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.