Zach Galifianakis on a cocaine binge.

"Where's Mikey?"

"Did he quit dating and become a man of the cloth? Did he blog too many times at work, get fired, grow a beard and start drinking sour milk in the hot San Diego sun? Is he married, thus ruining all my wildest fantasies of an illicit NY encounter with him that would soon be converted to a romantic comedy featuring up and coming actor Andrew Garfield opposite Natalie Portman?"

These are all good questions I've receieved in the past few months. And yes, while it is true that I will be starring alongside Natalie Portman in an upcoming movie, none of these are quite the full truth.

The real answer lies in a mish mash of life, luck, and a touch of feeling sorry for myself. When I was last typing, I was entering into what seemed like an exciting long-distance fling with the Tattoo Chick, with the admitted hope of something more. What I didn't realize was that I was actually heading into a nerve-wracking insanity-inducing mind fuck that left me looking like Zach Galinifakis on a cocaine binge.

Let me surmise the past 3 months or so in a series of fragmented internal Mikey thoughts like so:

"No, it's not too late, I can just leave at 5:00 in the morning and pour a Red Bull directly on my pupils. - Is that my text message bill or did I swap with a 14 year old cheerleader? - Her liver must have more wrinkles than Betty White. - What is the minimum amount of piercings/tattoos I need to enter this bar? - PETA is right, vegans do do it better - No, it's totally cool, I don't mind traveling an hour and half to have you back out on the movie! - If I disagree with you about education reform will that make you more or less horny?"

In essence: A lot of spontaneity. Zero reliability.

Throw in the fact that the whole time I was doubling down on the waiting to have sex thing from her and this was like holding a beauty pageant with Mike Tyson as a judge and expecting nothing crazy to happen. When we finally did have Philly lovin there was only two options that could result: Up the stakes and be in some type of relationship or flame out. I chose the former, and she chose to Dear John me.

In all honesty, this type of stuff happens when two people have different expectations for what's going on. Some (read: all my friends) may say I should have seen the writing on the wall. Maybe when I noticed the self-made tattoo on her foot done while she was in class - or her breakfast diet of wine, tofu and coffee. But listen, she was exciting - and she wore Mickey Mouse pjs damnit! You can't expect me to come to any reasonable conclusion until weeks afterward, which forced me to pretty much become a whiny bitch and grow both my hair and beard out to disturbing levels in the meantime.

Whenever you see a guy not shaving for like weeks and weeks, it's not that he's got a bet with his friends (unless it's a moustache. That's always a bet). It's because he's depressed about a chick and this is his silent way of saying F-you to girls. It's the equivalent of getting our nails done, but it lasts a lot longer and we don't go around every 15 minutes screaming, "Jenn's back on the prowl, watch out bitchesss! I'mma get my nails done and find me a REAL man!" It's a lot more subtle with men.

Well, ladies, I am glad to say that all four of you can stop e-mailing me. As I write this little entry, I can feel my soft supple baby's ass skin.

MIKEY'S BACK!

Philly Date Part 2 or How to Make a Girl Think She's Fat

Drinks after dinner were a rousing success. Everything was turning out well and a date that started with so many nerves had turned into advantage: Mikey. It was nearing 2 o'clock in the morning when the tattoo girl and I left the bar and, without playing any games, she said it was too late for me to go home. In my mind, I accepted the invitation back to her apartment with the nonchalance of Dylan McKay accepting a cigarette. Of course, in reality, I probably had that crazed look in my eyes that a dog gets when he spots the dog park up ahead.

We got in and threw on some TV so as not to be too obvious, but before Jon Stewart had reached his first guest, we were hurrying upstairs to her room. Fantastic! I felt like I was a teenager in an Axe commercial! Everything was going good until about 20 minutes in when I hear the sound of the night table drawer opening. Damnitt. She reached back and smiled.

Now, in this situation, about 90 percent of the men out there, and probably 100 percent of the men she's dated, strip naked like a 7 year-old at a pool party. I, much to my chagrin, am wired differently. Call me old-fashioned - or more appropriately the product of 72 years of Catholic school - but I don't do that type of stuff on a first date. It's never been my style. I shook my head and uttered a "Nahhh" and nothing else. The look I got back was priceless - yet kind of familiar. I've been in this spot before with girls and I must say it is quite funny. I kind of (read: whole-heartedly), enjoy watching the axis of power shift from the woman, who's never before heard the word 'no" and holds the power of sex over men like an Iranian hostage, to little old me in a matter of a minute. Really, if I could make a YouTube montage of these moments I would and tag it "shock-and-awe." In reality, this shouldn't be that surprising. I'm just holding off on a first date. Girls do it all the time. But for a guy to do this? Let's say it always leads to the girl's brain short-circuiting.

We continuing on for a few more minutes or so before she only half-jokingly asked "What, am I too fat for you?" I smiled and reassured my 125 pound date that I was indeed very into her, it just wasn't my thing. This didn't matter though. It was like telling her 2 + 2 = chicken. The best thing about this situation wasn't the reaction, though. It was that this guaranteed a follow-up date for me. In fact this guaranteed a month of dates, a sluttier dress the next time we go out, an eventual cat-suit and hand-cuffs somewhere along the way and at least a 90-minute cardio session the minute I left the following morning. In fact I bet she ate four leaves of lettuce all week. Weather she truly likes me or not is secondary in her mind. I am now a conquest and I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.

Nothing makes a girl go crazy like a guy turning down sex. Trust me.


Warning: Guys, do not attempt to do the preceding in an attempt at gaining the upper hand with a woman without practicing first. I'm serious. You'll pull a groin muscle or something. And when you say no, you got to believe it like the way Obama believes he's a Christian. I kid! I kid! I love that guy.

Philly Date Part 1

Last I wrote, I was fresh off some shenanigans in The City of Love. I had just met the groovy tattoo girl and had that shit-eating grin on my face the whole ride back home. It stood there until I pulled into my driveway and realized the new girl was almost two hours away and I probably wasn't going to see her again. This chick had one night fling written all over her - probably in a tattoo somewhere else on her body - but I'm supposed to be trying to find a wifey despite any obstacles in my way. Distance, age, family, STDs be damned! Nothing can hold Mikey back!

I waited a few days and called. After a week of random return texts (Never a phone call. Welcome to dating in 2010.) which always came at the tail end of her being out drinking, I was about to give up. I figured she wasn't interested, but maybe, if I dared her to go on a date with a Jersey shore guy from far away - it would work. Sometimes corny crap like that works. Espeically when you have to convince girls that you don't do this on your weekends. (btw, that's not a joke. These people exist, quite literally, on my street). I made my cute proposal and, much to my surprise, she took the challenge.

I was a bit nervous since I felt like I had twisted her arm into a date. I should have been fine since we had spent a whole night out before - and I had fondled the funbags - but there were lots of alcohol and friends easing that night's antics. Now it was showtime. The first opportunity to embarrass myself came pretty early. No sooner did we walk into sushi dinner did I have to excuse myself. I had borrowed my buddy's jacket for the night and the zipper was stuck all the way up around my neck. Not cool North Face, not cool... Unhappy with the prospect of looking like a turtle all night, I retreated to the "swanky communal bathroom" and fought with my jacket solo-style ala an invisible Patrick Swayze fighting his killer in Ghost. Once again, the ghost was coming out on top. With beads of sweat coming down my face, I finally popped that jacket open like Hulk Hogan ripping through a tight yellow tank top - much to the delight of this large girl watching and giggling at me the whole time. Thanks, I'll remember that when your muffin-topped high heel gets caught in a sewer grate on the way out.

About ten minutes later I was back upstairs trying to look cool and collected. It is usually in times like this that I wonder WWJD? As in, What would Justin Timberlake Do? Just as I was about to explain my absence, she shoved a cup of Sake in my face and said, "Cheers!" Ahhhh, sake. Nothing like a miniature cup of Windex to ease the mood. It was time for me to relax. And I did.

Before I knew it, two hours had passed. Dinner was over and tattoo chick suggested some drinks at a neighboring Mexican bar. I felt some momentum gaining here. Turns out she was a school teacher in one of those Dangerous Minds types of school in Philadellphia. She spent most of her days breaking up fights and dealing with children years behind in their studies. Being someone who works with the same crowd in NY, we had plenty to chat about. "Down with the system! Down with poverty! Down with Fox..." ya know, the normal liberal banter. Back and forth we went for another hour or so. I was in the zone. I knew I had this in the bag. What exactly "this" was, I didn't know, but when we left El Vez, I was getting a repeat invite back to her place. And that is when the fun started - for me at least.

My Wingman.

Every guy has his wingman. No exception here. However, I like to think I have the best wingman out there. He's one of my best friends from college who has quite literally been a lifesaver for me.* Separately, we are simply awkward, but together we are better than Maverick and Goose in a smokey bar surrounded by 30 homosexual men. Seriously, my buddy George has lent a hand in about half the girls in my life. You see, I have a small problem.

Despite the fact that I possess an incredible ability to mindlessly carry a conversation on any subject a girl speaks of,** I am deathly afraid of approaching a girl. Like first day of Kindergarten scared. If I see a cute girl at the bar do you know what I do? I stare. I stare and conjure up every excuse not to walk over. You might wonder how I get dates. Simple. I either go on Match, wait for a drunk girl to approach me, or have a friend start up a conversation. I am, by all admission, a little bitch.

This is where George comes in. The guy approaches anything - high school girls, milfs, the chick behind the Taco Bell counter about to serve us a Chalupa. He decided a few years ago he just doesn't care anymore. He set himself free. He doesn't know how many times he has struck out - nor does he care. This obliviousness has benefited him greatly. And, as a result, it has benefited me in cities ranging from Toledo to Charleston and all sections of New Jersey.

George hasn't yet helped me out in the city of Philadelphia, but that was only because we hadn't hung out there - until Saturday night.

It was our friend's birthday and a bunch of us surprised her with a group outing in Philly. It was a perfect weekend to go bar hopping throughout the City of Brotherly Love. Our journey eventually placed us at a diner/bar/dancefloor called the Silk City Diner. It was an old-fashioned beat-up diner with a dance floor attached which had some surprisingly good music playing. Although the place was quite novel, it seemed to attract the type of crowd that not only would dance to a Miley Cyrus song, but might actually be in class with her. Whatever. Four of us guys squeezed ourselves into this one diner booth and proceeded to down some PBR when, walking right past us, went this one cute blonde with a tattoo covering her whole upper arm. George knows I dig tattoos.

"Hey! It's my friends birthday! Aren't you going to wish him a Happy Birthday?"
"Huh?"
This girl looked awfully confused. When she twirled around there was more than a hint of stink eye in her face. Rather sardonically she stated, "Uh, Happy Birthday." and proceeded walking.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa... Come and sit down. Ask him how old he is."

I was motioning for George to cut it out. I felt some snappy sarcastic rejection coming on. Unlike George, I don't have the 'I don't give an F demeanor.' I slinked back in my plastic booth, waiting for the Philly-girl charm to spew forth, when she turned around again looking kind of bemused and said, "So how old are you Mr. Ricardo?"

She sat down, and that was that.

The next morning I found myself waking up on a small couch with what felt like 11 bulging disks in the space of my lower back. My buddies had her promise not to harvest my organs when she took me back to her place in a cab - or to at least give them a cut of the proceeds. As I fumbled through the kitchen looking for any sign of hydration, I heard her come downstairs to greet me. Much to my delight, she looked 82% similar to what I had remembered her looking the night before.

We had some laughs and she mentioned she didn't expect me to call, but I truly wanted her number. I had a ton of fun Saturday night. There were loads of stupid dances with my friends, walks to various shady bars and a flirtacious debate about something or other to do with being vegetarian that led directy to some sloppy drunk second base action on Gary Coleman's personal pull-out couch.

When my twisted back and I stepped out onto South Street in search of the Mariot that I was supposed to be at, I honestly hoped I'd be making a return trip. There is something really groovy about this girl. She's funny and she was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt sans bra in the morning that made me smile like a fat kid with a doughnut.

I returned to the hotel to find my friends all eating at the cafeteria ready to make fun of me for various things I had done the night before. I wasn't too concerned though; I had just received a text from my groovy tattoo girl saying she hoped I had found my hotel safely.

Another assist from George!

** Despite wearing more madra shorts and sandals than Jack Johnson, I can't swim. Of course, this didn't stop a younger Mikey from entering the water during Spring Break in Daytona of '02. Lucky for me, George knows how to pull someone to shore.

** Much easier than you think. Basically, ask questions that would allow a girl to talk more about herself while dropping a line that makes you seem clever and conflicted. i.e. Make the Robert Pattison, "I just smelled a wet fart face" and utter something totally nonsensical like, "It's a paradox of the highest order of lies ...")

Anthroplogie.

Greetings to my fellow singleites–and married folk who read for a reminder why they should never attempt dating again. That, and the 30 pounds of paunch you've added while watching Dancing With the Stars over the past 4 years with your spouse is another reason. :) Life ran me ragged, but I'm back on with hopefully some more chuckles for us all!

Before I run down what I've been up to in Philly, I'd like to mention a total find in terms of potential mates per square foot. Moreover, it lies virtually undiscovered by men. I found a place where the women are educated, charmingly vocal, past their clubbing days, and mildly sexy (or unknowingly sexy - my favorite level of sexiness because this allows for a guy to steal a girl totally out of his league and knock her up before she realizes her potential) The place is called Anthrolpologie. Yes, the clothing store.

Now, I admit, the ladies that shop here probably don't own a Yankee hat, or have ever seen Chappelle's Show. Most of these ladies have never drank alone on a Friday night while watching Seinfled and woke up the next morning cuddling a box of Frosted Flakes feeling quite fulfilled... BUT, they totally would listen to you talk about it. And they might even be willing to try the experience if you worded it as some ironic date night that ended with black and white photography of something mundane in your kitchen. These women are sweet. They like lace and girls' nights out where everyone has a bottle of wine and shares pictures of their puppies.

It's not surefire. You can't spend too much time in the store, lest you and your cargo shorts wearing self look a bit creepy (tip: have an item in hand for mom). You also must strap your ballsack on and approach the girl in a most unassuming way (without the aid of alcohol mind you), but trust me, the available talent is surprising. Its virgin grounds haven't been touched by other overzealous men showcasing their sensitive side like at the dogpark. It's similar to the first baseball scout to arrive in Cuba. High risk, high reward.

Go forth!

Not Dead!

Just wanted to let you readers know I'm not dead, just busy.. I spent some time in Philly recently and I shall have more lame stories by the end of the week!

Outtakes 4

I just came across some internet drivel stating Jessica Simpson was spotted out (again) with Billy Corgan of Smashing Pumpkins fame (can we really call it fame, though? Smashing Pumpkins' heydey was synonymous with the heydey of Wayne's World skits and Hangin' with Mr. Cooper reruns). She explained that whenever she needs a shoulder to cry on, she turns to Billy. She goes on to say that, although they are just friends, "he is a loyal friend - a VERY loyal friend." Of course, this is a little different than how Corgan sees it.

Still, the question begs.... Could it possible that the guy, who I'm still not positive didn't star alongside Vicki from Small Wonder, has managed to pull off the near impossible guyfriend-to-cry-to turned lover trick with one of the hottest celebrities of the past 15 years? This guy?! I wouldn't want Billy Corgan within 20 yards of a school bus stop and now you're telling me he might be heavy petting Sexual Napalm?!

I don't usually follow stuff like this, but I'll make an exception. We've all been there and tried this move (usually with a girl well out of our league). In fact, between the years of 1997-2002 this was my only move. There wasn't a girl who hadn't cried on Mikey's shoulder in my hopes that I could see some boobage during the consolation process. I'm all for any guy who can do it.

Here's to you, Billy Corgan!

Results of a Meeting

* my apologies for not hitting the 2 post per month minimum last month :)

Mikey, how did the meeting with the Brazilian go?
Glad you asked.

Cue generic feminine acoustic song from Gossip Girl.

We stood, seconds apart, on her mom's creaky brownstone porch - wait, let's go old school. Cue On Bended Knee from Boyz II Men. Much better.

We stood, seconds apart, on her mom's creaky brownstone porch when we locked eyes for the first time since that fateful letter was sent. With a thud, she dropped her purse and darted toward my rain drenched body (I had puffy storm clouds flown in for effect.) Both of her hands held up her Cinderella-like dress up so she could skip over the rain puddles collected on the ground. I reached out and gave her my best Ryan Gosling embrace - making sure to grab her face with not one, but two hands - ya know, for the extra emphatic kiss. With a fierce disposition I declared all my -- actually she's still with her guy.

What the f man! I could have sworn something was up. Oh well. She let me know sometime at the :38 minute mark of our meeting at Applebee's - nothing says romance like a meeting at "The Neighborhood Place." (btw Applebee's, where do you get off charging nine dollars for spiked Kool-Aid? If you truly were the Neighborhood Place, you'd call it Jungle Juice and charge me two bucks for a red plastic cup). I actually did have a good time, though. I even had a chance attend some random party after drinks where I did what I do best - observe other people's comic behavior.

As we were walking up the driveway to the house where said party was occurring, the door swung open and out came the smell of stale beer followed by a non-descript white guy in khaki cargo shorts and a t-shirt. Perfectly normal January clothes. The Brazilian ran up to this generic fellow, jumped in his arms and yelled TOOOM!! He tempered his true excitement to see her with a nonchalant "Hey babe." Then, turning to me, he shook my hand with an equally nonchalant "Hey bro, I'm Tom." I stammered back with a sheepish, "Hey, I'm Mikey."

As our eyes locked, we both knew what was going through the other guy's mind. It was almost like in There's Something about Mary where Mary has no idea of all the guys who are trying to get with her, yet they all know, and subsequently want to stab each other in the eyes with butter knives. I waited till a bit later to ask the Brazilian how long ago Tom was infatuated with her. She replied rather surprisingly, "Wow, how did you know? It was waaaaay long ago, back in college."
Sure.

Let me tell you ladies something. When a guy friend of yours tries to take things to another level and you inevitibally turn him down because you see him as a brother or some equally bullshit excuse, we rarely get over it (After all, the real reason which we don't want to admit to ourselves, is that you can't fathom seeing us naked without giggling in amusement). I would say we don't get over it till we find a firm significant other. I should know. I am currently a "Tom" to about 14 different girls from college. Furthermore, us "Toms" of the world can sniff out another guy's true intentions like Southwest can sniff out a fat man in crowded plane. Knowing this, I figured it was only a matter of time before Tom informed her of my true intentions for meeting up. Damn you, Tom! Don't hate because I may have a 3 percent chance.

The rest of the night played out in typical friend fashion. I wound up dropping her off back at her mom's place with a joint promise to keep in better touch with each other. My buddies will natrually criticize me for wasting a Saturday night, but you really never know. Dating is like being a CSI detective. You have to pursue all possible leads :).

Outtakes 3

Apparently this week is Doppleganger week on Facebook. I have seen a few of my female friends post this in their status messages:

It's Doppelgänger week on Facebook; change your profile picture to someone famous (actor, musician, athlete, etc.) you have been told you look like. After you update your profile with your twin or switched at birth photo then cut/paste this to your status.

The very limits of my imagination are stretched as I see girl after girl* post pictures of who they'd look like if said celebrity were to fall off a tree and hit multiple branches on the way down.

Never be alarmed at a woman's need to compete with other women in a totally trivial way.**

*Chances are these are also the same girls that have given up on the time honored tradition of smiling for a photo in lieu of a kissy face/peace sign.

**I should point out that although the phenomona of comparing who you look like to a celebrity is exclusively a female thing, this does have a male equivalent. It's basically the guy who wears tight Ed Hardy t-shirts

Prepping for a Meeting

So I shot the Brazilian a short e-mail. The innocuous type that invariably leads to the all familiar "Hey Stranger!" response. I really hate "Hey Stranger!" responses. They reek of flirtaciousness (after all, has any guy ever shot another guy friend a "Hey Stranger" text), yet they never fully evolve into "Hey Sexy!" They are the blue balls of opening line greetings.

After a few short catching up e-mails, she asked if I wanted to meet up... Really? She wants to meet up? Grab dinner? I'm not sure if she's aware, but we don't exactly live down the street from each other. I smell something rotten and odd. Like four day old Spicy Tuna Roll from Shop-Rite.

A younger Mikey would have been ecstatic at the opportunity to meet up with someone that got away. I'd be tearing open the giftpack of BRUTE cologne, shining up the Sketchers, buying the extra hold Suave mousse and waxing the old Firebird. But this isn't 1999. I've dated roughly 4,480 crazies since then, and I'm going into this with more than a modicum of wariness.

The Silver Bullet & Facebook Stalking

Myth has it that the famed silver bullet is the one bullet in a chamber that can kill a werewolf. In stories, you never use it until you have a clear shot at your target, lest you waste it. Similarly, when it comes to talking to women from your past, you never "randomly bump into them" until you have the perfect opportunity. You must be patient for that right time in her life (when she's single or at least not whoring it up at the Jersey shore) to fire off that silver bullet. After all, two random e-mails might bring about a smidge of creeeeeepyyyy.

With that being said, over the past 7 months I've been keeping a watchful eye on what the Brazilian (backstory) has been up to. This includes a little old-fashioned Facebook stalking as well as having a tracker on my art portfolio page which tells me the IP addresses of all its visitors. It's helpful for recognizing who is interested in my artwork - or what girl is checking me out. Stop. This is not weird. I've just been meticulous and thorough... deliberate if you must. (I like these words. They make me sound more like General MacArthur advancing on the Pacific and less a teenage following his crush from class to class.)

Every now and then, I've noticed a certain visitor from London checking the page out. Every time she does this, I look at her Facebook profile picture to see if her other half is still in the picture. It's always been, until yesterday.

I don't know what this means. This could be coincidence. Perhaps she grew tired of her current facial expression. Maybe she is need of a killer piece of art...
OR
Maybe she's home for the holidays and lonely and horny and thinking about how much she hates that in London everyone smells like tea and has bad breath, and her boyfriend is 10 years older than her and owns more cardigans than Mr. Rodgers and she wants to break up with him and she always wondered what would have happened if she got to know Mikey a little bit better and had gone to the Museum with him and then gotten hopped up on some Yellowtail enough to make some semi-regrettable decisions and she's too scared to ask so she just keeps looking at my profile...

Maybe?

Listen, it's possible. And I can't hold onto this silver bullet any longer. Time to fire away a "Hey! What's goin on?" message.

Contestant Number Four - follow-up

It has been over a month since I wrote about my date with Tonya. Unfortunately this isn't because I've been busy filming home movies involving me, her, and teacher outfits. But wait, it wasn't I who dropped the ball on this one. No, I like to think she lost the opportuity to help me cross an item off my sexual bucket list.

Let's recap.

My date was scheduled for a Tuesday. Tuesday night dates are optimal because those are the days that I volunteer teaching music at the homeless shelter in the city. If I have a first date in NY, I always do it on a Tuesday so that I don't have to make an extra trip into the city that week. Also, when the girl asks what I was doing earlier in the night, I can nonchalantly reply, "Oh, I was just playing guitar with Malik and Lyonna at the shelter - You know they don't get a chance to experience music like other boys and girls their age in the suburbs." No shame, none at all :)

The place I was to meet her was some low key sports bar near midtown - convenient for both of us. Meeting time was 8:30 and I finish teaching at 8. This should have been no problem... should. As we were packing up all our instruments and moving them from one room to another, a little boy whom I shall now lovingly refer to as Cockblock, decided to close the door with all the kids' belongings, along with the keys to the room itself - and him - inside of it. (You're probably wondering how a door gets locked from the inside. Trust me, so was I.)

Under normal circumstances this could have easily been solved, except this is a NYC shelter. The guards and staff running this place have problems finding the numbers on a clock, let alone keeping the keys to all the rooms organized. No one could find a master key, and Cockblock was too busy crying like a little girl inside the room to successfully look around the room for the keys. As I tried to keep him calm by shouting through the door, the guards assured me that I was free to leave. If you knew the guards at the shelter, you would understand my trepidation in leaving a hamster to their care, let alone a human being who I wasn't even sure had parents.

It ended up taking multiple trips to the front office, walkie-talkie relays and phone calls to find a master key. It also took an hour. All the while I was texting Tonya to let her know what the deal was. Of course she'd understand, right? Wrong.

When I finally made it to the bar, over an hour later, I found Tonya sitting by herself at the table looking a wee bit upset.

"I was about to leave, ya know. You're lucky I stayed."

Hmm. I proceeded to apologize, order some drinks, and try my best to lay down the Mikey charm. I explained the whole situation but Tonya didn't seem to care. I was late and she had to sit and watch the game all by herself.

Over the next half hour two things had become very apparent. Tonya was very cute with ginormous boobs, and she wasn't going to get over me arriving late. Every once in a while she would begin a normal get-to-know-you converstion, giving me a sliver of hope, only to retreat back to more bitching. At the 45 minute mark of this 'date', I had had enough.

"Here's 35 dollars. I got to get going."
"What?"
"It's been a long night and you're obviously upset. I couldn't leave my kid by himself and you can't seem to grasp that so imma get goin', catch you later."

And with that, I was up and out the door - along with my fantasies.

I've never done that before. True this girl was turning out to be a beeyotch. But she was a CUTE beeyotch - with superpowers in bed. I was essentially walking away from a pretty girl who just wanted to bow-chick-a-bow-wow. But I'm too old to be dealing with women of this ilk. It wasn't like this girl was wifey material. Being a teacher, she should've understood some of the responsibilities you have with children. How could she be so shortsighted?

As I left the bar, I thought two things to myself. This is what I should expect from a girl from Queens who talks about her squirting habits over the phone. And two, do not, under any circumstances, look back at the seductive melons still sitting on the table.

PS: The best thing is girls will read this and wonder what the dilemma was. Guys will read this and scream NOOO, YOU IDIOT!! GO BACK! GO BACK!!

Still Alive!

I just wanted to let you few loyal readers know that I am still alive. Yes, each and every one of you loyal people who I have never met, do not worry, I have many more long winded diatribes about the she-devils that co-habitat with us chivalrous men in the tri-state area. I am just currently inundated with the nuances of my new job - teaching.

In the meantime, if your single, watch Jersey Shore on MTV and thank yourself for living in one of the other 49 states.

PS: Whoever told me that there was lots of pretty women in teaching lied. They told a bold faced, deadly, lie...

Outtakes 2

Grey's Anatomy (or simply "Grey's" as women annoyingly like to call it) has, for the fifth year running, kept the title of most excruciating show men must suffer through before making out. This spot was previously held by Friends (post Rachel-Ross breakup). In fact, the two hour Grey's followed by back to back Friends on your local cable affiliate has made Thursday nights more infertile than Bea Arthur's corpse.

BTW, I owe you all a recap of the date. It is coming this weekend. Sometimes the day job calls my attention.

Contestant Number Four

It's been a while since I've introduced more contestants to the show. Lest you forget, this is the HelpMikeyFindaWifey gameshow where one unfortunate girl will win the chance to demand a divorce from me in 2-5 years. I've spent the past few months tugging at the heartstrings - but let's balance that a bit. Without further adieu, I introuduce... Tonya. AKA - The Squirter.

Normally I would say, get your mind out of the gutter, but uh, you can keep it there - because that is precisely what I'm referring to....

Tonya is a cute Italian 26 year old teacher from Queens. She seems well read, opinionated, pretty funny, and loves the Yankees. Good start, no? She's one of the last few people I've talked to on Match.com before my subscription recently ran out. We did the e-mail exchanges, and graduated to the phone numbers. On our second call last week, she dropped some details - all of which were good, but one was quite fascinating. After reeling off a list of bedroom habits she very casually mentioned the fact that she can mimic a human Super Soaker. Hmm.

What do you say to that? Do you follow up with: "So, what's your favorite place for cocktails in the city? What are you currently reading? Do I ask her how long she's been a squirter? There really is only one thought that follows this bit of info - I gots to see this... and possibly film this. :)

Ladies, let me give you a bit of advice. When you divulge information like that, you pretty much have changed your surname to BOOTY CALL. The chances of a guy dating you seriously after that are slightly better than the chances of Jennifer Aniston finding love. Within 24 hours, every buddy of mine knew I was about to go on a date with a human highlight reel of porn.

There is only one problem. I kind of find this girl interesting. I'd like to go on a serious date with her, not one where I'm constantly thinking of when will I get to see the show. However, I'm having a hard time of taking her seriously, because with every phone call she consistently flaunts her superpowers. I feel that's all I'll be thinking of when I meet her. I mean, ladies, if you were about to go on a date with say, SpiderMan... wouldn't you want to watch him shoot a web from across the room just once? - especially if he's been talking about swinging from church towers for two weeks. Hopefully I'll be able to enter the restaurant with an unobstructed mind. Date's this upcoming week. I'll let you all know how it goes.

Outtakes 1

Why must unhooking a bra be so complicated? It's only two clasps, yet I have a better chance of reading braille than getting two hooks undone in under 4 minutes. I start fumbling around with excitement like a young Mikey circa Christmas '91 when I knew there was a GameBoy hidden in one of those shirt boxes - sweaty palms, drool, and a maniacal look in my eyes.

Good thing the family isn't around to take pictures at least.

The Getting Insanely Lost Test

We're about to introduce a bit character in the Mikey gameshow - her name: Erin from Minnesota. She's an old friend that I've known for close to 10 years. Nowdays we keep in touch through e-mail, but there was a different time of course.

A few years back Erin visited NJ with the idea if things went well in her 4 day stay, we would take things to another level. Despite the 1200 mile distance between us, this plan made perfect sense. That's how it goes with long distance relationships. On paper they compute like perfect math. In reality, you're more likely to see A-Rod and Kate Hudson togeth-- no way really??

By the third day of her visit, things were going well. Despite this, though, I hadn't felt anything to make me think about trading in my beach badge for a life of shrinkage in the Minnesota cold. (btw, if you've never been to Minnesota go outside and take a picture. Then, let it sit in the sun for 12 days till there is no color left in the picture - just a drab gray splotch. Viola! Welcome to the Twin Cities!) I decided the perfect thing to spark things up would be a day trip to Philly. We could eat cheesesteaks, run up the Rocky steps till we puked the cheesesteaks, lean over the guardrail and touch the crack in the Liberty Bell and then have sexy time in Betsy Ross's house. Again: my blog, my fantasy.

With our plan laid out, we set off across the Garden State around 11 or so. At 3:30, I Iooked over at Erin and let her know it was safe to get out of the car. We had arrived in Philadelphia, although, it was hard to tell since most Starbucks throughout the world look pretty much the same.

I'm not sure how it took me close to 4 hours to get to Philadelphia. As Erin deadpanned at the 2 hour mark "Didn't you grow up like 20 minutes away?" Technically, she was correct, but this didn't help when my car ran out of gas halfway through Jersey. Nor did it help when I-95 was shut down to two lanes. Remember, this was way before my phone could give me directions to China.

Upon entering Starbucks, I retreated to the bathroom to call my roommate. He was basically horrified at how my day turned out. We were supposed to be meeting him and his girl for dinner at 6, so our day long odyssey pretty much assured the only part of Philadelphia Erin and I were going to see was the Starbucks on Walnut Street. To say the least, this was not turning out good.

I left the bathroom ready to go into full joke mode - anything to keep the mood light and prevent things from blowing up. What I hadn't expected to see, however, was the sight of Erin holding a new CD, a bag of coffee for my roommates and two drinks. She smiled, paused and said, "Cmon, let's sit by the window."

For about an hour, all the time we could afford, we watched the rain pour down and engulf the side of a dilapidated building. There was no Liberty Bell or Rocky steps today - just me, her, and two feminine drinks... and everything was OK.

Months later Erin and I would point to this day as the moment that things turned for us. For better or worse, we were together.

It also gave rise to what I consider one of the most important tests for a significant other in a relationship - The Getting Lost Test. Plenty of girls in that situation would have verbally berated me to the point where I'd consider driving into oncoming traffic. These are the type of women, that no matter how wonderful they appear in normal room temperature, will blow gaskets like Trasha from Real World Sydney when faced with any unexpected circumstances. They complain when babies cry. They'll blame the dog for their farts (ok, that's me). Their Facebook status will be a constant feed of what's wrong with their lives and what's wrong with you. Finding out which people are going to inevitably go crazy isn't easy. This is why you must administer The Getting Lost test.

Listen to me, if you haven't gotten lost in a car with your significant other yet, do it now. I'm serious. This weekend make a trip to your nearest city, but don't actually go. Instead, get insanely lost. Make it an all day event that would fray the nerves of a monk and take notes on how your significant behaves. I'm telling you, the resulting behavior is the behavior that you can expect in every tough moment for the rest of your waking lives together.

Stating the obvious here - relationships aren't smooth, marriages even less so. By the time you reach wherever it is you set out for, it's probably not even there anymore. More than anything else in relationships, make sure you find someone that enjoys the trip more than the destination. Words to live by from an eternally single Mikey.

Mikey's Ride

I hooked up with a girl in my car the other day.

That' really nothing to write about. The unique thing about this is that I own this car.

It's a 2002 Pontiac Aztek - There are about 16 or so still laboring the earth like Andy Rooney lurking the CBS newsroom. I always wonder what goes through the mind of these NY girls when I roll up in an Aztek like a tank rolling into Kabul. It's amazing I get a girl inside this thing, let alone do anything else. I kind of wish that at a certain moment in the hook up, the car would spring to life like KIT from Knight Rider and say "You've been TEKKED baby!"

It imagine it wouldn't be the voice of KIT though, but more like Willy from Friday.

Eternal Sunshine...

To the left of my bed I've rotated two movie posters for the past 5 years (let's not call them posters. They are, after all, mounted -thereby signifying I am through with my college years). One, is the movie Garden State. The other - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.

The years haven't been all so kind to Garden State. Once set to become the defining coming of age movie for a generation, it has now crept towards being a parody of self-indulgent, sentimental males that wear scarves in the summer. Something derailed what should've been a timeless cult gem.

Instead, the movie that took that honor is my current piece of 'mounted art' - Eternal Sunshine. It is bred from the same genre but is less sanguine, more sublime, less cliche - and a hell of a lot less whiny. It is just plain more striking. Striking enough that although I own the DVD and count it in my top 5, I've never actually opened it up and replayed it, until last night.

_______

Two weeks ago I visited D.C. It was the annual getaway with the college roommates. Each year we trek to a baseball stadium in a new city and partake in three nights of drinking, watching baseball, seeing who got fatter, and, for the two unmarried ones - flirting with las chicas. I love this weekend. No really, I LOVE this weekend. Any girl that is rolling their eyes right now is just angry that their idea of a weekend with the girls involves sitting through two Appletinis at Friday's while hating on Jon/Kate/your boss/your one girlfriend that isn't there to defend themselves. (easy ladies, it's a joke :)).

On our second day of general debauchery we woke up circa noon and eventually stumbled over to a little organic brew bar near the DuPont Circle. The place looked a bit too dead - and healthy - for my buddies, but right as we were about to leave, the waitress shuffled us to the basement area and said "Seat yourself."

This, however, was no basement. It was a glorious ManCave just for the four of us. A dimly lit tile floor, two leather couches, a huge flatscreen with speakers everywhere, and a granite bar featuring beers from lands I didn't know existed, with our own personal bartender coming by any moment awaited. It was just us... and her.

Krissy the bartender was sporting some long black locks, a contagious smile, a cute nose ring, and just enough bartender sass to make guys tip her more than what she deserved. After revealing she was a graphic designer who was returning to school in an attempt to stay out of the office and do something a bit more humanitarian, there was no question how I was spending the afternoon. I just needed some help from my buddies and/or a 6 pack of rufies (again, just a joke ;))

As the hours passed we engorged ourselves in watching When Animals Attack and getting drunk off exotic beers. Every time a shark ate someone, Krissy shot out in approval. This could have been as blatant as when chicks pose on Maxim with quotes like "I love working on my Dad's '57 Chevy," but I enjoyed it nonetheless. I was still getting a feel for her when we somehow stumbled on the Eternal Sunshine movie (how do you stumble on this movie? I might need to work on my game). I mentioned, that although one of my favorite flicks, I've never seen it a second time. In the movie Jim Carrey's and Kate Winslet's character - both exes - go through a series of 'mind cleanses' that erase the memory of their relationship in an attempt to avoid the lingering pain. The movie concludes with the pair meeting up once again later in life. I was certain the fill in the blank ending results in their eventual break up again.

"They get back together." She said this as if she owned the script to the unwritten sequel.

Huh? No way.

"Yes they get back together. Things are different this time. Life is different. It's not their fate. You need to watch the movie again thinking that they get back together. It will change everything for you." A small smile punctuated these words.

And with that, I was sold.

_______

We all utilize a variety of ways to protect ourselves from getting hurt by she-devils and jack-offs. Some sleep around and avoid anything resembling a relationship. Others use humor and write silly blogs about finding a wifey. Others avoid feeling anything deeper for the obvious, although never admitted, fear of getting pooped on. I took some advice last night and cracked open the cellophane on the DVD. What was once an unwatchable movie that hit too close to home turned into a glass half full ode to second chances and control of fate. That weekend in D.C I shared a few texts with Krissy but I never met up with her after leaving the bar 175 dollars weaker in the ass. Chances are she's a passing girl - but then again scripts change.

Cleavage Watching

I was sitting in another workshop the other day, suffering through another afternoon of mid 80s stagnant heat, struggling to keep my eyes open yet again, when I found the perfect thing to push me through that 3 o'clock hour - unobstructed cleavage.

Normally cleavage can only be glanced at. I like to follow the Jerry Sienfeld approach: "Looking at a cleavage is like looking at the sun. You don't stare at it. It's too risky. You get a sense of it and then you look away." On this afternoon, however, I found myself privy to an unobstructed view of my cute classmate's perfectly tanned breasteses.

Naturally, I took this once in a blue chance to look. And by look, I mean gawk. Further enhancing the viewing was that it was the first day of Sun Dress Season. Second only to Simmons' first day of Halter Top Season on college campuses (I believe it fell on the third Sunday in April this year), is the annual first day of Sun Dress Season. A beautiful day when young professionals collectively decide it is much too warm to wear any pantsuit at work and, instead, begin wearing a silky yarn that is supposed to be a sort of fancy clothing but, in fact, could double as a handkerchief.

Seriously there is nothing that will cheer up a boring day at work like a cute girl prancing around in what looks like yellow lingerie. On the flip side, nothing can be much creepier than a guy blankly staring at a girls cleavage in one of these sundresses. Being caught mid-stare is one of the more mortifying - and awkward - moments you can share with a girl. You really have no excuse. There might as well be a neon light flashing above your head.

On this day, I was daring that light. I don't know if it was the heat or the boredom of class, but I think I stared for 12 straight minutes without blinking. It was like wearing sunglasses and staring directly at the sun. I only stopped when my glance firmly met with another male classmate mirroring my actions. My reaction was akin to when the ghost of Christmas Past brings Scrooge back to look at his grave. "Spirit... is that me? Oh God, no! Nooo!!"

I think I will be taking a moratorium on cleavage staring for a few weeks.

The Homeless Guy Test

Back about 15 years ago the gangster movie, A Bronx Tale, hit the scene. It was a cliched diluted version of all the DeNiro/Pesci mob flicks that came before it, recycled into one and spit out. I'm not saying it was awful, but the acting wasn't exactly coaxing any man tears from me.

Thinking back on that movie, two things stick out for me. First, was the way lead actor, Chazz Palminteri (Calogero), physically ran throughout the movie. Why did a skinny actor in his 20's run like a mentally retarded girl? What was wrong with his arms and legs and why could they not bend? This wasn't exactly helping his credibility as someone who you'd be scared would shoot you.

The other, arguably more memorable scene from A Bronx Tale is when Calogero takes a girl out for a first date and gives her The Door Test. Calogero's mentor, Sonny, explains it as this: Make sure all the doors to the car are locked when you pick the girl up. Then, walk to her side of the car and let her in. As you go around to the other side wait for the girl to unlock your door from within the car. "If she doesn't reach over and let you in, dump her. That means she's a selfish broad and that's just the tip of the iceberg, dump her right there."

Although I tend to disagree with the exact method Sonny uses, I am 100 percent in agreeance with the test's purpose. Actually, I am in 100 percent agreeance with any test a guy gives to ween out the keepers from the pretenders. These tests come in many forms usually centering around juvenile guy rules. My literary hero, Mr. Bill Simmons of ESPN, is the author of one of my favorite: the Field of Dreams Test.

I think the world is separated into two kinds of people -- people who loved "Field of Dreams," and people who don't have a heart. If I were dating a woman and she said she didn't like "Field of Dreams," I'd immediately dump her. I'm not kidding either.

Of course, I have one of these tests too. It's called the Homeless Guy test. You all know Mikey likes to go on dates in the city. Some time after our overly priced sushi and right before the awkward goodbye, my date and I are going to undoubtedly run into a man wearing an eclectic blend of woolen clothes and Hefty Bags in the dead heat of summer.

Whenever I see a homeless man or woman I will always toss some money. A single dollar usually - not much - just something to acknowledge their prescence and maybe help them grab a slice of pizza. Now many among you, including some of my friends, will ridicule me for this. I never understood why. No, I don't know if this guy is an addict, or if that dollar is going towards a beer or a line of crack. Unfortunately I do not have the time to take every homeless man I meet to the nearest bodega to purchase some Twinkies. I do, however, have the time and the ability, to say hello, acknowledge that they exist, and give them a dollar. Bottom line is at the end of the day my life is going slightly better than his - so who cares?

Now here is where the test comes into play. When that homeless guy approaches us I take careful note of every facial tic of my potential mating partner. Are they welcoming? Disgusted? Do they smile politely? Do they clutch their Coach bag and clickity-clack their ass in the other direction? It's not about giving a dollar (although I'm sure since I paid for dinner they could spare the buck), it's how they react, and, also, how they react when I give the dollar. I've had some girls acutally laugh when I give away my dollar. Generally speaking these girls lack souls and they probably poke at caged animals in their spare time. How you treat a homeless man says a lot about your character and just how selfless you really are.

In conclusion, I implore you men out there, in an effort to save you time, sanity, and greenbacks, to use this test on your woman. If she treats a homeless man like a leper then you are in store for years of going to her family's house every holiday, watching every episode of Friends until they pass out, having her forget to pick you up from the airport at least 4 times, and most importantly.... she'll wind up being the type of girl to go 'south of the border' once every lunar eclipse--if you know what I mean.

Don't tell me I didn't warn you.

Should I Powder My Balls? pt. 2

Warning: Again, this is silly and juvenile. If you're looking for decent writing scroll to The Chunk or The Brazilian. Read at your own amusement.

You ever find yourself lying on the beach, smoking weed from a tampon, gazing up at the stars defending Jesus' supernatural nature to a Jew and wonder... who the hell is this girl lying next to me?... let's recap.

So we went sans powder the other night. I hadn't seen this girl since the college years and the idea was just to catch up and chill - spend a night waxing philosophical. Of course, I would still be eyeing her up for a possibility of any future dating opportunities.*

She rolled up to the chateau around 9 or so. Her legs telescoped our of the car first, and three minutes later the rest of her torso showed up. She was a solid 6 feet tall and I swear 5 feet were legs. I didn't quite remember her looking like this. Actually I didn't quite remember much of anything about her. But hey, she's here to hang out, receive consolation, and take in some herbal refreshments. No hanky panky. After a quick tour and an hour of catch up we set off down the road to the beach.

So there we were laying on our backs, sprawled out on a patchwork hippie blanket in the middle of the sand with no one else around. We were staring upwards trying to decipher constellations and sharing some herb when The Smoker started talking about Jesus the Prophet. Much to the chagrin of every one of my left leaning atheist agnostic artistic friends, I still believe in Jesus the Superhero. A debate continued back and forth until the joint burned out. Without any paper to roll anything further, we were about to pack up and head home. However, as if to prove my point, Jesus set aside helping professional sports teams win games long enough to send a brilliant idea into her cloudy mind. And I quote: "Well I have some tampons in my purse. We can fill that up into one giant blunt and smoke it."

Seeing as I've never rolled a joint to begin with, I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. Apparently this girl was adept at rolling J's out of a variety of paper based substances including tampon wrappers. This was both alarming and impressive. After carefully aiding in rolling what looked like a giant horse turd, we continued our friendly little debate. Feeling satisfied with proving what no theologian has done in centuries before, the topic turned towards her recent dumping. I extolled my advice like I always do to my lady friends except, right at the moment when she whimperingly said, "People don't understand," I leaned over and as if on cue, planted one on her.

I had to. Don't you see? Beach. Summer. Cute vulnerable girl. Mind altering substance. Reunion. The only thing missing was a weak acoustic song from The Fray playing in the background. I had unknowingly walked into the middle a bad OC episode and was contractually obliged to kiss her. Actually, since there were no good OC episodes, let's rework that sentence to: I had unknowingly walked into the middle of an OC episode.

The rest of the night was chill. She seemed to be pretty happy with the kiss despite claiming that I took advantage of a girl on the rebound. This is probably true, but hey, it was just a kiss. It was in the moment. After a few hours The Smoker headed home and I, remembering that it was a Wednesday, decided to head to sleep. Right before we parted she eagerly shouted out with a smile:
"So, you going to blog about this escapade tomorrow?"
"What this little thing? Please, I'd just as soon write about powdering my balls."

Now, if only I could remember her name.

* (This brings to mind a good point: Ladies, you should note that men DO NOT, under any circumstances, want to be your friend. So many women will say, "Oh, he'd NEVER think of me in that way." Trust me, he would. And he has. That's not to say we don't have women friends - they just happen to share the same Venn diagram circle as 'failed relationships' and 'first cousins.')

Should I Powder My Balls? pt. 1

Warning: This is silly and juvenile. If you're looking for decent writing scroll to The Chunk or The Brazilian. Read at your own amusement.

I will try not to be too graphic, but ladies, let's put some things on the table.  There is a certain area on the male anatomy that, even under the wintriest of conditions, will tend to heat up. Most of the time we don't mind all that much. However, if it's the middle of summer, or if we are about to embark on a date, the feeling of 'bat wings' can be a bit unsettling. Therefore, we always make sure, no matter how little the chance of getting nekkid... even just for peace of mind... we powder our balls.  

Similar to how you ladies wear fancy, frilly Victoria's Secret underoos on first dates (even with no intention of letting them be seen) simply for your own mental comfort, us fellas chalk up for that extra level of comfortableness.  Before every date I venture on, I powder my balls like I was preparing a chicken cutlet in a bucket of Shake and Bake.  It's a careful process, as you don't want to overdo it and make your little guy look like its about to appear in blackface for a 1920's silent film.  

The thing is, whenever I powder the Onion Sack, it invariably ensures that my date will be a bust. Or, if I'm actually dating someone, shining The Jewels guarantees that she'll either A) be in the midst of entertaining her monthly visitor, B) have a splitting headache, or C) pass out before I finish suffering through back to back Friends episodes. Despite this, you still have to partake in the ritual.  It's only after you fall madly for each other that you can introduce a lady to the more enjoyable aspects of dating like not showering and Dutch Ovens.

The corollary to this is also quite true.  For example, if I somehow neglect to sugar the kiwis, then the stars will align and I'll wind up meeting a sweetheart - or the girl I'm seeing will have just finished reading the sex column in Redbook. Either way, not a good time for first appearances.

All this jibber jabber does have a reason. I recently got in touch with a girl from college. I can't understate the randomness of this. She is one of those facebook friends that you rarely talk to. I found out that she had just called things off with a short term guy and gave her the usual friendly advice. She mentioned needing to smoke tonight. This is probably not the best idea in her state of mind but to each their own. I, myself, rarely partake in the wacky tabacky but I find it amusing to watch others do so. Naturally, I figured this would be the perfect time to have a reunion of sorts. I've invited her to come by and hang out with me for the first time in about 6 years. I don't remember what classes we were in and I have no idea what her last name is but it really doesn't matter. All I know is she's cute, and seems pretty fun so why not? I honestly have no intentions of anything, but still -  I wonder if I should powder my balls.

Option C

The saying goes: Expect the Unexpected, and, when it applies to my dating life, it always holds true.  I suppose my choices, as well as the girls I date, lend themselves to a certain amount of randomness. However, I still stand surprised at how many times a particular scenario plays out with neither the expected positive (A) or negative (B), but rather the peculiar - Option C.

Sometimes a most rewarding outcome does occur. A year ago I was out with a good female friend of mine. While we were indulging in some cheap cervezas I figured (A) the typical friendly flirting or (B) the unlikely meeting of a sweet girl at the bar would occur. Certainly not for (C) her bosomy, (there I go talking like my pop again) blonde, stereotypical Jersey girl roommate to suddenly, after knowing me for a year, bring me to the beach and confess that she wanted to make out. This Option C rarely happens. 

More often than not Option C is just bizarre and/or frustrating. It ends with tiptoeing down stairs, meeting parents who I didn't even know existed, or my taking care of a vomiting girl. I've grown to hate Option C.  I never know exactly what it is, but I welcome its arrival like a wet fart. 

A quick sample of the option C happened this morning. Nikki had written earlier in the week apologizing for not getting back to me and seeing if we could maybe fit in a lunch this weekend. I told her to simply get in touch with me. I heard nothing, as expected. However, this morning I woke up and saw: Missed call - Jailbait - 4:04 am. I was ecstatic. There has never been a phone message left at 4 o'cock in the morning from a girl that didn't lead to something good. I figured at worst she was going to drunkingly say how she was smitten with my bad self and couldn't wait for Tuesday to arrive so we could jam out at the shelter, talk about rare musicians and then get a cup of java in SoHo all while discussing how overrated Ginsberg was and Obama's bungling of the TARP funds. (Listen, it's my f'n fantasy, I'll tell it as I please!) What I wasn't realizing was Option C.

The message opened up with a cavalcade of metallic sounds marching towards my eardrums and a racket like that of two trains wrestling. Then, the light whisper of a distant laughter - perhaps Nikki - echoed through the cacophony of sounds growing less and less audible.  More rhythmic metallic noises and more half hearted chatter each took turns filling up my inbox.... and that's it.  That's right, five minutes of random  subway drunkenness from her ass sitting on the phone the wrong way. Just like this post, the phone call was the pinnacle of anticlimactic action. 

Damn you Option C! Damn You!!

Still cleansing

I'm still in the midst of taking that aforementioned small breather from dating - or, more aptly, just cleaning house of some past ladies.  I find it's like shitting out a bad virus.  You need a few days to get the flu out of your system before you can feel 100 percent again...  And you have to flush twice.