Monday, March 9, 2015

The Blog About The Kind of Women I Won't Date in 2015

A selfie for you to make your iPhone wallpaper
In case you were wondering where I am in my life, I'm currently in my underwear drinking red wine with ice cubes out of a Magic Bullet cup. And if you weren't wondering where I am, I really don't care. And if you're going to give me a shit about drinking red wine with ice, I've heard it before. But I've included a photo of me doing so for your own enjoyment because if there's something the Internet needs more of besides blogs, it's shirtless selfies. And I've been working out.

It's my third night at home alone again this week in nothing but my chonies, despite having started dating again after accidentally dating three reality TV actresses in succession over the course of three years... and realizing that reality TV and the people involved in it were anything but real. You'd think I would've learned that from watching it, or even after the first girl, but I've always been slow on the uptake. Plus they all were super hot. And then I got burned. Three times. There's a third degree burn pun somewhere in there, but I'm lazy so I'll just say this: It left me needing a break after the last one, and not just from women or even vaginas in general but people. The problem with dating and friendship is that there's always someone else involved. So I spent about half of 2014 alone on both ends.

But 2015 came and I made amends with not only friends and past lovers but also my humanness. I had also made some new rules for my return to dating: no reality TV actresses, no actresses, no chorus girls, no strippers, no swimsuit models, no lingerie models, no NFL cheerleaders, no NBA dancers, no pole dancers, no "up-and-coming" pop stars, no girls who "can't even", no girls who don't read, no hipsters, no Brooklynites, no girls from the East Coast or New England, and no non-Americans. The only options I had left myself with were Midwestern nuns, and they were all taken by the vastness of the countryside and God... and I was in New York City taken by experience and my own recovering soul. 

So of course I fucked it up right away. That's what humans do. 

I met Anina on OkCupid and we decided to grab drinks that ended up being dinner. She was a swimsuit model who had been born in Pakistan but had grown up in New Jersey and had plans to move to Brooklyn. I broke four of my own rules right at my first return to dating. But the nice part about it was I realized it. Sitting across from Anina I realized that while she was beautiful, she was not for me. We had a nice chat and while I'm sure she looks amazing naked, I'm never going to find out how amazing—and I'm nearly 100% OK with that. I'll give myself a solid 85%. But if I decided to not lie, I'd say 65%. And I think that's definite progress from when once upon a time I would shut my eyes, my brain, and my heart and try to avoid sharp objects wielded by mean people that thrived on cutting others down.

There was also another strange occurrence on this date with Anina, and that was that I couldn't hear anything she said. It's not that the restaurant/bar was particularly loud or that her voice was particularly soft, it's just that I couldn't hear anything she said to me because I didn't care and somehow my body reacted by physicalizing some fake affliction of deafness. Our conversation ebbed and flowed like cracking salt in the surf tide but all I heard were the waves of goodbye go home, Sam.

“Wilhelmina wants me.”

“Hm?” I asked, somewhere between an appetizer bite and a gulp of beer.

“Wilhelmina wants me.”

“To do what?”

“To buy me out of my current modeling agency.”

“I hope Wilhelmina isn't some Slavic sex ring operator.”



It was just like wave after wave came crashing down on the same bullshit that I didn't care to hear about anymore. I was a modern Helen Keller unplugged.

“Wilhelmina—the modeling agency—wants to buy my contract out from my current modeling agency. They think I have a good look for commercial work.”

I looked at her. She really did. You could not guess what ethnicity she was. Ethnic ambiguity is so hot right now. I also know what Wilhelmina is. “That's neat.”

And it was neat to me. That's it. Maybe some Wall Street guy would shit himself, but I was from a different street that had survived six years in Manhattan as a working actor/writer and knew that a contract could disappear as quickly as it had been signed. It had happened to me. A lot. And the fact that someone wanted to legitimize her modeling career on a date with me didn’t really swing me in any particular direction of caring. Bad times would come, just like good times and we would forget both.

Really great book. Read it. Now.
It was like that John Steinbeck quote from East of Eden: “And it never failed that during the dry years the people forgot about the rich years, and during the wet years they lost all memory of the dry years. It was always that way.”

But unlike Steinbeck’s Salinas Valley, somehow my life seemed to reside in more of a marine coastal environment so I never really saw too much of either, and I don't know if that’s much of a win or a loss. But maybe it was the fact that I had a prescription for Xanax.

I took a drink of beer. It was a good thought to drink on.

“Do you want to be famous?” she asked me.

“Do you?”

“Who doesn’t?” she responded with a laugh. She drank her gin and tonic too slow. She was poised. Or a model counting her calories. It was hard to say in 2015 what was propriety and what was paranoia. I decided to throw an existential curveball.

“I’m not sure. I think fame used to be something earned by talent, but nowadays it can come as easily as a sex tape… and whether that’s on the capitalist or the consumer is beyond me. At best, we're all just a bunch of Kardashians without the cameras. And how many camera crews can there be until everyone has one? Eventually the special person would be the one without the camera."

"Is that your thing?"

"What do you mean?"

"To be the one without the camera?"

"Look, all I know is what I know." I shrugged. "I just realized something when I backpacked through Eastern Europe a few years ago by myself and stood on some beach in Croatia overlooking a thunderstorm on the Adriatic Sea: nobody really gives a damn except a very select amount of people so it’s best to work on yourself so you can at least make those select few happy. I’d rather have two friends I can call when I’m having a rough go then have 5-million Twitter followers I can tweet to. Besides, the earth will get swallowed by the sun someday. What matters? Everybody’s trying to build a fanbase and move up and I'm just trying not to hate what I see in the mirror at the end of the day. Speaking of, I should probably get home."

I got the check and paid and walked Anina home. We said our goodbyes and we made future plans that would never fruit about hanging out again soon. Except she did like a few of my Instagram pictures later that night so that’s slightly disconcerting. But I guess when I was 23 I couldn't really read between the lines, either. Plus my Instagram photos are pretty cool.

Anyway, there comes a point when you want to stop reading and start writing. And even if I had broken some of those rules I had set for 2015, I was happy that I had written them. Because they took meditation and brought reflection.

And when I got home and washed myself and looked in the mirror, I didn't hate what I saw. And yet everybody still gives me shit about putting ice cubes in red wine.


  1. SAM. God, just chill the wine ahead of time and then you will not need ice cubes.

    1. If only I had the the foresight for my alcoholic tendencies.

    2. Speaking of drunken stupor, I first read your comment as, "If only I had the foreskin for my alcoholic tendencies." My initial response was,"Go blame the mohel and your religion."

  2. I thought for sure that somewhere in that blog, Sam would finally come out. The thing about a break from women and vaginas was a perfect lead in. Then there was that passage where Sam listed all the women he wouldn't date. The list basically encompassed every genetic permutation of womanhood. So I thought for sure the punchline was coming: Sam swore off all women because he finally found himself. But noooooooo... Damn c*cktease,

    1. Sorry bud! But thanks for reading!

    2. I mean, c'mon, the guy sings showtunes! Now I know how Carson Kressley felt as Sam pranced around him in the locker room, clad only in tight revealing underwear. No Star of David pendant was needed to show that Sam was a Jew!