Saturday, November 26, 2011

A man shows me his vagina

I'll be the first to admit I don't understand the visual arts.
I enjoy the occasional art museum to a degree, but never for more than an hour and preferably with a large cocktail in my hand to quell my rage.
"Sam, why do you have rage at an art museum?" you may ask me. 
It's because I know that after the fine Grecian urns and the beautifully gilded Rococo paintings, I'm going to walk into a room and find a gigantic sculpture of what appears to be silver dog shit with red rope around it that somebody has decided is art. And worth half a million.
Which is why I was nervous when a well-to-do acquaintance of mine asked me if I'd like to see his art collection.
"Do you have bourbon?" I asked him. 
As I sipped my Maker's on the rocks, I was guided down a polished concrete hallway. 
Admittedly, it wasn't bad at first. It was mostly outdoor photography akin to Ansel Adams, whom I like, and you could tell the man was proud to share his collection with someone.
But then I saw it. Looming at the end of the hallway like a bad omen, sucking all sanity from the world into the vortex that was "high modern art."
On the wall before me was a giant black and white close-up of a bushy haired vagina. And not just hairy. Like, three merken deep hairy. Like, girl with wet hair climbing out of the well with hair everywhere in "The Ring" hairy. 
I almost dropped my drink. 
"This is by jauhdbjdkdn," the man told me, walking up to the vagina. I don't remember the photographer's name and it doesn't matter. It was a hairy vagina. "It cost me a pretty penny, this collectible."
"If you don't mind me asking, how much did it cost you?"
He laughed. "Around twenty thousand. I must sound crazy!"
Bat shit. "No, no..." I lied. I couldn't look away from it. It was like the Eye of Sauron.
"But like I said, it's a collectible."
I wanted to ask him if he'd like to add a picture of my dick to his collection for twenty grand, but I refrained.

Thursday, November 17, 2011

A Portuguese girl teaches me the English alphabet

A while ago I was going through a phase where I decided I wouldn’t date actresses anymore, much to my mother’s delight.
So when my high school friend Stacie, who now lived in New York, invited me to a cocktail party at her St. Mark's Place apartment, I was happy for the invite. If only because I’d hoped to meet a girl who wasn’t in the bohemian crowd. Stacie had been pre-med at Stanford, and so were most of her friends.
 As the night went on, I told Stacie that a leggy, caramel-skinned girl had caught my eye. Stacie decided to introduce us.
“Sam, Cara, Cara, Sam,” Stacie said. “Sam’s an actor. Cara and I went to college together.”
Stacie left and Cara and I proceeded to talk. It was the usual surface stuff, Where are you from?, etc. And I soon learned that Cara had grown-up in Brazil, spoke fluent Portuguese, immigrated to China in her teens, learned Chinese fluently, and then made her way to the U.S. for college.
“Wow.” I said, obviously impressed.
“Do you speak any other languages?” she asked me.
“I pretend to know Spanish. But mostly just English,” I said.
She nodded.
“In college I sang a lot of Italian art songs, opera stuff, so I sorta know that, too. But I’m still amazed that you know Chinese. I hear it’s a tough one.”
“It was pretty hard to learn. Especially to read. You look at a newspaper and there’s fifty-thousand characters you have to know.”
“Jeez. I have enough trouble with twenty-four.”
She looked at me strangely. “Twenty-four?”
I nodded. “Twenty-four letters. In the alphabet?”
She looked at me even more strangely, her face contorted, her brow knitted. After a long, awkward pause she said, “The English alphabet has twenty-six letters.”
I politely excused myself. 

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

An eight-year-old takes me to a movie

The afternoon was rainy and gray and it was reflecting my mood. I had had Bryan, the boy I nanny, since about 8 AM and was exhausted after schlepping him around New York all morning. At noon I took him with me to an audition I had in Midtown and had him wait outside.  
The audition went less than stellar and it was hard to stay composed for the 8-year-old boy as I exited the studio.
"What's wrong, Sam?" Bryan asked.
"Nothing," I lied. "Just tired. Want to go see a movie?"
"If you want to."
I told him I did. If anything, it would let me sneak in a nap to get my mind off of the audition.
We walked to the theatre and discovered that the only G-rated movies playing were "Puss in Boots in 3D" or "The Lion King in 3D." Apparently three-dimensional cats were all the rage.
Bryan decided on "The Lion King" because he had never seen it before (guffaw now, 90s children), and because he had already seen "Puss in Boots" earlier in the week.
As we nestled into an empty movie theatre, I closed my eyes and prepared for two hours of blissful, amnesiac slumber.
At least, that is what I had intended to do until the opening music began to play—the same music I had heard nearly two decades ago when I had last seen "The Lion King."
"Naaaaaaa savaynya mama ee chi wa go" more or less (and definitely less anglicized.)
It was immediate and it was entrancing.
Fuck, I thought to myself as my eyes peeled themselves open, all I want to do is sleep and forget for a while.
I fought it at first, looking for lulls in the action, but by the time Jonathan Taylor Thomas was whistle toning his preemptive glory in a hallucinogenic African savanna, I knew it was a lost cause.
When the end credits appeared, I had sat through the entire movie fully engaged.
"Do you feel better now, Sam?" Bryan asked me after we left the theatre.
"What do you mean?" I asked him.
"You seemed sad after we left the studio. What happened?"
"Ah. My voice cracked in my audition while I was singing."
"So, what did you do?"
"Just kept singing."
"That's good. That's what Simba would do," he said, taking my hand. "He had to find his roar. His voice cracked at first, too."
"Yup."
"Well, I'm glad the movie made you feel better. Can I get some ice cream?"

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

A gay man turns me down after I turn him down

Yesterday a gay man asked me for my phone number while we both were in line to use the restroom at an event.
“Hey, can I have your number?” he asked me.
“I’m straight, but you can still have it if you want it,” I replied, being as nice as possible.
He looked at me and said, “Well then why else would I want it?”
“Because I’m a cool guy?”
“Don’t get a big-head. I should have known you were a breeder by your shoes.”

Sunday, November 13, 2011

Heather informs me that I am an asshole

Heather recently informed me that I am an asshole.
“You are an asshole!” Heather said. “And the worst part is, you don’t even know it!”
Which was quite implausible because prior to her calling me an asshole, she had also informed me that I was a racist, misogynistic, sexual deviant. And I figured by that point it all fell under one category: asshole.
But it still seemed like quite a lot to live up to.
It all started innocently enough. Within a group of peers I made up the joke, “Have you guys noticed that Hispanic Heritage Month is the only heritage month that takes place between two months? I guess its creators were sorta on the border about it.”
Everyone but Heather laughed.
 “You are a racist,” she said with all seriousness.
“I’m not a racist, Heather. I’ve dated women of every color,” I replied. “You know this.”
“That just makes you a misogynist, too,” she added.
I sighed. “I’m not a misogynist, Heather. In fact, most of my relationships end because I pick women who degrade me, not the other way around. It’s somewhat of a turn-on for me. You know this, too.”
Heather scoffed, “Well, it’s only because you’re a sexual deviant. Sick-o.”
“Heather, if you don’t stop treating me like shit, I might fall in love with you,” I winked.
“You are an asshole!” Heather said. “And the worst part is, you don’t even know it!”
I thanked her for informing me.
But it still made me wonder, at what point does a racist, misogynistic, sexual deviant, asshole go under one category: man?