shake my hand. Perhaps I could play it off as a phobia and be considered a “quirky genius”. I’m not sure where the genius part comes in, but never you mind! I had made a decision.

That evening when I returned home from my dinner with Michelle, I retired the blue plastic contraptions to a rarely-ventured-into corner of my closet.

Amanda and I never really hit it off and she eventually stopped wanting to hold my hand.

When I moved from that apartment I had box of things I was going to take to the Salvation Army. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a car, so the box sat in a back room of my apartment until moving day.

Michelle stopped by to help me clean up. She discovered the box and offered to take them to the Salvation Army for me after I’d left. I thanked her and we carried the box to her apartment.

She looked inside and pulled out the two blue plastic boxes.

“What are these?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “A misguided attempt to stop my hands from sweating.”

“Really?” She smiled as we set down the box.

“I’ve always liked your sweaty hands,” she said. “It’s one of the things that makes you so unique.”

LIST-O-MANIA, not to be confused with the Ken Russell Film Lisztomania, featuring Roger Daltry as Franz Liszt and Ringo Starr as The Pope.

O.k. I'm finally getting around to the lists I was commissioned to do.

Sorry this took so long to come up with. It really was difficult to find fifty things that make me happy. I guess because I tend to focus on the things that don't make me happy. It was a more daunting task than I imagined. I definitely couldn't have done the original hundred that were requested of me.

1. Bar-B-Q Shrimp at Deanies’ seafood shack in New Orleans. I may never get to have this again, so I put it at the top.
2. Finding a great album in a used record/cd bin.
3. A good gangster movie.
4. Getting strong laughter at a joke you’ve made.
5. Receiving a random phone call or email from a girl who wants to see how you are doing. This is especially good when it is unprovoked by emails or phone calls you may have made to them.
6. Watching a really engrossing film by yourself in a nearly-empty movie theater, with a large Coke and a bag of Sour Patch Kids.
7. The train ride over the Manhattan Bridge into Manhattan from Brooklyn on a cool, sunny day, looking out at the Brooklyn Bridge and the city.
8. Large, looming architecture.
9. Sex in the rain.
10. Deep sea fishing. In fact, the fishing is not even necessary, but being out on a boat in the ocean with no land in sight and the rocking waves is nice.
11. Hiking in the woods. I like to find a nice rock structure or cave and take a nap against the cool rock.
12. I have a huge book collection. Sometimes I just like standing in front of the shelves and browsing through the titles trying to find a book to read. I also like doing this at other people’s houses and seeing what sort of stuff they like to read.
13. My brother got my dad into drinking microbrews. He used to be a Miller High Life/Genny Cream Ale kind of guy when we were growing up. Now I love coming home for visits and having my dad excitedly tell me about a new beer he discovered. And then, of course, trying a few he has in the fridge.
14. Philly Soul music, particularly The Spinners.
15. Driving down an open stretch of road in the late spring/early summer with the windows down and “Here I Go Again” by Whitesnake blasting on the radio. Fist-pumping during the chorus required.
16. El Rincon Familiar in Brooklyn (5th Ave. and 19th Street) The best Tex Mex food I’ve had. Better than places I’ve eaten at in Texas. If you’re in or around Park Slope and you want Tex Mex, there’s only one place to go! I drag anyone who visits me to this restaurant.
17. A memorable first kiss. I’ve had a few that stick out in my memory, and whether the relationship that did or did not follow said kiss was worth remembering it’s nice to think about the promise and potential of that first lip-lock.
18. Seeing Ween live.
19. A person telling you that something you did, wrote, performed, or created inspired them in some way. (Hell isn’t that why we create? To share the joys and sorrows of life with others, to reach out to one another, to feel less alone?)
20. Staying in a bar long enough to hear the songs you put on the jukebox. You are usually pretty wasted by that point and yell out to everyone, “Wait! Wait! These are my songs!” and close your eyes and bob your head enthusiastically to the beat. In your head no one thinks you’re a dork and everyone is just a little better off for hearing the particular songs you chose. Maybe you open your eyes and smile at someone else in the bar, your eyes silently telling them, “Yeah, this is MY song.”
21. Rollercoasters. Freefalls. Pirate Ships. Basically any ride at an amusement park that makes you feel like your balls have shot up into your abdomen and the pre-orgasmic, tingly sensation that goes along with that.
22. Those creepy, twisted religious comics from Chick Publications that various churches hand out.
23. Nonsequitors. Particularly in bathroom graffiti. Recent discovery in Rochester, NY stall (courtesy of Adam): “Bob Newhart Co-ed Naked Pussyfart”.
24. Swimming in streams or rivers. Oh, and tubing. (Yeah, that’s my rural Pennsylvania upbringing talking.)
25. I love dogs. I had an argument with a girl I knew over this. She preferred cats. She said, “Cats are better. They do their own thing. Are you so insecure that you need some goofy dog to greet you at the door when you get home and slobber all over you and be affectionate?” I said, “Exactly! Constant Public Displays of Affection just because I feed him! What’s more awesome than that? Cats just ignore you and act aloof. That’s what girls are for. Why would I need a cat?”
26. Receiving an apology for something ten years after the fact. It really did affect my life for the last ten years and prevent me from relating to other people properly. Your apology brought closure and I feel I can move on now. Thank you.
27. Making mixes (mix tapes/cds) for people who, in turn, actually listen to and appreciate the mixes. People who have the same musical tastes. It’s even better when they make mixes for you!
28. Nicknames.
29. Harold Night at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater.
30. Laughing at misfortune. Mostly my own. It’s easier when it’s yours. I appreciate someone who can crack a good joke about me when I tell them something bad that happened.
31. Tree houses. As a kid I built lots of tree houses in my back yard. I loved the Swiss Family Robinson tree house at Disney World. When I lived in Asheville, North Carolina I lived in a cabin, but the first “apartment” I checked out was in a tree house colony. I was pretty excited about it, too: there were walkways throughout the trees that connected all the smaller “apartments”. It was like the Ewok village. But when I showed my girlfriend my find she was not as impressed as I was and told me to keep looking.
32. 1994. The happiest time in my life. I was 20 years old and there were so many wonderful things about that time that I can’t single anything out. Good friends, good times. I may never experience happiness like I felt that year, but I am grateful for having a glimpse of what it’s like.
33. Quentin Tarantino. There’s just something about his flicks that appeals to the film geek in me. A kindred spirit.
34. Back rubs. Back rubs are awesome. The older I get the more my back hurts and the more I need a good one. But unfortunately, I’ve had fewer and fewer as the years have passed. Seriously, if you gave me a good back rub, I’d probably sleep with you. Regardless of age, attractiveness, gender, or species. I’m just saying...
35. The Onion.
36. DVD. I remember being thrilled when DVDs first came out. I never got into the laserdiscs, but always wanted to see films at home in their original aspect ratio. DVD offered this. And with Bonus Features too! Commentaries and analysis of the film. It was like being back in film school.
37. The Internet. What a wonderful invention. The Information Superhighway. The idea of being able to connect and interact with people and thoughts from around the world. I spent a lot of time at the library when I was a kid. I liked being surrounded by information. But there was a process you went through to get that information. Now everything is at your fingertips. I can pull up information in seconds, where in the past, I would have to spend hours sifting through encyclopedias and other volumes in order to learn about something.
38. The Marx Brothers. If you can watch “Duck Soup” and not laugh once, I certainly don’t want to know you.
39. Tabloid journalism. Why would I sing the praises of something that is destroying true journalism? It seems like everything is tabloid journalism these days. There is no objectivity and no real research into the stories that are being reported. We get sound bites and clips of stories. I agree it is bad and the news should be more in depth and provide a more objective view, but there’s something to be said for the ridiculous headlines of The New York Post and The Daily News. Sometimes I want to get away from the real news from around the world and focus on the fact that there were severed human lips found in a dumpster over the weekend, with a cynical headline like “TRASH-TALKING ON THE UPPER EAST SIDE!”
40. Cheesy pop songs. Any time period.
41. A well-cooked meal. I love eating. And whether it’s a home-cooked meal from someone’s mother (an ex’s mom used to make rosemary chicken every other night and fried catfish and beans and rice the rest of the week and I gained about thirty pounds in a month just from her home-cooking) or a selection at a nice restaurant, I’m all about stuffing myself with food.
42. People arguing. I don’t know why, but I always laugh to myself when people are passionately arguing about something. When I would get yelled at as a kid I couldn’t help cracking a smile and giggling and that would anger my parents further.
43. Finding good books in a box on the street on trash day.
44. Sleeping in. There’s nothing better than wasting an entire day in bed because you have nothing to do.
45. Watching the rain. I remember my father used to stand in the garage watching the rain when there was a thunderstorm. We lived on a hill and you could look out on the valley and see lightning striking in the distance. It was soothing and peaceful.
46. The thrill of meeting someone new. The excitement and confusion of a budding romance. Months or years later you may rue the day you met them but it’s a great feeling at the start.
47. Making films and videos. I love being on set with friends, orchestrating shots. If I am directing something of my own I have more energy than ever. On one film I did in college I didn’t sleep for three days during the shoot and wasn’t tired the whole time. Something else takes over.
48. Driving around with my friend Tom, talking about movies, coming up with ideas, writing films in our heads.
49. Improv. For someone like myself, who is not musically talented at all, this is a chance to “jam” with other people and create things in front of an audience. It’s a real high when things fall into place in a scene and the audience is responsive.
50. A cigarette after a good meal or good conversation. I saw Kurt Vonnegut interviewed and they asked how he maintained a sense of humor if he thought the world was so doomed and full of depressing things. He answered, “Smoking.”

And the 7 Things lists:

7 things I want to do before I die:
1. Direct a major feature film.
2. Publish a novel or two.
3. Get a pilot’s license and fly a DeHavilliand Tiger Moth biplane for barnstorming purposes.
4. Travel outside the United States. It’s been 31 years and I haven’t even gone to Canada or Mexico! I’d like to tool around Europe for a while but I’ll settle for any place that requires a passport at this point.
5. Learn to juggle.
6. Make a living without having to work a soul-sucking job I have no interest in.
7. Find someone to have a healthy, meaningful relationship with.

7 things I cannot do:
1. Any sport. Just can’t do it. I’m physical inept. I can’t even play golf!
2. Make small talk with people. I get bored very easily and can’t find it in me to pretend I’m interested. This hinders me when meeting new people because unless they fascinate me from the get-go I’m not going to probe them with questions and feign excitement at whatever is said.
3. Walk down the street without staring at my feet.
4. Play an instrument. I’ve dabbled, but I really have no musical ability.
5. Make grilled cheese. There’s always one side that gets a bit burned.
6. Dance. This relates to my awkwardness, fucked-up equilibrium, and inability to play sports
7. Get over my insecurities.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex:
1. Someone who is attracted to me. This is first and foremost. It’s really the only criteria I have these days and I will abandon all other wanted traits if someone fits this one.
2. Sense of humor. I joke a lot. I like it when people get the jokes and aren’t offended.
3. Long legs.
4. Intelligence.
5. Stylish taste in clothes.
6. Glasses. Not always necessary, but definitely a sexy accoutrement.
7. Nice feet.

7 things that I say most often:
1. What the fuck?!
2. Seriously, what the fuck?!
3. So it goes.
4. Reminds me of this one time…
5. …And whatnot. (In an improv class I did a monologue and talked about getting jumped and said I was “in a coma and whatnot”. In the following scene, my friend Chris picked up on that and played a doctor who diagnosed a patient as having “cancer and whatnot.”)
6. That’s cool.
7. Excuse me, sorry.

7 celebrity crushes:
(O.K. I don’t really have any celebrity crushes. It’s bad enough having crushes on certain people who are actually in my life, why would I want to deal with the futility of crushing on someone I will most likely never meet? That said, I will do my best…)
1. Cate Blanchett. (I think she’s incredibly beautiful in an otherworldly way.)
2. Naomi Watts. (For some reason I can’t concentrate on anything when she’s on screen. It actually frustrates me, because she’s been in some really good movies, but I find myself just staring at her and losing track of the story.)
3. Amy Sedaris. (Adorable and funny, even when playing grotesque characters.)
4. Scarlett Johansson. (I basically say this because a guy at work has a picture of her pinned to the wall, so I see her everyday. And I think she’s alluring.)
5. Johnny Depp. (He’s handsome and cool and everything I wish I was.)
6. New York City. (Can a city count as a celebrity? It’s been in a lot of movies…)

7 people I want to do this:
1. Anyone I
2. Want
3. To do this
4. Already has
5. Or
7. Won’t.

Alright, ya happy?

Here's me with a mustache. A whole month with this puppy, even though no one else decided to participate in the fun. In fact, they all told me to get rid of it, but I held out for a full thirty days.

Actually, I kinda miss it. In fact, a girl at work was mad that I shaved it off, saying, "Man, you were starting to look cool. Now you're just you." Hah!

I was thinking that in a few months it should be "rat-tail" month and I'll be the only one to grow a rat-tail like the kids used to wear when I was in sixth grade.

25 Things I Need

This is a little game going around the "blogosphere". I've seen it a couple of times. What you do is type in "(your name) needs" in quotes in Google and let the fun begin.

I've discovered just what it is I need at the moment, and that's good to know...

1.Dave needs Firefox and BugMeNot.
2.Dave needs some advice. Dave told Carmen that he really likes her, but Carmen doesn't want a new boy-friend. Dave's mate Diego suggests to make Carmen jealous.
3.Dave needs plywood.
4.I think Dave needs a vacation. Dave is upset again, and this time with his (former?) buddy Adam Curry. The reason is that Dave thinks Adam has stolen the credit from him for inventing podcasting, and for writing the first iPodder.
5.Big Dave needs a kidney.
6.Dave needs to share from his own experience, not point an accusing finger at Scott.
7.DAVE NEEDS VACATION FROM CARRYING HIS FIANCEE'S BAGS.
8.I think Dave needs to work one of these into his live appearances.
9.Dave needs to promote his blog, not his buddy's. Guys just have to
unzip and whip it out.
10.Dave needs to be kept abreast of any ... (I tried to follow up this link to see what I should be kept abreast of, but the link was invalid. I need to be kept abreast of these problems!)
11.All Dave needs is time A briefcase coloured lime Techno lime green
12.If Dave needs that letter, i say go for it and good luck for Monday.
13.Dave needs to do due diligence on the dashes ‘-’ in the column.
14.Dave needs to get back into form and get his hair cut like Bill Maher.
15.DAVE NEEDS YOUR BEST WISHES & PRAYERS
16.Dave needs to review the press release that Heather submitted.
17.Dave needs to understand the seriousness of his position and how it affects not just his department, but the candidate and the reputation of the University, as well.
18.Right now Dave needs sponsors.
19.Dave needs support too!
20.dave needs 30 buttons.
21.Dave needs additional visits to achieve his goals,
22.I think Dave needs new glasses *g*.
23.Dave needs to find replacements for Reiter, Pause, Caballero, Marsh and Armas.
24.holy crap, dave needs to eat.
25.Dave needs an excuse to "LOL" every five minutes, that's why... LOL!

Well, damn. I need a lot, don't I? I'm most concerned about the buttons.

Other Writings

Since I still don't have any internet connection I've decided to fill the gap with some links to some other things I've written that are floating out there in cyberspace somewhere.

Stories, poems and other trivialities:

chucklehound stuff

a real shit story

longing

striving

Times They Are A-Changing

I almost got run over on the way back from lunch this afternoon.
By a Sport Utility Stroller.

These new strollers are crazy. They're huge and pimped out like you wouldn't believe. They've got shocks, rear wheel suspension, anti-lock brakes, the whole nine yards. This one today had huge monster truck tires, and the mother could care less about the pedestrians in her path. It had compartments for everything from bottles and diapers to mini audio visual units. I'm pretty sure the kid in this stroller was watching "The Incredibles" on DVD as he zoomed past me.

The strollers my siblings and I had growing up were nowhere near this cool.

They consisted of a flower-print piece of canvas with two poles and four shopping cart tires. And if you didn't step hard on the locking bar on the back of the stroller, it would fold up on you when you sat in it.

Kids these days...they don't know how hard we had it in the 70s...

Day 20

It's mustache month. And I have worn a mustache for the last 20 days.

The others who wanted to partake in this endeavor wimped out from the get-go, so I have gone it alone.

I have gotten many strange looks and heard many varying comments.

"You look like a 70s porn star."
"You don't look a sleazy as I would have expected."
"'My Name Is Earl'? Should be 'My Name Is Dave'."
"That's pretty hot."
"That's pretty gross."
"What is up with the mustache?"
"When are you gonna shave that thing off?"
"You've got a catapillar on your lip."
"Why do you have a mustache?"
"Your mustache is red? Why is it red?"
"Is this some kind of bet?"
"Did you have to register that thing with a Sex Offenders Website?"
"Seriously, what is up with the mustache?!"

I went to lunch last week with a friend and made no mention of the fact that I had a mustache for most of the time. I noticed she kept looking at it inquisitively, as if it might suddenly reveal its reason for being.

Halfway through our meal I said, "So I grew this mustache as part of a deal I had made with some guys at work."

She breathed a sigh of relief, "I was wondering what was going on! People just don't grow mustaches these days because they like them."

I then explained that everyone else chickened out, but that I am determined to stick it out, regardless. Because I am committed. Committed to the 'stache!

And I've grown rather fond of it over the last several weeks.

I've definitely gotten more looks from women on the street. Granted, they are mostly looks of disgust, but even a look of complete bewilderment and nausea is better than not being noticed at all.


*(There are pictures to post, whenever I am able to get some sort of internet service at home. Hopefully in a week or two. Be forewarned...)

Time Warner Raped My Wife And Sold My Infant Son Into White Slavery

O.K. Some clarification perhaps.

I do not have a wife. But if I did, I'm sure they would.

Also, my infant son is non-existant, but were he to in fact be a reality, I would not put it past the folks at Time Warner to sell him into white slavery. I'm certain they have the means, and I wouldn't put it past them to try it.

Why do I think this?

Because Time Warner is a soulless coropration, hell bent on gobbling up every company and citizen in its way.

And because they won't hook up my cable internet.

Wait.

They WILL hook up my internet, but if I go through them I will not have a home from which to access said intenet.

Allow me to explain (it gets kinda complicated, so forgive me):

I have had Time Warner cable internet for the last two years. Aside from almost monthly service disruptions, it has been a fairly peaceful co-existence.

I moved last month and contacted them to switch my internet over to the new apartment. As with any behemoth of a corporation I've had to run a gauntlet of red tape and bullshit in order for this switch to take place. They arranged to have someone come out last friday to do the switch. The appointment was scheduled between 2-6pm.

They arrived at 6:05.

After a cursory search of the premises, the installer concluded that he could not in fact install the internet connection.

Because our apartment was not "registered" with Time Warner.

Hmmm.

I called the following day to find out what it would take to "register" this apartment and get the cable hooked up. And just how long would it take? I asked. They told me they had to send out a real estate inspector to confirm that it is indeed an apartment and then they could get the ball rolling. They told me this could take about 3 weeks.

What?!

Not only was I upset about the length of time it would take to get me up and running, but I was also worried about being evicted.

Further expalnation is needed:

I live in a basement apartment. Only, it is not actually an apartment. For zoning purposes it is considered a "storage space". My brother and I signed a lease for a storage space and are not "technically" supposed to be living there. This was done to protect my landlord, who does not have a license to rent the space out as an apartment.

This situation is not the best, but it should not be a problem, and the landlord is cool and wouldn't throw us out.

Unless Time Warner gets the New York Real Estate Board to start poking its nose into things and fines our landlord.

All this trouble because I want to use the internet from my home.

Bastards.

So I cancelled my service and am in the process of finding another provider.

Which is damn near impossible because Time Warner is a monopoly. And they like to rape people and sell children into slavery.

Note: I do have friends who work for TW and I don't think they'd rape people and sell children into slavery, but who knows what kind of mind control the company may exert over its employees?

"We were only following orders," they might say.

Stop the beast before it eats your soul!

Subterranean Homesick Blues

I realize I spend a good portion of my day underground.

Between living in a basement apartment and riding the subway around town everyday, I am somewhat of a underground dweller.

This morning I awoke to discover my apartment was flooding.
There was no rain. I thought perhaps, the shower caused the water to leak into my living room, but it has not stopped and the shower has not run for several hours. My brother figures it is coming from a broken pipe in the utility room.

I am at work and he is trying to take care of it all. The landlord doesn't seem to be in a rush to fix it.

Kinda like the government not being in a rush to fix the flooding in New Orleans, only on a smaller and less-grim scale.

The lesson here is: Stay away from basement apartments. If you smell something mildewy when you check out an apartment, don't rent it, they've obviously had flooding problems before.

When I was in high school there was a show on TV called "Parker Lewis Can't Lose". My friend Andy used to say there should be a show called "Dave Orsborn Can't Win". The guys in my homeroom would eagerly await the next "episode" every morning, as I inevitably had some new shit story to share about my life. It began to be rather amusing.

Looks like the show has been picked up for one more season...

Doing Very Well Here At The Astrodome

Former First Lady, Barbara Bush, has recently come under attack for her remarks about the evacuees from New Orleans "doing very well" in the Houston Astrodome. Her remarks seem to be another example of the rich being insulated from the world around them and having only moments of forced empathy for their fellow man.

However, the media has spun this completely out of control. We are only given part of the story. If you look at Mrs. Bush's full statement you will see that she makes a compelling argument.

As reported, the president's mother and former First Lady said in an interview, "...And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this is working very well for them."

Babs went on to say, "Seriously, these people will be living in these seats for a month, maybe more. That's like having season tickets. And they're getting them for free! We all know how much money companies and individuals shell out for good seats here at the 'Dome. In fact, this little negro child my husband is hugging for the cameras is currently residing in Row F Seat 32. And you wouldn't believe the view he has! You've got to really be connected to get seats like that! And we're letting them stay there for free."

At that point, Mrs. Bush grabbed an unsuspecting African American child by her corn rows and pulled her close, saying, "Consider yourself 'juiced in' dahlin'!" and laughed uncontrollably.

On a Sad Note

I lived in New Orleans for 6 years. It pains me to see the devastation wrought by this hurricane. My "adopted" hometown is slowly disappearing.

Yesterday I tried to get in touch with some of my friends to see if they had escaped. I am beginning to get emails from people to say they are alright, but there are still many I haven't heard from.

They are all in shock and wondering where they will go or how they'll start over.

Here are some messages:

"We got out with all our animals and escaped to Lori's parents in Huntsville,Alabama.
Yes, it doesn't look too good.
Hope you heard from everyone else and they are alright.
I'll talk to you soon.
It's been a long few days.

Thanks for the note.
Tom"

"dave- All is ok from Baton rouge but a little scared about my little house in the Irosh Channel. They still havn't shown pictures of the area, which is a little worrisome. How are you? Would love to hear all. Will e-mail you when no that future life is good.
Meg "

"Crazy shit. I called Valentino the night the storm was nearing the city. He was "kicking back" in his Marigny/Bywater apartment and watching football with his crack smoking Brazilian friend Chico. I told him that he should probably consider leaving town. His reply was: "They are blowing it out of proportion, those TV people. We are going to go down the street and wait out the storm in Chico's 2nd floor apartment." Now I hear that Bywater is almost completely under water. I haven't been able to reach anyone I know in that area. Valentino's biggest fear is deportation; he always tried to avoid contact with the police. Now, as a refugee with no id papers, he may be completely fucked as the place is probably going to be swamped with police and government agents.
Mike's father, 78 year old man with 2 heart surgeries behind him, stayed in Metarie. He was the only person to stay on his block. Last Mike talked to him, he was frying up eggs and steak at 3 am the night of the storm. He is a crazy old Korean veteran.
Misha"

" just got a message from Valentino. He managed to find a phone. Apparently, he is okey. His neighborhood didn't get that much water. He has food, he said. I had to call a number in Canada to notify his brother that V was alive.
Mike has been living in Colorado for the past 2 or 3 years. He still hasn't heard from his father."

"hey dave-
i'm ok...me and my neighbor evacuated to lafayette on
saturday so we've been here since then. he went to
school here so he has lots of friends and we've had
places to stay and people to be nice to us in general.
this is all crazy. i'll probably be flying out of here
in a couple days back up to nj. i'm thinking i'll
probably stay there for a week or so so i can be
babied and pitied by my family, and then i'm thinking
i'm going to go out to los angeles and stay with cody
and see if i would want to live out there. i think
carmena might be out there for a while too. so that's
my report. it's just been so weird...i don't have a
city anymore. i'll write or call soon.
shana"

"email me your phone # i lost everything - new orleans is history - i'll call you when i get a working phone - shit hasn't worked since saturday !!
tim"

"Greetings All -
We heard last night from someone who had gotten though to Charlotte ... their home on the north side of the lake was severely damaged by four fallen trees ... in fact, the house was split in two and may not be recoverable. The guest house simply blew away and one of the vehicles was either crushed by a tree or blown away ... not sure of the details. No word on Hamp's home, but it is feared lost.
They were trapped by the fallen trees and had run out of drinking water. They are attempting to clear trees today and make a run for higher ground. Their first objective is to find placement for Aunt Marie, who has ALS and isn't doing well under those conditions. Uncle Pike and Aunt Marie's home in Folsom may be okay ... they'll assess today. If not, they may all come to Memphis.
The very good news is that they're alive and well. Keep your fingers crossed that they may find safe passage to Folsom and Memphis.
Thank you for your inquiries. I'll keep you posted."

If you care to help, please check out one of the following charities

The Hall Sells Out

Thanks to everyone who came to see Party Hall For Rent's first sketch comedy show on Saturday!

We sold out the fifty-seat theater and no one asked for their money back. Well, actually, a guy I work with asked for a refund for the psychological damage incurred from seeing me dressed as a woman, but I refused stating, "Buyer beware! The Hall is not responsible for lost items. This includes your sanity."

There were a few technical difficulties, but we were able to creatively overcome them. Instead of a slide show projection of Chris making out with two photoshopped porn stars, he had to settle for Mike and I dressed as women. I think that may have actually been funnier.

Afterwards we all went for drinks with many of the audience members joining us. Pictures were taken and may be posted, assuming they are not too incriminating.

All in all, I think it went well. we are excited to do more. We may go out as an improv group for awhile and do the sketch thing intermittently. And there is talk of putting up a website and returning to our original cable-access idea.

Who knows what the future holds for the Party Hall?

But I'll keep you posted...

What Makes You Happy

I have been challenged to come up with a list of 100 things in life that make me happy. That is a tall order. I've thought about it for a day and only come up with 14 things so far.

However, today I found something that makes me happy right now, so I'll share it:

A year and a half ago my friend Shana told me she had a read a book by Paul Feig, the creator of "Freaks and Geeks", called Kick Me and she said his stories reminded her of me. I was intrigued to say the least. When I finally read the book, I not only agreed with her (his stories ARE similar, in fact the one about climbng the rope in gym in second grade and having his first "orgasm" happened to me as well, so it looks like I can't tell that one anymore) but I laughed my ass off.

It inspired me to start writing stories about my own pathetic experiences growing up, and I started this blog to let people read them. If you read my stuff and enjoy it, you owe it to yourself to check out the work of a true master and read that book. Funny, funny stuff.

Today, while at work, I discovered his latest collection of memoirs Superstud: Or How I Became A 24 Year Old Virgin and bought it immediately. What I have read so far is hysterical. And painfully familiar.

You Never Miss It Til It's Gone

I've had a bad hair life.

Oh, sure, there've been a few good days thrown in here and there. Days when I'd wake up, look in the mirror, and say "Damn, my hair looks good!" But on those rare days there was never a camera around to capture it, so it exists only in my memory.

I feel I've been cursed with a repugnant and unruly mane and it has only been in recent years that I've figured out that it probably looks its best when there is very little of it. I am slowly losing my hair so I've taken to shaving it off every couple of months. I still wish I could let it grow, but it doesn't seem to want to anymore. It's tired. So I keep it short.

In the past, however, I would let it grow and be its natural, crazy self. I enjoyed having wild hair. In high school I was told I looked like kramer from seinfeld, but I always wanted my hair to look like sergei eisenstein.

Part of me always wanted to look insane and so I'd let my hair do its own thing. After college, I let my hair grow long again and was told by several people that I looked like a crazy director, like Peter Jackson. I liked that. I didn't mind being compared to people I admired. When a girl I liked tried to insult me by saying, "By the way, Bill Murray called, he wants his hair back." I laughed and thought how having bad hair wasn't so bad after all. Some people could still be cool with bad hair. And I wanted to be one of them.

One day when I was 27 I decided to get my hair cut professionally to impress a girl. I had it cut close to my head and actually used some hair gel in it. A friend of mine was shocked and said he never thought he'd see me with styled hair. "I always took you for a natural hair kinda guy. Ya know, just let it do what it wants. If it's messy, so what..."

And that's how I'd always been. From 9th grade on, that is.

See, I, like so many others, made numerous failed attempts to "fit in" when I was in junior high school. This included my first experimentation with "hair products", after which I swore I'd never touch the stuff again. And I didn't. Until I was 27 and made a second misguided endeavor to try and control my hair.

At 13, I began to let my hair grow out. Before this I had always kept a neat, Clark Kent-style haircut, cowlick and all. This was never a conscious decision on my part. My mother would take me to get my hair cut and I just let the barber, or stylist, or whoever happened to have the scissors held to my head, make the decision for me. I just didn't care. It always looked like shit anyway.

I have NEVER gotten a good hair cut.

EVER.

My hair always looks its worst when I step out of a hair salon or barbershop. No one has ever given me a good haircut. Sometimes it's close to being decent, but it still takes a few days to grow into. And as I walk away I question why I just plopped down hard earned cash for some one to make me look like shit. I can do that myself! (Consequently that is what I have done for the last 4 years. I bought a pair of clippers and just shave it off when it looks bad)

But when I started letting my hair grow out, I still tried to keep it under control. This was 1987 and everyone was all about hair spray and mousse and gel and any possible unguent to hold jurisdiction over your coif.

So I jumped on the bandwagon and bought as many Vidal Sassoon products as I could find at the ACME Supermarket on Thursday nights when my mother went grocery shopping. I would beg and plead with her whenever I saw they had a new mousse or spray.

"You've already got a can of hairspray at the house," she'd say.

"Yes, but this is for EXTRA HOLD!" I 'd argue.

On top of my juvenile NEED to cake my hair in slime, puberty had hit and my body decided I would probably handle it better with curly hair.

Until the age of 13, I'd pretty much had straight hair. As everyone else in my family had straight hair. But when I decided to let it grow, it began to curl back on itself. I suppose it was so used to being closely cropped to my head for all those years that it didn't want to leave the nest and tried its best to stay close to my skull, even if that meant wrapping itself into tight ringlets.

I tried to use the grease I was lathering my head with to straighten those curls out the best I could.

I was a bone-thin white kid with a slime-caked head of randomly-placed cowlicks and curls. I looked like a used Q-tip.

One night in early December, in 7th grade, I was sitting on the ski club bus to go skiing at Doe Mountain in the Poconos. I had joined the ski club not because I enjoyed skiing (I wasn't particularly adept at it. In fact my first ski trip involved me getting caught on the tow rope and being dragged up the mountain as my skis and boots and other personal items were ripped from my body, causing the kids behind me to trip and fall as well) but because that's what all the hot girls at school were doing. My friend Matt and I wanted nothing more than to "accidentally" crash into two beautiful girls and spend the rest of the evening nursing our wounds and falling in love with them at the ski lodge.

This never happened.

As I sat on the bus with Matt that one night, thinking of how I could fake an injury that would lure the ladies to my aide, an older kid who had tormented me most of the school year thus far slapped my head as he walked past.

"EWWW!" he yelled. "What the fuck have you got on your head?!"

The other kids on the bus started listening in. Those who had heard the beginning of this exchange were already laughing.

"It's just mousse," I said.

He laughed.

"Chocolate mousse?"

The other kids laughed at his rapier wit.

"Feels more like snot," he added. This did not receive the laughter he'd expected and he tried to regain his footing by slapping me again.

"EWWW!" he groaned once more and held out his hand for other kids to touch. "Don't light a match near this kid. You might blow up."

That got the crowd going again and he smiled to himself. Others started joining in, making taunts, touching my head, or just doubling over in fits of laughter.

"Hey kid," one of the ninth graders said to me. I turned to look at him.

"Why don't you come over to my house after this so I can back over your head with my truck? It needs an oil change."

A tremendous burst of laughter and I wanted to just go home. Unfortunately I'd be spending the next several hours riding a bus with them to the ski resort, then trying to avoid them on the slopes, then riding the same bus back to hear the insults they'd cooked up while skiing.

Shortly after that I threw out my "products" and decided to let my hair "go wild". I wanted to look "crazy" so no one would fuck with me. If people thought you were scary they wouldn't talk to you. That was what I thought anyway. Unfortunately I never let it go too wild. I was still rather conservative when it came to bucking the system. I still wanted to "fit in".

By ninth grade I had let my hair grow into a KirkCameron/Mike Seaver mullet. Not threatening. Not at all.

I was constantly bombarded with questions about where I got my"perm" done.

Every day I hated my hair. I still hate it. As many different styles as I've tried, one thing remains. It always looks bad. It's always in a state of "kinda-looks-like-something-but-not-quite-there".

However, as much as I dislike it, I am sad to see it go.

My hair has begun its retreat south. There are less and less folicles up front by my forehead every morning I awake. They are slowly pulling back. While they haven't completely conceded defeat yet, they are bailing at an alarming rate. Some of them have taken refuge in my ears or nose. And more and more of their band of brothers join them each day.

I guess that's the irony of it all. My hair sucks. I hate it. But I wish I had more...

Male Pattern Badness

The sketch comedy troupe I am in, Party Hall For Rent, will be hitting the stage next Saturday in New York City for the first time. We've been writing and rehearsing for several months. Most of that time was spent just sitting at the bar thinking of ideas and making each other laugh, but hopefully our "hard" work has paid off and we've come up with something worth watching.

We've lost a few members along the way and I'd like to give a shout out to Maria and Joe, who will hopefully join us and come to see the show. I'd also like to thank Eli of los halos for writing a kick ass theme song for one of our sketches.

For full details I will turn to one of my cohorts in this venture, Chris Sullivan, who summed it up pretty well in an email he sent around earlier this week...

On Saturday, August 27th, Party Hall for Rent will be giving its first live performance. Ever.

This is your chance to see history made. This is your chance to see five talented comics bring their creations to life right before your eyes. This is your chance to see the world premiere of more than a dozen sketches. This is your chance to drink beer in the basement of a building on the Bowery.

I’m part of “The Hall,” and without giving away too much, this show is going to be funny. It’s going to be loud. It’s going to be violent. And it’s going to be crude.

Oh Lord, will it be crude. I’m 28 and even I might not be old enough to come to this show. But you should come. You owe it to yourself.

So let’s talk about the details:

What’s Happening?
Party Hall for Rent’s 1st Ever Live Performance

When?
Saturday, August 27th, at 8pm

Where?
Juvie Hall at The Gene Frankel Theater
24 Bond Street between Bowery and Lafayette

How Much?
It’s going to be somewhere in the neighborhood of 6 to 8 bucks. But as a thank you for coming out, your ticket comes with a complimentary beer.

Will There Be More Beer?
Yes. We’ll have a limited supply of beer on sale for $2 a can. All we ask is that you not get sloppy drunk since we like the people who run the place and we’d rather not get banned for life because you like to mask your pain with alcohol.

What Are You Saying?
I’m just saying that sometimes, when you drink, things can get a little out of hand.

Are You Talking About That Time At That Guy’s Party?
This is not the time or the place for this conversation.

It’s Never The Time! That Is So Not Fair! How Can You Bring Up Something Like That And Expect Me Not To Respond?
We’re getting way off topic here. Can we just talk about this later?

Fine.
Fine.

What Else Should We Know About Your Stupid Show?
I’m going to ignore your tone and answer your question. While there will be beer, we will not be selling food. There is a small chance you might be one of the lucky few who catch a ham sandwich during the course of the show (you’ll understand when you see it) we can’t guarantee there will be enough ham for everyone. So eat before you get there. Also, seating is limited. We have to cap it at 50 people. So let me know in advance if you’re going to come so we can make the necessary arrangements. And if you say you’re going to come and then you don’t show up, just know that that’s not cool. Really not cool.

So if you live in or around New York and would like to venture out to see some sketch comedy on a Saturday night, come check us out.

And afterwards we'll all go out for some beers and such...

The Watch

She had promised to buy him a watch. She never liked the one he already had so she told him she would buy him a new one. Something more stylish, she said. He thought that his current watch was fine but agreed that perhaps he could use a new one.

That was over a year ago. And she had never bought the watch for him. Granted, they did break up a few months after she told him that and both of them had gone their separate ways, but it always irked him that she had never followed through in buying him that new watch.

It particularly bothered him now, as the watch she never liked had been broken for the last three months. He really could use a new watch. But he couldn't bring himself to buy it on his own, when he knew that one was owed him. So he'd called her up and set up a meeting. To discuss a very important subject.

He spotted her sitting in the food court at the mall and he approached. He'd told her to meet him at 2pm. It was 2:15.

"You're late," she said.

"I know. It's your fault."

"How is it my fault?"

"You never bought me that watch," he said.

"What are you talking about?"

"Last Christmas," he explained. "You said you wanted to buy me a new watch. You never did."

"That was last year! We broke up seven moths ago!"

"And I've been late for everything as a result."

"Why don't you break down and buy yourself a watch for chrissakes?" she asked.

"Cuz you said you would," he replied.

"We were dating when I said that."

"So it was a lie?"

"No," she said. "I wanted to then."

"But only cuz we were dating."

"Yes."

"That means your word is worthless," he said. "Unless we're dating."

"You're really insane!"

"And you're not trustworthy."

She was becoming exhausted. He realized he was not getting anywhere. He suggested they take a walk. She agreed and they walked down one of the mall corridors.

"So what is this really about?" she asked. "Why did you want to meet me?"

He looked at her and remembered nights long ago when he would take her face in his hands and gently kiss her lips, her eyes, her forehead. He could recall the feel of her hair as he ran his fingers through it. The smell of her sweat on hot summer nights after they'd made love.

"I need a watch," he said.

"That really is what this is about?!"

"Yes," he said blankly.

"And you want me to buy it?!"

"I just want you to keep your word," he said. "It works out for everyone. I'll be on time for things and you won't be known as a bald-faced liar."

"I am NOT buying you a watch," she said, raising her voice, then lowering it self-consciously as she spoke further. "That was then, ok? This is now. Move on! Learn to take care of yourself for once."

"You wanted to buy me a watch when I already had a watch. Now that I don't have a watch, you won't buy me one. You make no sense."

"We were dating then!"

"Always placing conditions on things," he said. "Alright, I see I'm not getting anywhere. You haven't changed. Thought I'd give you a second chance."

"I broke up with you!"

"I know. Cuz you're cold and heartless. You left me and didn't even have the decency of getting me a goodbye present. Like a watch. But nope. No severance package whatsoever. I wonder how you live with yourself."

In their trek around the mall, they had ended up at a small booth that sold watches. the cashier smiled at the couple as they approached.

"Hi," the cashier beamed. "What can I do for you?"

She was flushed and exasperated. She told the cashier they wanted the cheapest watch available and threw down a fistful of bills and stormed off. The cashier counted the money and placed a small box containing a cheap plastic watch on the counter.

He watched his ex walking briskly away from him and called out to her.

"Do you want them to wrap it for me?"

Wizards

In an effort to not offend people who happen to read my blog and notice themselves and threaten me about "seditious libel", I've decided to just post short stories about wizards from now on...

Zerleft the Enchanter stood atop Seer's Mountain, overlooking the battle that erupted below him. The Orlagons of Kefferdom were kicking the shit out of the armies of Epknick'radoogan. His spell had worked. He'd been able to prevent the Orlagons from harm with his Cloak of Invincibilty spell. He should have been happy. The Orlagons, afterall, were his employers. And his work would certainly be rewarded after the battle.

But he was not happy. He was frustrated.

There he stood, high atop Seer's Mountain, in his new brown cloak and matching ghillies. He was crestfallen. He'd cast an incredibly difficult spell and had been successful in averting an all-out slaughter by the Epknick'radoogan armies. But he wished he'd chosen his black cloak on the way out of his lair this morning.

He had spent several anguishing minutes debating between the black and the brown cloaks on his way to the battle, finally chosing the brown because it was new and matched his footwear.

But it really didn't make him look cool, he thought. The black definitely would've been a better choice. He just wasn't warming to the brown cloak at all.

As the battle raged below him, he wondered if he had time to go back to the lair and switch cloaks before anyone saw him.

His dragon had called in sick today so he'd have to walk, but if he really hoofed it he'd probably make it, he reasoned. So he ran. He ran as fast as he could...

The Cheater

My brother Steve is visiting and we were riding the subway into the city. There were several attractive girls sitting about the car we were in and we both were checking them out during the ride.

Steve turned to me and said: "Have you ever eye-cheated on a girl?"

"What?"

"Ya know, when a cute girl gets on the train and you're checking her out and maybe you make eye contact and look back and forth, but then a more attractive girl gets on and you check HER out, but you feel bad because you were already checking out the other girl and she sees you check the new girl and you make eye contact with her again and you want to say 'Baby, it's nothing like it looks. She means nothing to me!' but she turns away and doesn't want to flirt with you anymore. Ever have that happen to you?"

We laughed and watched a new girl get on the train and take her seat across from us.

Givin' 'Em Guff

I recruit people for focus groups. It's tough sometimes recruiting people who've never done them before. They can't believe someone would pay them $150 just for their opinions. Yesterday a co-worker came up against much resistance from car salesmen. One of them told him, "If it sounds to good to be true, it probably isn't." Made me think of an imagined retort.

"Would you like to participate in an hour-long discussion group? In compensation for your involvement we are paying you $150."

"Ya know, I always say, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't."

"I understand your skepticism, sir. Lemme ask you this: Are you a religious man?"

"Yes, why?"

"Do you believe in heaven?"

"Yes."

"Well, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably isn't. Have a nice day."

Now That's Love...

You know you've got a good woman when she'll break you out of jail, gun down a few correctional officers, and flee with you to a motel.

I don't think I've EVER experienced that level of devotion.

I just wish there was a longer manhunt, or some kind of showdown. They could make this into a reality show. Sort of a cross between The Amazing Race, COPS and Jerry Springer. Each week a new couple will try to break each other out of jail and see how long they can elude the police.

THAT is television I'd watch.

Spammers

So I've been getting a lot of spammers posting to my blog with links to their cheesy-ass sites promoting products. And I love how they try to come off like they actually read my blog and found a common theme:

"Hey! Read you blog! Great stuff! You sound cool. If you ever need a new heart valve, come check me out Peace!"

This comment is actually one of my favorites (from Saturday's post):

Companies using tech analysis on themselves
The tiniest of flaws in a massive forklift truck is crucial information for Ryan McLawhorn, quality improvement manager at NACCO Industries Inc.
Hey, nice blog here! I'll be back.

I have a fan lights site/blog. It covers fan lights related stuff.

Come and check it out when you get time.

What the fuck? Were you so lazy that you couldn't even compose some sort of message that sounded even remotely authentic? You just copied and pasted parts of an article you were reading at the time, like some weird cut-rate William S. Burroughs of the advertising world, then added: "Oh yeah. Come check out my site!"

No.

I will NOT check you out. I have no need for a cieling fan and your desperate attempts to lure me into checking out your site by pretending to be my friend is really quite pathetic.

Good day, sir.

Open Letter To My Computer

It appears that our relationship is not improvng. Over the 2 years that we have been together, you have fucked me on an almost daily basis. Why do you hate me? I do not hate you, even though I curse at you rather frequently. That is only because you continue to screw up my life. I think you enjoy it.

It is true that I am not particularly fond of your kind. But do not get me wrong. I am not prejudiced. I dislike all computers equally. It is not because you are a Mac that I find you loathsome from time to time, in fact I think your particular race is more acceptable. At least y'all are nice to look at. I have been fucked over by just as many of your PC brethren over the years as well.

I think perhaps we got off on the wrong foot.

Two years ago I took you into my home. I paid extra for you too! I thought, "This is an investment. You get what you pay for." So I laid down $3,000 for you to come into my life.

Within the first two weeks you had your first "accident". In one of your tempermental rages you decided you wanted a new harddrive and sabotaged all the work I had done so that I would Get a new one for you. I did so. Luckily, I had not done much work in those first two weeks and everything you destroyed was salvagable.

But, with your new harddrive, you were still not happy. You continued to flake out on a monthly basis, destroying my life in the process. Everytime I thought things were "cool" between us, you threw another shit fit and decided not to work.

You are an insufferable little bitch now and then. But what am I to do? I am like an abused housewife, afraid to leave. Without you I'm nothing. I don't have the money to replace you. And I know in my heart you'll change...

We never properly established our roles at the beginning of this relationship. I am your employer. You are my employee. You do work for me and I pay you by giving you a roof over your head, keeping you off the streets.

I am not interested in your life. I don't want to know what you did over the weekend, or hear stories about your family. I do not want to be your friend. You are my employee. Let's keep this on a professional level.

All I ask is that you work!

If you continue to take these random "vacations", have the decency to leave my things behind, so that I may easily gather them and go elsewhere.

I don't know what to do.

I am one strand away from snapping. If you fear for your life, you will learn to be more hospitable. Because I swear to you, on my grave, the next time you decide you want to fuck around with my life, I am going to get analog on your ass and smash you to bits with this Louisville Slugger and toss the scraps to the street below. I kid you not.

This is a warning.

Oh Yeah...

I got called a hipster at work the other day.

I stroll into work in a pair of ripped jeans and blue polo shirt, wearing my new kicks, and this girl i work with says: "Oh God, you're all hip now. You used to look cool and crazy and badass. Now you're all 'Look at me, I'm Dave, I'm a pretty hipster!'"

I thought that was funny.

Sepetmber is Mustache Month

That's right. My friend Tim at work suggested we all grow and wear mustaches through the month of September. So that's what we're doing. I've decided to suggest this to as many of my guy friends as possible and see if everyone does it. It'll be like a club. Your 'stache is your membership card.

As that is the only area where I can grow a substantial amount of facial hair I am kinda excited.

The scary thing is that I will probably look exactly like my father.

History of the Mustache

Recreational Drug Use

PART 1: WAITING FOR THE MAN

An old flame of his was coming to visit for the night. She would be in New York for business and had gotten in touch with him via email to see if she could stay with him. They'd had a brief relationship their first year of college and had stayed in touch at random over the years. Whenever they saw each other they'd have sex and it was always good. They hadn't seen or heard from each other in almost five years, though, and he was a little taken aback when she first contacted him.

She lived in Cinicinatti, Ohio, and he'd written her off, assuming she'd gotten married and had started a family. Turns out this was not the case. There seemed to be a little flirtation going on between them in their email correspondence and he was excited to see her again and "catch up".

He was almost certain they'd have sex that night. Of course they'd have sex that night. Why else had she gotten in touch with him and been so eager to stay with him?

He decided he'd be prepared and called up a guy he knew who had a Viagra prescription. Not that he needed it. But damn if he was gonna fuck this up! He had sex so infrequently he was worried he'd get drunk, not be able to perform and have to wait another year before an opportunity to copulate presented itself again.

His left a message on his Viagra friend's cell phone asking for "a little help".

Two days passed and he never heard from the guy. His old flame's business meeting would be over in a few hours and he was getting worried. On the way to the hotel where her meeting was, however, his "dealer" called and they arranged to meet at a bar on St. Mark's place later that evening.

He picked up the girl at the hotel and they went out for dinner and caught up. everything was going swimmingly. After a few drinks at the restaurant he suggested they go to the Village "to this cool little dive bar on St. Mark's."

They arrived and met his "connection". He bought the man's drinks for almost an hour and they all talked and laughed and had a good time. Eventually his woman friend excused herself and went to the bathroom.

"Alright," his erectilely-challenged friend whispered, leaning closer. "Let's do this."

The man pulled a white pill from his shirt pocket and handed it to him.

"Just take half at first," the man informed him. "If you need more of a boost later, take the rest. But half should do ya good."

"Thanks."

"Oh, and you'll probably have a killer hangover tomorrow. Or maybe not. I always do, though."

"Oh...really?"

"Yeah. But small price to pay." The man laughed.

The woman came back to the bar, where they sat, and they finished their drinks. The Viagra supplier downed the rest of his drink and excused himself. He had somewhere to be, but it was nice to meet her. And then he left.

PART 2: A NOT SO SURE THING

When they got back to his apartment they continued drinking. They flirted and talked about their respective love lives over the last five years. They watched some television, smoked and drank, and at one point, when she had gone to the bathroom, he ate half the pill, washing it down with his beer.

When she returned she informed him that she was feeling tired. He grinned and could feel a tingly sensation start to brew in his crotch.

"Is this where I'm sleeping?" she asked, pointing at the futon.

"Um...uh..."

NO! his brain screamed. You'll be sleeping in the bedroom. With me.

"I guess," his voice said. "If that's what you want."

"Yeah, I'm not feeling well," she said, then laughed. "We had a good time tonight, huh?"

"Yeah," he said. "I guess."

The tingling sensation was growing. So was his "friend". He had to put a stop to this!

"You really should sleep in the bedroom. It's more comfortable. It'd be nice to wake up next to you in the morning."

She smiled nervously.

"And I promise I won't try anything if that's what you're worried about," he added quickly.

"I'd rather sleep out here," she said matter-of-factly. "On the futon."

He turned, dejected, and got an extra pillow out of his room and a sheet from the hall closet. He gave them to her.

Apparently she hadn't wanted to sleep with him after all. He wasn't surprised. But he wished he hadn't popped that pill already.

"Sleep tight," he said. He gave her a hug and tried to plant a kiss, but she pulled back skeptically, unsure of his intentions. She moved in slowly and he gave her the weakest, tiniest peck on the lips.

"Goodnight," she said.

PART 3: ONANISM

So there'd be no sex tonight. There hadn't been sex in almost ten months. There'd only been six separate sexual encounters over the last five years. And now here he was with a raging hard-on and a beautiful girl asleep in the next room!

He sat with this self-inflicted thrombosis of the genitals that he couldn't put to use.

He wasn't going to let this go to waste, he thought. He would give himself the most mind-numbing masturbation ever!

But his pornography collection was secretly stashed in the other room. Where this beautifu girl was sleeping. On the futon.

He walked through the kitchen to the bathroom and picked up The Village Voice off the kitchen table on his way.

He spread the paper out on the bathroom sink and stood over the toilet. He flipped to the back of the paper where all the sex line numbers and nude pictures were. He kept flipping through the pages looking for a good picture to toss off to. To his disappointment, 95% of the ads were for transexual he/shes. This just didn't do it for him. And why did New York have such a huge ratio of tranny sex phone lines? Was this really representative of the Voice's readership's fantasies?

As he flipped the pages he looked at the ads for escort services.

He wondered if he had any money to spend on a prostitute?

He believed prostitution should be legalized. In fact, at this very moment he strongly felt it should also be subsidized. Wouldn't it be great if you could take out a "hooker loan" from the government? He could consolidate it with his student loan and get a forebearance every year. He thought about the interest he would conceivably accrue on said loan. He'd gladly spend the next 32 years paying off a loan on a blowjob if it meant he'd be able to avoid the blue balls this Viagra-induced erection would most certainly cause.

His mind kept wandering like that throughout the course of the "task", so it took him an extremely long time to finally achieve the much needed release, but when he did accomplish it he was more than ready for bed.

PART 4: PLEASE KILL ME

The man who'd given him the pill was not kidding when he warned about the hangover. He felt like a bucket of pounded assholes. He had the most excruciating headache when he awoke the next morning. And, of course, a fully erect penis. He got up and went to the bathroom, expecting it to go down after he'd emptied his bladder, as per usual. It didn't. In fact, it stayed hard for most of the morning, so he pretended he was asleep, even after the woman in the next room had gotten up, taken a shower, fixed herself some coffee, and watched half of "Zoolander" on pay-per-view.

He took several Advil and rode with her on the train back to the airport. She said how good it was to see him again and how much she had missed him and how glad she was to be back in touch with him and all he could do was try to concentrate on not getting a hard-on. Everytime he saw a half-decent-looking woman get on the subway car, everytime he saw the slightest bit of leg (and this being summer, it was constant) he felt himself getting aroused. He would try to think about how the Mets were doing or the free checking offered at the bank on that advertisement on the cieling of the car or how many miles he thought he walked in an average day, anything to keep his mind off sex!

When they got to the airport they said goodbye to each other and he kissed her on the forehead, knowing that she didn't want his mouth anywhere near hers. She laughed and went inside and he went back to the train station and wanted nothing more than to sleep off this horrible "hangover".

After he watched one of his porns and wanked it for awhile, of course. Laying in front of the television. On the futon.