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."

The Questionnaire

It constantly bewilders me how completely terrible I am at picking men. I can choose most things that I need in life, from the clothes that I wear to the food that I eat, with little-to-no ill effects. However, put me in a room with a group of men that I might find attractive, and I will, without fail, sidle up to the most emotionally stunted one of the group and leave the ones who might actually be able to carry on an adult relationship staring into the bottom of their beer pints. Isn't it funny how in this scenario, I've painted it as if everyone simply waits for me to arrive and once I have made my choice, the rest of them cease to exist? It's funny because it's true.

However, I can't take all of the blame on myself. Let's be honest, I never take all of the blame on myself. It's an important line that one must learn to walk, to always admit enough of an error to appear humble, but at the same time make sure that everyone else knows that you were far less culpable in whatever fiasco you have embroiled yourself than THAT person over THERE. So, as it turns out, it's not only the men that I choose that appear to be fundamentally damaged in some way, but apparently I'm giving off some kind of high-octane pheromone that only men with the emotional maturity of a 7-year old can detect.

Recently, my friend Lisa and I were consoling each other over our wine glasses when one or the other of us slurred something to the effect of "You know what we should do? Here's what [hic] we should do...we should make them fill out a questionnaire that what we should do. And then when they act like d-bags we can refer to their answers when berating them." And then the other one of us said something like "Yeah!" Then we both probably had another glass of wine. But the idea stuck. Wouldn't it be wonderful if you could just ask all the questions that would cut through all of the bullshit up front? I present you with Seven Questions that should help you weed out the losers, boozers and just plain crazies.

Question One: What's your name?

We're starting out easy, as there's really no wrong answer to this question. That is, provided they don't answer with the name of your father, mother, sibling or, worst of all, your ex. This has not happened to me that often, but it's always jarring when it does. And it's shocking how long a conversation in a bar can sometimes go on before names are exchanged...I've met men in bars whose names I never bothered to learn. Happily, I can also say that I've never dated any of them, but the point remains. When speaking to someone, finding out their name sooner rather than later can only help you...and delaying might lead to something horribly awkward.

Question Two: How long have you been drinking?

This is another baseline that should quickly be determined when meeting people in bars. Obviously, if you are meeting someone outside of a bar, you can continue on to question three. Unless they reek of alcohol, in which case it's probably a safe bet to say that you should just move on without further inquiry. Also, it's not unhelpful to ask yourself this question when talking to a romantic prospect. A foggy pair of beer goggles has often been the culprit in the missing of obvious red flags. Now, since you're in a bar, this is another question that there is really no horrible answer to...except maybe "yesterday." However, it's important to establish relative cognizance before administering the rest of the questionnaire. Get people too drunk and they will tell you whatever they think that you want to hear to get into your pants. People too sober might be able to prevaricate believable answers in the moment and slip under your radar. I think a nice buzz is the best time to pounce on people to get the most honest, open answers. So basically, if they say "10 minutes," buy them a drink and if they say "10 hours," take everything said with a grain of salt. One might even hold off on further questioning until a more useful level of sobriety can be achieved.

Question Three: What do you think is an appropriate mode of communication for "talks?"

Now we're getting to the meat. This is something that I never would have considered to be important before my ill-fated relationship with the Italian Stallion a few months back. Actually, allow me to re-phrase that...I would have always thought it important, I would never had thought someone could be dense enough to think important things could be discussed via text message. Or IM. Or e-mail. But, after several attempts at a relationship with The Guinea Prince, I'm forced to admit that not only do some people think this is not a problem, they actually actively try to avoid any other form of communication. This is really bewildering to me...the only way to properly discuss issues in a relationship is voice-to-voice, preferably in person though the phone is acceptable. Anyone with the maturity of stale bread should know this. However, after repeated experiences of receiving apologies, overtures and explanations being offered via the typed word, I'm forced to admit that people who do this need to be weeded out. Harshly. Completely. From the roots.

Question Four: Have your testicles descended? Both literal and figurative, please.

Now, this might seem like an intimate question to ask. However, I assure you getting definite answers on all implications of the query are of utmost importance. Obviously, we can assume that most of the male population have fully-steepable teabags. However, a friend of mine once was putting the moves on her date, and when she reached downtown had a nasty surprise waiting for her...or not waiting for her as the case was. When she snatched her hand back as if burned, and asked him if there was anything he wanted to tell her, he responded calmly:

"Oh, yeah. My testicles never descended."

That is, quite simply, not information to leave out. You don't need to lead with it (in fact, you definitely shouldn't), but if you're at the point that someone's about to find out for themselves, the polite thing to do is give them a heads up and prevent a scarring experience where someone thinks that they scared your nut-sac so badly it retreated into your abdomen. However, this interpretation of the question is not a deal-breaker...it's just good information to have.

The figurative connotation is the far more frightening. First of all, almost everyone thinks that they have balls of steel, so you'll rarely get someone who'll flat out admit that they're a useless coward. But if you watch closely, you can see when someone hesitates, or protests too much, or smoothly laughs off the question and never really answers. These are the ones to be on the watch for, and further conversation will allow you to gather more information. Some red flags of jewel-less wonders that I've noticed are living with one's parents (unless pursuing some form of higher education or life goal), a constant fishing for/giving of compliments and the inexplicable desire to gaze longingly into your eyes while blathering pointless romanticisms that are full of sound and fury and signify exactly nothing. It might seem flattering at first...I suggest you run in the other direction.

Question Five: Do you have any outlandish requirements for people you date?

This is a tough inquiry, for two reasons. One, because absolutely everyone has outlandish requirements for people that they date. Don't try to deny it, it's completely true. For instance, I categorically refuse to date someone who can't correctly tell me what the proper usages of "they're," "their" and "there" are...I also prefer them to be the crown prince of a small European country, but that's not a requirement. There's a difference. And two, because an honest answer rests upon a third party's ability to discern what kind of requirements fall under the umbrella of outlandish. The large range of odd behavior cripples us in phrasing...one can ask "Will you freak out if I breathe heavily when I sleep?" and receive an honest answer in the negative, but you're leaving yourself wide open to later find out that they can't deal with the fact that you like to eat ice cream out of the container.

Hence, we're forced to ask a vague question, and hope they have the self-awareness to understand what their odd pet peeves are. In my experience, it's best to offer one of your own outlandish requirements to break the ice, after the knee-jerk denial you are almost guaranteed. After they say "Of course not," I say something like "Really? 'Cause I won't date someone who thinks that camping is anything less than cruel and unusual punishment. So put that in your pipe and smoke it." You'd be amazed at the relieved confessions that tumble out of people's mouths when the opening is given. My friend Adam once dated someone who had a "decomposition table." The freak-show was making compost on his kitchen table. Gross.

Question Six: How do you like to break-up?

Some might think that this is a defeatist question. I think that those people haven't been dumped horribly enough times to have earned the right to an opinion. So suck it, optimists. Here's the thing...every single relationship you have ends, until you have the one that doesn't. I, personally, would prefer to enter that final relationship as emotionally intact as I possibly can, and the people I date beforehand have a great deal to do with that. There are many proper answers to this question...they do NOT include being nasty so someone else will do the dumping, disappearing without a trace or any, I repeat, ANY form of written word. There are good ways to break up with people...and none of them include a Post-it (thank you, Carrie Bradshaw).

Question Seven: The Freebie

This last question is to be filled in by the interviewer in the heat of the moment. If the prospect has passed up to this point, you have something special on your hands. I can say that every boyfriend I've ever had would have failed somewhere in between questions 3 and 6. The key here is to make it somewhat random, but also leading, giving an opportunity to showcase some sparkling wit, and proof of witty banter. Banter is essential in relationships. Without it, you're doomed to become the couple that no one wants around, because you're too busy cooing new pet names at each other to actually be any fun. It's usually best to bring the question out of the conversation you've been having...and if no questions can be borne naturally, that's a pretty good indicator that the dialogue probably sucked. For instance, if I meet someone watching the Mets game, I might ask something like "Now, you understand that I'm not willing to discontinue my torrid affair with David Wright for anything less than a marriage proposal, don't you?" On the other hand, if we've been talking about movies, I might say "My friends and I can quote Steel Magnolias for approximately 30 minutes without repeating ourselves. What movie can you quote?" You get the idea.

Obviously, these questions can't cover for every eventuality. The world is rife with the kind of crazies that even the most clever person can't sniff out before they're entangled in the web of lunacy. But if we can find some way to start tossing the bad pennies out before we even pick them up, then maybe they'll finally stop turning up in the first place. And I think the way to do that is to institute the kind of rigorous screening process that most people have to go through to be accepted into the CIA. The line forms to the left, boys.

**Short Public Service Announcement: Starting in mid-September, I'll also be blogging for the new website OMGWTFTV.com, where I'll be writing snarky TV recaps for So You Think You Can Dance and Brothers & Sisters. So, if you want weekly doses of me, you can head over there and read the posts...I promise a lot of sarcasm, bitchiness, and even a touch of honest, artistic criticism. Remember to post in the comments!**

The Baby-sitters Club

When I was young, I wanted to do everything my sister did. This included, but was not limited to, playing with her My Little Ponies, going to Girl Scout Meetings with her and attending The JG Dance Studio. I must admit, the more I contemplate my youth, the less surprising it is that my mother had me pegged as a 80's music-loving, man-worshipping theatre queer from Planet Fabulous at the age of two. Incidentally, I played with some of my brother's toys as well...but my adolescent fantasies about the torrid love affair between his Hawk and Duke G.I. Joe action figures is the story for another blog. And, it's worth noting, enough to make me extremely excited for the live action film starring Dennis Quaid and Channing Tatum in the roles of my original Don't Ask, Don't Tell star-crossed lovers.

Another of my sister's activities that I picked up was an avid reading of the classic Baby-sitters Club book series by Ann M. Martin. These were not books that I read idly so I would have something to talk to Krista about. These were novels that I loved, was constantly fascinated by and could probably still talk about with some measure of authority (OMG, Logan and Mary Anne are meant to be! And Stacey's from New York...she so sophisticated!). However, despite my fascination with these American classics, I can't ever claim to have actually cared for a single child. This is perhaps largely because I have absolutely no interest in children that I am not related to by blood. Disgusting little creatures that should be seen and not heard as far as I'm concerned; and seen only because who knows what havoc they would wreak if allowed to be invisible. Nothing at all like my angel of a nephew, who was my first ever baby-sitting charge.

Krista took three months maternity leave when Joseph was born, and returned to work this past week. I had agreed to take care of the little guy one day a week, and while not exactly nervous, I approached the day with a certain degree of trepidation...after all, I was in no way truly qualified to care for a child. I sometimes feel like I just barely get myself through a day without causing bodily harm. However, my mother assured me that should I go into a panic, she would drive down and relieve me. Armed with this back-up plan, I set out on my mission with a hopeful heart. The day started out in calm enough fashion; the parents left, and I managed not to break the baby for about 15 minutes, an accomplishment I proudly recorded in the daily diary Krista asks Joseph's caretakers to notate naps, feedings and bowel movements in. After that, Joseph decided he was hungry, and I successfully fed him. I then put him down for his early morning nap, a nap that I had been told was coming, a nap that my sister had informed me would probably be lengthy.

Joseph's nap lasted an hour and forty-five minutes, approximately 30 of which I was able to enjoy. After that my over-active imagination proceeded to teach me exactly who was boss. In the course of the remaining hour and fifteen minutes, I managed to convince myself on separate occasions that Joseph had a) managed to crawl out of his crib (never mind that he can't move himself), b) passed on (he couldn't possibly STILL be asleep) and c) been kidnapped (a nightmare brought on by suspicious noises over the baby monitor that could only have been caused by my sister's nutso religious neighbors opening the window and sneaking in to steal Joseph...or possibly, perhaps by the aquarium in the baby's room). It's quite humbling to realize that, even when you pride yourself on being a calm, level-headed person (which I think I am as long as certain topics are avoided...), being in charge of an infant can cause you to act with all the assurance of a 16-year old taking his driving test drunk.

As it turns out, and as I'm sure anyone who has cared for an infant knows, when babies bless you with a few hours of sleep, you should be extremely careful to make certain that you use that time wisely. Lay back, perhaps watch some TV, have a bite to eat...if there was a way to dose oneself with exactly an hour's worth of Valium, this would be the time. Because when they awake, they are merciless dictators, little Napolean Bonapartes armed with diapers and an excuse for their behavior. It's not that Joseph is a bad baby; in fact, the proud smile he puts on every time he takes a titanic crap is enough to charm the pants off of Ebeneezer Scrooge himself. It's just that Joseph knows what he wants, and he wants it immediately.

After his nap, his highness was hungry. Now, while he is incredibly advanced, his command of the English language leaves something to be desired, so I don't feel that I can be blamed for not knowing exactly what his desires were in the moment. I was given approximately 45 seconds to ferret out what his grunts signified...and then Joseph lost his temper. Luckily, my mother and sister had prepared me for this moment, and had both told me that he wants one of three things: sleep, food or entertainment. As he had just awoken, and my bobbing him up and and down was not accomplishing anything, I am happy to say that I quickly realized that it was feeding time. However, the realization of what he wanted did not, unfortunately, cause a bottle to magically appear in my hands. Which necessitated the first Angry Baby Strap Down of the day. Babies are not easy to manuever in any case...however, when they are being denied what they want, they are downright contrary. They squirm, kick, scream and generally fight as dirtily as possible in attempt to stop you from getting them safely secured so you can go heat up some lunch. And then they start crying. I don't mean they cry out...I mean they produce actual tears, which roll down their cherubic little cheeks and make you feel as if you are not only a terrible baby-sitter, you are quite possibly evil incarnate.

By the time I had Joseph into his vibrating chair (which, shockingly, isn't sexual at all), I was so flustered I was running around the kitchen like a chicken with it's head cut off, desperate to somehow heat up the water, so that I might heat up the milk, so that I might experience an end to the tears. Then, in the middle of my frantic labors, a rather mundane and obvious thought occurred to me: there is no way that anyone could do this any faster than I was. Granted, Krista has the natural advantage of being able to whip out a boob in about 15 seconds, but since I hope to never lactate, the joy of breast-feeding someone is going to have to remain a mystery. As I was not actually bodily producing his lunch, he was going to have to wait until the water was warm enough to heat his milk, so his majesty would not have to suffer through a tepid feeding. The realization of this was akin to the first shafts of sunlight breaking through an overcast day, lifting my spirits and making me realize that I wasn't a miserable, useless excuse for a human being, despite what my dictator-like nephew was trying to make me think.

Armed with the knowledge of my own general competence, and the confidence of having officially navigated my first baby-induced panic attack, the rest of the day passed in a much more enjoyable manner. As I said to Joseph, "Scream all you want kid, this homo rushes for no man. Or baby." I couldn't help but notice, however, that the child really was supporting from his diaphragm; he was able to scream as much as he wanted with no noticable decline in pitch or volume. I look forward to my next day with him...though I can assure you, his long morning nap will not be something that I allow to stress me out.

That's what the boot-flask is for.