So last week I promised to talk about dating horror stories. After I said it, I instantly regretted it, for obvious reasons. But I’m a man of my word and my roommate said I sounded like an asshole last week so….
“The horror, the horror”
A friend of mine once said that people prefer stories of fucking up in romance better than succeeding, and I have to agree. I could go into detail about vomiting beer on a first date (and then kissing said date square on the mouth) or about the comedienne/show promoter with Sally Jesse glasses in the neighborhood who tweeted “Why do I get all the shitty boys from OKC?” immediately after our date at Swallow (forgetting that I followed her on Twitter and that we shared friends.) But I’m not. I’m gonna be like W. staying the course and go for one. Mind you this isn’t my worst and I’m not even getting into sex because my editor here keeps telling me “Please don’t get me sued.” Here’s what happens when a terrible person gets drunk:
Sausage Fest
One Friday night after my pal Mike Lala and I did our reading series Fireside Follies at Brooklyn Fire Proof, we wandered on down to Kings County. Luckily it wasn’t during one of the Go-Go nights there, because those are pretty sad in various ways. At about 1am, the place was packed and the backyard was closed, but we luckily had secured the booths by the door. As I looked up at the bar, I saw a woman who was easily an 8.5, waving me over with her index finger with a gentleman standing next to her. I pointed to myself, “Who me?” and she nodded.
“Whats up? What do you need?”
I knew something was up. This was too good to be true and this woman was way out of my league.
“Oh no, I just thought you were cute.”
I paused, still not sure about this.
“Do you mean for your friend over here? I’m straight,” I answered.
“No, no. I meant for me.”
Completely flabbergasted, I paused, unsure of what to say and made some small talk before asking for her number, which she gladly gave. The next morning I woke up in a mixture of what could only be described as wary and panicked. This could have been a cruel joke. But I could have insulted her friend by assuming that he was gay. So, I texted.
“Sorry for being defensive and calling your friend gay, I thought you were joking when you came onto me like that. Let me know if you’d like to have a drink”
Minutes later came a reply:
“Oops! I was blackout drunk last night. I WAS just joking. I’m so sorry.”
My face burned in embarrassment. She continued.
“I’ll still have a drink with you if you want.”
And for some reason, probably low self esteem, I accepted and told her to meet me at Wreck Room Wednesday night, even though I knew she was just saying that to try and appease her own guilt. The friends I had told about this all offered the same advice: Stand her up.
And while my knee jerk reaction was to do this, to gain revenge on someone so cruel and callous (because alcohol is never an excuse for such behavior), the thought of me standing someone up made me literally nauseous. So I decided to do the next best thing: flake. Wednesday came and I sent the following message:
“I’m so sorry, but I have to cancel for tonight. Something else came up (which it actually did).”
And as it turns out, it was the right thing to do. Because the last message I received before deleting her number was:
“Oh thank God, I was going to cancel on you too, but I felt bad after what I did.”
Now I understand there’s a difference between being a nice guy and being a human doormat. But as my gut instinct first told me that something was wrong when I was beckoned over by a beautiful stranger (and was correct) it was also right in telling me not to simply stand this woman up. What satisfaction would have been gained had I said nothing and not showed? None, because she would have texted me to cancel at the last minute, leaving me a two-time loser. We all know the morals of this story, don’t we?
That’s some Count of Monte Cristo shit right there.
NOTES
I realize that this week’s column was almost as sad as taking the bus by yourself to the strip club during the day (on a Monday.) But even Biggie wrote this.
This happened a few months ago, but a word of advice: never EVER tell a Seven Day Adventist you’re a Catholic. I pass by these assholes (and I NEVER call proselytizers this) every weekend on Myrtle Avenue. One day I didn’t want to ignore them and be rude so as the gentleman went to hand me a tract I said with a smile “Oh no thank you, I’m Catholic.” To which he replied at top volume: “YOU THINK THERE’S A CATHOLIC CHURCH IN HEAVEN???! FAT CHANCE, PAL!” It took all my energy not to turn and punch a 60 year old in the temple. The best part about it was it was on my way home from visiting my father, who was dying of throat cancer in New Jersey at the time. Now I know how my ancestors felt when they left County Cork (DISCLOSURE: I haven’t been to a Sunday Mass in ten years, which makes Chloe Sevigny a way better Catholic than myself. )
There’s a party next Saturday for the Twitter account @bkgirlproblems at Delinquency and it looks dope.
My Halloween costume this year is going to be Daffy Duck- because there’s already a lot of kids running around acting like him.
Anyone know how much a beej from a girl in the Poetry Brothel costs? Preferably from the one I was arguing with who was blasting opera music while I hosted poets at the Governors Island Poetry Fest over the summer.
Next week I’m going to wax philosophical on development in Bushwick- and why I think there should be a moratorium on new liquor and beer/wine licenses for new businesses in the neighborhood.
