“If you’ve seen magic shows before,” says the Nerd, stepping to the edge of the stage, “then you know that the last trick is always the most amazing.  Some incredible transformation.” He counts silently to seven and waits for some sort of response.  There isn’t one. The audience has been watching this show for a while.  Afterwards, they wouldn’t be able to remember for exactly how long.  And it hasn’t been bad, per se.  But it also has not provided the transformative experience promised on the fliers that had lured them into the crumbling theater on a corner in a somewhat marginal neighborhood. “Magickal Transformation GUARANTEED” the flier had proclaimed in sparkly letters that popped off the paper.  And, for one reason or another (perhaps boredom or the desire to impress a new paramour with something unusual) the audience members, 20 or so of them, had responded. They’d paid their $5 and walked into the theater at right about 1 o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday (an odd time for a magic show, they’d thought).  A bare stage with a banner hanging over it at a slight angle had greeted them.  The banner, written in magic marker, read:  “Magical Nerd on a Wire Show for You Yay.” ‘Magical’ looked like it had been written in at the last minute by a five year old who had figured out how to brew his own espresso. As soon as they’d taken their seats, the ‘Magical Nerd’ had appeared.  Engaging, even charming if not particularly nerdy, he’d launched into a magic act.  Cards, a couple of rope tricks, some coins appearing out of the air, some fun stories.  But that’s it.  No big transformation.  But, then, what did they expect for five bucks? So that’s why...

Before I narrowly evaded the cold hand of death in the Peruvian Jungle, I spent four days walking up a steep hill and had some learnin’ laid on me by a roundish 4’10” Cambodian-American in an all white hiking ensemble. I’d intended the Steep Hill part of the trip to be a physical challenge rigorous enough to balance out the mental/spiritual challenge of the spiritual retreat part of the trip. And so it was. The hill was, as advertised, steep. Climbing said hill at an altitude in excess of 16,000 feet was, as expected, incredibly difficult (take three steps, stop until lungs stop burning, take three more steps). But I managed with relative aplomb. Despite having lungs that, medically speaking, don’t “work right,” I kept pace with 21 year old outdoorsy types. Go me. It was nice to learn that I can, in fact, walk up Steep Hills. But I learned much more from the Woman in White (let’s call her “S”) than from my own ability to put one foot in front of the other. See, S failed at the walking. Spectacularly. At the orientation meeting the night before we set off, S talked a big game. She embodied almost every single negative American stereotype. Overweight, obnoxiously loud, not curious about the country she’d come to for this, as she termed it, “spiritual journey.” The next morning, we were supposed to get to our departure point by 5 AM. She arrived at 5:20. We drove about three hours to the base of the Steep Hill. We set off. S, in all white, looked like a marshmallow. She trundled along for the first hour or so. And then stopped. From a vantage point about 50 feet above her, I saw the marshmallow stop walking and bend over. Then it wobbled....

I don’t get scared until my Lucky hat flies off. It has the word “Lucky” inscribed on the bill and has been a fixture on my head for the past four weeks of trekking in Peru.  “Crap,” I mutter under my breath. I grip the back of the motorcycle more tightly and prepare myself for certain death. As if in reaction to my curse, the bike fishtails over a particularly muddy patch of rainforest. Juanito, the 17 year old who has volunteered to drive me out of the deep jungle to a slightly less deep part of the jungle, rights it and revs the engine.  Mud splatters up onto my already grimey pants. The bike leaps forward. Juanito has a rat tail. I think about telling him that those went out of style in the US about 25 years ago. Then I remember a valuable lesson recently learned from a Peruvian ayahuascero/Buddhist (like a Shaman, but more…Peruvian): “Let your words be worth more than the silence they have broken.” Given the precarious ground Juanito and I are skittering over–in addition to mud, there are large rocks and a cliff just to the right of the road–silence seems particularly valuable at the moment. This motorcycle ride was never part of the plan. At the beginning of my last week in Peru, I decided that instead of heading west to visit Arequipa (big city, mountains, dry), I’d head east into the Manu Rainforest Preserve (remote, jungle, hot ‘n humid). I booked the trip last minute with a small, family run company. I’d have to leave the expedition a day early and travel overnight to make my flight back to the U.S.A. No problem, they assured me. They’d take care of it. At that point in my travels, I...

A few years ago, I jumped off of a perfectly good raft and into the roiling waters of The Colorado River. In other words, I swam a rapid in the Grand Canyon. Now, I was not alone in this. About half of the group I had been rafting down the canyon with for the past few days also made the leap. And we all wore life vests. And apparently swimming rapids in the Grand Canyon is not uncommon. But as an urban dwelling 21st century man, this whole jumping into churning whitewater littered with boulders thing caused a fair bit of trepidation. Or fear. Pants pissing, hyperventilating panic and fear. I stood on the side of the raft watching one person after another hop off and get whisked away by the current. Martin, a 50 year old with a slight heart condition; Daniela, an adventure-seeking 30-something Italo-Swede; Bob, an ultra-conservative former military man. They all jumped off and sped into the white water becoming indistinguishable bobbing orange beacons.  In the distance, a second raft waited at the bottom of the rapid to scoop up the swimmers. My turn came.  I looked at the water.  It didn’t really look all that rough.  Compared to some of the rapids we had navigated, this was nothing.  Of course, we’d had a raft when navigating those other rapids.  I didn’t have to jump.  Other people had chosen not to and no one had judged them.  But I’d judge myself.  Besides, if someone with a heart condition could do it, so could I.  And when else would I have a chance to do this?  Yes, I had to jump!  I had to!  No choice! I still hadn’t jumped.  My brain-decision somehow got sidetracked on the way to the body.  Maybe it saw something...

I’m about seven standing next to my father while he does the dishes.  My mother’s voice shoots from the dining room, carried on a plume of cigarette smoke:  “Roy, wash the dishes.” “I am, smokestack,” my father replies, scrubbing the hell out of a pan. He hands me the pan. I start to dry it. My father looks down at me. “Have you ever heard of the Zorbonites?” he asks. I shake my head. He nods. “This is very important. See, we’re Zorbonites. So we have to know the three basic characteristics of the Zorbonite.” “I thought we were white,” I say. I’ve recently discovered that I, in contrast to every other kid in my neighborhood, am white. I found this out when a new kid on the block asked my neighbors why they played with a white kid. “Nah,” my neighbors said, “that’s Mike-Mike. He doesn’t count.” It was all very confusing. “We’re also Jewish,” my father says, pushing his thick glasses onto his nose. “And Zorbonites.” He hands me a plate. I dry it. He continues: “Zorbonites do three things that not many other people do. Do you know what they are?” “No.  Also I think you’re making this up.” He smiles. “Zorbonites see things that aren’t there. They hear the sound of silence. And, and this is one your mother is really good at, they remember things that never happened.” My mother slouches into the kitchen, a half smoked Benson & Hedges hanging from her lips. “You guys better be washing the dishes. You didn’t yesterday.” “Actually, we did,” says my father, winking at me. “Yeah, mom,” I add, “You’re remembering things that never happened. You’re a Zorbonite!” My father and I start to giggle. “You’re both pathetic,” my mother says as her teeth come out of...

A few weeks ago I read a story about a guy who flipped out when someone asked him the most common of all lazy cocktail party questions:  “What do you do?”  Instead of answering, the guy threw a hissy fit and lashed out at the questioner, calling them all sorts of names, before storming out of the room.  It all seemed a bit immature. No, the guy wasn’t me.  It really was a story I read somewhere. Anyway, as I prepare to leave my job, I kind of see where the guy was coming from.  “What do you do” is a really annoying question.  Here’s why: Generally, if someone is asking what you do, it’s not out of any genuine interest in what you do.  They just met you, what do they care.  It’s so they can categorize you.  In Los Angeles, an answer of “I’m an actor” comes with a whole host of background characteristics:  self-centered, bartender, superficial, etc..  A answer of “I work for a nonprofit that serves homeless youth” comes with another set:  self-sacrificing, poor, noble, etc.  Based on your answer, the questioner then assumes a certain social stance towards you. This happens.  I’ve had occasion to give both of those answers at times–actor and nonprofiteer–and have seen wildly different reactions.  The assumption behind the question, of course, is that what we do as a job defines who we are as people.  I’ve tried combatting this assumption by elaborating.  “Oh, I’m an actor, but I also write and work with nonprofits” or “Oh, I work with homeless youth, but I’m really an actor.”  It doesn’t matter; all of that is too complicated for a cocktail party.  You can only be one thing. Rather than getting frustrated about it, I propose a...

On Friday night, I found myself in a sharing circle.  Actually, it was a birthday party.  We happened to be sitting in a circle and sharing.  It was much more fun than it may sound.  We had pizza. At some point, the circle splintered into smaller groups.  I talked to an artist for a while; we gabbed about nonprofits, art, all sorts of stuff.  A few feet away, three guys and one girl talked about online dating.  They shared a few horror stories, whipped out their cell phones that had a mobile dating app installed.  Compared profiles, checked to see if anyone interesting was in the area. As they talked, the three guys, in subtle and less subtle ways, vyed for the one girl’s attention.  Subtle shifts in body position, laughing a little too loudly, invitations to future cultural events.  She was attractive, can’t blame the guys.  Anyway, I watched all this happening and realized at some point that I was happier talking about a van that doubles as a pinhole camera (awesome!) than about dating. A year ago, I might have participated in the dating story-share.  Hell, that was kind of my thing.  I’d go to parties and people would be all, like, “Hey, Kass, tell us about that time you did that thing with that girl that involved the sex!”  And I’d tell tales, sometimes a bit grotesque, about various misadventures, the lengths to which I may have gone to grab a few minutes of empty pleasure, moments of unexpected vulnerability in the midst of tawdry assignations.  I’d cloak myself in these stories, assuming the identity of the weathered, bitter veteran of the Dating Wars, holding myself up as an example of singlehood in LA.  Assuming that folks were looking for a...

I walk into my supervisor’s office.  “This,” I say as I pull out a chair, “is going to be a sort of awkward conversation.” I’ve been building up to this conversation for weeks.  I’ve also been putting it off for weeks.  My inability to initiate this talk has dragged me into spirals of self-loathing and driven me into hiding from friends.  Who was I to have friends?  I who was not even able to have a small, completely professional conversation with a colleague?  What the hell was my problem?  Clearly I was fit only to sit on my couch alone practicing magic tricks and mourning for a life filled with dwindling possibilities. Sometimes I can tend towards the overdramatic. Anyway–the conversation.  I pull out the chair and sit down.  “As you think about reconfiguring the team,” I begin, “you should know that I’m going to be leaving the organization at the end of the quarter.”  I wait for a response.  After a brief pause, it comes.  “Ok,” says my supervisor.  “Thanks for giving us so much notice.” And that’s it.  It’s done.  Weeks of angst, lost sleep, and tension and it’s taken less than two minutes to take the action that will reconfigure my life in a significant way. In two months, I will be without full time employment for the first time in about 15 years.  Although the actual conversation was brief, the journey towards it has been long, winding, arduous, and annoying as hell to friends who have listened to me whine about wasting my life for years.  I’ve been hiding behind the security of a job.  Now, my jobs have all been for the social good–very noble.  And they have spoken for at least 50 hours of every week, usually more,...

I lie in bed. I’ve been lying in bed.  I keep lying in bed. I’m not particularly enjoying lying in bed.  I’d like to get out of bed.  I know that if I get out of bed and do 50 jumping jacks, I’ll feel better.  It really wouldn’t take much.  Just swing my legs over the side of the bed.  That’s it.  Easy. I lie in bed.  I’m nestled against clean laundry.  It smells nice. I really should get out of bed.  There’s so much to do.  There’s that thing I want to finish and that other thing that I have to get done.  I can clean the kitchen, go for a walk, call a friend.  I think about all of the Things I Have to Do.  My chest starts to tighten. Experience tells me that 50 jumping jacks plus 30 push ups will loosen my chest.  That writing a list of the Things will keep the anxiety at bay.  That a cup of tea will center me.  All I have to do–and really, it will take less than 30 seconds–is get out of bed. I lie in bed.  My phone buzzes.  A text message.  I ignore it.  I’m very busy.  So much to do.  No time for texting. Outside, traffic whizzes by.  Cars driven by people who have successfully gotten out of bed.  If they can do it, why can’t I?  My legs work.  I flex my feet just to make sure.  I try to trick myself into getting out of bed. Self, I say, if you don’t get out of bed by the count of three, the world will explode. One. Two. Two and half. I lie in bed. I just want to get up.  God, I hate that I’m not able...

I’m sitting across from a girl on a couch. I whip out a deck of cards. “Want to see a magic trick,” I say. She smiles broadly. “Yes.”  Awesome. For the past couple weeks, I have been taking magic classes at the (world renowned) Magic Castle. The class is mostly dudes.  I’m guessing that most of these dudes joined the class hoping they could use magic as a mysterious tool of seduction.  And here I am, on the couch, showing magic to a girl.  Livin’ the dream! The class itself has been pretty great.  The teacher is a spry ‘n sprightly 84 year old who has been with the Castle since its founding.  “Magic,” he told us  at the top of the first class, “has kept me young.  And I hope that it will do the same for you.”  Then he pulled a bean bag out of thin air with a wave of his magic wand.  He actually had a magic wand.  I could easily see a woman falling for a man with such power.  And a wand. We newbies don’t get wands.  We get decks of cards, a quick lesson in shuffling, and repeated exhortations to practice our shuffling.  We spend 20 minutes or so of each class shuffling.  No trick shuffle; just a normal shuffle. The teacher walks among us, correcting hand positions.  “Keep shuffling,” he says with a twinkle.  “Always keep shuffling.”  Some of the others keep dropping their cards.  Not me.  I shuffle smoothly, the cards falling into place, rising and falling with relative precision.  The teacher looks at me and nods.  “Nice shuffle,” he says. My pride rises out of all proportion to the actual accomplishment. Along with the class itself, the fee grants you access to the Magic Castle anytime...

We see the statistics every day:  housing costs on the rise, foreclosure rates through the roof, unemployment at record highs.  And that is just in the United States.  The housing and jobs crisis is much more severe in other parts of the world.  It’s dire.  What if there were a way to live in a state of the art community custom designed just for you for free? That’s right.  For free. Currently in development, Gene-Cities (Jen-Eh-Cities) represent a great leap forward in housing innovation and social engineering.  Gene-Cities help you live the life you want, guaranteed.  Because they are designed based on your design. The Gene-City Difference Early in the 21st Century, advances in genetic science and technology made tests that were previously either impossible or cost prohibitive available to a more general public.  In 2012, the cost to test and fully sequence an individual’s DNA dropped below $1,000.  The amount spent on DNA testing is projected to increase five fold by 2020 to over $25 billion. Initially developed to screen pregnant women to see if their children would be likely to have down’s syndrome or predispositions to other diseases, as our knowledge of genetics increased at an exponential rate tests rapidly developed to determine behavioral predispositions as well.  While we certainly have free will, our genes predispose us to want to live in certain environments, live among certain types of people, eat certain foods, and purchase certain products. It can take a lifetime to find out who we are, what we like, and the type of people we want around us and our families.  What if there were a way to short cut this laborious process and take the guess work out of life?  A way to live in an environment engineered to...

When you hit your mid-30s and friends start to have babies, you have a choice: find new friends or find ways to cope with the fact that your friends’ lives will be incalculably altered by the new life that they thrust into the world. Find ways to remain relevant in their world, a world consumed with burp cloths, sleep cycles, baby monitors and diapers. Find ways to, you know, be cool with infants and friends who have become zombie-like. With this in mind, I proudly present: The Single Nerd’s [brief] Guide to Friends with Babies! 1. All babies are cute Let’s face it, some babies aren’t cute.  Actually, many new babies aren’t cute.  They’re slimy, wrinkly, bug eyed little creatures.  They mewl and piss and puke on everything.  Sure, they have soft skin, but you leave them in the sun for ten minutes. . .see how long that lasts. The key here is that no matter how potentially uncute your friend’s child is, don’t cop to it.  All babies are cute.  If you’re constitutionally unable to lie and find yourself tempted to let your friends know exactly how uncute their baby is, try one of these handy phrases: “Wow, look at that baby!” “S/he looks so little!” “Who has little hands?  You do!  Baby does!” Of course, if the baby is cute, feel free to tell your friends. 2. Your friends will look like crap. Don’t tell them that. They know. The first time you see your friends after they have a baby, they’ll probably look strung out.  They’ll stumble around and talk in fits and starts.  They know they’re a mess.  Don’t do what I did recently and blurt out “Holy crap, you look like shit.”  That won’t go over well.  It’s probably best not to acknowledge any...

The day I ceased to exist stood out only in its unremarkability. I woke up, did fifty jumping jacks, some squats, a few pushups.  I watched some porn on the internet, shook my head in disgusted titillation, and hopped into the shower. I emerged, dried, pulled on some faintly wrinkled khakis and a button down shirt, and drove to work.  I parked my car in the overpriced garage a block from the office. I walked to the office and went up the elevator. Utterly unremarkable. Boring. I slid my key into the office door and unlocked it. Just like I did every morning. I opened the door and walked in. And the lights didn’t come on. The office lights were connected to a motion sensor. The lights would usually click on as soon as someone, anyone, entered the room.  I entered the room and they did not come on. Maybe I hadn’t entered the room emphatically enough. I stood in front of the sensor and jumped up and down. I did a jig. Waved my arms. Nothing, nothing and nothing. Assuming that the sensor had malfunctioned, I finally reach out and turned on the lights. They clicked on bathing the beige room in fluorescent light. Victory. I settled into my chair, clicked on the computer and immersed myself in the day’s work. First I returned a few emails, then reviewed some spreadsheets.  Within minutes, the snafu with the lights had been buried under a flow of information and electronic communication. About half an hour into the day, my co-workers arrived. I absently noted that the lights clicked on just fine for them. “I thought the lights were busted,” I called out as Olivia, a petite slip of a girl who sat in the center of the office less...

I’m supposed to write about love–pro or con or whatever–today.  And I find that, though I am the Single White Nerd and, as such, this should be right kablammo in the center of my wheelhouse, I do not want to.  Which is odd.  Because normally I’d jump at the chance to write some sort of screed against love that actually ends up being pro love and is vaguely moving. But today; meh.I guess I could write about Valentine’s Day.  Maybe Valentine’s Day in elementary school when you’d have to give valentines to everyone, but put extra red hots into the cards for your grade-school crush in the hopes that s/he would get the secret message and let you hold their hand. Again; meh. I could try to define love.  Wrestle it into the confines of rationality, peg it to a board like one of those dead ‘n dessicated butterflies that serial killers always seem to have in the talkies.  I could invoke evolution or Schoepenhauer or both.  Hell, I could write a whole philosophical treatise based on my experiences of love.  That would be . . . stultifyingly boring. Mehsymcmehmeh. Maybe I could write about the glorious torture of new love; the early days when your existence narrows its focus onto the other person.  Tumbling into a maelstrom of emotion and obsession.  Is she thinking about me?  What did she have for breakfast?  I wish I were a piece of toast; she likes toast.  Maybe I should call her, no I just called her, but she may want me to call her, what if someone else calls her, what if she doesn’t pick up, or does pick up, I want to throw up.  Reading hidden messages into the slightest cock of the head or...

About an hour ago, a play handed me my ass. “Here you go,” it said, “have your ass.” In this case, “ass handed” means inspired, galvanized, surprised and moved. It reminded me why I love theater. Here’s the thing–this show, the one I just saw, I shouldn’t have liked it. It’s not for me. It’s about the integration of baseball. Specifically, it’s about a fictitious meeting between Mr. Rickey, the owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Paul Robeson, Bill “Bojangles” Robinson, Joe Louis and Jackie Robinson to discuss moving Jackie Robinson from the minor leagues to the major leagues. I’m not a baseball fan. Nor am I Black. This play shouldn’t have spoken to me. Well told stories are rarely about what they’re about. In this case, a story about a meeting–literally five guys talking in a room–regarding race and baseball became about something much more universal. Everything about the play from the set to the performances–some of the bravest performances I’ve seen in a long time–told this story with specificity, elegance and efficiency. And through that specificity, the story became about so much more.  The cost the compromises we make in the name of our own careers or of the greater good. What happens–the damage we do–when we lose sight of what we’re fighting for in the heat of battle. The swirling emotions and impulses that come with any accomplishment or decision. The lengths we go to to determine our own identities. Theater, to an even greater degree than art, literature or film, has the incredible ability to tell these specific, universal stories and galvanize an audience with them. It’s immediate and ephemeral and when it works, which isn’t that often, it touches the audience in a visceral way that lasts long beyond the duration of the...

Have you guys been reading some of the crazy blogs about dating on this site?  I mean, sexting, sponsored international travel, smooching on the brother of the guy you met on an online dating website for people seeking sugar daddies. Hot damn. I can’t hold a candle to that. Not even gonna try. You know what I can talk about, though: Legos. Growing up, I hated legos. They never fit together right. They jabbed into my fingers, made me yelp with pain, reminded me how lacking I was in fine motor skills.  My parents bought me a few kits, but I never had the patience to put them together.  In the end, I’d just shove a few of the larger blocks together to make obstacles for my hot-wheels cars. I liked the cars. Didn’t have to put them together. Anyway, hated Legos. This past year, some friends bought me a Harry Potter Lego set–a four part diorama of Hogwarts Castle–for my 35th birthday. Huge set, over 1,200 pieces. I had, at some point, told them that I loved Legos. As a concept, this was entirely true. I love the idea of Legos. Making, for example, a Millenium Falcon out of little plastic pieces is theoretically awesome. The idea of doing such a thing myself, however, reopened old wounds inflicted by my childhood battles with Legos and filled me with angst and despair. I assured my friends that I loved the Lego set (which I did, theoretically), took it home, and propped it up against my couch. It stared me in the eye every day for five months. Every time I walked into my apartment, there it was. Just looking at me. Little happy Lego Harry Potter characters smiling at me from the box. “Look how FUN we...

An Open Letter to Women Coming of Age in the Time of Twilight About two years ago, I wrote an open letter to boys becoming men in the age of Twilight.  I sought to prepare them for the trials ahead, trials made tougher by the unrealistic expectations established by Ms. Meyer and her coterie of diamond glittery vamps.  Or howly hunks.  Either way. Today I reach out to you.  I reach out with a message not of warning, but of comfort.  I reach out to let you know this (listen very, very carefully): Sex.  Will.  Not.  Kill.  You. I tell you this because if I were a tween Twi-hard and I saw the latest installment in the Twilight franchise, I might think that I should be both ashamed and terrified of sex.  Even sex that has been sanctified by holy matrimony (sex before marriage would be, of course, absolutely out of the question). Here’s why: Bella and Edward share little more than steamy kisses before their wedding.  At the wedding, Jacob (for the uninitiated, Jacob is a werewolf who rides a motorcycle and pouts while pining for Bella) arrives and almost beats the crap out of Edward.  He doesn’t do this because he’s jealous (though he is).  He does this because he is afraid that having sex with Edward will kill Bella.  I know this because he bellows “YOU’LL KILL HER!” before charging off into the woods and changing into a computer generated dog. With this threat of imminent death hanging/murder over them, Edward and Bella jet off to a private island for their honeymoon.  Edward, fearing the power of his vampire sex, restrains himself from consummating the marriage.  “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says before condescendingly patting his barely legal bride...

This year, I’ll be winging it to Chicago to spend Thanksgiving with my parents. Given past experience, I’m guessing that expressions of gratitude will be in short supply.  So instead of saving up all my thanks for a Sharing Circle of Thanksgiving Fun, I reckon I’ll just unleash it on you fine folks.  Here it is: A few weeks ago, I was invited me to tell a story into a microphone at a bar.  I didn’t know anyone there and fell into conversation with a fellow performer, a musician.  Let’s call him James. James appeared to be in his late 40s or early 50s.  Tall, dark skinned, gregarious and clearly passionate about music.  Very passionate.  He talked to me for over 40 minutes about music.  He expounded upon the importance of craft and how young musicians nowadays had none.  Upon the mediocratization of music that had happened since the advent of the super-producer and vocalists who rely on computers to enhance their talent.  He extolled the virtues of Elton John, Billy Joel, The Beatles—musicians who had no gimmicks.  Just their talent and passion.  That was real music, man. He spoke about his own work.  The mysterious power that he, as a musician, had over women.  How he sought to emulate his idols, perfect his craft or at least get better every day.  About being a studio musician and craving the interplay between craftsmen.  He made me want to pick up an instrument and become, if not a maestro, then at least reasonably proficient so that I, too, could experience that camaraderie and power over women. By the time he finished speaking, I was looking forward to seeing him perform.  Surely someone that passionate would at least be interesting to watch. Two hours later, James...

Ladies, do you like a man with an accent?  I bet you do!  Then today’s blog is for you.  Today, we introduce an exciting new concept in Dating Technology: The Accentalizer! Like The Litmus Test, but more effective, this revolutionary new Neurosis Detection System can save time, emotional hardship, and the crippling uncertainty that comes with wondering if it’s YOU or if it’s HIM.  Here’s the skinny: Yesterday, I had lunch with one of my most favoritest people. She’s intelligent, accomplished, tall, attractive, stylish, athletic, cleans up well, ever so slightly crazy. Everything you could want in a woman. Recently, she found herself wanting to engage in a purely sexual relationship with a strapping gentleman. It started off well–they had a great evening of Adult Fun. So great that she called me on the phone humming with excitement. “Michael,” she exulted, “I have a booty call.  It’s so EXCITING.” I congratulated her and she went back to having super fun sexy time. Or so I thought. Apparently, after their first encounter, the gentleman became somewhat unresponsive to her calls and texts. Not entirely unresponsive. He would eventually return messages via text, letting her know that he was too busy to meet up. Once in a while, he would simply say that he’d prefer to stay home and watch a movie than go over to indulge in a carnival of carnal cavorting. This naturally made my friend feel a bit out of sorts. Or, as she eloquently put it, “What the fuck?” I delved into the mystery with gusto. I asked about their history, how long it had been since they had seen each other, anything that might indicate inconvenient emotional over-involvement (a sure deterrent to a booty call relationship) on either part. No obvious answers presented themselves. Finally, almost by accident,...

On Saturday night, three friends and I went to the Haunted Hayride at Griffith Park.  I hoped for some overpriced cheap thrills and instead found something far more terrifying: a Purgatory filled with lost souls searching, pleading, clawing for escape. It starts promisingly enough.  The smell of fresh hay hangs in the air, red and green lights cut through the manufactured fog, intricately carved jack-o-lanterns lay about.  Vendors dressed as zombies circulate through the crowd selling drinks, hot dogs, and candy.  I hop up and down, an excited five year old swept up in the carnie-goodness of it all.  My friends and I go to stand on line. The line is long. Very long. It stretches maybe two hundred meters up a hill.  It loops in on itself a few times.  Just to the side, several small sideshows have been set up to entertain the crowd.  They don’t seem particularly active.  Danny Elfman music pumps from speakers strategically placed around the line.  The fake fog hangs thick.  I’m still excited. A guy behind us is markedly sullen.  “How long is this line,” he gripes to his girlfriend.  Then he plunks himself on a bale of hay.  My friend leans over to me “What a jerk,” she says, “Why can’t he get in the spirit of this thing?”  I nod.  What a jerk. Ahead of us are three guys in their early twenties.  At some point, a costumed character comes up and shocks one of them.  The kid shrieks like a six year old girl.  He jumps up and covers his face with his hands.  I think he might be crying. We decide that we like these kids and will do everything in our power to ride with them.  Everything is more fun with shrieks and...

Y’know what the awesomest thing about being single is?  You can go anywhere and do anything!  Last week, for example, I just picked up stakes and drove up to Fresno.  Sure, it was for work, but I didn’t need to clear my schedule with anyone or check in.  I just rented a Kia and zipped up through the hinterlands of California. Man, there’s nothing like being on the open road.  Nothing but semis and farmland around you.  The wind whipping through the window and caressing your bald head.  Like mom patting a cowlick down before sending you out into the world.  That’s what moms do.  I’ve seen it in the moving pictures. And you get to your destination.  Fresno.  You don’t have to check in with anyone.  It’s great.  You get your work done and go to your hotel.  You banter with the front desk lady who, taken with your wit and charm (or maybe just out of rooms), offers you a free upgrade.  “It’s too bad your wife isn’t here,” she says, “to enjoy this deluxe suite with you.” You smile politely.  You swallow the urge to say “Wife?!  HAH!  I plan to take full advantage of this deluxe suite by jumping up and down on the bed and throwing my clothes about the room willy nilly!”  You go up to your room. The deluxe suite isn’t spacious, but does have a living room and a really big bed.  You empty your bag onto the sofa.  You jump up and down on the bed.  It’s fun!  You have a momentary twinge of wanting someone there to join in the fun and then remember that other people might not like jumping on the bed.  You realize that you’re hungry. You take your branded electronic...

Do you ever feel awash in a flow of information?  As if your identity is being shaped by the various social networks, newstreams, and push notifications cluttering your inbox and clamoring for attention?  Like you’re just a cog in a massive, convoluted information economy? You probably are.  And that must hurt.  Because if you’re reading this, you’re probably smart, you may read books and love them, odds are that you’re exceptional.  It’s hard to feel exceptional and distinguished in a sea of white infonoise. Friend, I want to tell you about LifeScribe, an innovative approach to Life Reclamation in the information age that lets you emerge as the Hero of your OwnLife(tm) and  promotes reading and appreciation of great authors to boot.   LifeScribe OriginsBack in olden times, not everyone was as exceptional as they are now.  Only a chosen few were considered worthy of having their exploits set down on parchment for the masses to consume.  These few, generally gunslingers, ne’erdowells, or big hero-types like Wyatt Earp went through life with a little dude, a scribe, scrambling behind them recording their activities with a fountain pen. These scribblings would become books, sometimes with illustrations. People would buy the books. The subjects of these “chronicles” became heroes.  People wanted to emulate them, to live vicariously through their adventures.  These heroes were exceptional.  Just like you.  You should be a hero.  Which means that you need a scribe. The Big IdeaThese days, you don’t need a little dude scrambling behind you with a pen to take notes.  You have Facebook, Twitter, Google Calendar, Yelp, and more.  You are your own scribe, creating the meta-narrative of your life even as you live it through comments, pictures, changes in relationship status, new jobs, and reviews.  Problem is...

When I was about 12, some kids in my neighborhood beat me up a little.  I’d been taking the same route to and from school for three years–subway, bus, walking.  I’d gotten used to seeing the same faces every day, a comforting routine.  These kids were new faces.  And they beat me up a little. I remember seeing them on the other side of the street as we waited for the light to turn.  There were six of them, pushing each other, horsing around. I saw them see me. Their heads moved closer together, they pointed at me.  My heart started beating a little faster.  Despite the fact that my neighborhood wasn’t the greatest, I’d never had trouble before.  This looked like trouble.  I could have turned around or crossed the other way.  But then the kids would know I was scared and would either pursue or, maybe worse, make fun of me.  Besides, this was my neighborhood and I had just as much right to cross the street as they did. So when the light changed, I crossed, moving towards them with as elaborately casual a gait as I could muster. When we got within hailing distance of each other, I made eye contact with one of the kids and gave a little head nod.  “What’s u–” A fist slammed into my stomach and I lost my air.  Someone pushed me back.  An open palm smacked the side of my head.  A flurry of punches hit my back and chest.  The kids laughed, called me a little girl, jostled me back towards the sidewalk. Then, just as quickly, it was over.  A trickle of blood ran from my nose.  I had the urge to run after the guys and unload a six pack...

The small prop plane suddenly drops out of equilibrium, careening sharply into the volcano.  It swoops down, losing altitude as it tilts at a nearly 90 degree angle.  The three other passengers and I hold on for dear life certain that we’re about to crash into a crater.  A moment ago, we were placidly snapping photos of a cool geological feature.  Now we’re more or less certain that the volcano is the last thing we’ll ever see.  Steam jets from a crevasse that can’t be more than 20 feet away from us.  I can almost feel the heat. I’m one day into my 35th year and I’m about to die.  It’ll be like a bad joke:  Two Americans, an Australian, an Israeli, and an Austrian crash into a volcano. . .Of course. Every year, I like to do something interesting for my birthday.  I’ve confronted my religious prejudices, gone on the Dr. Phil show, skydiving.  All sorts of stuff.  This year, I decided to go camping in Alaska.  Up until this whole airplane incident, it had been going well.  I’d met new friends from England, Australia, Germany, Austria, Switzerland and Israel.  We’d all slogged through the rain to a vast glacier together, cooked together, gone kayaking with porpoises, seals and sea otters.  The group had surprised me with a birthday cake on my actual birthday and we’d eaten it on a beach, snowcapped mountains visible through a faint misting rain. Not bad.  Then I went and pushed my luck by signing up for this scenic bear viewing flight. It all started so promisingly.  We arrived at the airfield on time.  The pilot outfitted us with hip wading boots that would keep us dry as we tracked bears along a river.  We took off into...

My smart phone officially and irrevocably became too smart for its own good on Thursday night at 2:30 AM.  I woke to a light beep and blinking indicator.  I picked up my phone where it sat, functioning as an alarm clock, on my bedside crate.  Instead of the clock I expected to see glowing on the LCD capacitive touch screen, a picture of a smiling green gingerbread man stared back at me. Gingerbread, Android’s new operating system, had arrived.  And he was ready to move in.  Very exciting for the faintly closeted tech fetishist. A few quick button presses, a brief wait, and my phone had become a Gingerbread house.  Casting the remnants of sleep aside, I plunged into my upgraded phone with abandon.  The keyboard had gained the ability to adapt to the maladroit proddings of my chubby fingers, the new app store lived up to expectations, the maps loaded faster, power management was much improved, the refreshed icons with their eerie green glow gave me a sense of comfort, reassuring me that technology was marching forward, filling old shells with new power and capacity.  Gingerbread had seamlessly integrated, my existing configurations and applications were unaffected apart from running more efficiently. “Gingerbread,” I said, lightly caressing the burnished silver phone, “You are amazing.” Just as I spoke, my phone buzzed.  Not in response to my words, of course.  Just a coincidence.  Surely. I cradled my Gingerbread and drifted off to sleep for another hour. When I woke up, I discovered that Gingerbread had made a small, almost unnoticeable change to one of my widgets.  I have several traffic widgets installed on my homescreen.  They’re kind of awesome.  I press the button and the widget tells me how long it will take me to...

Do you remember the first time you called a 1-900 sex chat line? I do. I was 12 years old. A friend had come over for dinner and I nonchalantly asked my parents if we could call a 900 number advertised on a business card that some entrepreneurial soul had slid under our windshield wiper. “Purely,” I said, “because, I mean, it’s funny.” I was smooth like that. My folks, once again flaunting their unorthodox approach to parenting, agreed to cover the cost. My friend and I went upstairs and held the phone receiver between us. We dialed the number. We listened to the recorded menu of options and, not quite up to the challenge of actual live phone sex, opted to listen to a pre-recorded story. It consisted mostly of a woman moaning things like “You’re so much bigger than my husband!”. We pretended not to be turned on as we held our heads millimeters apart over the ear-piece. I wonder what my parents were thinking downstairs. Anyway. I was thinking about that 900-number moment the other day (I’m honestly not sure why) and I realized that now-me would probably be significantly less turned on than then-me had been. Forgetting the fact that the internet has put the 900-number industry out of business, moany noises transmitted over fiber-optic cables just don’t hold the same allure as they once did. You know what would get me in a lather, though? Food Phone Sex. Here’s how it works, you call 1-900-FOOD-SEX. The menu comes on the line, delivered in a sensual, yet classy voice: “Thank you for calling. I always knew you were a true goumand. If you’d like to make appetizers, press one. Salad course, press two. Entree, press three. If you’re feeling a...

A moment ago, just as I sat down to write this here bloggie, my friend cleared her throat and held up a paper towel absolutely sodden with several years worth of grime.  “I just want to make a point,” she said before tossing it aside and plunging back into the task of imposing order on my chaotic, grime beladen existence.  Which, of course, begs the question:  what’s the point? The point could be that I live in squalor and am lucky enough to have friends who help me de-squalify myself from time to time.  Or it could be that I need to dust more often.  Or that I need to accumulate less stuff. Or, more metaphorically, it could be that times are a’changing. Last night, I went to a bachelor party for one of the first friends I made in Los Angeles seven years ago.  “Bachelor Party” might actually be creating false impression, one of dudely debauchery, strip clubs, and blackouts.  This was not that.  This was eight guys going to a fancy gastropub and then hitting two bars before getting sleepy and needing to go home. My friend will get married in two weeks.  When I met him, he had been single for over three years with no prospects on the horizon.  I, on the other hand, had just moved to sunny Los An-gel-es with my lady-love. Now he’s about to get married, buy a condo, and be a grown-up.  The girl I moved to Los Angeles with is getting married in October (I’ll be there as a member of the wedding party).  And I’ve been for-the-most-part-single for the better part of six years.  Who woulda thunk it? Yep, the times are a’changing. Two days ago, I left a job I’ve held for...

Originally published 01/31/11 As I write this, it’s raining outside.  It would be a perfect day to cuddle with That Special Someone.  But I don’t have a Special Someone.  What I do have is a fancy new phone.  Which is why I’m developing. . .The Virtual Girlfriend App. Download the free version, fill out a brief questionnaire setting your grammatical/age/topic preferences, and instantly begin receiving three to four text messages throughout the day.  Imagine how heart warming it would be to be sitting at work, doing something productive when suddenly your phone chirps.  “Hey,” pops a text message, “Just thinking about you [insert name here].  Hope you’re having a good day!”  Would your heart not tingle just as much as if your “real” significant other (whom you never see anyway) sent the message?  Yes it would.* Once you get hooked on the basic version, it’s time to move up to the next level.  For a monthly fee of $2/month your Virtual Girlfriend will send you occasional picture messages of what she’s having for lunch.  For a small extra charge, she can send vaguely titillating picture messages.  This added depth will guarantee greater verisimilitude.  The VGA’s proprietary AI system will also allow a degree of interactivity.  That’s right, you’ll be able to ask her questions, get her opinion on things, even have little spats that you can then resolve with a little late night sexting.  It’s almost like the real thing! Ready for even more?  Fill out an extensive survey detailing your eating habits, shopping lists, schedule, educational background, color preferences, income.  Once you share this level of intimacy with your Virtual Girlfriend, she will remind you to buy milk, wish your mother a happy birthday, or ask you penetrating questions about your favorite passages...

Growing up, I read books.  A lot.  Three or four books a week.  They were mostly science fiction and fantasy books.  The occasional bit of literary fiction.  Fathers in these books were taciturn, secretive, violent, absent.  Maybe the hero’s dad was King Arthur in disguise.  Or a space alien.  Or abusive.  That was always a good one because it spurred the hero on to amazing feats of heroic heroism after which he would forgive his father and they would hug and then the hero would kiss a girl. These warped, wounded, quirky, strong, silent fellas were pretty much the exact opposite of my father.  That created a problem because I realllly wanted to be like the heroes of the books I read.  I wanted to be special and wield a burning sword and kiss girls.  According to the formula, I could only be special if my dad was dead (not an option) or really screwed up or at least remarkable in some way. So I created a secret life for my father.  Really, it was easy.  The man already worked for the government running statistical surveys (information gathering) for the Department of Energy (which is like the CIA).  He wore glasses and a pocket protector (like Clark Kent).  He helped me with science and math homework (like scientists who know math).  He dressed in a lot of greys and browns so as not to stand out in a crowd. Clearly my father was a CIA agent superspy.  No other possible explanation.  He had created a mundane, middle class existence, complete with a somewhat pushy and overbearing chainsmoking wife, to mask his true work saving the world. Once I understood my father’s true nature, my life became much more interesting.  I was no longer just...

When I was 15, I became a sports hero in the doll-making capital of Japan.  It was one of the worst experiences of my young life. I’d gone to Japan for the summer.  It seemed like a good way to escape the sweltering Washington, D.C. heat while having a valuable cross cultural experience.  Also I thought that I might meet a girl. Anyway, I’d love to say that I took to the experience like a true explorer, but truth is that I curled up into a fetal position for about two weeks listening to Les Miserables on endless repeat.  I couldn’t understand anything anyone was saying; why couldn’t they all just speak English?  The food grossed me out.  I couldn’t read the street signs and kept falling off my bike. I spent two weeks in culture shock being the posterboy for Ugly Americans everywhere. Eventually, I came out of my shell a bit and started going to school with my host brother.  School was kind of awesome.  Slight and dorky as I was, I was an American and that made me an instant celebrity.  Girls pointed and tittered.  Boys surrounded me, offered high fives, and asked me if I knew Michael Jordan.  After a week or so, I had a group of friends.  We couldn’t understand each other all that well, but high fives and smiles took us a long way. As the term wound to a close, my friends’ conversation revolved around the school’s Field Day.  My Japanese sucked, but I gathered that there was a longstanding rivalry between my class and another class.  The “Red Dragons” (yes, really).  Every year, the Red Dragons soundly whomped my friends in softball.  But this year, my class had a secret weapon.  Something called Golden Arm....

If you’re reading this, it means the that world did not end on Saturday, May 21 at 3 PM.  It means that the predictions of a 90-year-old radio host with an engineering degree did not come true.  It means that I probably shouldn’t have emptied out my retirement fund (though, really, $80 wouldn’t have gotten me very far anyway). Despite all the hoopla, no one, aside from Harold Camping, who apparently spent the day with his shades drawn, and a handful of wingnuts, really believed the world would end this weekend.  Then why all the hoopla?  Why did we spend so much energy making fun of Camping’s earnest, if misguided, predictions? Because at some level, we were collectively terrified that it might be true. Think about it.  We often make fun of things because we fear them.  Babies for example.  I make fun of babies all the time.  Babies terrify me.  Therefore, I make fun of babies because they terrify me. The logic is irrefutable.  Note:  You should always refute logic that someone claims is irrefutable.  Except this time.  This time is the one exception. So, ok, we’re terrified that the world might end.  That makes sense.  Inevitably, the world will end.  It’s just a question of when.  But what if by making fun of it and sending all that world-ending-related energy out into The Universe we ended up. . .well, manifesting The Rapture.  Like in The Secret. If it works for cars, boats, and success, why not The Rapture? At times like these, a flow chart can be useful: Clearly this isn’t true.  Right?  I mean, surely we would have all noticed The Rapture, for pete’s sake! Or would we?  Camping predicted that The Rapture would occur on Saturday.  We have to wait...

I recently starting seeing a therapist.  Not socially.  Professionally.  As in “going to therapy.”  It will be helpful in the long run.  So I’m told.  In the short-term, however, I have learned that dating while on therapy, like dating while on drugs, is a poor idea. Last week, I found myself sitting across from a fetching young lass.  Things were going quite well.  She talked, I listened and asked probing, yet witty, questions.  We ate french fries and shared ketchup.  We talked about how they really do need more varieties of ketchup in grocery stores.  And then she asked the question that sent the whole evening into a tailspin: “Tell me about yourself.  What’s your story?” Now, before therapy, this question would have been a no brainer.  I had any number of easy deflections, self-deprecating asides, and conversational gambits.  Now, however, I’m aware of all of these defensive tactics.  Therapy has jackhammered into the well-laid sidewalks of my psyche to reveal 34 years of festering swampland lying beneath.  It also, apparently, has given me a gift for torturing metaphors.  Anyway, even starting to talk about myself starts me down a long, slippery slope into the quagmire.  Of the swamp.  Metaphorically speaking. In the case of this date, it went a little something like this: “Me, oh. . .well, you know.  I’m employed.  Which is good.  The thing is though that I have this unreasonable addiction to stability but I also despise it, right?  So I paint myself into a corner.  Which is something that my mother always said when I was growing up.  I guess that growing up, I never felt ‘loved,’ per se, though I also didn’t feel–” As I talked, I could see her eyes widening.  I had to shut up.  But...

Today, a confession:  I’m a liar.  A big fat story-maker-upper.  Last week, I stood in front of about 100 people at The Moth, a venue where people stand up and tell “true” stories, and spun a tale of love unfulfilled.  It moved people. Someone may have cried.  But the story. . .it wasn’t true.  Well, part of it was.  Most of it was.  But still, I’m the liariest liar in liar-town. It’s best to get this liaresque confession out of the way now before I publish a book of personal essays or something that people assume are true.  And then they find out that they’re not wholly true and I have to go on Oprah, or whatever replaces Oprah, and get spanked in front of an audience of millions who feel personally betrayed by my prevarication.  Oh, I can see it now.  “What do you have to say to the millions who believed you” the host will say, staring at me sternly. I’ll turn to the millions, stare straight into the camera, and say:  “I have a confession. Part of those stories are not true. And that’s fine. Because they’re STORIES.” Anytime you set something down on paper or use words, or any medium really, to relate a set of events, you are telling a story.  Unless you’re a journalist, your primary if not only duty is to engage the audience’s imaginations to convey the essence of truth in that story.  If you have to stretch parts of the story, add a little spice to cast certain elements into relief, well, that’s fine.  By definition, not even “memoirs” are under any obligation to be completely true.  A memoir is simply a narrative composed from personal experience (according to Merriam Webster).  And can one ever...

A few nights ago, I met a girl at a bar.  We chatted and, after a few minutes, I asked for her number.  “I’d love to,” she said, “But I have a boyfriend.  Facebook me.”  I did, now we’re FaceBook friends.  Great.  But here’s the thing:  the whole process was so inefficient.  If would have been so much easier if I’d had some way to know her relationship status from the get go.  What if there were a way to navigate modern social interactions more efficiently, to gather information more quickly? What if we had FacePlant? FacePlant is nothing less than the next stage of augmented human evolution.  FacePlant makes life simple and efficient.  FacePlant plants the convenience and breadth of knowledge available on Facebook directly into your face. Based on technology developed in 2008 combined with a proprietary facial recognition program and linked with Facebook, FacePlant integrates a heads up display into ultra-thin, undetectable contact lenses.  Imagine meeting a new person and having their vital information pop up on either side of their head.  Relationship status, occupation, educational background, how many friends they have (a sure indicator of social influence), most recent wall posts — all there to take the guess work out of social interaction.  With this information literally before your eyes, you are able to move new social connections onto sure footing with greater efficiency. Imagine a world without small talk. A world where every conversation begins with knowledge that, in the past, took hours to glean through painstaking, sometimes awkward, “conversation.”.  A world of more depth, more fulfillment, and more knowledge.  That is the world of FacePlant. Imagine a world where language is no longer a barrier. A world where subtitled translations appear beneath someone’s lips as they speak a...

My apartment overlooks Silver Lake dog park.  Every day, I sip coffee and look out the window into a secret world where pups run amuck and people mill around talking, making friends, and doing God knows what else.  I’ve always wondered about this secret world–who are these people?  What do they talk about?  Is the air sweeter in their land of canine companionship?  Until two weeks ago, I thought I might never be able to answer these questions.  That all changed with Callie. Callie belongs to two friends of mine.  She’s ridiculously adorable.  For some reason, my friends decided to entrust me with Callie’s well being for an entire weekend.  I, a person who has never had a dog, found myself living in a real-adult-person-house taking care of a real-dog for two whole days.  It was like trying on someone else’s life for a couple of days to see how it fits. Here’s what I learned: 1.  Those people at the dog park?  The ones I watch every day?  Yeah, they don’t really talk about much.  The weather, their dogs, the best stretches to do before jogging.  All this time, I’d been sure that there was more to it.  That people were trading secrets, hitting on each other, or making big-time Hollywood deals.  Not-so-much.  They’re pretty much there to tire their dogs out so they’ll be exhausted.  Hmmph. 2.  People are friendlier when you have a dog.  I walk around Silver Lake Reservoir a few times a week.  Never have I had so many people smile at me, nod, and say ‘hello’ as when I walked around with Callie trotting amiably by my side.  Granted, this may be because I have an annoying habit of muttering to myself while walking and, with dog at...

St. Patrick’s Day is this week.  Luck of the Irish and all that.  Bah.  I’m not Irish, never have been.  But let’s talk about the luck part because I used to be lucky.  It was like my parents captured a Leprechaun and forced him to anoint my baby head with lucky charms.  I walked on lucky clouds and belched up luck from the depths of my lucky belly.  But that was all before Los Angeles. Before The Wheel of Fortune spun me into luckless oblivion. When I say that I used to be lucky, I mean it.  I grew up with great parents, unleaky roof over my head.  I got a scholarship to a good school mostly because they misread my test results.  I got into a good college and then lucked into a graduate school program in Chicago and, on the very first day, met the girl of my dreams.  She was like a mix of Princess Jasmine and Pocahontas.  But smarter and less animated.  We fell in love.  The future held nothing but amazing possibilities. One afternoon my lady love and I got drunk — because that’s what you do in grad school — and, on lark, went to audition for Wheel of Fortune when they swung through town to select regional contestants.  Out of what seemed like the entire city of Chicago, I was among the few people they picked to appear on the show in Los Angeles.  Pure luck, of course.  Also the alcohol probably made me loud.  Game shows like loud. Anyway–this was huge.  It could literally change my life.  I’d pay off my student debt, buy a car, an engagement ring.  This was too big to leave to luck alone.  I practiced.  I bought the Wheel of Fortune...

Last week, a friend who I happened to meet on an online dating site sent me an email.  “Congrats!  You’re the spokesmodel for [site redacted].com! You man-whore!”  Having not logged on in weeks, I had no idea what she was talking about.  Until I went to the site in question and saw myself smiling at me from the homepage with a quote from my profile.  What the &%^$?! Look, clearly I don’t have problem letting people into my personal business.  I have this blog, I run around LA telling stories about my childhood, my search for love, and the poor decisions I’ve made (because no one really wants to hear stories about good decisions that people make).  So it might seem hypocritical of me to say this.  But:  seeing my picture up there, on the homepage of this dating site, made me feel exposed in a way that blogging and telling tales doesn’t. I have control over the blogging and the stories.  Sure, they might portray me as a callow moron who shouldn’t be allowed to run loose in polite society, but they’re my portrayals.  Good or bad, I know what I’m doing.  Sometimes. Being unwittingly drafted into marketing an online dating site was completely different.  And who the hell chooses a little bald dude with glasses as one of their cover-models?  Countless sociological studies conducted by people with fancy letters after their name prove beyond the shadow of a doubt that those exhibiting lack of height and hair do poorly in the online dating world.  Maybe the folks running this site had chosen to be progressive.  Or maybe they were just drunk when they chose the photos.  Either way, I wanted out. “But it’s flattering,” you might say, “You’re the standard bearer for...

Happy Valentine’s Day!  Some people celebrate with roses, romance, or overwrought greeting cards.  Me, I’m celebrating by sharing a bit of wisdom gleaned from life experience and diligent study.  Ready?  Ok. Here it is.  Love Is Stupid.  You’re welcome. Before you get all indignant or write that morsel off as the Valentine’s Day rantings of a bitter little nerd, consider:  How many stupid things have you done for love?  I’ve done plenty. Flinging myself off a perfectly good raft into the churning rapids of the Grand Canyon. Jumping out of a perfectly good airplane. Moving across the country without any money or plan. Battling six ninjas while blindfolded on a thin plank over a pit of vipers. Maybe not that last one.  But I probably would if the opportunity presented itself.  The point here is that love decimates good judgement and makes us do stupid things.  To graph that out: LOVE ———-> STUPIDITY(and ninjas) But wait, there’s more!  Love doesn’t just drive us to acts of reckless idiocy, it also, by some sort of dark alchemy, takes root in the deep recesses of our souls and turns us into blithering morons.  For example: Last week I had dinner with a friend whom I’ve known for over 20 years.  He’s a smart guy.  Went to one of those fancy schools on the East Coast, produces moving picture shows, knows all sorts of stuff about all sorts of things.  We had a wide ranging discussion about Shakespeare, politics, Egypt and, inevitably, the conversation turned to love.  (Note to the ladies:  Dudes talk about love, too) He asked about my love life.  I hemmed, hawed, deflected and managed not to break down in tears.  Then I asked him about his.  He got this big, ridiculous smile on...

I swipe the debit card and my heart starts to pound.  A light sheen of perspiration breaks out on my forehead.  My breath comes in short gasps.  If someone took a picture of my face, I’m guessing I’d see that my pupils would be dilated.  I look like an addict who’s just scored a fix.  And in a way I am. I’ve been spinning out a bit since just before new years.  Feeling restless, unmotivated, bored, wondering if this is going to be it.  An unremarkable life lived unremarkably.  Drifting rootlessly from one moment to the next, letting myself be carried along by a current of appointments and deadlines.  Waking up at 3 AM, heart pounding, unable to move, I felt like a ship circling a vast whirlpool, moving closer to the void at the center. Like a fifteen-year-old on the verge of writing some truly terrible poetry. Like an addict, I’ve been doing anything I can to fill the  void.  In the past few weeks, I’ve purchased a Blu-Ray Player (it streams movies on demand!), a surround sound bar (it’s loud!), a new cell phone (ok, I needed that one, but still!).  Each time the card swipes, I get a rush.  I’ve been trying other things, too:  Reading books, exercise,making kale chips,engaging in copious acts of onanistic self-abuse, drinking.  Whatever has a chance of getting the adrenaline flowing, of busting me out of the aimless malaise. Let’s take a moment out of this pity party to acknowledge something:  I’ve got it good.  Job, friends, roof over my head.  Objectively speaking, I  have nothing to complain about.  This feeling of dissatisfaction is ridiculous. It’s groundless.  And I’m a whiny git just for talking about it. And I probably shouldn’t talk about it. The more...

First post of the new year! Yeah! Awesome! I feel like I should be inspiring or something. Share some resolutions. Maybe a heartwarming tale of family togetherness and redemption. Alas, I got nothin’ for you on those fronts. Ugh. Performance anxiety. Happens to me during sex, too. That’s something I’ve only written about tangentially here. Sex. The sex monster. Sexasaurus Rex. I mean, I’ve had sex. A fair bit of it. Some of it has been good. Some has been truly awful. In fact, last year I hit the bottom of the “awful sex” pool. The episode involved a decrepit Extended Stay America that reeked of stale cigarettes, a blindfold, and a woman so nervous that she’d consumed at least half a bottle of vodka before I showed up. But you don’t want to hear about that at the beginning of the year. It’s depressing and creepy, more a mid-year kind of tale. Let’s just say that if I were to make New Year’s resolutions, one might be something like “No Awful Sex at Extended Stay Americas in 2011.” No. No resolutions this year. Last year I felt like I was in a rut and made a resolution about getting out of the rut. This year, I wanted to make the same resolution. Then I realized that I was in a resolution rut and resolved not to make any resolutions. Then I realized that, despite myself, I’d made a resolution and drank a few shots of whiskey as penance. I slammed those shots of whiskey at my parents’ house after Christmas dinner. The dinner itself was utterly unremarkable. Ham with microwaved potatoes. Par for the course. The company, on the other hand was. . .remarkable. My parents took pity on a 60-something neighbor whose...

I’m not a parent.  Nor am I gay.  There is nothing wrong with being either one of those things.  They’re great. But, fact is, I’m neither.  And, thanks to a recent experience, I now know that I’d suck at both.  Too challenging.  I’d crack under the pressure. A couple weeks ago, my co-worker (let’s call him “Stuart”) and I went to a fancy private school to read a story-book to kindergartners and teach them about community activism.  Stuart and I have worked together for a couple of years and get along well.  It’s fair to say that we’ve established a certain comfort and rapport with one another.  We’re about the same height and, on that day at least, were dressed nicely.  In other words, it’s possible that we looked like a couple. We arrived at the school about fifteen minutes early, found our way to the administration office, and approached the gray-haired, cheerful receptionist.  Before we could even open our mouths, she let loose with an effusive greeting:  “Well, helllooooo!  I know who you’re here to see!” Stuart and I looked at each other.  I spoke:  “You do?” “Well, surely.  You’re here to see Mrs. Pitka!” There had clearly been some sort of misunderstanding.  I had no idea who Mrs. Pitka was.  As far as I knew, we had come to speak to Mrs. Morse’s class.  Before I could ask for clarification, the receptionist barreled onward:  “We are so happy to have people like you here.  I’m sure that it will go just fine.  We’re always looking for people like you to round out our little family.” Stuart and I exchanged another glance.  We realized, at more or less the same moment, that our cheerful new friend had mistaken us for a couple with...

I was about two-thirds of the way through a groundbreaking expose on the hidden dangers of f deep frying a turkey when something happened that changed the course of my life. Or at least this post. Namely: A coupla clowns got married. It’s true. Last night, teetering way high up on stilts, two clowns—well, really, one clown and one dancer—tied the knot. It wasn’t just them. Lots of people were on stilts. The wedding parties, the officiant, various onlookers. Oh and jugglers. There were jugglers tossing pins and rings back and forth as the bride and groom exchanged vows. I wasn’t juggling or stilting. Just watching from a spot nearby, guzzling wine while trying to keep my foam clown nose dry. Hmm, I just read that paragraph and it sounds like something a five year old would make up. You’re probably thinking that this is some sort of nerdy highfalutin literary gambit that I’ll now parlay into a self-pity-laced narrative about being traumatized by the circus. Or you’re worried that I’ve been hitting the holiday flask a bit earlier this year. Thanks for your concern, but I assure you that this absolutely and completely totally happened. And it was awesome. Pledging your love to someone for ever and ever is, I imagine, an exceptionally daunting task. But to do it on stilts with people flinging pins to and fro five feet from you . . . awesome. To have the courage to stand eight feet above the rest of the world wearing formal wear, let your inner 5-year-old loose to play and turn your wedding into a bit of circus magic . . . awesome. To invite others into your private world and to offer them a part, however small, in it . ....

“Gross, Michael, you’re making the Date Face! Stop it!” My friend Elaine and I are sitting at a dinner table. Her friend, a fetching young lady whose name I can’t quite remember, has just left to use the bathroom. Apparently I’ve been making The Date Face at the friend. “Seriously,” Elaine hisses, “Gross.” Apparently the Date Face is gross. Which is a shame. Date Face, also known as “Listening Face,” has taken me years of trial and error to perfect. The name is a bit misleading because it extends far beyond the face. It’s a full body maneuver. Head tilted at 15 degrees left, body tilted forward. Lips pulled back a little into an attentive, slightly mischievous half smile. The eyes, however, are the key. Squinted a bit to make it seem as if they’re looking straight into the target’s soul. Perhaps a little bit of extra water, as if sensitive-but-manly tears could leak out at any moment. It conveys the impression that I’m listening with 100 percent attention. Listening actively. With compassion. Date Face, in other words, covers up the fact that I’m not listening at all. I might be making a shopping list or thinking about sex. Maybe both. Whatever I’m doing, I’m almost certainly not registering a single word being said. Don’t get me wrong, I can respond at the correct moment and even ask probing questions. But I’m on auto-pilot, letting Date Face do the work while my mind wanders. People who know me well can spot date face. It generally creeps them out a bit. I’ve been told that it makes me look like a zombie. Or stoned. Maybe drunk. And now, courtesy of Elaine, ‘gross.’ “What’s gross about it?” I ask. “It’s just. . .you look like you’re...

I hate Halloween.  There, I said it.  Until earlier today, I wasn’t sure why. I suspected it might be some deep seated psychological block against donning a costume to conceal my identity; a discomfort with anything that might chip away at my super inner core secret self. The truth I stumbled upon today is not nearly so deep or pseudo intellectual. The truth is that I hate Halloween because of UNICEF. UNICEF is the United Nations Children’s Fund, a global organization that saves kids’ lives in over 150 countries by providing clean water, nutrition, medicines, education and aid in emergencies. Very worthy cause. I mean, how can you not support such a worthy cause? How could anything bad come of such a worthy cause? So worthy. Nevertheless, 60 years ago, someone with a heart full of good intentions came up with the idea that destroyed Halloween for me. It’s called “Trick or Treat for UNICEF.” Mary Emma Allison. That’s the woman’s name. It must have come upon her in a flash of what she, the wife of a preacher man, might have called divine inspiration. The idea worked on so many levels—it would Make a Difference while transmorgrifying a secular holiday with pagan roots into an opportunity to practice Christian Charity. Every year, hundreds of thousands of adorable moppets dress up in adorable moppet costumes and go door to door asking complete strangers for treats. Any time of year, people might slam the door in the childrens’ faces. But on Halloween, they’re welcomed with buckets of sugary candy. Or, sometimes, little travel sized toothpastes. Either way: no one says no to the moppets. Not on Halloween. Mary Emma Allison’s idea was genius in its simplicity: if people would willingly give out candy, might they...

Saturday, 12:30 PM. Two guys have me pinned down in a ravine. Every time I pop my head up, I attract paint from a sniper hiding in the brush above. A periodic barrage of whizzing pellets from an unseen adversary ahead blocks my passage forward. They’ve got me cornered, crouching behind a glorified shrub. Unacceptable. “Cover me,” I yell to a teammate pinned down behind me, “I gotta go for it, take one of these guys out.” He grunts in affirmation as a pellet explodes on the ground in front of him splattering orange paint onto his shoe. I can’t tell who he is—under the masks we all look the same—but I know that he’s about to cover my ass. We’re dudes and that’s what dudes do for each other in paint-war. In the moment before I crouch-run out into the open, I remember the previous night. Wish I’d had a dude to lay down a barrage of cover fire for me then. To distract the enemy while I extricated myself from a tight spot, evaded an attack of a different kind. Friday, 7:30 PM. I’d had the fantastic idea of getting three female-type friends together for dinner. Let’s call them A, E, and G. Individually, A, E, and G are three of my favorite people. It stood to reason that hanging out with all three amazing individuals at once would be three times the fun. Sometimes my decision making is flawed. Don’t get me wrong: at first, the dinner went well. Better than well. A, E and G had met before, but never really spent much time together. Watching these three intelligent, strong, independent women get to know each other over bottles of wine and overpriced appetizers brought me much delight. The conversation...

The Single White Nerd has not always been single.  Like, for example, on New Year’s Eve 2001.  Boogedy boogedy boogedy (that’s the sound of a swirly flashback thingy happening) . . . Swing music syncopates around us as my girlfriend and I sip champagne in our booth. We look into each other’s eyes. Sort of. She keeps glancing at the dance floor where people spin, dip, and flail their limbs with infinite grace. I know what’s coming and try to distract her: “Want to see a magic trick?” She smiles. “Come on, let’s dance.” The moment she says the word, I feel a familiar tightening in my chest. My heart starts to pound. I try to keep smiling, to breathe through it. It’s all to no avail. Within moments, I’m in the middle of a full fledged panic attack. “Go ahead,” I say through gritted teeth, “I’ll be right there. Just have to tie my shoe.” I’m wearing slip-ons. I hope she doesn’t notice. She kisses my cheek. “Hurry up, no telling what could happen out there.” With that, she’s gone. Moments later, she’s partnered up on the dance floor, smiling and spinning, her jet black hair fanning out like some kind of a groovy, swingin’ halo. I chug my champagne. “Screw it,” I think, “let’s do this!” I move to slide out of my chair and feel bile coursing up from my stomach. I’m about to puke. I’m 12 years old. Standing in a large gymnasium with about one hundred other 12 to 14 year olds. It smells like sweat. We’re all decked out in our finery. Or clothes that approximate finery. I wear a blue blazer and white shirt, striped tie clipped to my collar and new dress shoes chaffing against my...

I’m sitting in pitch dark silence. All around me, people are singing softly in Hebrew. I don’t feel the urge to puke. In fact, I want to join in. I can’t. Don’t know Hebrew. Instead I hum along. What the hell is going on here? A couple weeks ago, I wrote about getting nauseous at the very sound of Hebrew (you should read that entry. It’ll make this entry make a bit more sense) and now I’m sitting in a cave in Israel wishing I could speak, or sing it. Who have I become? Have I gone completely woo-woo in the Middle East? Even four days ago, I would not have been okay with this. The group I was traveling with had been in Jerusalem. We went to the Western Wall. My guidebook told me that this was the holiest site in all the land. The representation of the Western Wall of the First Temple. Very important. People touch this wall, they leave notes in its crevasses, they touch it and break down into tears as they feel the weight of thousands of generations of Jews pressing around them. Very moving. People in my group touched the wall. Some broke down in tears. All around me, people were having profound reactions. With a mixture of excitement and trepidation, I approached. Part of me wanted an intense WooWoo experience—after all, that was partially why I’d come. So, eager for the breath of God or something to enter my spirit, I reached out and touched the wall. “Wow,” I thought, “That is one old wall.” And that was it. No revelation. Nothing. I wondered how uncool it would be to take some of the notes out of the wall and read them. I decided it would...

. a favorite blogumn by Michael Kass Michael Says: I recently re-read this blogumn and it brought me back to a simpler time, when a simple test could determine the fate of a relationship. I was also struck by the callowness of the writer–what an ass. Also, it made me giggle. From February 2, 2009 I have just returned—literally moments ago—from a ‘date.’ For the past two hours, I sat across from a lovely young woman. We chatted. I found out all about her. She grew up in New Jersey, loves Italy, and is learning to cook homemade pasta. We laughed and did that sort of flirty thing where you accidentally-on-purpose brush up against each other. I won’t be seeing her again. See, it was going so well that I did something that I usually reserve for the second or even third date. I subjected her to The Litmus Test. Don’t look so appalled, Fierce Nerdites. You probably have a litmus test, too. Maybe you don’t call it that, but every time you sit across from someone and wonder if they’re right for you, if you can really stomach that laugh every day, if you want to put up with a lifetime (or even 3 months) of that habit of cutting the food into absurdly small pieces before eating it: Litmus Test. I just deploy mine with malice of forethought. And so it was that, as the date wound to a close, I let loose with the Litmus: “So,” I said, “I was hanging out in this bookstore the other day.” That’s the first step. Introduce the concept of “hanging out” in a “bookstore.” If her eyes roll or she harrumphs in any way: test failed. But she actually leaned forward and said, in...

Let’s get this out of the way: As you read this, I’m in Israel. But as I write this, it’s 12 AM in Los Angeles. And it’s a week ago. In other words, I wrote this a week ago. Got it? Cool. Now, moving on. David Mamet is a Big Jerkface and, to explain why I say this, I’m going to have to talk about religion. Hang on to your hats; I really suck at talking about religion. For the past few weeks, I’ve been telling people about my upcoming trip to Israel. Reactions have ranged from an enthusiastic “It’s so beautiful!” to a quizzical “But why there?” To the latter, I’ve had any number of party-ready glib responses. “Have you seen Israeli women? Hubba hubba” is one example. “Because I love going to the desert in the middle of summer” is another. These responses have been accepted at face value. They’re true enough, but only a small fraction of the real answer. The real answer is that I’m nominally Jewish. And the mere sound of a sprinkled yiddish term, reference to Yom Kippur, the sound of Hebrew drives me near to nausea. Call it what you will–self-loathing Jewery, Anti-Semitism, whatever. The real answer is that I’ve traveled to Israel, in part, to deal with that whole nausea thing. I’m sure that a good psychotherapist, or even a mediocre one, could rapidly uncover the roots of the issue. “Ah, yes,” he might say, stroking his goatee, “And your mother: how did she feel about Jewishness?” “She hated it.” “AHA! And did you have any negative experiences around Judaism in your formative years?” “Heck yeah. My Hebrew School teachers were almost uniformly exceptionally large women with mustaches. They chased me through my dreams threatening to...

Hi.  My name is Michael and I’m a sweetsaholic.  It’s not my fault.  I’m a victim of history.  Did you know that the cupcake was invented by a viking war-maiden to cheer up her heartbroken nephew?   True story.  Neanderthals regularly stole each other’s mates and, to stave off conflict, shoved chunks of sugar cane into the aggrieved party’s mouth.  The phrase “Let them eat cake,” commonly ascribed to the doomed Marie Antoinette, actually originated with an anonymous French princess.  Upon hearing that the peasants had no bread, she shed a single, royal tear and said “Let them eat cake!”  This is because she knew that cake makes even the poorest peasant happy.  Her strategy worked until the cake ran out in 1789. At least one of the above is true.  The point is that I’m part of a long legacy of sweetsaholics and enablers thereof who believed, as I do, in the palliative power of pastry.  Yes, I realise that I’m rationalizing my addiction.  I mean, in the spectrum of addictions–alcohol, drugs, sex, violence, exercise–it’s not really that bad.  Right? It’s not like my sweetsaholism will come as a surprise to anyone.  One night following, I think, a break-up, I consumed an entire pan of brownies at a friend’s house.  She stood watching from a few feet away, face fixed in an uncertain smile, as I scooped handful after handful of gooey-still-warm brownie into my face.  “No,” she said hopelessly, “Don’t.  You’ll regret it.  Stop.”  “I don’t have a PROBLEM,” I yelled back, spraying brownie bits across the room. 15 minutes later, curled into a ball and cradling my rebellious stomach, it occurred to me that my friend may have been right.  Maybe I did have a problem.  But it was nothing that a...

Last night, I visited a land of faeries and elves.  Goblins and tiki gods.  Steampunk Batman was there.  So was Cinderella. It was weird. It was exhilarating. It was like a Renaissance Faire on steroids hopped up on speed. It was. . .The Labyrinth of Jareth.The adventure began as many do. With pain. A couple weeks ago, I found myself lying on a pilates reformer being pulled and stretched in an effort to alleviate sciatic pain that made it difficult to walk without whining.  My friend Jen, the certified puller and pusher, made small talk to pass the time and distract me from the excruciating daggers slicing through my leg as she leaned against it. “You should volunteer at the Labyrinth of Jareth this month.”  She twisted my ankle. “OWWW. Stop.  Ow!  The what?” “Labyrinth of Jareth.  Like the movie. There’s a 4 to 1 ratio of women to men.  Lots of breasts.  You’ll love it.  But you’ll need a costume and a mask.”  She attempted to break my leg off at the knee. “Stop, stop.  Ow.  Ok.  Yes.  I’ll volunteer.” As soon as I agreed, Jen released my leg and I stood.  The pain had disappeared.  I took it as a sign and immediately signed up to volunteer at this mysterious Labrynth party.  I figured that, even if it was lame, I could totally laugh at the costume dorks.  It certainly couldn’t be any worse than my ill-fated trip to the California Cougar Convention.  Within 24 hours, I had officially been assigned to the Merchandise booth.  “Remember to come in costume,” the email I received said, “And a mask.  And have fun!” I’ve never been much for costumes.  Honestly, I hate them.  Despite being a fantasy dork growing up, I never even played...

Today, a post-Father’s Day meditation on manhood. Ahem. There’s nothing more manly than a dude pushing his baby around in a stroller. This has nothing to do with his willingness to take responsibility for rearing his child. Nor is it related to his efforts to give his wife a few moments of peace, the chance to take a bubble bath, or have lady time. No. The manliness manifests not in the act of pushing the stroller, but in the moment when one dude and his stroller comes face to face with another dude pushing a stroller. You’ve probably seen it happen: The men approach each other, sizing each other up as their baby buggies bounce toward each other. Their eyes narrow and shoulders hunch forward as if preparing for combat. They bare their teeth at each other in what could either be smiles or snarls. “So,” one of these noble dads may say, “Whatcha drivin’ there?” Sure, it may seem like a civil interaction. But beneath the veneer of brotherhood, primitive raw competitive instincts scream to be set free, to vie against each other on the fields of war. This phenomenon is well documented. So much so, in fact, that some friends of mine wrote a song about it: At The Reservoir Atom.com: Funny Videos | Spoofs | Sing-Alongs Now, I’m all for a good, hard rockin’ video. But what if these men had an outlet for their manly instincts that went beyond singing and jumping up and down? What if there were, say, a forum in which they could compete for glory and riches while still nominally caring for their child? And what if this forum were a reality show? Those questions lead me to my latest money making scheme: AMERICAN DADIATORS. It’s...

Dear ‘K,’ Last night I woke up on my couch, crusty eyed and drooly chinned.  For a moment I forgot that you were there.  Then I felt you, cradled in my arms.  Your graceful curves against my finger tips, responsive to my touch, ready to calm my troubled soul with a soft flow of words.  I felt you and knew that, though I have resisted your seductions for months if not years, I knew that I loved you.  I do.  I love you, K.  And I kind of hate myself for it. K, you represent the death of some of my fondest childhood memories.  The satisfaction of reaching the final page of my first novel–“The Fragile Flag,” a 400 page behemoth that I don’t remember much about apart from the number of pages and the crinkle of its cellophane cover as I read–and slamming the cover shut.  Hours spent sitting on the floor of The Cheshire Cat bookstore surrounded by stacks of books, different shapes, sizes and smells.  Oh, and the smell.  The bookstore smell–ink, paper, and dreams.  Running my fingers along the deckled edges of old books.  Or new books trying to look old.  The thrilling guilty feeling that comes with picking up a light-weight, cheaply printed trade paperback instead of the prestigiously heavy work of Important Literature. You can’t replace any of that, K.  And you know what:  you’re ugly.  You are.  Your viewing screen is too small.  You have a keyboard.  Why?  As a piece of modern technology, you’re already antiquated.  No touch screen?  Black and white?  Come on, K.  What can you possibly offer?  How is it that I’ve come to love you in so short a time? Last week you arrived in your plain, unremarkable brown box.  I plugged...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass While most self-respecting nerds out there settled in to get lost in the byzantine twists and turns of Lost’s final episode (which, from what I could tell from the screams of frustration coming from my neighbor’s apartment, was a bit less than satisfying), I went through my cell-phone looking through old text messages hoping to find some inspiration for today’s blog.  This is because I am a winner. Inspiration struck at 2 AM.  But it’s not a blog.  It’s an open letter to someone I met online and went out with once.  She was a not-unattractive woman in her early 40s.  We can file this one under “reasons not to meet people through an online dating site.”  I think we can all learn from the experience.  At least I can.  Please enjoy: Dear S., I recently cleaned out my saved text messages and found the one you sent me several months ago.  You may remember it.  It went a little something like this: “Just 1 more thing.  Yknow, u don’t have nearly enough going for u in the dating arena to pull this kind of arrogant bullshit.  You’re short and bald and don’t seem to make a lot of money.  And you’re definitely not as smart as I initially pegged u.” I’m still not sure what I did to elicit such grammatically questionable animosity.  We went out once.  The date went fine.  At the end of it, I let loose my stock line for all dates that go ‘fine:’  “It was great meeting you, thanks for taking the time to come out.  Take care.”  There was no implication of desire to spend more time together in a romantic way.  And yet you called the next day.  And emailed. ...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Yesterday was Mother’s Day.  I know this because I couldn’t get a seat anywhere for brunch.  Also because my phone reminded me:  “CALL YOUR MOTHER,” it blinked at 6 AM.  And so I did.  I called my mother. I’ve written about my relationship with my mother here before. A couple weeks ago, I even told a story about her in front of people who paid to listen. I won’t belabor the point, but let’s just say that my relationship with mom has always been a bit tense.  Our conversations are minefields filled with triggers and booby-trapped memories.  I can’t bring up her smoking or the time she burned me on the head with a cigarette.  She really shouldn’t ask me if I’m dating anyone or about work.  And both of us should avoid the subject of my grandparents. When I was growing up, Sunday mornings were “Grandparent Phone Call” time.  At about 10 AM, my folks yelled for me to come downstairs.  We’d all sit around the table and my father would drag his finger around our even-then-outdated rotary phone. The next 15 minutes or so were intensely awkward for everyone involved.  A typical conversation might go something like this. . .keep in mind that I could only hear one side: My Father:  Hi, Edna (that’s my grandmother).  Sorry to hear that.  Well, fine.  Ha ha ha.  Sure, I’ll put her on. He passes the phone to my mother. My Mother:  Mother.  Fine.  Well that’s stupid.  Sure.  No.  No.  NO.  None of your business, mother, LAY OFF.  I’ll put Michael on. She passes the phone to me. 10 Year Old Me:  Hi. Grandmother:  Hi, Michael.  Boy, your mother’s a handful. Me:  Ha. ha. Grandmother:  How are you? Me: ...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass She sits across from me on the couch, painstakingly curled hair cascading over her shoulders.  Her earrings catch the candlelight.  They’re shiny.  I want to play with them.  I like shiny things, especially when I’m a little drunk.  Which I am.  The empty bottle of wine on the coffee table gives it away.  We kiss.  Great kiss.  Her perfume or soap or something makes me dizzy.  This, I think, is a great date, a date by which all other dates shall be measured! Then she pushes herself away, looks me straight in the eye, and says: “I think I’m falling in love with you.  No.  I am.  I am falling in love with you.” I, having well-documented allergies to cats, love and emotion, stiffen.  And not in a sexy-time way.  She immediately senses my discomfort. “I’m sorry.” A pause. “Oh my God.  Please don’t blog about this.” BAM!  Just like that, I have been catapulted from the warm comfort of an awesome third date onto the razor sharp horns of a moral dilemma.  She knows about this blog.  She’s read every entry.  At this point, she probably knows me better than I know myself.  And yet under the influence of a couple glasses of wine, she has let loose a volley of words that backs me into a corner forcing me to grapple with decisions far beyond my alcohol-addled capacity. This girl is genuinely sweet.  She’s great.  I enjoy spending time with her.  Leaving aside for the moment the somewhat awkward fact that she has just used the dreaded “L” word–a premature verbal ejaculation that we can safely attribute to the wine–I would like to continue spending time with her.  I hope that some of that time will...

Over the past two weeks I’ve had at least 6 women approach me and ask for advice on attracting a Geek. Lucky for them (and for you!), I can help. Women, I am here today to help you get your Geek. I’m not sure when it happened, but apparently, Geeks are the new hot cheeto on the block. Blame Judd Apatow and his stable of loveable dorks. Or Steve Jobs with his exceptionally well designed technological marvels. Whoever’s responsible, the documented (by me) fact is that more and more women want a Geek of their own. Before I unlock the secrets of Getting Your Geek, a quick aside: I’m rather pissed at this rampant Fetishization of the Geek. I spent the better part of 20 years wrenching myself away from geekdom. Cultivating the ability to talk to women without staring at my shoes and drooling. Throwing away my original issue Transformers toy collection. Resisting the urge to apply multivariable calculus to figure out the best size pan to make pineapple upside down cake (it helps that I haven’t done calculus since high school). In short, just as I’ve mostly-succeeded in developing social skills, they become obsolete. End aside. Please note that the process outlined below only pertains to True Geeks, not Chic Geeks or Hollywood Geeks (e.g. that Chuck guy from that Chuck show). I could write a whole treatise on the difference, but for now suffice it to say that the latter two aren’t real geeks—they’re posers. You can go ahead and approach them as you would any other guy. The Protocol also is not intended for use on Nerds.  Nerds are different animals, as different from a Geek as a panther is to a lion.  The patented Single White Nerd Geek Trapping...

ARGH!  That is the existential cry of one frustrated Nerd.  I’ve started today’s blog four times.  Each time, I get a few sentences in and then run out of steam.  So today you get Blogular Fragments.  Do with them what you will.  Enjoy! 1.  In the Land of Lost Souls: I go to the Lost Souls Café for a cup of coffee and finds that it’s much more than just a clever name.  The customers are all, in fact, lost.  I sit next to a pair of disaffected 20 somethings who debate the relative merits of opening a muffin shop vs. building a tree house in Topanga on some farmer’s land.  I jot down excerpts from the conversation: He:  But the muffin shop could really be your entrée into downtown shopkeeping. She:  I know, but the tree house is, like, permanent. He:  You could build one downtown.  But without the tree.  Just squat in a building, you know.  I have lots of friends who do that. She:  Yeah, but I’d be afraid of getting caught.  At least the farmer probably won’t care if he finds my tree-house. He:  You’ll need a roof. She:  I can use a tent. He:  In a tree? |She:  Whatever. And so on.  That’s about where I run out of steam on that one.  Maybe it becomes a story about The Single White Nerd realizing that he has no right to judge these squatting tree-housers because he, too, is lost.  Or maybe not so much.  I mean, aren’t we all lost?  Aren’t we? (pause for dramatic effect) 2.  Bus-taraunt: This started as a rant about the Food Truck craze sweeping the Southland.  Last week a new “truck” burst on the scene.  Except it’s not a truck, it’s a double-decker bus. ...

. a blogumn by Micheal Kass Big announcement today: I’ve figured women out. I had a conversation with someone and he pulled the wool from my eyes, shared information so powerful, so obvious, so mind-blowing that I’m dumbfounded. And the secret is. . . Nah. It’ll have to wait. But women be warned: I’m on to you. It’ll have to wait because last night I saw a good friend fulfill a dream. Have you ever seen a dream fulfilled? Powerful, humbling stuff. See, my friend has always wanted to play a rock concert. Stand in front of a group of people, wail out some tunes, and see folks tapping their feet, tossing their hair, and generally going nuts. As his 40th birthday approached, my friend put the wheels in motion. He talked to friends and assembled a band. Put together a set list. Rehearsed, got a space. And last night he took the stage and rocked hard. Sure, there were ballads, Indigo Girls type stuff. Dude likes some girly music. But the image that stays with me this morning is one of the final songs of the night: A man on stage surrounded by close friends belting out Bruce Springsteen’s “Thunder Road” as a crowd of more friends rushes the stage and dances like . . . well, like a bunch of happy folk jumping up and down to Springsteen. However you may feel about the Boss, it was beautiful. Seems to me that that there was a, for lack of a better term, moment of grace. Moments of grace are important. You can go back to them when the demons come knocking at your door. “Hey,” the demons say, “You’ve just been dumped, your car is totaled, you can’t make rent this month,...

It’s the day after Valentine’s Day, friends. And as I sit here on my balcony, the clacking of my keys accompanied by the whizzing of traffic and yelping of playful dogs, I am filled with hope for the first time in years. I won’t lie, it’s been a heckuva journey to get here. For the past few years, I’ve used Valentine’s Day as an opportunity to rail against Cupid. In what I see now was a delusional state, I mistakenly blamed this fictional creature for my inability to maintain anything resembling a functional relationship. A girl didn’t call back? Must’ve been Cupid. Someone took out a restraining order against me? Cupid must’ve signed and delivered it. I took comfort in Cupid’s malignant presence. As long as he stood in my way, of course there was no way I could find someone. Then last year I realized that what I called “Cupid” was the embodiment of my own ambiguity towards relationships.  What a revelation! I vowed to take ownership of my destiny. No more would I do battle with arrow-toting cherubs. I would communicate openly with myself, call myself on my own shit, strive for honesty in all interactions with the fairer sex. I would put myself Out There and accept the consequences as a gift. And so I did. I dated. I contributed faithfully to this blog. I went on the Dr. Phil show. I visited a Cougar Convention. I did all this to hop back into the driver’s seat of my romantic life. For months, it didn’t work. Exhausted and spiritually battered, I found myself on the verge of resignation to a life of single nerdom. Until two weeks ago. That’s when I had, well. . .a pretty great first date. We talked...

Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and it seems like I should talk about love.  Or relationships.  But I’ve done a lot of that here, so instead I’m going to do some counter-programming and talk about . . . men. Ahem. I remember when men were men.  When Hemingway and Fitzgerald would sit in the corner booth at Musso & Frank’s in Hollywood and sling back whiskey like water.  They’d talk about women and bull-fighting.  Clap each other on the back and hold court over a throng of wannabes and ne’erdowells.  They’d fill up on steak (the real man’s meal of choice) and stagger out into the balmy Los Angeles night to fling their masculinity against the page in bold black ink. Ok, so maybe I don’t actually remember those days.  But I’ve read about them and that’s almost the same. I’m fixating a bit on Musso & Frank’s because I ate there last week with a group of five men.  We sat in the corner booth; the same booth that had once welcomed Hemingway, Fitzgerald, John Fante, and Chandler now cradled our 21st Century buttocks.  We were five men who had come together to eat meat, drink alcohol, and generally be manly.  As I sauntered through the joint’s doors, I had high expectations for the evening ahead.  What ribaldry awaited me in the circle of manhood?  Should I have brought singles for the strip club?  Cigars?  Would we get into a bar fight and spend the night in the cooler? With visions of Bogie and Bukowski sparring in my head, I slid into the booth.  “Gentlemen,” I said tossing my cap onto a nearby hook, “What’s the haps?” Hank, a married 30-something who recently purchased a house and impregnated his wife, greeted...

. a blogumn by Micheal Kass “Happiness is–” FLASH. So a couple months ago, I’m in Las Vegas celebrating a friend’s birthday. It’s a small group, only five of us. One of the group, the only one I hadn’t met before this trip, has this incredibly annoying habit of saying “happiness is!” before snapping a picture. She loves to snap pictures. Every three minutes or so the Vegasian cacophony is punctuated by “Happiness is–” FLASH. Every time she screeches out in her nails-on-chalkboard voice, I want to rip the camera from her hand and slap her across the face. “You’re NOT happy,” I want to snarl. “You’re possibly the most miserable person I’ve ever met. Stop whining about your ex-boyfriend, and stop with the happiness is. You are KILLING MY HAPPINESS, WOMAN!” Of course, I don’t do that. But I really, really want to. “Happiness is–” FLASH Instead of giving in to my baser, violent instincts, I play a game. Every time she raises the camera, I complete the thought. It starts out pretty basic. . . Happiness is a good steak. Happiness is sleeping on clean sheets. Happiness is stomping through puddles with childish abandon. The woman takes so many pictures (I silently curse the invention of the digital camera) that I soon run out of easy happiness statements. I start getting all deep with myself. Can you really define happiness? If something does make you happy and you define it as something that makes you happy, will it still make you happy? Or does the act of definition and observation obliterate its happy-making power? If you consciously monitor your happiness levels, are you more or less likely to be happy? Or will you train yourself to think you’re happy when, in fact,...

True story. I spent the last moments of 2009 huddled on my bathroom floor covered in sweat clutching my toilet with a thin trail of vomit dribbling from my nose. Gross. Now if this were a hackneyed Hollywood movie or not-particularly-well-crafted novel, that moment would be deeply symbolic. Filled with portent. “Aha,” the astute viewer/reader might think, “this is a symbolic purge from which our hero will emerge stronger, smarter, and better in every way.” Luckily this isn’t a movie or book. It’s a blog. Blogs don’t do symbolism. I’m just telling you how I spent New Year’s Eve with the flu. As I lay there flushing away the remnants of the apple I’d eaten earlier that day (“AHA,” the astute reader exclaims, “another literary symbol. Biblical, even!” Give it up, astute reader.), I took the opportunity to review the year that had just passed. After all, it was New Year’s. That’s what you’re supposed to do. The problem was that I was quite weak. Feverish and shaking, the best I could muster was a quick review of the previous week. Christmas. I’d gone to to Albuquerque, New Mexico to visit my parents. I didn’t grow up in New Mexico. My parents moved there three years ago when they retired. Initially they’d chosen New Mexico because of its natural beauty and abundant hiking trails. Within weeks they realized that their affection for hiking limited itself to vacations. Daily walks in the mountains didn’t have the appeal of an annual tromp through the English countryside. Luckily Albuquerque had another benefit: it’s an airline hub. It’s very easy to get just about anywhere from Albuquerque with a minimum of transfer drama. And so my parents have become avid travelers in their retirement. During the past year...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass The thanksgiving part of Thanksgiving is a relatively new presence in my holiday life. I mean, my family had Thanksgiving when I was growing up. My parents and I would trundle up to New Jersey and spend the evening in my grandparents’ one bedroom rent-controlled apartment eating take-out from Boston Market. My grandmother would complain about the meat, my grandfather would tell her to shut up, my mother would knit and my father and I would sit in the corner being quiet. At no point did we go around in a circle and share feelings of thanks. So when I found myself at Thanksgiving a few years ago with a group of people and they started giving thanks, I had no idea what to do. Everyone had something profound to say. Allison was thankful for a poem that her sister had written for her. Bobby gave thanks for the chance to play catch with his son. Jillian came to tears talking about how grateful she was to have found her fiancee. Heartfelt stuff. I got the feeling that these folks had maybe been thinking about this moment all year. When it came time for me to give thanks, I found myself flummoxed. “Well,” I stammered, “I guess. I mean, this is a great meal. I’m grateful for turkey and everything, I guess. And friends. You guys are awesome. So thanks for that.” Everyone nodded appreciatively, but I could tell that I had failed some kind of Gratitude Test. Since then, my efforts at Thanksgiving have improved slightly. But every year it has felt a little too general. A little false. Not genuine. This year will be different. It will be different because I have met a woman. And...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Confession Time:  I don’ t have any fresh ruminations on singlehood today.  Or nerdom.  I’m sure I could come up with something, but I’m running late to go read a book to pre-schoolers and tell them all about youth homelessness.  So while I shatter the innocence of unsuspecting four-year-olds, please enjoy this bit of recycled angst and heartbreak from my last Chi Chi’s Word Parlor appearance: Ritzy rides horses.  Ritzy feeds the bunnies.  Ritzy ties her hair back into a blonde pony-tail when she swims.  When she smiles, everyone around her smiles.  When she laughs, everyone around her laughs.  Except me—I cry, but only on the inside. I am nine years old and I am an expert on Ritzy Boyd.  I am nine years old and I am—wait for it—in love with Ritzy Boyd. There’s no other word for it.  In idle moments, I fantasize about feeding the rabbits with her.  This is not a euphemism—I actually imagine what it would be like to stand next to her feeding the rabbits.  Feeling their little bunny mouths nuzzling my palm as she looks on approvingly.  Or we’re grooming the horses.  We go to school on a farm, so all this nature imagery isn’t quite as bizarre as you may think.  Though, I admit, it still ain’t quite kosher. Ritzy knows I exist—in a class of 25, it’s hard to be anonymous.  We even qualify as more than acquaintances and, were I not incapable of speech in her presence, we might make the leap into full fledged friendship.  She has made overtures in this direction.  One time, she, Clayton, and Kirin stood together in the rabbit hutch feeding, you know, the rabbits.  I loitered nearby affecting an intense interest in...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass On Friday I received an email from a friend asking that I consider being a godparent to their shiny new son. My First Reaction: someone hacked her email account. My Second Reaction, after realizing that spamming someone’s contacts with requests to become a godparent after going through all the trouble to hack the account would be stupid: Why me? I mean, I’m not a bad guy. But I’m terrible at interpersonal relationships, in some ways so immature as to be completely non-functional. I let parking tickets pile up. I forget my parents’ birthdays. Sometimes my utility bills go unpaid, dishes sit unwashed in the sink, trash accumulates in the Trader Joe’s bags I use as garbage pails. These are not role-model worthy characteristics. As the question of “why” tumbled itself over in my head, a pattern revealed itself. A tapestry. A conspiracy. My friends have been conspiring to turn me into a responsible “adult” for years! Example: A few years ago, my unpaid utility bill problem lead to a disconnection of my gas problem. This did not overly concern me. I had a microwave and a toaster oven. Why did I need gas? Then one day I logged into my email to find a message from me to 15 people. “Hi Friends,” said this message, “I’m super excited to host our upcoming book club meeting. My apartment will be clean and I’m thrilled to say that my gas, necessary for cooking, will be turned on. I didn’t pay my bills so they turned it off. But I will resolve this issue by the time of book club so we don’t have to eat microwave pepper steak. Which is gross. . .Love, Michael.” I read this message ten times,...

Friendly Reminder, Michael Kass from “Single White Nerd” is on Dr. Phil’s “Race to the Altar” episode today. Check your local listings, but if you live in L.A., it’s on at 4pm on Channel 2. But if you need even more procrastination, we’ve got your back. 1. Wow, they’re making Serena Williams the new face of PMS, which I maintain is the time of the month when women see everything clearly and therefore get a little about it. [Defamer] 2. Okay, I would actually cash in my cool points and buy a minivan, if they looked like this concept Mercedes. [LikeCool] 3. Day Job: Secretary. Side Job: King. How awesome is that? [Home of the Urban Chameleon] 4. Apparently rat tails are back in style. How do we feel about that? [Gawker] 5. So this George Clooney movie, Up in the Air, has been getting lots of buzz and I think I’m definitely going to rent as soon as it hits Apple TV. What do you...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Last week I went to a movie. Alone. I kind of felt like wallowing in the aloneness a bit, so I bought a massively large buttered popcorn and a huge drink. Nothing emphasizes alone-i-tude in a dark theater like the feeling of a big tub of warm, lard covered popcorn between your thighs. I took a seat toward the back of the theater and started munching on my corny grease bombs and slorping from my fizzy mug of high fructose corn syrup. Looking to my left, I saw a pair of kids. Probably no older than 12 or 13. They were engrossed in some iPhone game and hadn’t even noticed me come in. They didn’t have any snacks. I thought they might want some. “Hey,” I whispered. “Hey, kids.” They looked over. “Look, I bought too much popcorn. Because I felt like wallowing a bit, you know. But you don’t seem to have any popcorn. So I thought I would offer you some. It’s good, real buttery. Good for watching movies with.” They looked at each other. One whispered something that sounded a bit like “stranger danger.” “Or a sip of soda. But you’d have to get your own straw. Because this is my straw. And you might have the herp.” Now they looked straight at me. “Perv,” one of them spat. Then they switched rows leaving me alone with my warm tub of crunchy snack-joy. Perv? Me? For wanting to share my popcorn bounty and not get herpes? How DARE they! I almost let them have a piece of my mind– And then I had a meta-moment of self-realization: I was a 30-something man alone in a theater offering treats to pre-pubescent boys. I guess, from a...

. a blogumn Michael Kass If you’re reading this, the odds are that you have tried online dating at some point. And as someone who has tried online dating, you are no doubt aware of the many risks involved. You may have faced countless pictures of shirtless men posing in front of their hot rods. You may have been stalked. All of You may have faced people who posted fake pictures, lied about their criminal records, had baby mama or papa drama. Goes with the territory. I’m here today to add another item to the extensive list of Warnings About Online Dating. Here you go: Online dating may lead to the chance to humiliate yourself on a national—no, international—scale. Three weeks ago I received a message on an online dating site that, quite frankly, I forgot I had joined. “Hello,” said the message, “I am a producer for a daytime talk show. We are looking for men to come on the show as special guests to give the male point of view on dating. The show tapes on August 25th. If you’re interested, please call me at [phone number].” Many people would have ignored the message. Not me. I called. It ended up being completely legitimate. The number connected me to a staffer on a daytime talk show. I can’t tell you the name of the show. But it sounds a lot like “Flockter Mill.” The staffer explained that the Flockter was doing a show on women who are over-eager to get married and wanted to have “average American males” on the show to give their honest, uncensored reactions to these women’s dating tactics. I suppose that I may appear to be an “average American male” on my profile. The good Flockter’s minions knew...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass     Single man-nerds, hear me now:  If you want to meet women, try stand-up comedy.   Before I found stand-up,  I’d tried everything.  Well, maybe not everything.  I never went to a dating seminar, for example.  Nor had I tried the cultish techniques practiced by “pick-up artists” whose entire repertoire of tricks seem to consist of making women feel really bad about themselves.  Ok.  Maybe I just tried meeting people and going out with them.  On dates and stuff.  And I met with varying degrees of success.   And then I found stand-up.   Five weeks ago, I took to the stage for the first time.  Palms sweating, mouth dry, and knees a’knockin’ I stepped up to the microphone.  To calm my heart, I took a deep breath and looked out into the audience.  Because of the lights, I could only see into the front row.  And what did I see when I looked into the front row?   Women.  I saw women.  Mildly inebriated women with wide eyes pointed at me (me!) and filled with expectation.  They were there to laugh.  And by God, they’d laugh.  In their eyes, I saw that it didn’t really matter if I was funny or not.  They had paid good money and, as long as I managed to avoid offending them, they would laugh.  And because I stood at the microphone, they would attribute their self-induced laughter to my efforts at comedy!   I saw all that in the split second it took me to take a breath and launch into my routine.   Well, maybe not all of it.  Maybe I just saw their eyes.  But if I’d had longer, that’s totally what I would have seen.   As I...

Whatta week, and is it me or has this summer going by incredibly fast? How is it almost Fall already? Anywho, I’m a little too exhausted today to think up a good transition, so I’ll just say, here are the best comments of the week: HELLO FRIDAY re: FIERCE ANTICIPATION: August 14-16, in which Ryan compared Madden 10 to Oedipus. With a straight face. He also claimed his out-of-work roommate of watched Jerry Springer and Steve Wilkos all day. His roommate shot back with libel accusations. Joe: I have NEVER watched Jerry Springer or Maury Povich in the apartment. And I don’t know who Steve Wilkos is. Ryan’s just wants to protect the stores of Diet Coke in the apartment. I have to walk past him to the kitchen to get a drink, and I feel like Bilbo Baggins sneaking past the dragon Smaug to burgle something from his hoard of jewels. PHILOSOPHICAL MONDAY re: Single White Nerd: Wherefore Art Thou Creepy, in which Michael Kass asked readers to explain the motivations of aggressive creepy guys — so that he can avoid becoming one himself. AmyQOTWF: The creepy guy is like that because every so often a lady is so drunk or creepy herself that it works out for him. I have watched, in shocked amazement, at least a few times as the guy who was lean-y, aggressive and inappropriate with me earlier in the night, left the bar with a female. Creepy desperate chicks exist too and they aren’t helping the cause to chase off the creep. OH, IT’S TUESDAY re: NewlyNested: The First Rule of Book Club, in which Debra Goykhman goes from being an academic snob to a book club afficionado. Anne: I started a book club at our last house...

. a blogumn my Michael Kass   Image Credit: kirstyfull A brief one today, friends.  More in the nature of a question than a meditation on single nerdom.  And here it is:   You know the guy in the bar who hits on a woman, gets the brush off, and then hangs around?  The one who stands behind his prey and pretends to check the messages on his cell phone.  Or affects an intense interest in a piece of art on the wall nearby.  The one who keeps approaching over and over despite an obvious lack of interest and the intervention of the would-be-prey’s friends.   That guy.  You know him?   Why does he do that?  Does he think that it’s charming?  That maybe she didn’t mean it when she said “I’m going to stand over there now?”  That if he hangs around long enough, she’ll get frustrated and haul him off to the bathroom to have sex?   I had a run-in with one of these guys over the weekend.  Granted, it gave me the opportunity to be a hero and swoop in to rescue the damsel in distress.  I got a kiss on the cheek for my efforts.  And that was neat.  But still:  creepy.   So, I turn the question to you:  What’s up with the creepy guy who does that?   Let me know so I can be smarter.  And so I can avoid turning into...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass 4 AM. Unable to sleep, I hoof it around the corner to Ghetto Ralphs, aka Silver Lake Ralphs. During daylight hours, the parking lot would be bustling with cars vying for a parking spot. The drivers would be a mix of the gentrifiers and the gentrifi-ees, those on the verge of being pushed out of their own neighborhood. These two parties would glare at each other across the parking lot before scurrying into Ghetto Ralph’s to keep up the glaring across piles of not-too-fresh looking produce. But that’s during daylight hours. At 4 AM, there are two cars in the parking lot. A delivery truck has wedged itself in front of the store. The cargo door is open and a man grunts as he unloads sacks and boxes, his rolled-up sleeves showcase tatted arms, his long gray hair is pulled back into a pony tail to reveal a weather-beaten face. He could be 25 or 50. Can’t tell. As I walk by, he gives me a salute. “How’s it goin’, brother?” he grunts. “4 AM, man. You?” “Livin’ the dream,” he says. “Livin’ the dream, man.” I almost ask him at what point his dream involved unloading food from a Ralph’s delivery truck, but decide that it might be too early in the day to bring the snark. The inside of the store has been overrun by cardboard boxes. They lean up against the aisles, litter the floors, stack against walls. In my imagination, they form into military regiments and attack me while screaming “This land is ours until 7 AM, dipshit, go back to sleep!” But that’s just my imagination. My shopping goes quickly. The list is short. A bag of spinach, two onions, a bulb of...

Hey guys! Whatta a week. And of course the comments were wonderful as usual. Check out our best of… HELLO FRIDAY re: Fierce OR Nerdy: Aliens vs. Ghosts, in which slpc asked us to compare the scariness and sexiness of ghosts and aliens. JessicaH: Not so scared of ghosts – not so believing in aliens (at least not in their having been to earth)… But ghosts I bet can be pretty sexy (i.e., Ghostbusters)…. Maybe. Can I switch my vote to robots? PHILOSOPHICAL MONDAY re: Single White Nerd: Love in the Time of Twilight, in which Michael Kass feels sorry for the boys that have to compete against the Edward Cullen ideal in order to get laid. (Thought) Chuck: I don’t know about wanting to be a 200-year-old adolescent pretty boy – but to me the whole TWILIGHT thing is all about the boy NOT biting (i.e. kissing or screwing) the girl – which is why straight males are doomed if their girlfriends want guys who emulate the characters portrayed in the movie. Who wants to have a girlfriend or boyfriend who is all about tortured yearning & aching without any kind of relief of all that teen “angst” or “pressure?” Yet perhaps the biggest irony in all of this is that, despite all this so-called “abstinence marketing appeal,” teens (and especially teen girls) are having more & more sex at younger & younger ages. So perhaps there IS hope out there for you underage horndogs! OH, IT’S TUESDAY re: The Short of the Matter, in which I lamented being told I would be tall … and then ending my growth spurt at 5’3. DebraB: I’ve always wanted to be 5’6″. I’m hoping my daughter makes it there. Based on her father’s height, she...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass   An Open Letter to Males Coming of Age in the Time of Twilight:     I just watched Twilight, the film, this weekend. And I have this to say to you: You are doomed. You have my sympathies.   I thought we had it bad coming of age back in the 20th Century. See, back then we had moving picture shows directed by fellows like John Hughes and Cameron Crowe. These “movies” featured somewhat awkward, yet cool male leads. They did things like wear trenchcoats, hit lockers with their fists, sport skinny ties, and dance in small towns where the prevailing wisdom had it that dancing was Satan’s work.   In one iconic scene, one of these romantic heroes held a boombox (like an iPod, but bigger and without earphones) above his head. As it blasted the tuneful sounds of “In Your Eyes,” he wooed his lady-love with a mixture of sweetness and intensity that no girl could resist. That kind of rocked.   Anyway, girls would watch these movies and the characters would serve as the template for What They Wanted in a Boyfriend. So, like any male doing a ritual mating dance when under the influence of hormonal swells, we rushed to comply. We bought skinny ties, we wore trenchcoats, we danced like the devil had taken up residence in our heels.   Disclaimer: Maybe “we” didn’t do these things. Maybe it was just “me.”   The point here is that we actually could emulate these men that the girls wanted. It was not outside the realm of possibility that I could be a somewhat angsty, yet ultimately sweet, guy with questionable fashion sense and a yen for kickboxing. And that possibility gave me something...

Hey Darlings, Bad dates + Vicodin + Secret Foods = a great first week back with comments to match. Check out our best of below: HELLO FRIDAY re: Fierce OR Nerdy: America vs. USA in which slpc asked us to choose between “America (the Beautiful)” and “Proud to be an American.” BabySmiling: How about a write-in vote for Neil Diamond’s America?  “Today!” PHILOSOPHICAL MONDAY re: Single White Nerd: Real Life vs. Blog Land in which Michael Kass gets prematurely dumped after a date Googles him and finds his past Fierce and Nerdy blog posts. Doh! keldoo: She seems rather judgemental and completely lacking in the sense of humor department. And PS, [if] you’ve googled the person you are on a date with. You’re supposed to put that information in your back pocket and use it when necessary. OH, IT’S TUESDAY re: Hasta La Vista, Vicodin? in which we informed you that the federal gov’t is taking under consideration a proposal to ban Percoset and Vicodin. (Thought) Chuck: Oh noes indeed! What will people like Liza Minelli & Rush Limbaugh do?!?!?! SERIOUSLY!!! WOW! IT’S WEDNESDAY! re: Our Secret Foods, in which we asked if you had any secret foods — foods that you only eat when no one else is watching. Apparently, many of you do. Here are just a few of them: CH: Hostess chocolate donuts. keldoo: Twinkies. Frozen. Always…. Robin: Spoonfuls of store bought cake frosting. aimee: i had crunch berries for dinner! they made me sick but i may go back for more… Kim: When I was a kid I used to sneak in the kitchen and slice off hunks of salami then hide the wrappers between my mattress and headboard. Somehow I foolishly thought my mom would never find all those...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass She knocks at my door. I open it to let her in. It’s the first time she’s been to my apartment and I’m wondering what she’ll notice first. The fact that I cleaned for her? The scent of garlic and butter emanating from the kitchen? My cheerful tiki lights? We hug hello. Her hug, which on our two previous meetings has been warm and giving, feels reserved. I sense trouble. She pushes me back and her eyes dart around the room. “Hi,” I say, “It’s good to see y–” “So what’s it going to be?” She asks. “Huh?” “The Break-up Bookshelf? The Litmus Test? Is your Imaginary Girlfriend going to pop out and serve us dinner?” “Ah,” I say stepping back carefully, palms raised in supplication, “You’ve found my blog.” “It wasn’t difficult,” she huffs. “Well, I’m not trying to hide it.” She strides to my bookshelf and starts reading the titles. “Clive Cussler? Voices of Terror? This is what you thought would drive me away? You’ll have to do better than that!” “Umm. Actually those are just books that I’ve been reading. See, I don’t really DO those things I write about, it’s just a –” “And what happens now? You serve some dinner that you’ve cooked and tell me some story designed to test my moral compass? Something about meeting some disadvantaged person and you do something nice, but then there’s a twist at the end that makes it not so nice?” Her eyes are wide and she has backed herself into the corner of my apartment, arms raised as if to ward off an attack. “No, I was thinking that we’d eat and have a more free ranging conversation. Then maybe make out or have...

  My Breakup Bookcase idea has wrought a certain amount of havoc, but that story will have to wait.  It has to wait because our fearless leader, the inimitably fierce ‘n nerdy Ernessa, is in labor.  Right now.  As I type this.  Life shall emanate forth from her loins.   That’s a big deal.   But there’s more.  Within the next month, four other women of my acquaintance will engage in a similar effort—huffing, puffing, sweating and screaming as a wee little baby emerges to greet the world with a smile and a steady stream of bodily waste.  Beautiful.   And that’s a big deal.   Lurking on the sidelines of these burgeoning miracles, I’ve observed these Women of My Acquaintance as the babies grow all big ‘n burly in their bellies.  Some have become obsessed with their pregnancy.  “Omigod, you guys, I am SO pregnant.  I mean, seriously.  I am PREG-NANT!”  Others are soldiering on, taking each kick, each hormonal swing in stride.  “I’m pregnant, what do you expect?  It natural.”  And still others seem vaguely traumatized by the whole situation.  “I mean, I’ve always wanted a baby.  But we’re so not ready for this.  I mean.  So.  Not.  Ready.”   I’ve used the plural above to anonymize my observations on the offchance that one or more of the lovely, talented and brilliant pregnant Women of My Acquaintance happen to read this post.  Incurring the wrath of a pregnant woman would be a big deal.  Not in a good way.   Anyway, all this procreation brings up a bit of a question.  It’s a question that women have asked me.  A question my mother has asked me.  Heckfire, it’s even a question I’ve asked myself using the thinly veiled conceit of an imaginary...

Warren Beatty, Clive Cussler, Darth Vader, and OKKKKKKKKKK-lahoma all showed up in this week’s comments. Check it out: HELLO FRIDAY re: Fierce OR Nerdy: Bank Error in Your Favor, in which slpc presents us with the ethical dilemma of whether we would run off with millions of dollars that were accidentally deposited into our bank accounts or return it. Of course she used a picture of Bonnie and Clyde to illustrate all of this. (Thought) Chuck: You have to admit that, scruples aside, given the opportunity to escape with a young, totally gorgeous Warren Beatty at the wheel of a hot 1930’s vintage car to the tune of “Foggy Mountain Breakdown,” who WOULDN’T run?!?!?!?! PHILOSOPHICAL MONDAY re: Single White Nerd: The Break-Up Bookshelf, in which Michael Kass puts forth the theory that putting a lot of bad books on display might be a great, no-conflict way to get a girl to break up with you. SeaKat: I really think you should throw in a series of Clive Cussler novels. Nothing says “RUN from this man” like a little Dirk Pitt. One or two could be passed off as a gift, though, so you’ll need to invest in at least a dozen. Don’t worry, I’m sure you can get them for pennies at the local used book store. OH, IT’S TUESDAY re: NewlyNested: Looking for a Father’s Day Gift? in which Debra Goykhman gives a bunch of suggestions for fun F-Day gifts. Sadly, one of our commenters had already been burned by one of her picks: the Carnivorous Bug-Eating Garden. Josh Grelle: I got that bug eating garden for my brother, but it didn’t work…. : ( WOW! IT’S WEDNESDAY re: Buy Me This: Death Star BBQ Grill, in which CH geeked out over a...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Photo by John Buckler From time to time, I find myself in the terrifying position of “dating” someone. This happens when things progress past “hanging out,” but have not yet reached the “going steady” stage. And it is usually at the “dating” point that I realize that I want to extricate myself from the nascent relationship before it gets to the letter jacket exchanging, key-giving, watching each other pee point. Now a normal, well adjusted person would simply sit down with the other person and have The Talk. “Gosh,” that person would say, “You’re swell. But this isn’t for me. I’m not worried about you, you’re so smart and pretty. I need someone less smart and pretty because I’m so insecure. Now leave before I start to cry.” Something like that. I am neither normal nor well-adjusted. Add to that a high, almost crippling degree of conflict aversion and. . .well, the termination of a dating relationship can create a bit of a pickle. Or it could create a bit of a pickle if I hadn’t recently hit on my latest Fantastical Scheme. I call it “The Break-up Bookshelf.” Most of the women who have the misfortune to date me tend to gravitate towards my bookshelf. There they find an eclectic array of theatre, philosophy, fiction and travel writing with the occasional DVD box set thrown in to switch it up. It took me years to cultivate a book shelf that reveals, obscures, tantalizes and encourages in equal measure. Anyway, the ladies dig it. “Wow,” they think, “you’re so enlightened and sensitive, but you also like mystery books. I must get with you biblically now or at least entertain the idea while I eat your food.” Here’s how...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass This weekend Theatre and I were out on a date.  Our reunion has been far from smooth.  We’ve fought, we’ve thrown things at each other, we’ve cried.  But at this point, we’re spending time together regularly.  Four nights per week, 7 PM until 10:30 PM or so.  Relationships take work! So anyway.  This weekend, Theatre and I were out on a date.  I was traipsing all over her stage, waxing poetic about all sorts of stuff.  Saying my lines.  Acting up a storm.  I looked out into the audience and It Happened.  I saw something that pushed all thoughts of Theatre out of my mind.  I saw Eyes. Two of them. Big ones.  Big brown eyes.  And they were filled with understanding and compassion.  The kind of understanding and compassion you read about.  Or see in the moving picture shows.  The kind of understanding and compassion that can change the world. I completely forgot what I was talking about.  I wanted to sit down next to those eyes and talk to them directly.  Ditch the character I was playing, shut Theatre out, and have an honest to goodness conversation.  Would the eyes show that same compassion and understanding to Me in Chair as they had to My Character On Stage? Of course, I couldn’t do that.  The show went on.  But when we finished and everyone was clapping like happy seals, I sought out those eyes again.  They weren’t looking at me.  They were looking at a young man sitting next to them.  The eyes had a boyfriend.  Well, naturally.  Eyes like that always do. . Michael Kass is appearing “The Designated Mourner” at Son of Semele Ensemble through the month of May.  You can buy tickets to watch him with your eyes...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Last time we met, I waxed poetic about my One True Love.  Well, in the manner of all such relationships, this one has taken over my life.  For the moment.  No time to gaze longingly at my own navel and meditate upon the nuances of human relationships. I have, however, had the chance to think about heartbreak.  Specifically, how we respond to it.  Some people retreat into themselves, curl up into a snuggie, eat ice cream and watch Oprah.  Others–the fortunate ones–reach out to their support network and fill the void with food, folks and fun (I will now get sued by McDonald’s for associating their oil rich obesity bombs with heartbreak).  And still others–and I count myself among their numbers–simply stop eating altogether. Which brings me to my latest Great Invention that Will Make Me Rich:  Seduct-a-Slim! For a nominal fee, you can have a person of your preferred gender seduce you, make you fall in love, and then break your heart.  It’s like matchmaking with a higher goal!  Or, if you want to be all cynical about it, Prostitution with a Purpose.  You fill out an extensive form, go in for an interview, and Seduct-a-Slim takes it from there.  One day while out shopping, playing Putt-Putt or going on a nature walk, your ideal mate (a contractor specially chosen just for you by Seduct-a-Slim) will approach you.  You’ll “meet cute.”  Start dating.  Soon you’re in love and no sooner have you placed your faith in this other person than they will break your heart. Hello heartbreak, goodbye beer gut!  Or whatever the female equivalent of a beer gut is! Anyway, seems like a good idea. I mean, I’m not nursing a heartbreak or anything, folks.  It’s...

I think this week’s FNotB comments can best be described as gross, metaphorical, hypothetical helpful and informative. HELLO FRIDAY re: Procrastinate on This!, in which we directed you to a post about two sisters not only eating placenta, but converting into a panini placenta sandwich and a pasta sauce. Seriously, skip to “Philosophical Monday” if you don’t want to be completely grossed out. And definitely don’t read this while eating. slpc: i was *almost* convinced by the author of the placenta article (and the sisters who cooked and ate the placenta). i thought, maybe it’s a cool and healthy tradition, a once in a lifetime opportunity kinda-thing, and maybe not as disgusting as it first seems… until i read this part: “The ‘recipe’ was pretty simple, but preparation was very fun! First, I washed off any clots and snipped/tore away the membrane. Websites suggested this, and I imagine it’s because it’d be chewy. The umbilical cord required a pair of scissors to cut through and I had to marvel at how incredible tough that piece was!” haha. nope. not doing that. PHILOSOPHICAL MONDAY re: Single White Nerd: The Harshest Mistress, in which Michael Kass rekindles his love affair with theater, even though their relationship ended really badly the first time around. stubbie: Oh, sure, she’s lovely now. Alluring. Willing to overlook things – like you never put your dishes in the dishwasher, or you leave little dark hairs all over the bathroom, that you always read the paper first and leave it totally disorganized. None of that matters now. But let me tell you, as a guy who’s been there, it all goes to hell. 15 years into a loveless marriage, it’s all we can do to grunt at each other and resist the...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass   So it’s time for a confession.  All of the waxing poetic, witticizing, and blathering I’ve been doing about relationships, litmus tests, imaginary girlfriends—it’s all a diversion.  See, I’ve already found the love of my life.   It’s not a woman.  Nope, not a man either (though coming out on a blog would show some flair).  It is that harshest most cruelest most exactingest of mistresses:  Theater.   (insert collective groan here)   The sad fact of the matter is that I’ve loved her since the age of three.  She seduced me with all sorts of shiny songs, dances, and feats of juggling skill.  Even from the last row in the balcony of some run down theatre in New York, she caught my eye.  “Yoda!” I exclaimed.  ‘Course, I called everything ‘yoda’ at the time.  Anyway, we’ve been together, to one degree or another, ever since.   We flirted all through high school.  Sure, I spent most of my time buried in books and graphing calculators.  But twice a week, I would spend time with Theater.  She never got jealous; she was always there for me, open armed.  I knew that she spent time with other men, but I still felt that our time together was special.   In college, we grew closer.  And then, throwing my inveterate fear of commitment aside I went to graduate school to study her more closely, find out her secrets.  She didn’t resist.  In fact, she returned every ounce of energy I threw into her, rewarding me with growth and discovery.  We made friends together, even had a threesome for a while (it’s a metaphor, go with me, folks.)  Things got real hot and heavy. The climax of our relationship came four...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Last week, the unimaginable happened:  The Single White Nerd left ElAy.  Not permanently.  Just for a weekend trip to Seattle.  Ok, so maybe it’s not that unimaginable. I spent two days wandering somewhat aimlessly along the city streets in the company of a friend whom I’ve known for a solid 22 years.  We walked and talked, reminisced, drank copious amounts of coffee. By the time I boarded the plane back to the land of Technicolor Blue Skies, I was vibrating at a high level, fueled by caffeine, the memory of pretty, pretty trees, and the wisp of nostalgia. I sat in my seat and leaned back, eyes closed, lost in reverie.  But also kind of tapping my foot on account of all the coffee.  I felt someone plunk into the seat next to me, but didn’t open my eyes.  A voice through the darkness: “Seattle sure is pretty, isn’t it.”  A male voice, Midwestern inflection.  Young sounding.  “Yep,” I replied, resigned to engaging in idle chit-chat with what was, I now opened my eyes to see, a rail thin boy-man.  Light brown hair with frosted tips, crisply ironed shirt opened to the second button, blindingly white teeth.  My gay-dar started beeping like mad. “Yeah,” said my seatmate, “I was just up in Vancouver for an audition then stopped in Seattle to see some college friends.  I’ll tell you what, we partied cray-zee last night.”  I’ll bet he did—I could almost see the disco ball twirling above his head. “Cool,” I grunted.  “I’m really—“ “I’m Steven, by the way.”  We shook hands. “I’m Mike.  Michael.  Whatever.  And now I’m really tir—“ “Yeah, I’m super excited to get back to Los Angeles.  Been away for three days and I miss...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Seven terrifying words.  On the one hand I absolutely want her to be completely honest.  All the books I’ve read tell me that honesty is the best policy.  On the other hand, I have a rather delicately constructed sense of self-esteem. An honesty overdose could shatter me. I should mention that her question is a response to a question of my own:  “Why did we land in the no-sex zone?” Emily and I met online two months ago. The emails rapidly became flirtatious, even suggestive.  By the time we met in person, there was no doubt in my mind that she liked sex. Also she was smart and pretty, all that stuff. So we met in person and had a great conversation.  More flirtatious emails, now bordering on the pornographically explicit.  She came over to my apartment to “help me decorate.”  My understanding was that the whole decoration thing was code for “have sex.”  I based this understanding on the fact that Emily had actually said “We can pick out a new bedspread and then mess it up while naked.” Emily showed up on the appointed day at the appointed time.  She walked into my apartment and proceeded to pick it apart.  She hated the tiki lights framing my balcony window. (For the record—I like them.  They’re festive.)  My new used blue leather couch offended her sensibilities.  I had not hung the pictures correctly on my wall. Exhausted by her orgy of criticism, she then plopped down on my couch, wedged herself into the corner and fortified herself with pillows.  I read the message loud and clear:  don’t touch me, you maldecorated neanderthal.  Ok, fine. So we talked for an hour or so.  Then it was time for...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass Yesterday I sat on my couch and, in a supreme effort of will and imagination, created a girlfriend.  Eyes squinched in concentration, I summoned her out of the ether.  Neither too tall nor too short, intelligent with piercing eyes, a sharp wit with a soft core.  She took shape in my living room and, without a word, slid next to me on the couch, her long blue dress rustling softly as she put her arms around me. We sat there like that, holding each other on the couch for five minutes.  Then I got bored. Because a perfectly configured, well-dressed girlfriend who doesn’t talk isn’t super fun to hang out with. And so I squinched my eyes again and with another contortion of the spirit gave her vocal cords.  She snuggled against me gratefully. “This is nice,” she murmured. “Sure is,” I replied, kissing her forehead.  I could feel her smile in response. “Michael,” (I loved the way she said my name), “I’ve been thinking about us.” “Me too,” I replied.  “I’ve been thinking about us naked.” “Is that all you ever think about?  Nudity, sex, sex while nude?” “Pizza.  You forgot pizza.  I love you?”  I laughed somewhat uneasily.  It didn’t seem like this was going well at all. I held her closer. “Don’t you ever think about having children?” She pushed herself away from me and gazed into my eyes. “No.  No I don’t.” “You’re lying.” “Am not.” “Are too.  Because if I think about having children, then you must think about it, too.  You did create me, after all.” “You are a very self-aware and increasingly annoying girlfriend.”  I sat up, shaking my head.  I squinched my eyes and tried to de-manifest her. “Doesn’t work...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass As the Single White Nerd, it is my sacred duty to wish you a Happy Post Valentine’s Day!  I celebrated by starting a new blog called Cupid’s Quiver. Check it out. This year, after getting the whole blog thing sorted out, I wanted to get back to basics with Valentine’s Day.  I wanted to commemorate it however the very first celebrants celebrated.  So I turned to my computer and did some typing. You might think that Valentine’s Day has something to do with cupid.  Not so—he’s just a fat angel drafted into service by the greeting card companies. You might think it has its origins with St. Valentine.  Not so much—he was a Christian missionary who was executed for trying to convert pagans to Christianity in ancient Rome.  Either that or he was executed for performing marriages in direct contradiction of an empirical edict.  Whatever the reason, the many sources I consulted on Wikipedia assure me that he was executed. And that is not romantic. The truth, the fierce truth, is that Valentine’s Day is  is a commercial appropriation of a Christian rebranding of a Roman pagan ritual called Lupercalia. Lupercalia was a fertility ritual held between February 13th and 15th.  The day started with all the men in town sacrificing a goat for fertility and a dog for purification.  The guys would then slice the goat’s hide into strips and run all over town, naked, slapping women and crops with the goat hide.  Women apparently loved this because they believed it would confer fertility on them for the coming year. Later in the day, all the single girls in town would throw their names into an urn.  The town’s bachelors would pick a name out of the...

. a blogumn by Michael Kass I have just returned—literally moments ago—from a ‘date.’  For the past two hours, I sat across from a lovely young woman.  We chatted.  I found out all about her.  She grew up in New Jersey, loves Italy, and is learning to cook homemade pasta. We laughed and did that sort of flirty thing where you accidentally-on-purpose brush up against each other.  I won’t be seeing her again. See, it was going so well that I did something that I usually reserve for the second or even third date.  I subjected her to The Litmus Test. Don’t look so appalled, Fierce Nerdites.  You probably have a litmus test, too.  Maybe you don’t call it that, but every time you sit across from someone and wonder if they’re right for you, if you can really stomach that laugh every day, if you want to put up with a lifetime (or even 3 months) of that habit of cutting the food into absurdly small pieces before eating it:  Litmus Test.  I just deploy mine with malice of forethought. And so it was that, as the date wound to a close, I let loose with the Litmus: “So,” I said, “I was hanging out in this bookstore the other day.” That’s the first step. Introduce the concept of “hanging out” in a “bookstore.”  If her eyes roll or she harrumphs in any way:  test failed. But she actually leaned forward and said, in a breathy voice:  “I love bookstores.” My pulse quickened. “Yeah, me too.”  No one had ever made it this far before.  I didn’t quite know what to do.  So I told a story: “So, anyway, I’m hanging out, minding my own when this book plops in front of me. ...

. a new blogumn by Michael Kass Hi. I’m Mike. Happy to be here. I am nerdy, hear me roar! And now, time for a confession: Friends—I don’t know much about blogging. Nothing, really. What I do know is this: This habitually downcast and cynical snarklegrump feels a glimmer of hope. Maybe it’s the Obama inaugural. Maybe it’s the summer time temperatures that have driven women to don their flowy dresses (Hallelujah!). Or maybe it’s those pretty pills a co-worker slipped onto my desk earlier today with a wink and smile. Whatever the reason, I’m in an uncharacteristically positive frame of mind. And it is in this frame of mind that my thoughts turn to singlehood. The state of being single. Chronically single, in my particular case. Everywhere I look, images tell me that being single is wrong. Single? Lonely? Buy this deodorant and your gender of preference will literally lick your entire body. Buy that car! Best date movie of the year! Single? Maybe you’re a serial killer! And so on. Usually, I take it. “You’re right,” I say to society (aka The Man), “Being single sucks. I am lonely and miserable. My pillow is drenched with tears.” Then I whip out my trusty harmonica and toot some blues. But today is different. Today I will defy The Man. Today, I take The Man by the scruff of the neck and turn him around. “Look over there,” I say gesturing to the corner of the coffee house where I’m currently hunched over a soon-to-expire laptop. A man and a woman sit across from each other. She looks great. He looks great. They’re having a conversation. Their body language screams “self-consciously relaxed.”  This is a first date. He says something.  She laughs and leans...