La-La Land

There are times where I struggle with what to write about. Then there are the times when the entry for the month really just writes itself...let me begin by saying in March I went to LA.

Now, almost every New York resident has an opinion about LA. The fact that the vast majority of us have never even been there really doesn't concern us; we know in our bones that it's an inferior urban sprawl good for Mexican food, bottle-blondes and little else. My personal opinion has been softened by both the large number of friends I have living there, and the knowledge that, should my "acting career" ever take-off, I would be required to spend a significant amount of time there. So I went to visit Brooke, Adam and company on the west coast and let me tell you, New Yorkers: we can be as arrogant as we like, but you cannot beat the weather. Also, if you fly out on Jet Blue, you might be treated to the amazing flight attendant that I had who sniped at someone in the bitchiest way possible to "Speak up! I can't hear you!" which had me giggling like a Catholic schoolgirl not wearing panties on a windy day. If I could have tipped him for it, I would have.

While in LA, I did many things. Most revolved around a strict schedule of get drunk, sleep, repeat, which is similar to lather, rinse, repeat but is much more expensive and somewhat less hygienic. However, without a doubt the most ridiculous thing I did was go for an overnight stay in a little town called Solvang about two hours north of the city. Thursday we piled into Brooke's car and the two of us set out for our destination, which it just so happens is situated directly in the heart of wine country. Brooke suggested it because a) she understands my sense of humor, b) she shares my sense of humor and c) we both REALLY like wine.

Solvang, as it turns out, is a town that sprang up from a Dutch settlement. Now when I say the term Dutch settlement, please don't confuse this town with, say, New York which sprang up from a Dutch settlement in the 1600's. Solvang was founded in 1911 which means that the Dutch "settled" a piece of land that had been part of the United States for more than 50 years. And let me tell you, I will go to my grave believing that Susan Harris, the creator of The Golden Girls visited Solvang while she was writing the pilot script and that the town inspired Rose Nylund's hometown of St. Olaf, Minnesota. I was half-expecting to be offered Eggs Gerfloofen for breakfast and invited to The Festival of the Dancing Sturgeons. Basically, Solvang looks like a Hans Christian Anderson storybook exploded all over it and no one bothered to clean up. There are windmills. Almost every store has a reference to Copenhagen, vikings or both. I was actually surprised I saw no one in a pair of wooden clogs.

One of the places that Brooke and I visited was a small shop called the Jule Hus (pronounced, if I'm not mistaken, as Yule House). The Jule Hus is a delightful corner store devoted entirely to the sale of Christmas paraphernalia. When we walked in we were greeted by the dulcet sound of Christmas carols...in March. Now, you might be thinking "A whole SHOP dedicated to Christmas ornaments and the like? That's crazy! There aren't enough things to make ornaments out of to make a whole store's inventory for the actual holiday season, let alone year-round!" Which is exactly what I was thinking...and let me tell you, we're all wrong. As it turns out, the owners of the Jule Hus are not fettered by such considerations as having their decorations actually have anything to do with Christmas. Instead, it looks like they basically walked into an episode of Hoarders, picked up as much crap as they could, threw on some glitter and a tree hook and slapped a price tag on it. Among some of the ornaments that we discovered: a zebra dressed as a referee (complete with whistle), a mechanic holding a tire (with extremely red lips, which led us to believe that the mechanic both female and a lesbian), a 3-D rendering of a Norman Rockwell painting with a child preparing to receive an injection (in the butt, which it's worth noting was rendered anatomically correct with a small crack peeking out of the top of his jeans) and a miniature Coke can (just for the taste of it). Needless to say, the adventure was crowned the moment when, while handling a 12-inch tall model of Santa, I caught my first glimpse of an employee: an elderly woman, dressed in traditional Dutch garb. Picture an over-sized, poofy white blouse under a bright blue dress, with colorful stitching to bring some excitement. I dropped Santa, and needed to give myself a time-out.

After our holiday adventures, Brooke and I got dinner; since Solvang is a small town, everything closes at approximately sunset, which left us with nothing to do but retire to our room at The Royal Copenhagen Inn and start into the various and sundry bottles we had purchased. It's important to note that, because of our early dinner we didn't real feel much of the first bottle. However, neither Brooke or I are particularly known for our high alcohol tolerance...once we got through about half of the second, things were looking considerably more hazy. We ended up watching The Marriage Ref on NBC...take it from us, host Tom Papa's laugh is so irritating you can't even pay attention to the completely unqualified celebrities offering questionable advice. We decided to practice a few songs for karaoke the following evening, offering our renditions such classics as "Does He Love You" and "Bad Romance," and yet somehow managed to not garner a noise complaint. We dove into a third bottle with gusto and somewhere around 3/4 of the way through with that drunkenly passed out in our beds at 1 o'clock in the morning.

At approximately 3 AM in the morning, I woke up having to use the bathroom. I can't say exactly what my decision making process was at that point, but suffice it to say that the idea that there was a bathroom in our hotel room did not cross my mind. Wearing pair of gym shorts and nothing else, I blithely walked out of our room into the 45 degree night, onto the second floor balcony. I wandered around for a moment or two, quite frustrated that the inconsiderate architect of the building had not made the public bathroom obvious. I couldn't say how quickly I realized that there was an easier way for me to take care of business...I'm going to be generous and say it took about 15 seconds. Deep down, I'm pretty sure it was closer to a minute. However, even this realization didn't faze me...rather than having a moment of "Oh, hell, what am I doing," I calmly returned to the room and found that by some miracle the door was open. I walked back in, did my business and passed out. The whole event was so common to me that when I woke up I wasn't even 100% sure it had actually happened which led me to a realization: while I enjoy being jaded about most things, I'm not certain that stumbling around drunk and mostly naked is something I would like to be blasé about. I feel like it leads to headlines and sex tapes.

After we returned from Solvang, our adventures continued. I sang karaoke, which is something I only do under the influence of a great deal of liquid courage. I ended up doing "Midnight Train to Georgia," though I sometimes forgot that I was supposed to be Gladys Knight and would slide into the role of a Pip. Brooke and I went to go see Cats, which had been the first musical for both of us many years ago. Turns out that Cats is not only a bad musical (which we knew), but is also chock-full of sexual imagery, including a feline orgy to round out the first act (which we did not). And ultimately, I landed in NYC out $600 as a charge for my own rampant stupidity, since I apparently can't tell the difference between March 21st and April 18th when booking a return flight. And making that reservation is pretty much the only thing in this whole post that I did stone-cold sober. You can draw your own conclusions from that...I'm going to choose to believe that I'm meant to have a delicious bottle of wine with me at all times. Even when not on vacation.

I Heart NY

February, the month of the dreaded Valentine's Day. I know what you're all thinking: this is going to be an onslaught of bitchery at the level of Alexis Carrington on two hours of sleep and a heavy-flow day. Well, here's a surprising little piece of trivia for you...Valentine's Day doesn't bother me all that much. I know, it's supposed to be the day that all of us single people cry into our wine/ice cream/pornography, wondering where our love might be hiding. However, thanks to my time in the service industry, I've become completely jaded to the entire event. Ask almost any waiter and they'll tell you: Valentine's Day is depressing because it's the day that couples who should no longer be together celebrate their love. It's the event in which people who haven't said "I love you" for the past 364 days realize they've been lax, and decide to say "I LOVE YOU!!!" so loudly and often that they can get away with not saying it for another year. As far as I'm concerned, there are a million wonderful ways to tell someone you love them...these ways do not include dinner reservations, a brownie in the shape of a heart or a pre-fixe menu.

So this Valentine's Day was okay for me; I made cookies and danced to Tina Turner, which is pretty much guaranteed to put me in a good mood. And I started thinking about my life, and I decided that I'm actually pretty happy with it (don't worry, this short foray into rainbows, flowers and lollipops will be short-lived). And I thought about why I'm happy, and one of the reasons I came up with was "I live in New York!" Which is kind of awesome. I mean, not only because it means that I don't live in a fly-over state, or the suburbs, or the tenth circle of hell, but because I feel like after 11 and a half years here I can finally claim to be a New Yorker.

What makes one a New Yorker? I believe it's said that you have to live here for 10 years before you can call yourself a true New Yorker. However, I think there's something a little more difficult about being a true denizen of this city than simply managing to survive a decade living here. So I present to you, in no particular order, some of the reasons that I think that I'm a New Yorker.

I think that I'm a New Yorker because I was walking down the street yesterday, and I saw a man standing by a building, slightly hunched over, and I immediately assumed that he was urinating. There really are a million reasons that someone would have pulled over on the sidewalk...he could be texting, or reading a map (though we all know that people who need maps in New York generally aren't intelligent enough to get the hell out of the way while they use them), or trying to find his Metrocard. But do I think that's what he was doing? No, I think he's taking a moment out of his busy day to take a public leak on a freezing February morning in broad daylight. This is not normal. This implies that not only have I seen men pissing publicly, but that I've seen so many that I've actually become jaded to it and now treat it as, if not really a classy thing to do, at least something that doesn't give me much pause on Tuesday at 7 am. By the way, as I walked past, I noticed that he wasn't actually draining the main vein, he was walking one of those white, poofy, drop-kick dogs. It was so small I didn't see it until I actually passed him. How someone can feel even remotely masculine when walking a dog that could pull off the name "Fifi McFabulous" is completely beyond me.

I think that I'm a New Yorker because I know that in the Times Square subway station, right by the Grand Central Shuttle platform, there's a cell phone hot-spot where you can get reception to shoot off a quick "I'm late!" text message. Not in the "I'm late...and pregnant!" way...the other way. Look, I have no desire for cell phones to get reception on trains. Can you imagine the inane, shouted conversations that you would be subjected to if the general populace had the ability to get on the phone while on a noisy subway?

Representative of the General Populace: "Oh my God, I was like, I don't know, but I tried to call him and his phone went to voice mail, and I didn't know what to say, so I was like I'll just text him, but then I went to text him and realized that I didn't know his name, because I just put him in my phone as "Hot Guy," and I wasn't paying attention to his voice mail message, so I didn't get his name from that, so I was going to call him back so I could hear his name, but I don't know, what if he sees that I called him, like, twice in 30 seconds, and then he'll think I'm like a stalker or something, and I don't want that because I really like him, so like don't be mad, but would you call him for me and listen to his voice mail message and let me know what his name is, so I can text him, because I think he would make a really good boyfriend!"
Me: {takes out gun, shoots RotGP, looks around expectantly for a thank you}

Suffice it to say, I don't think anyone wants that. However, despite my happiness with the lack of cell phone reception underground, there are times when the ability to contact the outside world is more than appreciated. Granted, it's usually appreciated "because of an earlier incident," or "due to train traffic ahead" but nevertheless...appreciated. Just last week I was running to a table read, and "due to a sick passenger" (GROAN! SERIOUSLY!?) my train was delayed. I aimed for Times Square, shot off a quick text message and hopped on the shuttle. I was still 15 minutes late, but at least no one was surprised.

I think I'm a New Yorker because I appreciate intelligent graffiti, and conversely am disgusted by the moronic. I wonder if any taste for graffiti comes from having a freshman roommate who was a graffiti "artist"...but then I think about the fact that I didn't much like him and I doubt it. In fact, one day I will write a post about my freshman year roommates called 'The Witch, The Communist and Me" and I can get deeper into this whole tangent, but as a short appetite-whetter, let me say that one of them was a graffiti-artist and the other one admitted to watching me while I slept. Worst. Year. Sleeping. Ever. In any case, as I wander through New York, I find myself really enjoying clever graffiti. Obviously, this whole month was rife with promotions for the movie Valentine's Day, which, if you don't know, featured just about actor in Hollywood this side of Dakota Fanning. At the bottom of a poster, which listed something around 15 movie stars, someone scrawled "And a partridge in a pear tree!" I found this amusing. On a poster for It's Complicated someone wrote "Sophie's Next Choice!" Again, amusing with a nice pop culture reference. On the other hand, drawing male genitalia on the little girl who's on the poster for Jackie Chan's The Spy Next Door...that's just sophomoric.

I think I'm a New Yorker because I now prefer barren trees covered in LED lights to a good old-fashioned Christmas tree to get me in the holiday spirit. In fact, most of the time, I simply find the suddenly numerous displays of evergreens to be a real imposition upon a sidewalk that is already crowded with tourists, Greenpeace representatives seeing if you have a moment for them to guilt you into pledging $20 a month and the homeless. The sudden abundance of coniferous trees everywhere, while it does do something to mask the natural urban musk of the big city, is really simply too much for New York's spatial limitations. Not to mention the fact that it's impossible to actually remove all the stray needles from your house before the vernal equinox. I'm convinced that pine needles are the at the root of the "spring cleaning" craze. I vastly prefer my simple, bare trees, so drowned in lights that they look like holiday glow sticks speckling the avenues of New York. Even better if there's a fresh snow, which makes every corner look like an entrance into Narnia...I half expect a timid faun to greet me as I pass underneath, or an albino woman to ride by on a sledge tempting schoolchildren with Turkish delight.

I think I'm a New Yorker because I have way more use for a ""Bullshit-o-meter" and a "You'reAFuckingMoron-o-meter" than an odometer. I think I'm a New Yorker because I get irritated when TV and movies try to make other cities look like New York. And, most of all, I think I'm a New Yorker because I believe that thinking I'm a New Yorker warrants an entire posting on my blog.

Karma Chameleon

I don't do much charity work. In an effort to get me to meet more people, my mother suggested a few years ago that maybe I should volunteer; I considered it, but then remembered that I find the majority of people to be as irritating as raspy toilet paper, and rejected the idea out of hand. However, a few months ago, my friend Lisa came to me with another idea: the Cycle for Survival. Basically, she wanted to participate in a charity cycling event to raise money for cancer. I agreed to join the team, thinking that this would be a nice thing to do and a good way to earn some karma points for the next time I tell someone that they are a pointless waste of time and oxygen, and should do everyone a favor and have themselves gelded to be certain they produce no progeny. I sent out my fund-raising letter (by the way, thanks to everyone who contributed! And for those of you that didn't, don't worry, I'm sure they don't really mean it when they say every little bit helps; cancer's barely a problem anymore), I cleared my schedule and when the day arrived, I got up at the butt-crack of dawn and rode an indoor bicycle for two hours. The experience itself was fun, but the expected karmic reward has been wanting.

First of all, ABC went ahead and canceled Ugly Betty. I wasn't surprised...after basically holding the series' head underwater for the better part of a year, I couldn't really be shocked when the suits finally put a bullet right between the eyes. However, while I understand the business reasons for the move, I can't emotionally accept it. Ugly Betty is (was! sob!) one of the most consistently solid dramedies on the air, good for a few laughs and tears every Thursday. However, America decided they would rather watch CSI: Tulsa or NCIS: Helena than support an awesome, ground-breaking show. And this, after I went ahead and donated my time to find a cure for cancer. Here's a cure for a lot of cancer: stop smoking, you fucking morons. You know what might help you get through that tough time? A great, feel-good show that revels in it's own sunny outlook, and where the heroine always comes out on top. Too bad that all shows with a modicum of heart and originality will be canceled by the time America at large realizes what they're missing. I tell you, between Ugly Betty, Pushing Daisies, Eli Stone, Samantha Who and the more-than-probable fate of Better Off Ted, ABC can claim responsibility for the dwindling ember of my optimism being snuffed out like the token black guy in a horror movie. Oh, in case anyone's wondering what ABC has in development...they're producing a sit-com starring Nicole Richie. A sit-com. Starring. Nicole. Richie. The only thing funny about Nicole Richie is how skull-crushingly unattractive she is, and let's face it, that's only going to get you so far. Having a mirror spontaneously shatter when your star looks into it, or having characters turn to stone when they make eye contact with her is only funny maybe two or three times. Otherwise, Comedy Central would have produced Medusa! years ago.

Amidst the news about Ugly Betty, I also went on a few dates with a cop. "Oooooh, hot!" you might be thinking. Unfortunately, as it turns out, this particular cop was about as hot as a luge track with the dating skills of a head of iceberg lettuce. First of all, I absolutely despise it when people make assumptions about you after having had half a conversation.

Me: Well, my friends and I all have fairly bitchy senses of humor.
Cop: I don't think you're bitchy.
Me: No, I am. You just haven't seen me on a tear.
Cop: You're not bitchy. You're sweet. You're a real sweetheart.
Me: (silence)

Seriously? I think the last person that called me sweet and meant it was my second grade teacher. I don't have a self-confidence problem...I can see many wonderful qualities in myself; sweetness is not one of them. And, if you don't mind officer, I think I might have a better handle on myself than you do, since I've known me for 29 years and you've known me for two hours.

Secondly, there is nothing romantic about complimenting someone as if you're composing a sonnet. A simple, easy "Oh, you look nice" goes significantly farther than something that requires four minutes for you to work your way through.

Cop: You know how you go to the country and you can see, like, a million stars? Then you go to the city and you can see, like, ten? You're one of the stars I see.

Holy choking back projectile vomiting, Batman. This is not a Nicholas Sparks book, I am not a slutty cheerleader, and you sir, are not William Shakespeare. This kind of thing went on for the majority of the time we were together, and I really tried to appreciate it. After all, it isn't every day that someone is going to heap compliments on you...however, when they're that over-the-top it really just starts to read as the desperate over-compensation of a person who knows that they are dating way out of their league. And here's a hint: if you've managed to bag someone who's dating down to you, the LAST thing you want to do is call attention to it. Act as if you always date people like them, and it's the most natural thing in the world for them to be with you. If you're good enough at it, you might fool them into believing it too.

Finally, when I do call you up to cut things off, and we've only been on two dates, I am not the person to pour your heart out to about your disillusionment with relationships. No, I didn't mean to dump you while you were in the grocery store, but you know what? These things happen. Sack up. You're in the grocery store, go to the ice cream aisle, buy a tub, go home and phone a friend. Do not, under any circumstances, operate under the assumption that I owe you a shoulder to cry on because you've convinced yourself that the two abysmal dates we went on were the stuff legends are made of. I've already done my charity biking for the year...you're not getting a ride as well.

After the cancellation of Ugly Betty and yet another date-for-the-record-books, I was fast losing hope in the promise of some kind of karmic reward for my good deeds. Then a real cascade of shots to the nuts occurred. I was up for a production of "Kimberly Akimbo," and lost out in the final call-back. Smack! The "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" hearings started and I was again forced to listen to politicians. Thunk! I perused a rash of online dating profiles in which hot guys claimed to be into "camping and the outdoors" (maybe you shouldn't live in New York CITY then, you stinking, indoor-plumbing-hating hippie). Whack! I've never in my life been so tempted to go into a sporting goods store and buy a cup.

Here's the thing, folks. I realize that in life, sometimes you take the elevator and sometimes you take the shaft. But I thought I might have been entitled to a little bit of good luck after swallowing my pride and trying to do something to help the world. But fine, universe. I get it. Good deeds are their own goddamn reward and that entire crock of shit. Now, since we've already beaten that dead horse into a bloody, unrecognizable mass, do you think maybe you could throw me a bone?

'Tis the Season

I almost always enjoy a party, be it in my pants or otherwise. But, ah, December. The time where the spirit of giving is brutally commercialized to the point of non-existence, and the mad dash for $99 DVD players leads to people being trampled by stampedes of their own making. 'Tis the season, as they say. 'Tis also the season, it turns out, for awful holiday parties. I've managed to avoid this fruitcake-esque tradition for basically my entire adult life, but suffice it to say that this year I've made up for lost time.

Being uncannily popular has been my cross to bear for quite a few years now; however, through a series of service-industry jobs and a dedicated effort to avoid things that suck has kept me clear of such gatherings. Being a waiter means that you try to work the nights that most people throw their parties, as they tend to be the most lucrative. It also means that you are privy to the mind-numbingly boring conversation between co-workers as they try to act as if they actually like each other enough to have fun for a two-hour meal. They usually run out of things to talk about about half-way through appetizers, and spend the rest of the time trying to tell the same stories to the people sitting on the other end of the table, resulting in a deafening babble of small talk that is enough to make someone want to defenestrate themselves out of the 30th floor of an office building.

However, now that I've left waiting tables behind, I've also left myself open for far more of these invitations, including one from my very own place of work, a midtown hotel. After a banner year of laying off dozens of employees, decreasing the rate at which vacation is accumulated, no longer providing food to the workers at a 24-hour business and generally being all-around douchebags, The Powers That Be at the hotel decided that their staff might need a little morale pick-me-up. You really can't pull the wool over their eyes. So the HR Director sent out some invitations. The HR Director, it's worth noting, spends a third of her time banging the bellman, a third of it snorting coke with her boyfriend and a third of it on Facebook. You'll notice that none of those things have anything to do with her job. That is, unless you count letting the bellman lay some pipe as improving morale, but really that's only improving the morale of one person; the rest of us are just nauseated. These invitations promised that they would be awarding "THOUSANDS of dollars in prizes" to the lucky employees, and that no one should miss it. My friend Christopher quickly informed me that the "THOUSANDS of dollars in prizes" amounted to left over gift bags from last fall's abysmal Fashion Week, which means they would consist of hair products, cheap perfume and extra-large shirts that no one in the fashion industry is porcine enough to wear.

Luckily, I don't care enough about my job to actually have bothered to put in an appearance at this soiree. Also luckily, my friends Christopher and Nicole had to go, so I was able to laugh hysterically at the pitiful outcome. First of all, so few employees showed up that they were attempting to conceal extra bags of prizes under any furniture that presented itself as a possible hiding place. Then the general manager (a classic case of a Napoleon Complex leading to hair plugs) frantically kept polling the department managers asking if any of their employees were en route, probably while trying to determine whether he could return any of his "THOUSANDS of dollars in prizes" for cash at the Duane Reade. And finally, in the ultimate masterstroke of partying, Christopher and Nicole were sick for days following, probably thanks to the dim lighting not allowing for a complete inspection of suspicious foodstuffs.

But really, that's a party that I didn't even go to, so how worked up can I really get about it? Also, allow me to just say now that I did attend a few holiday parties this year that I thoroughly enjoyed. Most of those featured an appropriate number of people, excellent food and delicious wine. However, I did attend a few holiday parties this year that did not meet my exacting standards.

First of all, is it not the duty of the host to invite a number of guests appropriate for the space they have available? If I was throwing a party at my parents' house, I would invite all of my friends, tell them to bring along fun people, and hire a bouncer in case someone who sucks slipped through the cracks. On the other hand, if I was throwing a party in a one-bedroom Brooklyn apartment, I would take stock of the number of chairs I had available and invite accordingly. I would then make certain that none of my invitees saw fit to bring five more people along...not that I think Adam is going to attempt that again anytime soon, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let him live it down. He'll be hearing about that for the next decade or so. But I digress. What I would definitely NOT do is invite 35 people to a space that comfortably holds 15, and only seats ten. When I'm stumblingly drunkenly away from a blindingly boring conversation, I'd like to gracefully alight in a chair as opposed to face-planting on the carpet while holding a glass of red wine, hence wasting alcohol. And probably ruining your carpet, but in the immortal words of Sue Sylvester, I don't care so much about that.

Secondly, since you already have your guests packed into the room like sardines, is it really necessary to hire a waitress to further crowd the proceedings? Not only does it make the already packed to the gills feeling of the festivities even worse, now you have innocent guests introducing themselves to the waitress, then noticing that she's wearing an apron and helplessly fumbling through that awkward moment while she quickly scoots away from the creepy guy that she THOUGHT was gay but is now hitting on her. And not only is there a waitress, but the food that's being served is frozen appetizers from the local grocery store. Look: pigs in the blanket have a great place in American cuisine...that place is land-locked states. You can also add them to the list of things that should not be allowed within a twenty-foot radius of me; this list includes, but is not limited to, acid-washed denim, any movie with a pun in the title and Scarlett Johansson. But really, let's decide what kind of party we're having. Is it a party where the fine gourmet options include anything in nugget form? If so, your party does not need help. Rather, it does need help, it just doesn't need THE help.

And finally, I am not the entertainment. If I am there for entertainment, please contact me at least two weeks in advance and we can discuss my fee. Also, we can discuss the quality of food I will be expecting to be fed. But perhaps anyone who feels awkward in party situations should come with an index cards of fun topics that they can bring up and funny stories that they can tell should the conversation lag. That way, when I tell an interesting story, the only response is not appreciative laughter and then expectant looks as I'm expected to continue entertaining a group of people that should, ostensibly, have lives of their own. Take note, ladies: I'm gay, your tits do not entertain me. It was like being on a bad date with a group of straight couples who had somehow come to the conclusion that the time they all went to the ski lodge, got crazy on a couple of wine coolers and retired at 10:00 (PM!!) was riveting comedy. This does not make you a good conversationalist...this makes you your parents, only you're 29 and they're 60.

Ultimately, I survived the party by drinking heavily. However, it's worth noting a few other tidbits that I noticed during this holiday season. 1) Ladies, if you are, as Tim Gunn would say, a bit zaftig, it's a safe bet that you shouldn't wear a bubble dress. 2) When having a grab bag gift exchange, everyone should try to avoid politically themed presents. By this, I reference the fact that Sarah Palin's opus Going Rogue is not an appropriate gift; I don't put a Morning After Pill in there with a sign that says "For Those Nights You're Just Not Sure," do I? No? Then please keep your horribly offensive propaganda to yourself as well. And 3) can we all just stop sending Christmas cards? I see them and all I perceive is a gigantic waste of paper for no reason. Send me an e-card, preferably one that features the word "fuck," because that puts me in the spirit of the holiday.

Now if everyone can just learn something from these little tales, I think we can all become better party-throwers and party-goers next year. Or at least I hope so. If if doesn't get better, my heart has no chance of growing three sizes next year, and it could probably use it.

Insult, Meet Injury

As is well-documented, I internet date. On one website, while giving responses in the "Random Questions" portion I came upon the following query: "In casual conversations, are you more forthcoming with detail of your sex life or your financial situation?" I blinked, as it struck me as a somewhat odd question for a dating website, but they did tell me that the whole section was random, so I responded. "I'm pretty open about either," I typed, "especially if one of those topics can lead to something humorous. Sadly, both usually can."

I'm nothing if not honest.

I know I complain a lot about my love life on this blog. Hell, I complain a lot about life, period, on this blog. But every once in a while there occurs a confluence of events so kick-you-in-the-crotch fantastic, it really makes me believe that heaven is probably just a comedy club, where whatever higher power you happen to believe in is headlining for eternity. Or maybe they all just rotate. Didn't like Buddha's set about wanting to compete on The Biggest Loser: Divinities? Just you wait, Jesus kills every night with his bit about getting out a stain that was wine and is now blood. Then, during intermission, the assemblage gets to stare down at the chaos they have wrought on this mortal plane.

That chaos came to a head for me a few nights ago on a little website I like to call Gay Harmony. Now you might know this website by it's real name, compatiblepartners.net, but as I have discussed before, I don't like that name, hence: Gay Harmony. I've been on Gay Harmony for quite a while now. I signed up for a 6-month free trial membership, and then paid for a month of service, both of which yielded nothing except the worst date of my life (Carrots! Coupons!) and the realization that if I keep slamming my face against a brick wall, eventually my looks are going to suffer. So I decided that I needed to take some time away from internet dating, a cleanse if you will, and see if (despite all evidence of personal history to the contrary) I might be able to find a date without the assistance of the interwebs.

Now, for those of you that haven't been internet dating (I'm looking at you, Mom), Gay Harmony is a website that doesn't allow one person to take a step in their "Guided Communication" process until the other person has also completed the step prior. While I understand their point in this, I find it infuriating. Sitting there, in limbo, while some moron I don't even know twiddles his thumbs and is too lazy to answer three short questions makes me want to chew nails. So, what does one do, when one has completed Step 3, and is waiting for the other person to do so as well? One drinks heavily, and then one "Nudges" the tardy party (yeah, I said it). The nudge doesn't actually accomplish anything other than to alert the other person that there is waiting going on.

So once I decided to leave the website, I started nudging people like it was my job. If I could have sent them a nudge with a message saying "Shit or get off the pot" I happily would have. Of course, all of my nudging was for naught. The expiration date came and went with nary a response to all of my efforts, and thus I was free of the internet dating world. Or so I thought.

Not a week after my membership expired, I got an e-mail from Gay Harmony. "We thought you would like to know," they helpfully wrote, "that you have received a communication from Jeffrey!" Jeffrey is one of the men that I had been waiting to actually DO something for about 4 weeks. Immediately I thought to myself "Self, get it together. You are free of this website, do not allow yourself to get sucked back in." However, despite this excellent advice, I remained torn. What if this worked out really well? After all, we had already gone through numerous steps together, there must be something there, right? Three days passed with me in a constant wrestling match with myself over what to do...I'm not good at letting things go, you see.

Finally, on the third day, I had had enough. I couldn't take not knowing any longer, so I got out my credit card and I signed onto the website. One painful, online transaction later and I was all set, with a renewed membership promising to bring me 30 more days of fruitlesss searching, or as the website calls it "new members every day." I quickly went to my new messages, and looked for the message that had cost so much debate...I will now transpose it for you here, in it's entirety:

"Hope you had a good holiday. Thanx for the nudge."

First of all, "thanx." THANX!?!? I mean, really. It's not easier to type an "x" than it is to type "ks." I say this with complete assurance, because everytime I go to type "thanx," I accidentally type it the other way first. What am I saying, "the other way;" the RIGHT way. The way the word is actually SPELLED. I mean, it wasn't even an abbreviation "thx," or "tnx," or Christ, even "thnx." No time was saved by typing "thanx," nor was there any kind of good impression given by it. All "thanx" says is that the person who typed it is either a) lazy, b) stupid or c) lazy and stupid.

Second of all, this is what took the better part of a month to compose? Did you send that on to all of your friends to make sure that it was leaving a good impression? For Pete's sake, the man is a singer/songwriter, he should at least have a general grasp on, you know, WORDS. It's not like I'm talking about some home-schooled IT professional who has the social graces of an adobe brick. And, yes, I have been on some dates with those people, and may I just say: I go prepared to be the loquacious one in the room. This man is an artist...he should not be sending me a two sentence, 10-word e-mail; he should know better.

And finally, is there any more clear way of just passing the buck? Apparently, he didn't feel like actually taking 5 minutes to compose an e-mail that might actually, oh I don't know, ask a goddamn question or start any kind of intelligent conversation. Instead, he'll just rattle something off, and then put the onus on me to respond. And in that response I can either follow his lead and say "Holiday was good. Your e-mail sux," or I can be this "bigger person" that people keep telling me about and actually try to invest effort into this thing I've already invested money into.

I think it's needless to say that at this point, I was livid. I was beside myself. I was actually sitting next to myself, and yelling at myself "THIS IS BULLSHIT!" and I was yelling back "I KNOW!!" Luckily, I had the presence of mind to step away from the computer before composing my reply. Otherwise, I probably would have written back "Seriously? You owe me $60." Instead, I wrote a brief, and yet quite brilliant message in which I a) responded to his unspoken question about the holidays, b) asked a question that he could respond to and c) managed to not even once make fun of him for writing "thanx."

But really, just one little delinquint correspondent on Gay Harmony does not a blog post make. Not to worry, more ridiculousness to come. The very next morning, I awoke from a quasi-restful slumber, rubbed my eyes and turned on the computer to check my e-mail. And in my e-mail box I had, would you believe it, another e-mail from Gay Harmony! "You have a new match," they excitedly informed me, "Sign on now and get to know him!" And really at this point, I should have known better. But, embodying the triumph of hope over experience, I blindly clicked the link and was immediately greeted with a profile for Dr. Big.

Who's Dr. Big? Oh, I'll just refer you to my You Put the Pride in the Coconut post from July of last year for backstory, but suffice it to say we all have exes, and then we all have Exes. Dr. Big is an Ex of the first degree. He's the uber-Ex. He graduated summa cum laude from Ex University. We're in a good place right now, but let me tell you, I did not need to be greeted by his profile at 7 am; a profile, it's worth noting, where he claims to be 34, says he's looking for a relationship and looks as good on paper as he ever did.

First of all, baby, you ain't 34. And if you're lying about your age, you're really probably not ready to be in a relationship, because if you DO meet someone that you connect with, you're going to have to somehow clear up the whole being 5 years older than you originally claimed thing. And frankly, I have no issue dating someone who's 39, but I would have a large fucking issue dating someone who lied to me for no reason; I'm guessing I'm not alone in that. And finally, WTF Gay Harmony!? Are there no other gay men in New York City?? For the love of George Michael, I don't live in fucking Tulsa!

Of course, the other side of this issue is that I really can't deny that they probably do have some rhyme and reason to their matching, as opposed to simply randomly pairing like zip codes with like genitalia. I don't think anyone can deny that Dr. Big and I certainly possess a large amount of...spark. But that's the limit for me. I'm done with Gay Harmony when this month is over.

Right after I finish communicating with Jeffrey. Hey, you never know.

Rocktober

I find myself somewhat uninspired this month. It could be from any number of reasons, from simple exhaustion to the sneaking feeling that ABC is going to cancel Ugly Betty. By the way, a short public service announcement...should ABC cancel my Betty, I strongly recommend getting into a door frame. The fallout will be terrible, but an earthquake really only takes a few moments. Post-temper tantrum, I will need wine and pie ASAP. Take a memo, New York readers.

Anyway, as I examined my life over the last month and tried to find an angle that I wished to explore for a couple thousand words, I was at a loss. Which, of course, sent me into a spiral of panic. Could my life have really been that bone-crushingly dull over the last 3o days? Have my best days passed me by? Am I doomed to end up contemplating my existence, which will have become so drab that I might actually start to think that Dancing With the Stars is a respectable form of entertainment? Well, obviously, DWtS will forever be inferior to So You Think You Can Dance, so we don't have to worry about that happening.

However, I quickly realized that my life over the last 30 days had not been dull in the least...in fact, it's been jam-packed with so much running around that I'm still bewildered that nothing appears to have HAPPENED. And then I realized: it wasn't that nothing happened. It was that nothing ridiculous happened. It was as if, for one month, some higher power decided to take the "Kick Me" sign off my back, and not send me on any bad dates, demeaning auditions or straight bars.

Bad dates? Not a single one in sight. No good dates either, but after my last foray, I'll take status quo as a win. Demeaning auditions? Screw that, I auditioned for 30 Rock. Straight bars? I didn't even have time to go to gay ones! So the question becomes, what did I do?

Well, for one thing, I've been writing non-stop for OMGWTFTV.com. I'm writing recaps of So You Think You Can Dance and Brothers & Sisters. And it's kind of awesome. Seriously, if there could be some way for me to be getting paid for this kind of thing I could leave customer service and probably be a significantly more pleasant person to strangers. My mother has told me that I should volunteer my time in order to meet people; my response was that I didn't feel like volunteering to help people until a majority of people I met demonstrated enough intelligence to make them worth my time. However, volunteering my time to write snark-filled recaps of TV shows that I adore? Now, that's something I can get behind! So I watch these episodes two or three times each, cultivating each bitchy comment like a delicate flower, and generally try to make sure that I have more jokes in a sentence than punctuation marks. Afterwards, I feel like I've taken the edge off...they're like a little glass of red wine for my snark level.

I've also been shooting a web-series that, wonder of wonders, I'm actually proud of! Chaos Theory is wrapping this month, but I'm a series regular on it and I insist you all head over to PhoebeTV.com immediately and check it out. Because here's the thing...it's actually funny. All you actors out there know what I'm talking about. You go into countless auditions for "comedies" that are about as funny as a root canal. However, this web series...it's not only funny, it actually is funny in my favorite way: the ridiculous (see above stated adoration for Ugly Betty). We all have annoying bosses, bad dates and clueless friends. Well, if you've ever wanted to punch your boss, see someone on a worse date than you or simply ignore your clueless friend, go watch Chaos Theory.

However, besides being funny, Chaos Theory has one more wonderful thing going for it. The people involved are truly some of the best people I've worked with in this whole industry. And luckily, they came along at the perfect time. While I worked on the series, I was also dealing with the fact that the producers of Loaded decided to mount the Off-Broadway production without me. That's right...re-mount the show which I had been guaranteed first refusal on, and just toss me out of it like yesterday's trash. Bent me over the couch, no Vaseline. To say the least, I've been slightly salty about the whole experience, and I've spent many hours repeating my mantra of "Die in a fire." But the team over at Chaos Theory actually made me believe that there are good people around the world. So go over there and support them right now! And I promise to make it my personal goal to have an evening in November so ridiculous, I will definitely have something more entertaining to write about!

Carrots and Coupons

I try to be optimistic. Well, that's not entirely true, but deep beneath my hard candy shell, there is something of a soft, optimistic center. It tastes like coconut, but that's entirely beside the point. The point is that I go on dates and I try to believe that the best possible scenario will result from them. Despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I force myself to not go into a spiral of virulent pessimism each time I meet a new person and instead try to think that maybe this will be a) fun and b) not something that will make me want to quietly slip into a hot bath at the end of the night and slit my wrists. If you can't tell yet, I went on a date.

My trials and tribulations in the romantic world are well documented on this blog; I've told you about exes who re-surface, websites that don't deliver on their promises and nights in bars that I would rather forget. However, I don't know that I've ever written about a first date. For one thing, I rarely have a first date that manages to be such a debacle that it warrants it's own posting. For another, I tend to be forgiving on first dates. I realize that that's extremely difficult to believe, but I assure you it's true. First dates are hard! Well, hard for some people, I've been told than I'm a stellar first date from start-to-finish by more than one person. And some of them aren't in permanent residence in my head. But in all seriousness, whether or not I have a good time on a first date, I try to understand that it's a nerve-wracking situation and often people are not at their best.

The particular date in question occurred a few weeks ago, on a Friday night in the city. One of my hard and fast rules of first dates is that meeting for coffee is more than sufficient. Let's face it, you generally know in about 10 minutes whether or not you want to see the other person again. Coffee is an excellent diversion that can easily be cut off after a half an hour, or extended to a meal if the urge strikes you. However, on this particular date, I was weakened in my resolve by an extended period of single-hood and complete exhaustion brought on by two weeks of constant running around like a chicken with it's head cut off. Dinner and show was proposed and I, in my stupor, accepted.

We met up at a restaurant in Hell's Kitchen. I'm not going to get into what he looked like, because it just seems unnecessarily cruel. Let's just say that he did not resemble his pictures, and I'm fairly certain that the entire staff of the aforementioned restaurant now thinks I'm a prostitute. As I said before, I was fairly certain it was going nowhere within ten minutes, but I thought to myself "Self...you're here. Try to at least have a good conversation." No sooner had I re-focused than the waitress appeared to take our drink orders. Even as I opened my mouth to order a glass of wine and hopefully grease the conversational wheels, my date jumped in and said he would stick with water. Feeling like a lush if I ordered alcohol, I changed my order to a soda and silently prayed that his conversational skills would be able to stand on their own.

Now, I'm a fairly loquacious person. I can talk about most things, and if I don't know anything about something I can at least fake attentive listening while someone else talks about it. I can actually sometimes talk about not knowing what I'm talking about. However, what I cannot do is talk to someone who doesn't talk back. Here's a little tip for all readers out there...when you are meeting someone, and they ask you a question, don't simply answer the question as quickly as you can and smile uselessly. The proper response is to answer the question, and then volley a query back their way to give them a chance to answer. Without this, what you have is a tennis match in which an ace is served every single point: you're impressed with one player and find the other one pathetic. It's like Roger Federer playing against a walrus.

When the waitress returned with my soda, we quickly ordered our meals (remember we had a show to get to!), and before she could walk away, my date pulled out a coupon. A coupon. He called it a gift certificate, but I know a coupon when I see it. Let me state right now, I have no issue with coupons; I have gone to restaurants with friends where coupons were used to bring down the total. However, I have never whipped one out on the first date. Believe me, it doesn't leave a good first impression, particularly when no warning has been given. I'm an actor. I don't mind going for cheap eats. But, please, just pick a restaurant where you can pay the total bill for the first meeting.

Even that I was trying to overlook. Tough times in the economy and all. However, it just put the final nail in the coffin for the evening, and I couldn't bring myself to really invest in conversation anymore. Which led to a tennis match in which it was the walrus' turn to serve to Roger Federer, who couldn't be bothered to return service, but was instead staring longingly at the bar in hopes of absorbing some form of liquor through sheer force of will. A sample exchange:

Walrus: Oh look! There's carrots! So healthy!
Roger: Yeah, they're really good for your eyesight.
(silence)

Somehow, we got through dinner. I spent a great deal of it shoving food down my throat to give myself a socially acceptable reason to keep my mouth shut, and my eyes focused somewhere else. Now, up to this point, you might be thinking "Come on, now. He's nervous. And poor. Stop being so judgmental. Weren't you just talking about how forgiving you are on first dates? Hypocrite!" And to you, I say "Wait for it." Because it was time for the check.

You'll remember the coupon mentioned from earlier? Well, you might be able to see where this is going, but HE ONLY APPLIED IT TO HIS OWN MEAL. So, basically, he picked a restaurant which was beyond his budget, so he brought a coupon to defray the cost of his meal...and assumed that my budget would be able to handle it no problem. Now, since I'm not an idiot, I had ordered within my resources. However, the sentence "So I'll just give you a few dollars for tip?" really just killed what little remaining glimmer of attraction had managed to survive the evening thus far. Who am I kidding? There was no remaining glimmer. What it actually did was ignite the first seeds of active dislike, which tend to grow with alarming speed within me.

After I paid the bill, we were off to the show. Obviously, this was something I was looking forward to, as it would be completely socially unacceptable for any kind of conversation to be had during a play. We barreled into the theater with minutes to spare, and I hurriedly introduced my date to a friend who happened to be working on the show; at which point, my date started worrying that he was nervous meeting my friend, and thought he hadn't made a good impression. It took every ounce of my will-power to not reassure him with a simple "Oh, don't worry, there's no way you're even seeing ME again, let alone HIM." He then remarked how often I smiled. And again, I resisted the urge to say "Well, it's either smile or let my real emotions show on my face. Would you like to see my face when I look at a train wreck?"

The show passed in blissful silence, and when it was over I had my eyes on the light at the end of the tunnel. I was out of that theater like I was fired out of a cannon, having planted the seeds of having to wake up early the next morning in our first conversation. As we walked to the subway, my date tried to extend the evening. He proposed I take a subway half an hour out of the way so we could spend more time together. I declined. He mentioned that he had a good time at dinner. I commented that I thought the show was well done. He made a sad face and said that he had to say good-bye to me. I helpfully stated that this was how dates work...they end. Even the ones that seem interminable.

After this, I was praying for a simple fade-away. And I thought I had achieved it. After a week had passed, I thought I was out of the woods. Alas, I was wrong. I received an e-mail, seeing if I wanted to meet up again, "either as dates, or as friends." I waited for three days to respond, purposely being rude to help my message along. I responded that I didn't feel a connection, completely ignoring the proposal of friendship. Ten minutes after sending that e-mail, I got another missive asking again if I wanted to "see a cheap show or get dinner as friends." It was at this point that I decided that I had no further recourse...it was either be actively rude and nasty, or simply ignore him. Which is something I really hate to do. I was at a loss as to what to do next, not wanting to stoop to cruelty, but also not wanting to deal with it anymore. So, naturally, I called my mother.

Me: It's like he's FORCING me to be rude to him. And I HATE ignoring people.
Mom: Well, I think he's being rude by not picking up obvious social cues. I say ignoring him is about the best possible response he can hope for at this point. Freakshow.

I love my mom.

So the email thread was deleted, and we've now passed four days with no further contact. I again hope that we are out of the woods with this. And should further pressure be exerted, I will actually send the email that I posted on Facebook earlier this week:

"While I found your company tolerable at best, I simply would not choose to waste anymore of my life in conversation with you. No hard feelings. Literally. Now please stop e-mailing me asking to be friends. I've done this the nice way. You know what way comes next. And, hey, we'll always have carrots."