It’s Not Me, It’s You

My mother has said to me on more than one occasion: “how can there be no nice boys in New York?  There are millions of people in that city!”  True, true.  But, after you subtract the ones who are married, in a relationship, gay, under twenty-one, or over fifty-one… you are left with mostly depressed, emotionally unavailable men who never quite got over their ex and are addicted to attention.  Or as I like to call them: comedians.  I once attempted the daring feat of dating a man who fancied himself a comedian.  It lasted (maaaybe) four months.  Here are some highlights:

-He bragged about eating multiple buckets of fried chicken by himself on a nightly basis.

-Whined about all the injustices in his life– Cranky roommates, absent father, absent money, you name it.

-Claimed his ex-girlfriend was stalking him… according to her, it was the other way around.  The whole time I was seeing him, there was a passive-aggressive Twitter war going on between them.

-His cologne of choice was Febreeze “Meadows and Rain.”  I called him out on dousing himself in air freshener after I recognized the scent as the same spray my coworkers use following a particularly lengthy bathroom session.  He initially denied it, but came clean (so to speak) after I spotted the bottle in question in his bedroom.

-Once, I came back from the bathroom to find him hiding behind a table in my apartment.  He eventually came out and sheepishly said “yeah, I was hiding behind the table…”

-Invited my sister and I to one of his sketch shows at Upright Citizens Brigade and the whole show consisted of inside jokes only other UCB members in the audience understood.  As we were walking out, my sister remarked “is it just me, or was that not very funny?”

-Had no concept of how to get around in the city.  He had lived in New York longer than I.  And had a smart phone.  I called a car for him once to get to the airport because he couldn’t figure out how.

-Accused my sister’s cat of peeing on his cowboy boots and stealing his contact lenses.

-Sold his Muppets DVD collection to make rent.

-Invited me out to dinner on Valentines Day by telling me he “felt bad” he had forgotten to invite me out to dinner on Valentines Day.  I chose the place, made the reservations, and paid.

-Broke things off with me two weeks later via a 3:30 a.m. email telling me that he “felt bad” because he just didn’t have enough time in his busy schedule to be dating anybody.

-Got involved in a serious relationship with another UCB groupie less than two months later.

At the time, I found all of this about as funny as his sketch show.  However, I’m happy to report that, nearly two years later, I can finally appreciate the immense hilarity of my time with this individual.  Even if most of my favorite “bits” were unintentional on his part.

Open Mike Night

This past Saturday night was my first Open Mike Night.  Upon hearing that phrase, you are likely picturing amateur musicians, comedians, or poets trying their best to win over an audience with new material.  Nah, I’m talking about a night where I go on blind dates with a bunch of people named Mike.

I was feeling a little blue after “Fred” ended things via email last week, so I figured it was as good a time as any to get back on the horse.  After a forlorn Friday evening spent wallowing in self-pity and chardonnay, I accidentally gave my number to four different people named Mike.  This made for a confusing tomorrow when, in the cold morning light, I received multiple text messages that said “Hey!  It’s Mike from OkCupid.”  I had also made plans with two of the Mikes for that very night.  I have to admit I was a little nervous to take on TWO blind dates my first night back after being on leave of absence since November– What if I had lost my touch?  What if they could tell I wasn’t at 100%?  What if I cried into a cheeseburger again like I may or may not have done the night before?   There was only one way to find out… “Yes Mike, I’ll see you tonight!”  I agreed to meet Mike #1 at 8:30 and Mike #2 at 11.  That way, there was a little bit of room between my Mike appointments in case a Mike bailed or another Mike rang.

I met Mike #1 at a bar in Williamsburg.  He was a couple minutes late, and I was almost finished with my first beer when he arrived.  “Mind if we move down so we aren’t directly under the speaker?” he asked, “Ok.  Now we can begin the date.”  Oh boy.  I tried to give Mike #1 a subtle once-over as he began his introduction: “I’m Mike… I’m from Twarf, Indiana, population 200… I’m unemployed…”  He had on a red and white checkered button-up shirt under one of those striped mock turtleneck sweaters that the neck zips up or down depending on whether or not you’re a Midwestern dad.  I also noted that he had about 3,600 less hairs on his head than he did in his profile picture.  They stuck straight up in the air, evenly dispersed– like a smattering of redwood trees, not dense enough to hide the forest floor from the passengers in airplanes above.

He had been going on about getting laid off from a social media company, but his former job description brought my attention back from his follicles to his face.  Apparently, he had been one of the people in charge of screening 50 Cent’s emails.  Somebody decided that there were “too many chiefs and not enough indians” so he was let go and had been milling about within the same four-block radius in Williamsburg ever since.  He asked where I live and when I told him Clinton Hill he said “Never heard of it.”  This concerned me, as he had apparently been living in Brooklyn for seven years.  I asked him what he thought of OKCupid and he said he didn’t like the process of having to message girls, but knew he had to do it if he wanted to find a girlfriend.  I looked away to take an uncomfortable sip of my beer because I was starting to feel bad for this guy.  Not only was he without a job and girlfriend, he seemed to be totally devoid of any long term goals or zest for life.  When I asked him what else he would be interested in pursuing aside from reading rappers emails, he said he has always wanted to try his hand at comedy.  Oh dear, here we go I thought– if I had a dollar for every time an OKCupid date has told me they want to get into comedy, I would have at least forty-eight dollars.

I finished my second (third?) beer and we both agreed that we were tired and should probably head home.  He stood to fish around in his pocket for a pack of cigarettes and (I hate myself for admitting this) I nabbed the opportunity to sneak a quick peak at the crotch of his khakis.  Sigh.  Flat as a pancake.  Outside we hugged goodbye and I tried my best to sound sincere when I exclaimed “We should do this again sometime!” before heading towards another bar on Roebling to meet Mike #2.

Mike #2 was waiting for me at the bar when I arrived and it didn’t take long for me to glean that he was the complete opposite of #1– outgoing, employed, full head of hair.  In fact, he had some of the strangest hair I’ve ever experienced on a blind date.  It was just your standard straight man hair… but for one peculiar tightly wound curl, about the size of a cat turd, bisecting the center of his forehead like a pendulum.  I was confused and alarmed by this deliberately dangling curl (and kind of wanted to gather some photo documentation) but I tried not to let my eyes wander upward from his as we talked.  He worked for a gourmet coffee purveyor, where he spent several hours a day perfecting latte art.  His other job was at The Upright Citizens Brigade.  “Have you heard of it?” he asked casually as I suppressed my primal urge to shriek, run out into the street like a madwoman, and hijack the first truck out of this crazy comedy-loving city.  Not only does every man on OKCupid in New York seem to have some affiliation with UCB, but Fred (my plan-canceling, “it’s-not-you-it’s-me,” “your cat peed on my boots” former lover) was a UCB guy.

Mike #2 changed the subject, informing me that he had just moved to New York a few months prior, and had previously lived in Kansas City and San Francisco.  He also revealed that he had just gotten out of a relationship… which I know by now not to touch with a ten-foot pole.  He leaned in closer and I deduced that the occasional waft of Chilean sea bass I had been catching since I sat down was potentially coming from somewhere on his person.  It was getting late and I had work in the morning, so I turned down Mike #2’s offer to explore the intimate loft over the bar, paid, and hopped in a cab.  En route, I checked my phone to find that a third Mike had attempted to get ahold of me an hour earlier.  When I got home I followed up with the Mikes with one mass text:  “Thanks for a lovely evening tonight, Mike.”

All in all, my first Open Mike Night was a promising start.  I doubt I’ll go out with either of them again, but I am considering making Open Mike Night a weekly occurrence.