Accismus

A painfully awkward-looking guy in skinny jeans, and a precise-looking girl in tights and ankle boots shopped for fruit at the corner store. I would guess they were on about a fourth date. They blocked the entryway.

Girl: ‘Should we get fruit and other stuff, or…do you think…’

Guy: ‘I mean…I don’t really…’

(Long pause, during which other shoppers pushed them further into the store.)

Girl: ‘Ok, well, let’s just get fruit then, and that’s it.’

Guy: ‘Ok! Yeah!’

Girl: ‘Oh, God, I don’t even know. Do we need something for like a base, like juice, or…’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘Well, I guess we should get apples, yeah?’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘Should we, do you like red delicious apples?’

Guy: ‘Sure. Oh, sorry.’

Me: ‘Excuse me.’

Girl: ‘These are my favorite kind of apples, actually!’

Guy: ‘Yeah?!’

(Another long pause.)

Girl: ‘What? What are you laughing at?’

Guy: ‘Nothing! I just think it’s really funny that we’re making smoothies.’

Girl: ‘We are not making smoothies!’

Guy: ‘Yeah, I know. But like (mumble) funny if we were.’

Girl: ‘Should we get a mango? Excuse me.’

Me: ‘Oh, sorry.’

Girl: ‘Mango?’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘These are hard, though. It would need to be soft. Um…’

Guy: ‘…’

Girl: ‘Well, I’m going to get a carrot.’

Well, dear readers, it was bound to happen eventually: I actually went on a date last week. And you’ll be happy to hear that it was on every level an absolutely insane and embarrassing failure…not because you’re rooting for my continued loneliness (though you may be, I don’t know), but because it makes for a really entertaining story.

I met this fellow (let’s call him “Patrick”) while waiting for the G-train late one night. I was too tired to read anything and didn’t have my headphones with me. He made eye contact and I cut him dead with a glare, as is my habit. But he came over and started talking to me anyway, and well, he was really, really good-looking. So I gave him my card.

After the usual three-to-four day waiting period, Patrick called, and we agreed to meet up in the Village for dinner. He explained that he had to pick something up at 7:15p.m. around Washington Square Park?

I said that was fine, and then he said (and I thought this was really odd at the time), ‘Hey, wear pants, alright? Not, like, a skirt or anything.’

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Are we going bowling or something?’

‘Uh, did you want to?’ he asked. ‘I mean, I thought we’d just grab a bite and maybe-’

‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘No, I just thought, because you said to wear pants that-’

‘That we were going bowling! That’s hilarious – do you always bowl when you wear pants?’ he laughed (a lot). ‘You’re so funny!’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Why did you-’

‘So, I’ll see you then, then, in your bowling pants!’ he said, and rung off.

So, okay, whatever. People are strange.

Anyway, the big date night arrived, and I went down to the park (wearing my usual jeans), and soon Patrick arrived. He was still really good-looking. And he was carrying a small cage with a guinea pig in it.

‘Hi,’ he said.

‘Hi,’ I said. ‘What’s with the guinea pig?’

‘Well, this is what I had to pick up,’ he explained. ‘I did some work for this friend of mine, I, uh, I built this really piece of furniture for him, you know, and so then – get this – I get done, and he’s like, oh, I don’t have any money to pay you. But he just got this guinea pig? And I don’t know, I was just like, well, I’ll take the guinea pig. Because I’ve been wanting a pet, but I don’t have a lot of space. I’ll have to get a bigger cage for him, though. I sort of wonder…do you think they kill mice?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He’s cute. What are you going to name him?’

‘I’m thinking Palin,’ he said.

‘Topical,’ I said. I then told Patrick about how I knew this guy in Tennessee who raised guinea pigs and had cage after cage of them in his garage, and took them to guinea pig shows and so forth. And that there’s a guinea pig transport system, where if you live in South Carolina and you buy a purebred guinea pig from Seattle, there are people signed up in every state that will drive the guinea pig along to you, like a sort of pony express for guinea pigs.

‘I don’t believe you,’ said Patrick.

‘It’s true,’ I said.

‘I think you’re making up stories, and honestly, if you are, you should just stop it, because I’m about just being real.’

This was sort of funny, because I really do make up stories sometimes when I’m talking to strangers I don’t think I’ll see again (say, at a party…although sometimes I do end up seeing them again, often, and then it’s awkward because the lie has to be kept up forever), but this was actually true – I do know a bit about guinea pigs. I sort of apologized and changed the subject, and then we went back and forth on where to eat, and Patrick suggested Red Bamboo, which is this vegetarian place that I’d been to before and was agreeable to. When we got there, we had some issues with the guinea pig at the door. The hostess wasn’t sure we could bring Palin in, since Palin is basically a rodent, but after Patrick promised to keep the cage discreetly under his chair with his jacket over it, she said it was probably fine.

‘So,’ I said, as we looked at the menus. ‘Are you a vegetarian?’

‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘But I tend to…what I do is, I’ll like pick a color? And then for a week, I have to only eat things that are that color. So, this week, I’m only eating black things. So, I’m thinking I’ll get this black bean ginger stir-fry, but I have to check and make sure it really looks mostly black.’

Now, a lot of you may be thinking, ‘Freak!’ But I actually have really weird eating habits myself (Clif bars, anyone?), so I’m sort of understanding about this type of compulsive behavior. And additionally, I had once flipped through this book at Barnes & Noble about challenging your brain every day a little bit to keep sharp and stave off Alzheimer’s, and it basically said that you had to always be looking for ways to break your routine in non-routine ways so your brain doesn’t just go into habitual autopilot, and one of the specific suggestions it gave for doing this was to make a new eating rule every week, like maybe just pick a certain color and only eat things that were that color for a week. So, I figured Patrick had read this book.

‘Did you get that idea from a book about keeping your brain entertained?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘Um, eating all things of one color,’ I said. ‘Did you read to do that in a book about how to keep surprising your brain, so that-’

‘-It’s got nothing to do with my brain,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s about my body. I figure you should only ask your body to break down a certain kind of compound at one time, you know?’

This was a really bad sign, as I have no patience whatsoever when people start spouting this kind of bullshit, so I quickly changed the subject, and the conversation was more or less okay until the server came to take our order.

‘Is the black bean stir fry black?’ asked Patrick.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s black beans, yes.’

‘But is it black-colored? Like, if I looked at the plate, does everything look black?’

‘Um,’ she said. ‘It’s in a black-bean glaze, but it’s all vegetables, but it’s…’

‘Is it mostly dark?’

‘I guess.’

He sighed heavily. ‘But is it- you know what, forget it, I’ll just get a double order of the black rice, and black beans, and a chocolate milkshake.’

Seriously.

So, fine, you know what? I got a gigantic dessert for my meal. Because I am always wanting to get dessert for dinner, but I always figure people will give me shit about it. But at this point, Patrick sure couldn’t say anything about it, so I got a slice of peanut butter tandy heaven cake with a scoop of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

‘That’s disgusting,’ said Patrick.

‘I’m only eating desserts this week,’ I replied, and stared him down.

At this point, I’ll admit, I was actually kind of thinking Patrick and I might be perfect for each other. I began to think it might be quite freeing to be with someone so much more eccentric than I am that I could just give total free reign to my own eccentricities. I imagined how being weird in a pair in public would be far more comfortable than being weird alone, and you know, actually, I could probably kick it up a notch and be even weirder if I had a partner who could act as a buffer. It might be really fun. And the conversation was going along just fine, the food came, all was well. And then…

We got to talking about our favorite authors, and I mentioned how upset I had been that David Foster Wallace just died.

‘Oh, me too!’ agreed Patrick.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘In fact, I have to say, I kind of cried when I read that-’

‘Me too!‘ screamed Patrick, and he burst into tears. I shit you not. Right there at the table, out of nowhere – and we’re talking giant, chest-heaving, gape-mouthed, wrenching sobs. I mean, he was screaming. Everybody in the entire restaurant went dead silent and turned and stared at us. I was mortified. I didn’t know what to do. It seemed like that moment went on and on for hours, for days. Patrick just bawled his head off – he didn’t even put his hands over his face, he just stared straight ahead with his mouth wide open and howled – and everybody stared at us, and I was so humiliated I wanted to drop through the floor…and then I started to laugh. I kept picturing the scene from the outside, as if it were in a story, the way it looks now as I’m blogging it, and it was just so damn hilarious that I went into a sort of hysterical, giggling anxiety fit and couldn’t stop. Patrick sobbed, and I brayed with laughter, and we sat there over our insane dinners with the guinea pig scrabbling around under Patrick’s chair, and I feared we’d be frozen there in that demented tableau for all eternity.

What eventually happened was the manger came over to ask if we were okay, and we both said that we were fine, and he suggested that we might be happier the hell out of his restaurant, so we paid (well, I paid – Patrick apparently had forgotten to go by an ATM), and got out of there as quickly as possible.

‘Do you want to come with me to shop for guinea pig stuff?’ asked Patrick, who had more or less gotten himself together, but had not apologized for his mad behavior.

‘I should probably head home,’ I said. ‘I have to be up early tomorrow.’

And then, even though I knew I should leave it alone, I just had to ask:  ‘Patrick,’ I said. ‘Why did you tell me to wear pants?’

‘What?’ he said.

‘On the phone, you said I should wear pants. Why?’

‘Look,’ he said, looking pissed off. ‘I move slowly, okay? I’m a slow-moving guy. And I’m honest about myself. And I don’t make any apologies. So, just, you know, I take my time! And I won’t apologize for that.’

I didn’t want to press him further. I went home, and I haven’t heard from him since, about which I’m extremely relieved.

I rarely take a chance on going out with a complete stranger, and sure enough, every time I actually throw caution to the wind, the guy invariably turns out to be a complete psychopath.  My intuition is either hopelessly broken or missing entirely, so perhaps I’m wise to be standoffish.

To the Foreign Gentleman
(in the newsstand who complimented my bustle this morning):

You and I are similarly of low fortune. While in rare circumstances, a certain charm and affection can make up for a deficiency in income (for a time), in our case, no such affinity exists, and we would surely be as miserable as ever two people could be. I dread the despair into which this missive will surely cast you, but I implore you: bend your thoughts to your daily task, to living virtuously, and to God’s grace, and in time I am certain that you will forget your disappointment, and find some measure of peace and happiness in a life well lived.

Gently,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Dear Sirs In the Helmets
(at work upon the scaffolding near my residence):

For some months now, you have been engaged in making some renovations to an estate adjoining my own property, and so I have had occasion to pass by you several times daily. Thus frequently tossed together, we have developed a familiarity with each other that perhaps we would not have done, had circumstances not caused it to be so. I cannot say that I regret this turn of events, as your cheery greetings of a morning never fail to bring a smile to my face. However, of late, I have noticed that all of you, dear sirs, do seem to be somewhat competing for my affections. I would not trifle with honest working fellows, so let me be plain: I do so value the friendship of each of you that I could never forsake the dear, genial esteem of all for a closer intimacy with one. I hope that we can carry on as before, feeling for each other the true, deep love of brothers and sister.

Your Neighbor,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Young Laborer Upon the 6 Train:

I did not mean to appear, all windswept and partially undressed, on the threshold of your subway train. It was the storm, you see. And rude it was indeed of you to heighten a lady’s shame by exposing her to ridicule and unseemly remarks, especially in front of a train car’s worth of strangers. I am no woman of easy virtue. I merely could not afford to secure myself a taxicab. Am I to be subject to such abuse merely because I have not wealth enough to hold myself remote from it? Does it make you high to bring me so low? Would you make sport of a richer woman in this way? Am I not, though poor and undefended, a woman, after all, with a woman’s heart, a woman’s shame? What have I done, sir, to deserve such ill-treatment at your hands? Is my offense merely to be of little fortune, alone and beautiful and subject to the whims of public transportation? I may not be wealthy of purse, but I am proud, sir – proud and honest. I pray that this letter may work some remorse in you, and teach you not to use another woman thusly. However, for myself, I merely hope that our paths never again cross.

Firmly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Fellow in the Tavern Friday Last,

Having had some little time to reflect upon our brief tête-à-tête and the unfortunate way in which we parted, I have decided at last that perhaps I was to some extent to blame. I will admit that I had gone into a bawdy place and imbibed too much wine. I was low of spirits and convinced to enter the tavern by a dear friend who, while possessing of a good heart, does not, I am sad to say, always conduct herself with the utmost prudence. I am in charge of my own affairs, however, and ought not to have behaved myself thusly. I had lately been disappointed in a marriage proposal, and perhaps I sought to cure my wounded vanity by attracting admiration from another. A dreadful, wanton way to behave, true, but if you but knew how I had been wounded!

However, it was still my hope, in any event, to attract the attentions of an upstanding and genteel young man of suitable birth and proper comportment. Little did I expect, even in such surroundings, to be so accosted by one who I now cannot but regard as a most debauched and sorry fellow. Furthermore, just because a lady consents to speak privately with a strange gentleman in an alleyway, it does not follow that she is likewise prepared to enter a taxicab with the gentleman and proceed unchapheroned to his private residence! If your black eye did not teach you the truth of this, allow this letter to remove any remaining doubt. And so, while it may indeed have been true, as you so unkindly and repeatedly asserted, that I was in some respect ‘begging for it’ . . . not from you, good sir! Never from you! I would bed an hundred hipsters before I ever stooped so low!

(I do sincerely apologize, however, for becoming ill upon your oxfords. That part of the business was indeed my own fault.)

Scathingly,
Elizabeth Bennet

–

To the Stockbroker Who Took Me to Dinner
(and bragged about his ventures all night, then stiffed the waiter):

I guess money can’t buy class, you dick.

Decidedly,
Elizabeth Bennet

Okay, that’s it: I am not hanging out with the turtles this week. No matter how lonely I get. I need to spur myself to make some other friends, and yes, to meet some men. I am never going to meet anybody hanging out in the sewer all the time. I’m going to sit here, and I’m going to just be alone. I’m going to feel this loneliness and acknowledge it, and not run away from it. This is your life, April. Own up to it.

–

Alright, so I went over to the lair last night. I know I have to stop spending so much time over there. But the turtles are so much fun! We just mess around; it’s so easy to hang out with them. Last night, Michelangelo and Donatello both wanted the last piece of pizza, and they were really starting to fight about it, and then, like, this sai comes flying down in the middle of the last piece, and Raph’s just sitting there – it was really funny. And Splinter was all, ‘kids!’ I love those guys. But seriously. I was there until three in the morning, and I was wrecked today. It’s fine for them. They’re turtles; they never sleep. But my work’s starting to suffer – I’m not getting much reporting done anymore. And too, all these kidnappings are really getting in the way.

–

Went out with Irma after work today. We went to some bar, and a couple guys bought us a round, but then when we tried to talk to them, they kept making jokes about me. ‘So, you like being kidnapped, huh? You like the freaky stuff? You want to see my turtle?’ That kind of bullshit. These are the only kind of sick jerks I ever meet. When I meet anybody at all, that is. I guess that, as a high-profile news anchor in a major metropolis, people just find me unapproachable. It’s amazing to me that I can be known by everyone, and still so lonely.

–

Had disturbing dream. All four of them. And the rat. That’s it. I have to start hanging out with people.

–

Kidnapped again. Got a little nervous this time, waiting for the turtles. The Shredder going through his usual monologue. But, just as Beebop and Rocksteady started closing in ominously, they came in through the windows on their ropes. It’s embarrassing to admit, but no matter how many times it happens, I still get a thrill out of it. It’s so exciting, and at the same time, I feel so safe. Really, what girl doesn’t want to be rescued?

Now, if only some human man would rescue me from hanging out with turtles all the time.

–

Extremely uncomfortable in the lair tonight, and started to wonder – is this less about me being a woman, and more about them being turtles? Do I assume, just because I’m alone with four turtles in their prime that something will happen to me? Would I be this uncomfortable if I were alone in the sewers with, say, four male colleagues I’m slightly attracted to?

….Actually, probably.

–

Hung out with Irma and Vernon last night. We went bowling. I should just date Vernon. He’s arrogant and boring, but at least he’s a man. But it’s just…there’s no click, no spark. After a strike, I screamed, ‘Cowabunga!’ And they just stared at me. Was so depressed, I went over to the lair after. Only one up was Raph. We had a long talk about life and expectations, and how no matter how boxed into your own patterns you might feel, each new day is a chance to bust out of them. We talked until the sun came up. Raph is so insightful, and I really admire the way he transcends his own fate. It’s like…he’s decided to see the man-half of himself as a gift, rather than see the turtle-half as a curse. The more I get to know him, the more I respect him.

…Oh, April, what the hell are you thinking?

–

Sometimes I wonder about Splinter. He’s by himself way too much. And I think he drinks. And last night, I noticed some weird marks on his wrists, which he quickly pulled into his robe when he saw me looking. Tried to mention it to Leonardo, but he snapped at me that turtles respect each other’s privacy. And that of rats.

–

Seriously, though…what would it even be like? Not that I’m considering it, but with the shell and everything…is this even a possibility? Google really isn’t helping – I tried everything: turtle sex, sex with turtles, women having sex with turtles, sex with an anthropomorphic turtle, turtles + radioactive slime = genitals? I’ve learned some things, but none of them are particularly specific to my situation. God. I’m so annoyed I can’t just ask! You know? Because surely it’s occurred to them, that it might be something that could conceivably come up. Not that I think about it that much, but of course, I’m going to wonder. Who wouldn’t wonder? Which makes me think that it must not be possible, or surely one of them would have made a joke about it, you know, casually, to clue me in that if I was up for it… Everything’s always implied with them about the whole transformation, and the turtle thing. I don’t feel like it’s my place to ask probing questions about their situation at all, much less about something so private. I’m not that kind of reporter.

…Oh, I’m sure it’s not possible. Not that it matters.

…It’s not even possible, April! Stop thinking about it, freak!

–

Brought Irma over to the lair last night. I was nervous to introduce her to the turtles, but I wanted another woman’s opinion about the whole situation. Well, she had a blast! She freaking loved the turtles! She and the guys all played flip cup and got totally shitfaced. And she and Donatello totally hit it off! He took her number, and she’s all, ‘I really hope he calls! He’s so hot – totally ripped. How come you never introduced me before?’ On and on. Which made me feel like a total ass for being ashamed of my own friends and so worried to introduce them to other people, when clearly, I’m the one with a problem. I over-think things too much. Why can’t I just relax and let go?

At one point last night, Michelangelo said it was so great to have another woman around, one who wasn’t dressed like a giant banana. He was just teasing, and it wasn’t really mean…but it’s jokes like that that make me wonder: is that all I am to them?

–

Went over to the lair last night. Wore a dress, and got all kinds of teased about it. I could just be imagining it, but I felt like Raph looked…smug. I just felt like wearing something other than my jumpsuit for a change! It has nothing to do with the turtles. I don’t care what they think.

You know what, fuck them. They’re just a bunch of turtles.

–

Ok, so, I made out with Raph. It was…hot. But I realized…I mean, he’s a turtle. A turtle, you know? And also, even though he doesn’t seem that young, he is a teenager. And I’m a grown woman. With a job and an apartment, and I’m not getting any younger. It just wouldn’t work. And so I told him that our friendship means more to me than anything, and I’d rather do anything than hurt him, and I just thought we should be friends. He said he understood. But he wouldn’t look at me.

I feel awful.

–

Kidnapped again. Only Leonardo bothered to come save me. I like him least of all of them, too. He’s oh, so put-upon, total martyr. He seemed really annoyed with me the whole time we were running back to the lair, with me slung over his shoulder. I tried to make jokes, and he just rolled his eyes. When we got to the lair, everybody was just laying around. Irma was there with Donatello; they were messing around with some old broken radio. I felt ignored, and just generally awkward and uncomfortable, so I just went home.

–

Haven’t talked to the turtles in over a week. I miss them, but I’m not going to call. I want to know if they’d even miss me if I didn’t come around. Let them call for a change.

–

Ran into Splinter today when I was reporting on a burst water main. He was all, ‘hi, stranger, we’ve not seen you in many moons,’ like there was nothing weird. I straight up asked him if everybody was pissed at me, and said I didn’t think I deserved that. He was just like ‘teenagers will be teenagers.’

‘Well, I’m not a teenager,’ I said. ‘I’m an adult, and I’m too old for this bullshit.’

He just nodded sagely; I wanted to punch him. He looked healthier, though. I’m glad he was out getting some sun.

–

Kidnapped again. They didn’t come. After two days, The Shredder just let me go. “I guess you’re not the turtles’ greatest weakness anymore,” he said. Irma wasn’t at work today.

I guess there’s a window for these things, and then it closes, and that’s that.

Not making a choice is still a choice, April. That’s what you should take away from this.

Slate has a long article summarizing all the various reasons why the science behind various studies and books asserting inherent differences between the sexes is thin at best. The article covers familiar ground – a lot of it restates the Mark Liberman posts I’m always linking to over at Language Log – but hopefully, this will help to discredit some of the more oft-repeated (and baseless) claims:

Even on the most hotly contested questions—like whether women have better verbal skills, or are hard-wired for empathy, or have cognitive differences that limit their advancement in math and science—the case for large, innate disparities is messy and, for the most part, underwhelming. This is especially true when it comes to neural and hormonal claims, which tend to be controversial. These writers offer canny caveats about culture and its role in gender difference. But they tend to imply that if a difference has innate roots, it’s likely to be relatively fixed. And that’s not necessarily so. In crucial ways, the mind is malleable. Ultimately, the evangelists aren’t really daring to be politically incorrect. They’re peddling one-sidedness, sprinkled with scientific hyperbole.

And while we’re on the differences between men and women, a nice rant all about orgasms – having them, not having them, faking them and who’s to blame – in response to a totally stupid column by MSNBC’s Brian Alexander:

But the thing that pissed me off the most is how Alexander wants us to look at his “roughly one-third” of straight women always have an orgasm statistic and be impressed by it. Clearly, the language he uses around it tells us that he’s saying WOW! One whole third? What a big number – especially when so many women are sexually defective!

As everyone knows, women love jerks, who, it seems, get laid a lot more. Why might that be?

It’s not always a matter of bad boys wooing vulnerable women into bed and then leaving them; it’s often two people who are both interested in just sex picking each other and calling it a day. Of course, there are no doubt some women who are suckered in by narcissistic jerks; there are also some dudes who are suckered in by narcissistic jerks (just as a Nice Guy). But sex isn’t always a trick men play on women.

What? Women might have different criteria (like looks and availability) for a one-night stand than they do for an actual relationship? No way!

One of the (many) things that really pisses me off is when guys go on about how women don’t like them because they’re too nice. I realize that everybody has to tell themselves something to get over rejection that puts the blame on the rejector and off themselves – women do the same thing (“I’m too intimidating/smart/successful”) – but I hate hearing guys go on about how their whole trouble is they’re just too swell for their own good. You know what? Usually “too nice” really means “unattractive and obnoxious.”

Hey, did you hear anything about these girls who had a pregnancy pact? And then, did you hear about how they actually didn’t?:

In short, the actual news item isn’t TODAY’S TEENS ARE SO IRRESPONSIBLE OMG. Rather, it is PREGNANT WOMEN REALLY WANT TO DO THE BEST THING FOR THEMSELVES AND THEIR CHILDREN, EVEN WHEN THEY THEMSELVES ARE PRACTICALLY CHILDREN, AND IF YOU REMOVE THE STIGMA AND GIVE THEM SOME ACTUAL FUCKING SUPPORT IT HELPS A LOT. But that doesn’t fit in a headline, and it doesn’t give people an opportunity to feel morally superior.

Apparently, the problem is knocked-up teenagers aren’t being mocked and derided sufficiently anymore:

When the same girl shows up at the school clinic for five pregnancy tests in one month, shouldn’t somebody be mocking her for it? In fact, isn’t promoting shame through mockery our civic duty?

(via Feministing)

Just…wow.

More on keeping daughters in line:

“Authorities allege that Rashid killed his daughter because he feared that her resistance to a recently arranged marriage would disgrace the Pakistani-American family.”

Sounds so simple right? He killed her because his “culture” made him. Not because he might be mentally ill or pathological. There is no denying that in basically every culture there is pressure put on women to act a certain way and especially with regard to marriage or the ownership of her sexuality. But the way that “honor” killing is discussed in the media you would think it is some normal cultural phenomena, when it is not. It is a sign of illness, culture gone awry and patriarchy at its most exaggerated.

Speaking of other cultures, here’s a few utterly sickening photo shoots in which black women are used as props for white models. Can we please, please, please just completely be done with the fashion industry now? Please?

–

I didn’t mention Michelle Obama once! If you need your fix, Michelle Obama Watch is a new blog entirely devoted to the subject. (via Feministing)

Whatever happened to that scandalous military analysts story that broke in the NY Times, and then utterly disappeared from the dialogue?

[It's] made the standard transition from “we don’t illegally manipulate the news” to “of course we did that, why are you still making a fuss about this old story”.

Also MIA: conservatives’ support for states’ rights:

Since the conservative ascendancy in Washington, many of these same people have stopped praising states’ rights and have begun burying them – not to protect citizens’ rights, but to take them away. The Bush administration and its Congressional allies have helped their friends in industry by enacting weak environmental, health and consumer regulations – and arguing that they wipe out more robust state protections.

–

The Christian dating site, Bigchurch.com, is owned by Penthouse:

It’s not like BigChurch isn’t about sex. It’s just more subtle than a site that’s explicitly aimed at swingers. BigChurch’s function is to connect people whose concepts of sex are tied so closely to faith and doctrine that it can be difficult to meet potential partners in more traditional settings.

–

There’s racism in Japan, and there’s also a parrot who, when lost, can tell you where he lives.

–

I am always looking for ways to get by with less sleep (ideally, I need about 14 hours per night to function properly). I also periodically have problems with insomnia, so I’m always on the lookout for causes: apparently, obese people are short sleepers. Wouldn’t you think it’d be the other way around?

What if all the “sleep hygiene” recommendations mean diddly-squat when the prime reason for one’s poor sleep is simply too much weight?

But then, on the other hand, I usually don’t eat enough, and will often wake up from sheer hunger at 2 or 3 a.m. and have to get out of bed and eat something, just so I can go back to sleep until a decent hour. So, you can’t win.

–

Is the Internet ruining humor?

Because the Internet lets normal people make as much noise as funny and original people, the lame humor that usually dead-ends in offices instead spreads like crazy.

The net doesn’t kill humor. People kill humor. (Incidentally, for the very best in original online humor content, click this link!!) [And, while I'm at it, do you agree with Jessa Crispin that "more misanthropes should write travel literature?" If so, then click this link!!]

Also funny:

The Wit and Humor of Immanuel Kant

…and others of the world’s shortest philosophy books.

(via The Morning News)

Are you brave enough to take on these death-defying tasks? Are you man enough to go where no man has gone before? Are you bold enough to attempt the impossible? Take my challenge: prove your mettle by performing one or more of these terrifying stunts:

1. In earliest morning, put on your fanciest cocktail dress. At about 11:00 a.m., go alone into an upscale restaurant in your city’s business district. The restaurant will be nearly empty at this hour, but there will be a few servers sitting toward the back, eating breakfast and polishing silverware for the lunch crowd. Stand there patiently until one of them approaches you. Ask if it’s too early to be served. Request a large, central table. When seated, do not get out a novel, newspaper or cell phone. Rather, make eye contact with the staff, all trying very hard to look anywhere but at you. When the busser brings bread and asks what you’ll have to drink, ask for a wine list. When the server offers the lunch menu, ask if there’s a prix fixe. Order several courses. Have the Porterhouse steak for two, or, if there’s a dish that involves the server wheeling out a cart and/or setting something afire tableside, go with that. Get dessert – ask if the chef can do a tasting menu. Linger as the restaurant fills up with businesspeople and their clients, all having Diet Coke and chef salads. Ignore the hustle, the bustle, the fact that your large table is now desperately needed. Sit, placid and content, in your gown and jewels, polishing off your bottle of wine, and working steadily through your feast.

If you can pull this off, you are more courageous than 98% of the population.

2. Think back to your junior-high or high-school years. Who was the first boy you ever dated? Google him. Look him up on MySpace. Email him and ask him if he remembers you. He’ll probably reply, excited to hear from you, and ask what you’re up to these days. Ask for his phone number – tell him that there’s something you must discuss with him, and you don’t feel like typing it all out. There will be a couple days’ delay after this request, but he’ll probably give it to you eventually. Call him up. Get drunk first. Call at about 11:30 p.m. on a Tuesday evening. Tell him that you realize this probably comes as a shock to him, but you’ve been seeing a therapist lately about your inability to connect with men, and you’ve decided that the only way to move past your dating hurdle is to confront it, head on. Inform him that he is that dating hurdle. Tell him that you never got over him, that he was your first and only love. That in the twenty-odd years since the two of you shared your first tongue kiss under the bleachers at that Saturday afternoon JV soccer game, you’ve never had more than a single date with any other man. Tell him that you think about him every day, and wonder where he is and what he’s doing. That at night, you dream of him, and wake up feeling bereft and empty. That you compare every male friend, every coworker, every actor on the screen with him…and they all come out unfavorably. Tell him that, even though you know you must move on, if now or at any point in the future, he were to call to you, you would leave whoever you’re with, and any children you might have with that person, and you would run to his side – immediately and without question. Tell him that you’ll always be his deep down in your heart, and that you need him to know that, so that you can go on with your life. Ask him if he knows that.

If you can do this, there’s really nothing you can’t do.

3. Ask out that guy that seems like he kind of likes you, but is far more attractive than you are, and is already sort of dating that really stunning woman who works in accounting. When he starts to politely decline, begin to cry and tell him that you’re sorry, it’s just that your parents and your cat recently died (your parents were cat-sitting for you and all three of them were shot to death by a couple of junkies in what was probably a gang initiation of some kind) and sometimes it hits you at odd moments. Get yourself together, and ask him, sorry, he was saying? He’ll probably agree to go out with you. Tell him that since you invited him, you insist on picking the event and paying. Tell him that he’ll be coming along to see you make your open-mic debut at Caroline’s. Tell him he has to promise to laugh really loud, even if you totally blow. On the evening in question, wear a dress that is a little too young for you, and a lot too short. Wear it with heels that are brand new and uncomfortable. Part your hair on a new side, and wear a giant flower pin in a totally ironic way, but worry that people might not get that you’re joking. When you’re all awkwardly trussed, take a cab to Caroline’s and wait out front for your date. Get there 40 minutes early, and mention this when he shows up ten minutes late. Get over your nerves by having a few martinis. Tell him that you totally didn’t eat because you wanted to look pretty in your dress, which you think is maybe just a tidge too small. Tell him you can admit these things, because you have a good sense of humor about yourself. When your name is suddenly called, take the stage. Perform the following stand-up routine:

“Hey there, folks! Whoo, are we having fun tonight? Having a few drinks? I know I’ve had a couple. Who here finds me attractive? Huh? Anybody? Did you note my giant flower pin? I put it on today and I thought boy, this looks goofy. I sometimes will do things to be funny, and people will think I’m serious and feel bad for me! But the joke’s on them – because I think that’s hilarious! I’m on a date tonight, folks. First time in awhile. Stand up, Eric! Take a bow. Oh, that’s…where did he go? Oh, there he is. He’s cute, right? Yeah. Dating’s tough these days, am I right, ladies? It’s hard to DATE when you’re DATED!!! Ha, ha. I dated a Hispanic one time, and boy, did he love my cellulite. Am I right, ladies? You know I’m right! I sure do find my body hair unmanageable. But life today, with the Britney Spears and the iphones…. Who can keep up? I don’t know, it’s crazy. All my friends are gay guys. And cats. And that’s my set!!! Thanks, you folks have been terrific.”

Run excitedly back to your seat and ask your date how he thought it went. Tell him you thought it was awesome, and you’ve never felt so great. Tell him you’ll probably give notice at work the next day, and ride this wave all the way to the top. Ask him if he’d like to do something insane and just go to Maine this very night! Just go to freaking Maine! Fart audibly, and giggle in embarrassment. Tell him that, okay, you understand…in that case, he can come back to your place. Topple over onto the sidewalk, and stand up, blaming it on the heels. Explain that you’re really not that drunk. Tell him that, alright then, you’ll go back to his place. Start to cry. Scream that he’ll be sorry someday, when you’re the next Lisa Lampanelli and he’s still working IT in his dippy little tie and dating his anemic, beanpole of a girlfriend who’s never made a joke in her life. Calm down, and ask him if he can spot you a $20 for cab fare. Tell him that you’re super stoked he was on your arm to witness your big debut, and that you feel the two of you are going to be really great friends, no matter what else fate may have in store for you.

If you can pull of this evening, and show up at work the next day, you are the bravest mortal ever to walk the face of the Earth.

Immigration crackdown in Iowa:

“They don’t go after employers. They don’t put CEOs in jail,” complained the Postville Community Schools superintendent, David Strudthoff, 51, who said the sudden incarceration of more than 10 percent of the town’s population of 2,300 “is like a natural disaster — only this one is manmade.”

The article opens with a quote from one fellow who’s been working in a meatpacking plant in Postville for 11 years. Good lord, is that not punishment enough for any conceivable transgression?

–

I’m a big fan of Slate’s daily digests of various papers and blogs, and I think Friday’s round-up of bloggers’ reactions to the California Supreme Court’s gay marriage decision provides links to a particularly nice range of opinions on the issue. I’ll give Oscar Wilde the last word on this one:

Morality is simply the attitude we adopt toward people we personally dislike.

–

Bush has been implying Obama is one of those appeasers we all hear so much about:

The president is just being a demagogue. There’s no general prohibition against talking to regimes we don’t like. There never has been. It’s just a made-up rule that right wingers invented to browbeat their critics and to make war seem inevitable. It’s not like the Bush administration has ever been bound by that constraint.

–

Because I can never get enough of this, here’s Mark Liberman on Leonard Sax again:

In his books, Leonard Sax is a political activist using science to make a case, not a scientist evaluating a hypothesis.

Science is sometimes on his side, sometimes neutral or equivocal, and sometimes against him. He picks the results that fit his agenda, ignoring those that don’t; and all too often, he misunderstands, exaggerates or misrepresents the results that he presents.

–

I’m sure this jives with the personal experience of anybody in the arts (I find it hard to relate to people who have some expectation that they’ll actually be paid for the work they do):

Unlike 20th century innovation, the most important developments in innovation have been driven not by research funded by governments or developed by corporations but by the collaborative interactions of individuals. In most cases, this modality of innovation has not been motivated by economic concerns or the prospect of profit. This raises the possibility of a world in which some of the sectors of the economy particularly the ones dealing with innovation and creativity are driven by social interactions of various kinds, rather than by profit-oriented investment.

–

Another article about how little today’s sex objects have to do with actual sex:

But the women in FHM are an equally false representation of male desire. FHM is not a men’s magazine like GQ or Esquire. It’s a magazine for lads – for 15-year-olds. It serves adolescent boys with the fantasy that there is something or someone out there who is the “sexiest,” a comforting norm of male desire which does not exist and has never existed.

(via 3 Quarks Daily)

When I was in junior high and wondering why all the guys wanted to go out with the exact same girl, someone wise explained this to me: boys like to be told what they ought to want, because they worry that if left to follow their own desires, they’ll want something weird. (An observation that applies to more than just teenagers about more than just sex.)

See also, Scientific American’s very comprehensive article on orgasm and the brain:

The men, by contrast, were physically titillated mainly by their preferred category of sexual partner-that is, females for straight men and males for gay men-and were not excited by bonobo copulation.

When I talk to single men my own age, the vibe I continually get from them is one of inexplicable hostility, suspicion and overall wariness. Inevitably, these men will, when drawn into conversation with me, take a stance of entrenched skepticism: arms bracketed firmly across their chests, they will glare defensively at me from the corner of their eyes, and press their lips together stubbornly. If I venture to tell a small joke, they will consider it carefully for a couple of beats, and then (provided they don’t choose to ignore it all together) acknowledge it with a startling perfunctory ‘Ha!’ After which they will immediately break eye contact and resume their studied refusal to engage, lest I be overly encouraged by this small concession. Merely talking to a strange guy makes me feel predatory. They are so resistant to being drawn into small talk like a normal person that it’s as if they fear I might at any moment haul off and kick them in the balls, or perhaps leap up and wrap my legs around their neck.

When I encounter someone behaving like this in casual conversation, my instinct is to leave them the hell alone, as that seems to be what they overwhelmingly desire. But incredibly, this attitude from men does not necessarily signal hatred, or even disinterest. At one recent social gathering, I was left alone with a fellow who stared at me in fear and loathing for a good ten minutes, while I awkwardly floundered around for non-threatening subject matter and made sure to keep both my hands out in plain sight. I pitied this guy – he seemed certain that at any second, I would rip off my skin, revealing my true form as a giant screaming she-beast, and consume him whole. Imagine my surprise when a girlfriend later called to tell me this same young man had asked her for my number.

I don’t understand how other women manage to move these incredibly angry and resistant young men from their initial fury at being addressed to actual dating. But I know it happens. I went around for a time in Chicago with a pretty, vivacious, single woman who, in the face of just the sort of reception described above, would become ever more gregarious, joking, giggling, turning backflips and walking on her hands, while whatever fellow glared intensely at a spot just over her head. After the fellow eventually wheeled around and stalked off (always abruptly, and usually right in the middle of something she was saying), she would turn to me.

‘Do you think he’s interested in me?’ she’d ask.

‘I think he thoroughly despised every fiber of your being, and would like nothing so much as to see you ripped apart by a pack of wolves,’ I would reply. ‘Although I have no idea why.’

A week later, they’d be dating, and he would suddenly be a totally normal, friendly person in conversation. How does this happen?! I don’t know, but I’ve seen it time and time again.

People (usually guy friends) have explained to me that many men are just in an absolute stark terror when confronted with a woman. Apparently, they can’t get through a simple dull chat about the weather without pissing all over themselves, so, to make them feel better, you are supposed to project extreme availability and encouragement. You should essentially transform yourself into a small, gamboling kitten and lick everyone in the vicinity under the chin as often as possible. Well, far be it from me to be stern about shy behavior. I myself am terrified by other people just in general, and I’m not saying I’ve never skulked around a party with my bitchface on and then wondered why no one talked to me. But at the same time, I’ll be damned if I’m going to act like a coked-up four-year-old just to make some dude comfortable around a keg. If you seriously can’t man it up enough to politely participate in a casual conversation with another adult, then the hell with you.

Valentine’s Day seems as good a time as any to air a small grievance I have, and I can even tie it into the holiday by introducing it thus: I think I might have mentioned a time or two (billion) that I don’t generally seem to get a lot of dates. One of the many side-effects of extreme datelessness is great (and ever-increasing) literary acumen (seriously, by retirement age, I believe I might have a shot at beating the ghost of Susan Sontag at Jeopardy), which is why I have the attention span for all of the following: (a) to regularly read on-line humor sites, and thus find the following literary parodies; (b) to be familiar enough with the literary works parodied as to recognize that the parodies themselves are just slightly off the mark; (c) to actually give two shits, and thus, (d) to stew for some time about the slight inaccuracy of the parodies in question, finally causing me (e) to spend a bit of time composing my own blog post explaining to people who most certainly could not care less why these parodies (which they would likely never have read in the first place, had I not brought them up) really ought not to be chuckled at.

First of all, this McSweeney’s article: my only problem with this one is the Jane Austen bit, and it’s a problem I often have with people parodying (or otherwise discussing) Jane Austen. Jane Austen was not a romance novelist (and even if you thought she was, this bit of writing doesn’t even bear a slight resemblance to anything she ever wrote). People so often assume that, because she was a woman and women like to read her, and movies based on her works usually focus on the love stories contained therein (or are at least marketed that way), that she wrote sappy romances. In fact, Jane Austen was a social satirist, chiefly concerned with social classes, hypocrisy, morality, and the (primarily financial) way in which the institution of marriage functioned in 19th century England. Not all of her protagonists are even meant to be entirely sympathetic (Emma, what’s-her-name in Northanger Abbey), and her prose is bitingly humorous. I haven’t seen Becoming Jane, but judging just by the previews, I feel pretty certain that if Jane Austen herself ever saw it, she’d vomit in her handkerchee.

I don’t so much blame people for judging her without reading her, however. There are a number of authors that I feel I’ve gotten enough of a handle on through the general buzz about them that I never need bother with reading any of their works; these include: Ayn Rand, Jonathan Safran Foer, all of the Beats collectively, the Bible. For all I know, the popular reputation of these writers is vaguely inaccurate, and if I were actually to read their work, I would be appreciative of them on an entirely new level, but I probably won’t ever read their work, because I already feel thoroughly exhausted by them all without ever having cracked a spine. It’s possible for a certain book or a certain author to so thoroughly saturate the collective consciousness that there’s just no need to actually sit down and read the damn thing: you already know it by osmosis. In this way, I absorbed A Million Little Pieces, Tuesdays with Morrie, The Da Vinci Code, everything by Michael Pollan or Malcolm Gladwell, and currently, Eat, Pray, Love.

On Yankee Pot Roast today is another slightly inaccurate parody, this time concerning one of my favorite authors, David Foster Wallace. As parodied here, David Foster Wallace is indeed hugely verbose, and one of his most-recognizable traits is the heavy use of footnotes (he footnotes his footnotes, and then footnotes the footnoted footnotes), but he isn’t tediously pedantic in the slightest. He’s really knee-slappingly hilarious. All of his stuff is darkly comedic; I laughed all the way through Infinite Jest (and it’s a long, long, long way through). I know I have a (deserved) reputation for finding humor where none is intended, but I really don’t see how anybody could read a word of anything by David Foster Wallace and not at least chuckle. Speaking of Foster Wallace, anyone regularly read The Atlantic? Remember that article on talk radio that he wrote a couple years back? Wasn’t that freaking awesome? Wasn’t it refreshing to see The Atlantic shake it up like that? Isn’t it disappointing that they never followed up on that success by risking any other major departures from their usual (however consistently well-written) content?

Okay, I’m just going to cut-and-paste this entire blog post into a Match.com profile, because for reals, y’all, who wouldn’t want to have dinner with this lady?!

–

UPDATE: Yes! This (also YPR-published) parody of Foster Wallace, on the other hand, gets it exactly right.

(Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda meet on Charlotte’s back patio for iced tea, while their children play in the yard.)

Carrie: Boy, let me tell you girls, this weather is beautiful!

Charlotte: Yes, it’s such lovely weather for March. Warm.

Samantha: But not too warm!

Miranda: Yes, just warm enough. Good for health, children, and the economy.

Carrie: Here, here.

Samantha: I think this warm weather makes Smith more attentive to his…marital duties.

Charlotte: Oh, dear!

Carrie: My!

Miranda: Gracious!

Carrie: I must say, Samantha, the things that come out of your mouth.

Samantha: I can’t help it, girls! I positively enjoy being a woman and a wife, and everything that goes along with that.

Miranda: Really?

Carrie: How is that possible?

Charlotte: Ladies, I’m extremely uncomfortable with this entire conversation. Not to mention, the children are within earshot.

(A long, awkward pause. Samantha looks depressed.)

Samantha: I’m sorry, girls. I’m going to leave now. I have a headache. Come, children!

(Samantha leaves.)

Carrie: She drinks, you know.

Charlotte: I’ve never heard such talk!

Miranda: Yes, it was very inappropriate.

Carrie: Still, it makes you wonder…

Charlotte: Not me.

(A long pause, during which they all smile pleasantly at each other.)

Miranda: I know it sounds nuts, but sometimes I declare I almost miss the war.

Charlotte: I don’t know what you saw in that factory work.

Miranda: It was something to do.

Carrie: Oh, shoot. I believe I’m expecting again. Well!

Charlotte: This weather is fantastic!

Miranda: Yes.

Carrie: And how.

(Another long pause, during which they all smile pleasantly at the sky.)

Next Week:

Carrie admits to Big she is not entirely pleased to have yet another baby (but quickly reconciles herself to the idea)!

Miranda asks Steve if she might reenter the workforce part-time (but agrees to take pills instead)!

Samantha brazenly initiates marital relations (frightening Smith, who insists they meet with the Reverend)!

Charlotte asks Harry for a bigger allowance (and receives a lecture about the importance of economizing)!

If you speak to me at any length, know that I am trying, off and on, to listen to what you are saying, but understand that trying does not always lead to succeeding. If when next we meet, I have forgotten your name, your face and any and all details of our last conversation, you should not take this personally. Rather, attempt to understand what might be going on with me as you are talking. What the hell is my problem? Well, it could be a number of things:

1. I might be busy being thrilled with myself. I spend a great deal of time and energy being thrilled with myself. In fact, the amount of time I spend on self-congratulation is only matched by the amount of time I spend despising myself. It is difficult to focus when you are busy engaging in thunderous mental applause. If I am busy enjoying my own attributes, I will likely be blinking in and out of your conversation, but you should not be offended by this, because part of my self-enjoyment at that moment might have to do with you.

For example, I might be thinking: ‘Look at me engaging in witty, satisfying conversation with this fascinating and attractive person! I have certainly drawn the most interesting person at this party into a tete-a-tete and now he/she is entirely focused on communicating something to me! Well done, me! I think everyone else at the party is looking at the two of us now.’

2. I might be composing a hilarious adventure story based upon something you said a few minutes ago. There are certain key words that set off a ripple of creativity in me, and if you mention any of these in passing (sparrow, holiday, grassy, particularity, smoke signals, cynicism, Darrell Hannah, slushy, perestroika), I will be immediately transported to a place far, far away. You should not be offended by this, however, because I will be sure to share my flight of fancy with you as soon as you come to a stopping point.

3. There might be something wrong with your face. If you have strange hairs, or a mole, or a bit of food stuck somewhere, or a looming pimple, or one of your eyes is set lower than the other, or you bear a passing resemblance to someone I either knew or saw in a movie once but I can’t quite figure out who, then there is very little chance I am hearing anything you’re saying. But you shouldn’t be upset with me about this, because any listener would be similarly distracted, and you really should just focus on taking care of whatever it is that’s gone wrong with your face.

4. You might be a crashing bore. Most people are, so you are in good company. But don’t blame me.

5. I might be sleepy. Or hungry. Or holding an empty drink receptacle. Or pissed off about something that happened earlier. Or worried about something that’s about to happen in a few minutes. You are not the only person with stuff going on, you know.

6. You might be failing to mention me much, or failing to make me think that you are about to mention me. The best (and in fact only) way to keep my attention during a story is to make me think the story is about to be about me, even if it’s not.

For example, you might say: ‘Do I ever have a trade-last for you! (Insert your stupid, boring story here.) So, anyway, Anne said the other day that she thinks you seem like a nice person.’ I can guarantee you that if you have formatted your story in this way, I have listened with rapt attention to every word.

7. You might have pulled that trade-last trick with me once before. I am never fooled twice, so save it for something important.

8. There might be an attractive person standing behind you. If this is the case, I am striking poses instead of listening to you, but I cannot be blamed for this: at heart, we are really all just animals in the wild.

9. There might be a mirror behind you. In that case, I will not be offended if you ask me to switch places with you. It is, in fact, the only way to break the spell.

10. There might be a guy behind you that I went on a kind of pseudo date with once a long time ago, but then maybe it was just a friend thing, and I promised that I would call him, but I never did because I wasn’t really very interested, and then a few months after that, I ran into him randomly at a party, and he said that we should get together some time, so then I did call and then we sort of made tentative plans to go to a movie later, but I said something about bringing a friend along because she was in from out of town, and we left it pretty loose, and so then when it got to the day he was supposed to call and solidify the details, he didn’t call, which was fine, because by then I had rethought the whole thing anyway and decided that he was kind of a loser, and but then I wasn’t really sure if I should be offended that he didn’t call, or if it was okay because our plans weren’t that firm, and anyway maybe he took me mentioning my friend coming along as subtle rejection, and so far he has not made eye contact with me, and I don’t know if it’s because he just legitimately hasn’t seen me or if things are awkward between us now, which would be unfortunate, because he has lost some weight and cut his hair, too, I see, and then but maybe he’s with that girl, but maybe she’s just a friend, and I don’t know if I should say hi at this point, because it really kind of seems like he’s studiously avoiding eye contact, and anyway maybe he’s forgotten the whole thing, and anyway I’m not sure I really want to start something up with a guy who would wear jeans that tight, even if he does look pretty good in them. If this is the case, you should not be offended by my inattention, because I might very well ask you for your advice on all this, if you’ll ever just shut up about whatever nonsense you’re nattering on about.

–

If none of these ten reasons seem to apply, keep in mind that it is very difficult to listen to someone talk at the best of times. In today’s fast-paced, glimmering, spectacle-based social world, you can’t expect to just mildly burble along about whatever’s on your mind, and expect your conversational partner to listen. You have to really sell yourself. Make me see that, out of all of the utterances currently within earshot, yours is the one to focus up on! There are certain things that you can do to help your own cause, for example:

1. Scream key words. If there are essential nouns, verbs or adjectives, then verbally bold, italicize and underline them!

For example: ‘What about this weather lately? Awfully WARM for JANUARY!!!!!!!!!’

2. Help me out by mapping your story. I really only need to listen up at the topic sentences, climax, and the general resolution, so don’t be shy about announcing them.

For example:

-Announce your topic, right up front: ‘THIS IS A STORY ABOUT HOW I MET AMY SEDARIS IN MY BUILDING’S LAUNDRY ROOM.’

-Body of your story: (You go on for awhile about your building, and how you knew she lived there, but you never really saw her, etc., and then one day you were doing laundry. I am not listening to any of this.)

-Bring me back for the exciting climax: ‘HEY!!!! HERE’S THE CLIMAX!!! AMY SEDARIS CAME IN AND ASKED ME IF I WAS DONE WITH THE DRYER, AND I SAID YES!’

-Come to a period: (You trail on for longer than necessary about how much you like Amy Sedaris, and how you hope to see her again in the building sometime, and she was really nice and normal, and did not appear to be high. I am not listening to any of this, either.)

-Bring me back again for the only thing about this story that could conceivably interest me: ‘YES! I DO think that if AMY SEDARIS were to meet YOU, she WOULD IMMEDIATELY REALIZE THAT YOU ARE AWESOME AND THE TWO OF YOU WOULD BE BEST FRIENDS FOREVER!!!!!!!!’

See how that works? I guarantee you that the next time we meet, I’ll remember that you told me a story about how much Amy Sedaris wants to meet me.

3. Write your comments down and publish them in any major periodical to which I subscribe. Really, this is probably the best way to get my attention.

If none of the above tactics work for you, perhaps you should reconsider saying anything to me at all. Rather, ask me to tell you about something. I can wax expansive on many fascinating topics; for example: my childhood, my political views, my travels in Southeast Asia, how my continuing unemployment illustrates what’s really wrong with America today, etc.

You’re welcome for the tips, and I look forward to chatting with you at social functions in future!

I am a data-entry clerk by day. By night, I watch a lot of television, and sometimes I go over to my friend Brian’s house and watch television there. I do not play sports, nor do I enjoy things. I have a college degree in history, but now I enter the circulation numbers of various newspapers in spreadsheet format. Like, how many copies of a paper were dropped off at each location, and how many were picked back up at the end of the…never mind, I don’t care about it, and I’m sure it is not interesting to you, either, unless you are stupid. I am single, but I don’t date, because there are no available women at the place where I work. I hope that an available woman might look at this page, and email me. Brian said that that might happen.

I have never traveled, and I don’t often eat out at restaurants. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I eat at Peter’s, which is an Italian place that also serves gyros. I like gyros. Sort of. I mean, I’m not wild about them. Once Brian was emailed by a woman in his area who wanted to go to a movie with him. He made a date with her, but she did not show up. But maybe she did show up, and he just didn’t recognize her. Sometimes people look different from their pictures. My picture is of me in college. I look the same now, except I have lost a little weight. Most people gain weight as they get older, but I have lost it. I think it is because I used to go out drinking a lot in college, but now I do not do that, because Brian doesn’t drink.

There is one nice thing about my job, and that is that we have free coffee, and there are flavored coffees. I don’t like the flavored coffees, but it is nice to have the option. I don’t like too many options, though, because sometimes you can be paralyzed by choice. Something similar happened to me after college. When I graduated, I wasn’t sure which way to go, and that was an upsetting realization. I enjoy simplicity, to a reasonable degree. I have only three colors in my wardrobe, which seems to me to be a perfect choice. It would be dull and a bit insane to have only black clothing (though I have considered it), but I have found that the more colors introduced, the earlier I have to get up to pick. Currently, I have black pants, and jeans, and green and blue tops. That is what I consider a reasonable wardrobe.

I enjoy sleeping very much. It is healthy, satisfying, free of charge, and can be enjoyed by everyone. If I could, I would probably sleep all the time. I would say sleeping is my favorite thing to do. I have sometimes thought that a dog would be nice to have. But I worry about dogs. Even just thinking about sleeping makes me happy. Sometimes about three in the afternoon, I think about how I will sleep later, and I feel good from my head to my toes. If I were going to travel (and I don’t think I will), one place I might like to go is Prague. Brian has been to France, Spain and the U.K.

The thing about dogs is, they are kind of like slaves. I worry that a dog might be deeply unhappy with his overall life, but so simply pleased by whatever food or affection is coming his way currently that he can forget about it for the time being. But if that is the case, that dog would be better off dead. Brian has a cat, and the cat seems reasonably happy to me, and also not like a slave, because I’m pretty sure that cat could get away from Brian if she took a notion. I do not like cats, however; they remind me of a series of nightmares I had as a boy.

One movie I love is Dog Day Afternoon. ATTICA!!!

I do not much follow the news, but Brian was once on the news because he got into an accident. He was driving a car, but was very drunk, and he ran into the side of a school bus. It was 8:30 a.m. No children were hurt, but Brian got into a lot of trouble anyway. And I think that was right. That was two years ago, and Brian stopped drinking right after, and so I stopped drinking, too, because he was my drinking buddy. I don’t think there’s too much harm in drinking if you can leave off when it’s time, which I can, but Brian is an alcoholic.

I didn’t much care for school myself, but I didn’t hate it, either. The nice thing about school was lunch. And routine. I drive a Buick Sentry, a red one. It’s alright; I don’t much care about cars. And I have only been on a plane a couple of times. If a woman reads this and would be interested in going to Peter’s with me, I will be there at 8:00 p.m. this coming Friday. I will be wearing a blue top and black pants, and I look just like the photo above, except I am a little thinner.

My friend Chris was recently set up on a date by the New York Post’s Meet Market dating section. It was one of those deals where the paper pays for the date, and then each dater writes in and says what they thought of the whole evening. At any rate, Chris wrote a short play inspired by this event, and it’s hilarious, so thought I’d share it with you:

The Modern Day Disconnect Between the Sexes: A Short 10 Minute Play

Girls, we know how it is: you’re not too choosy. You’re friendly, pretty, open and communicative. And you’re single. So, why are you sitting home on a Saturday night?

Ladies, how many times a week do you find yourself wailing, ‘I just never meet any available men!’ How many times have you gone to what you expected to be a raging party only to find yourself playing Jenga with six lesbians and an eunuch? How often have you spent all night dancing sexily at a bar, only to wake up the next morning with a black eye, and a homeless person in your bathtub? How many times have you gone to a singles’ event, only to end up drinking homebrew in the janitor’s closet of a deserted high school with a mangy cat and two 14-year-olds on their first date?

Where are all the fellas hiding?!

We know where, and we’re going to tell you! Following are ten, surefire ways to meet single men. So strap on your party shoes and keep your chin up, hot stuff! Your dance card will soon be overflowing:

1. Take a class! While your fellow classmates are certain to be overwhelmingly female or married (what single guy would spend his free hours learning Spanish or auto repair?), you might very well meet a nice guy in the bursar’s office when you go to sign up.

2. Get a new job! Weekly! No one eligible where you work? There are thousands of jobs. Keep those resumes circulating till you find yourself next-cubicle to a cutie!

3. Travel! There might be men in other cities. Who knows?

4. Get hit by a car! Between the bystanders, the paramedics, the nurses, the radiologist, the er doctors and the cops who have to fill out the report, any ambulance and hospital visit combo is sure to expose you to at least one single man. If you’re really lucky, you might even require a separate visit for follow-up surgery.

5. Take out a personals billboard! Dating sites are overloaded. On Match.com, your video has a thousand other videos to compete with, but do you see any other single woman’s face looming over I-40?

6. Volunteer! You can bet if there are any nice, single guys volunteering, they’re every bit as lonely as you.

7. Sign up for an athletic team! Nothing makes a guy want to ask you out like you being the Achilles heel of his otherwise perfect weekend baseball team.

8. Spy on strangers and manipulate them into running through elaborate, whimsical scavenger hunts, while you hover anonymously in the background wearing a black domino, but chewing your lip adorably to show that you’re not really a creepy stalker! It worked for Amelie.

9. Be a damsel in distress! For example, next time you’re at the Laundromat, climb into a drier, close the door behind you, and scream and bang on the glass. If a woman or an ugly man rescues you, just thank them, wait for them to go away, and try, try again.

10. Start a fire in your apartment! The firemen will come right to you. Plus, you’ll finally get to meet the neighbors.

So, there you go, ladies. If you have tried all these things and are still single, you’re probably hideous to look at and unbearable to converse with, because these babies are foolproof! What are you waiting for?

I am currently accepting unsolicited submissions for casual first dates. If you wish your application to be successful, here are a few guidelines that, if followed, may increase your chances of acceptance:

• It would be wise to hold off on submitting until you have familiarized yourself with what I’m all about. I am easily researched on-line, and at the very least, applicants should read a couple posts on my blog. Why would you want to date someone you’ve never read?

• Submissions should be brief and to the point. Vulgarity is only acceptable if it is relevant, creative and not obnoxiously aggressive. No racist, sexist or otherwise hateful sentiment, please. I am not currently looking for dates with religious or political themes, dates that are chiefly informative in nature, or dates that are presented as comedy but are actually endless, whiny rants. In general, I appreciate originality and honesty. Send your clichés and homages elsewhere, please: while we all have our influences, I want to hear your voice. On a more technical note, those dates most likely to be accepted will display a good deal of forethought, a clear through-line and a definite ending point.

• While I pride myself on accepting dates from applicants who are a little rough around the edges, I do not have the time or energy for utter beginners. Please have some vague idea of what you’re doing before submitting.

• First-time applicants receive no remuneration for their date. In fact, you will be expected to pay. Should I desire to see more of your work, alternate financial arrangements may be negotiated as our relationship develops.

• First-time applicants should contact me only through the above email address. If you send a letter in the mail, it will only confuse me. Unless I have personally (and soberly) provided you with my phone number, you should not have it. DO NOT show up at my home, my office, or at any of the various places I am known to hang out. Failure to observe these guidelines will result in an immediate rejection of your proposed date.

• Simultaneous submissions are acceptable, as long as you’re not a total whore. Just please do me the courtesy of keeping me informed.

• I try very hard to respond personally to all applicants, but sometimes I just cannot handle the awkwardness. If you do not hear from me, please do not feel discouraged, but DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES RESUBMIT.

The key thing in 30-minute dating is to make an accurate and winning first impression. Such as:

• You’re a doctor? That’s cool. I’m a doodyhead. I’M A GREAT BIG OLE DOODYHEAD!




• In truth, I absolutely detest men. But then, I also hate women and can’t stand being alone with myself, so what are you gonna do?




• I want to be perfectly upfront about this: I have genital herpes. However, there are drugs that we can use that will prevent your ever getting it.




• I almost ended it all last weekend, but then I thought I should first be able to say I exhausted all possible options.




• Last night, I dreamt I was intimate with a puffin. Do you think that means anything?




• I’m going back to school to major in comparative literature.




• Whoa, you are seriously fat! I mean, I know I’m fat, but you are like, majorly, unbelievably, Gilbert-Grape-just-kill-yourself-now fat.




• Actually, I just came here with my friends to laugh at all the losers who’d really show up for 30-minute dating in good faith.

I had some free time this morning, and decided to take advantage of that unusual occurrence by taking out the trash. In this household, we recycle, which means we’re supposed to sort, and I thought I remembered my roommate explaining that you really just have to separate out the cardboard. I didn’t want to risk dampening my enthusiasm for the chore by going out in the cold to check the picture-keys on the trash bins, so I just went with that memory. Obviously, I was wrong – it’s meant to be glass, metal and plastic in one bin, and mixed paper and cardboard in the other. I had all the paper in with the metal and plastic, but I just left it like that. I didn’t want to pick through the trash bags again. What happens if you do that? Does the recycling plant explode? Do Recycling Enforcement Agents deduce from your old mail who you are, and come knock on your door to lecture and/or fine you, because recycling just won’t work if everyone is too lazy and squeamish to sort properly? Does Al Gore cry?

I feel simultaneously righteous about making the effort, and guilty about not really making much of an effort. This caps a week of good intentions and poor follow-through. Here are some other lessons I learned from things I screwed up this week:

• When one wants to gently and kindly turn a fellow down for a second date, because said fellow (although basically a nice enough guy) has a serious, long-term girlfriend, but sees no problem in pursuing other women behind her back, the best way to do this is not to say (and I quote): ‘It’s nothing against you; I just have a really fun and easy social life, and I don’t want to infect myself with your bad karma.’ Saying this will not result in a good, firm hug and no bad feelings on either side. Saying this will make things worse.

• Actors improve with age. Not in their chosen vocation, but by a reduction in their overall obnoxiousness as people. Knowing this, one should not leave a job where one works in comfortable surroundings with many old, jaded, mellow and failed actors to go work in extremely confined and chaotic surroundings with many young, peppy, hopeful and eager-to-impress actors. If one makes this move, one will be entirely unable to control one’s temper.

• When one grows weary of endlessly trying to find a satisfying answer to the constantly posed question, ‘So, why exactly did you decide to move to New York?’ one should not shriek in exasperation, ‘Because New York fucking begged me to come, okay?’ For some reason, other New Yorkers find this answer more abrasive than amusing.