The Life and Death of An Internet Dater

[JamesKramer77]

Yeah, I'm looking for love. What's it to ya? I'm sorry, I get defensive about this because it seems so unnatural. It seemed so unnatural.

I hate blind dates. HATE them. I'm good at them, which is the weird part. I guess I can entertain strangers when neccessary, but at the end of the night, I feel drained because I had to focus on entertaining, and not on being myself. Consequently, I go on a lot of first dates, but not so many third dates. I'm too tired by then to keep up the act.

One of my friends came over the other night while I was making dinner. Just this year, two girls moved into his apartment, and he's since fallen in love with one of them. Consequently, he tries to spend as much time with them as possible, but lately, he's started to crave good 'ol male-drinking-buddy companionship. He asked me what I was doing, and I said my weekend was tied up with dates.

"Dates? With whom?"

I then explained that I had two different dates with two nice girls (this is last weekend, by the way).

"Where did you meet them?"

I hate this question. As a guy who's internet dated, there's only one way around this: lie (my choice of choice) or completely appear as though internet dating is the most natural thing in the world. I'm tired of lying (for now), so I went with the latter.

His reaction was what I expected, "WHAT? Are you serious."

I was, or course, all too serious, and his tune promptly changed. By conversation's end, I'd convinced him to give it a try.

The dates went well, by the way, despite the descriptions which would, to anyone who doesn't know me, sound like complete dissasters. The one I tried to establish an NYC tourist theme with, and consequently took her to Red Lobster in Times Square (only the best), then we saw Gothika, hoping it would be every bit as horrendous as it looked (it was). After that, we went to a magazine launch at some club, then some dancing, then we watched Kids in the Hall at three in the morning while talking to some stoned kids that her roommate brought home. This date is on my top ten of "Things I Would Want To Do On A Date" list.

The next night was much more low key. I was exhausted from the previous night, and ended up watching Annie Hall and The Secretary with Lucky Lady Number Two. I'd been out with her several times, but her policy has remained that she wants to start out a relationship with a strong friendship base ("you already have enough fucking friends"--Ed, my roommate).

I walked away from last weekend feeling strange. It's hard doing the multiple dating thing, for me at least. I can't remember what stories I've already told, or what stories of theirs I'm supposed to remember, let alone attribute them to the correct source. Luckily (read: crappily), my worries came to and end as, in the course of the last two days, I was dumped by both.

I should emphasize that I'm not upset by this. I do, afterall, hardly know these people. I think my ego is bruised over Red Lobster/Gothika girl, though. I don't think I can arrange a more charming date than that. We were supposed to get together this past Saturday night, but she called to cancel it and all future dates. It wasn't because of the restaurant choice from the week before, I can tell you that much. The cheese bread at Red Lobster is tremendous. The fact that I talked so much about the quality of the cheese bread might have played a role, however.

"Jim, you're a nice guy, but I'm seeing a lot of other people, and I can't date everyone ."

"So, you're going to give it a shot with one of the other guys?"

"Yeah, but I have a tremendous crush on you. I'll still e-mail you, we can hang out as friends."

Of course, roommate Ed's words of wisdom clanged through my ears at this point.

I told half of this story to my fellow 4Pers in Juicy Details rehearsal yesterday. I figured I'd might as well tell everyone else as well.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Reinvention

I recently scrapped my profile. I keep throwing out all sorts of random references like code in my profiles, thinking the right girl will read my messages like Russel Crowe in A Beautiful Mind.

For some reason, this code comes in the form of Bob Dylan lyrics, as if a fellow Bob Dylan fan will be the answer to my prayers. Still, it's fun to fish. For example, my most recent profile name was "Minus Zero". Girls would ask if that meant I was a math freak. I would then tell them that it was part of a Dylan song, "Love Minus Zero/No Limit".

"Oh, is he the guy who sang 'Running Down A Dream'?"

Check please.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Duelling Banjos

I went home for Christmas, and one of the highlights was a visit from my mom's cousin and her family.

Seeing this side of the family is always an odd mixture of weird and awkward. The “kids” in the family are now 33 and 30, the youger of which is my cousin Neil. My family went to his wedding two years ago, where I met and cavorted with certain members of his now-bride’s bridal party. I ended up drunkenly making a spectacle with a certain bridesmaid while secretly falling in love with one of the others.

As luck would have it, I ended up running into my secret love while visiting my brother in Florida a year later. Shockingly, she ended up giving me her number, as well as an invitation to get together with her if I was ever in the Boston area. I soon made it my mission to be in the Boston area.

I ended up meeting her at a bar, but she brought her very tall pilot boyfriend with her. Suffice to say, I got out of the Boston area as soon as possible (one drink later, if memory serves).

So, now sitting with cousin Neil, his wife, my family and theirs, it always feels a bit strange. Neil’s wife and I both know that I went after two of her bridesmaids, which, maybe through my own paranoia, makes me feel like a scumbag--even though I staggered my chances with them by at least a year. Neil's wife and I both try to play it off as though nothing happened, which can be pretty entertaining. She doesn’t let me get away with much, though.

My brother: “...yeah, so I’m still down in Orlando working in Missles and Fire Control.”

Neil’s wife: “I love Orlando. Jim, isn’t that where you ran into Aimee that time?”

Me {big gulp of Jack and Coke}: “Oh, yeah...I forgot about that.”

Neil’s wife: “Yeah, she mentioned that you tried to take her out when you were up in Boston.”

At this point my family stops eating the mini turkey and cheese rolls my mom prepared in order to listen to this showdown.

Me: “Well, I happened to be in town...”

Mom: “Oh, I didn’t know you went up to Boston! Aimee...is that the girl you had your eye on at the wedding?”

General hard look at Neil’s wife. She sweeps her hand in front of her, indicating that it’s my move in this little dance. Damn her.

Me: “Well, you know, I have some friends up there, and I had nothing to do over the weekend, so...”

Neil’s wife: “Well, I heard you got to meet Buck.”

My brother: “Who’s Buck?”

Me: “Her boyfriend.”

Neil’s Wife: “Fiancee.”

At this point, the room errupts into some sort of congratulatory titter for some girl that isn’t even present. I give Neil’s wife a respectful nod. She’s won this round.

After the excitement dies down, my cousins suddenly realize that this means that I must be single, and proceed to try to set me up with their cousin on their father’s side. Still too close for comfort for me, but a biologist friend insists that our kids would be perfectly clean. I’m still skeptical.

She’s immediately described as having a great personality, though “a bit of an interesting face.” My dad practically forbids me to see her while my mom and her cousin discuss wedding plans just one chair over.

When I got back home, I did a quick internet search for her, but only came up with a blurry group picture. She remains a mystery . . . though she is supposed to come to a show I'm doing tonight. I'll now be scanning the crowd through the lights in search of "an interesting face."

 

[JamesKramer77]

No Son of Mine

My fellow improvisers, as well as co-workers and people I meet out and about, all chastise me, whether lovingly or otherwise, for my choice of residence. I am proud to say that I live in Hoboken, New Jersey. My town is under- appreciated and over-exposed. True, we do see our fair share of the stereotypical Jersey types at the bars down by the PATH station...but that's just one small street. The rest of the town is gorgeous, has tons of great bars and restaurants, and huge apartments for much less than you'd pay in the city.

Unfortunately, Hoboken, like any other town in the US, also has its share of Assholes (contrary to popular opinion, this category exists separately from that of the aforementioned Jersey types). I encountered the species two days ago on my walk from the PATH to my apartment.

I'm a fast walker, maybe too fast. I've notice people watching me burn by on my way anywhere, but I don't care. Once they're in my dust, they don't exist to me. Because I walk so quickly, I sometimes encounter the occassional roadblock when multiple people block the sidewalk. An Asshole, his friend, and his son blocked me two days ago. I would have politely made my way through them, but their conversation caught my ear, and I hung back long enough to get the gist.

The little boy (maybe 6) was having a typical little kid fight with his father (maybe 28), who was carrying the boy's bookbag on his shoulder. The kid was being fussy, and obviously wasn't getting his way about whatever he wanted. So, after a little whining, he said to his father, "I hate you."

Now, I know that if I ever said that to my father, it would have been dealt with either not at all, or with a talk about hurting people's feelings, or however. No matter what, it would have been done with love.

The Asshole's tactic was a little more...modern.

"You hate me? You HATE me? Alright, fine. Then maybe you should be carrying your fucking little fag bag. Would you like that? I'll show you who fuckin' hates who...now move out the way, someone's trying to walk by."

And walk I did, but not without a certain amount of pity. Call me old fashioned, but I don't think the word "fuck" or the term "fag bag" should be used around or in referrence to children. It made me sick and sad.

I can't wait to have kids. I'll carry their fag bags all over town, even when they tell me they hate me, or to slow down because they can't keep up.

In other news, I didn't see any interesting faces in the crowd last night, but my group, The Society for the Preservation of Improvised One Act Plays, had its best performace to date. I love those guys.

Also, when I got home, spacedani had written me a very thorough breakdown of the internet dating schema: what to expect, what it all means, etc. She described every date I'd been on thus far, which shocked and saddened me yet again. I'm undaunted, however, in my quest for the ideal internet girl. I'm also a glutton for punishment. Plus, I need me some more Red Lobster, and my friends won't go with me.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Stony

I've been taking classes/performing at the teater for close to two years now. Most of my friends, however, remain outside the improv community. Consequently, it's usually much harder to get them excited about something improv-related, simply because they don't have the same frame of referrence.

Luckily, I have a handful of friends that are interested in checking out my "hobby" from time to time, one of them being my friend Stony.

I first met Stony when I was a freshman in college. Like myself, he was a rower at Rutgers, though a few years older than me. I knew him vaguely, and he left for Europe at the end of that year. Soon, he simply became the subject of myths told by the older rowers; stories too unbelievable to possibly be true.

Then, when I was a senior, he literally showed up on the doorstep of my house asking for a place to live. He'd just gotten back from London, and decided that that crew house was as good a place to live as any, even if he didn't know anyone who happened to live there.

At the time, we already had ten people living in the house, the absolute limit that our slumlord Antoinette would allow. After inspecting the house, however, Stony concluded that the basement would do nicely. A house meeting later, we agreed, under the condition that Stony hide any evidence of his living there, as Antoinette was known to inspect the house without warning. As a result, Stony slept on a door propped up by a saw horse and an old chest for a year.

This never stopped him from bringing girls down there, though. It was always hysterical watching Stony come up the stairs with some poor female the next morning, aching and cold from a night spent on the basement floor.

If he can help it, Stony only sleeps on hard surfaces. He explains that the door spoiled him for life, and actually gave him some of the best nights of sleep he's ever had.

Stony is one of those friends who will always tell you what's on his mind, even if the situation doesn't necessarily call for him explaining the consistancy of his last bowel movement. Still, he's a person whom I value very highly, if for nothing else than the fact that I always know that I'll get 100% pure Stony, and not some aspect of his personality masking how he really feels.

He's a person I'll go to for an outsider's perspective on shows I'm in (or "jimprov", as my friends refer to them). He always gives it to me straight, which is really refreshing, though sometimes damaging to my ego.

Look for Stony at the last performance of The Juicy Details. Ladies beware. He's a smooth talker, very intelligent, a self-decribed "European", and not afraid to lay you down on a plank of wood.

 

[JamesKramer77]

I'm An Adiot

I know, I know, I'm not supposed to bash Hoboken after coming to her defense so staunchly merely two posts ago. Truth be told, there's really nothing wrong with the town, it's just some of the people...they just get to me some times.

And, in all honesty, it's really not a "Hoboken personality" so much as it is a sample of a lot of people my age.

My town boasts more bars per square mile than any other town in the US. If I were more mathmatically-minded, I'm sure I could come up with some sort of formula demonstrating, out of all the bars visited by a certain quantity of girls, "x", my odds of meeting a nice, intelligent (stress on intelligent), attractive female. I would then be able to multiply that figure by a chaos variable, "y", which would then give me a figure representing the amount of actual crazy girls that I DO talk to. This figure is also represented by a sideways figure 8.

I think it's the search for wit and intelligence that really does me in.

I'm really not sure how, aside from the alcohol, bars became the center of social events for men and women aged 21-33. Stony, one of the most sexually-charged individuals I know, won't even come up to Hoboken anymore due to the excessive amounts of smoke and noise, despite a proven track record there. After a while, it gets hard to talk about reality TV while shouting over "Living On A Prayer."

This being the case, I was thrilled to come across the personal of a "Nabakovian literature hound seeking grammar geek with dorky tendencies."

[ahem] C'mon, is this a joke? Did one of my friends write this? I'M a literature hound! I'M a grammar geek! I have dorky tendencies!

I of course promptly responded.

"Wow, I found your profile very refreshing. A lot of times, my friends will call or write to me to check for errors and grammer mistakes. Please feel free to write back."

The next day, I got an e-mail back. Damn straight. This girl's no dummy, and I'm obviously a catch, right? Of COURSE she would write back. All I had to do was plan the rest of our life together.

Her response:

"Are you serious? You spelled grammar wrong."

I soon changed the answer in the "Most Humbling Moment" category of my personal.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Sunbelt

I love 4 o'clock.

One of the mental tricks I use to get myself through the day (one of many) is the four o'clock snack, usually consisting of a granola bar, Sunbelt Oatmeal Raisen being my favorite. I much perfer its sugary chewiness to the hard-ass Nature Valley ones.

I share my office with Dionne, a co-worker I've grown very close to, who also shares my sanity tactics. Luckily, our close proximity lead to friendship rather than war. Friday is her last day. An era at Tor Books is ending. I am sad.

One of our best sanity savers will be going with her when she departs, the renowned "Fridays at 5 With Tribe," a half-hour of Tribe Called Quest at the end of the week where I pump up my computer speakers and blast our favorite Tribe tunes.

Alas, no more rapping, no more dancing to Michael Jackson on the radio. She is leaving for greener pastures.

I'm actually very happy for her. She's been kicking my butt to get me out of here forever, and I'm doing my damndest. Who knows who will share my office with me next? Where will I get my hip-hop gossip? Who will provide me with insight into the minds of women?

In other sad news, last night was the final performance of The Juicy Details, the second 4P class I've performed with. I wasn't very impressed with myself after our stint. Since I've been practicing/performing with my One Act group (nearly a year now), I feel like I've gotten away from short scene work and can't think about improv relationships unless they're on a much larger dramatic scale. I need to work on melding the two.

* * *

Dionne is now playing the Milkshake song to annoy me. Some things won't be missed.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Gym Jam

My friend Jann is currently working as some sort of promotional liason for the NBA, and is setting up some kind of dance contest for the All-Star Game half-time show. He sent out an e-mail asking for title suggestions. Mine were "The Hoop-Shaker" and my crowning glory "Gym Jam." Both got shot down in favor of "All-Star Dance Fever." What the funk? That name is TERRIBLE.

So, to show love for my obviously superior suggestion, I've decided to devote today's entry to my own personal Gym Jam...hmm, JIM Jam...no, I was right the first time, GYM Jam.

I go to the gym most mornings before work. I used to go at night, but improv rehearsals and late night drinking sessions soon changed that schedule. Now, I crawl out of bed at 6:35 or so, and am getting huge by 7:00.

I go to the Hoboken YMCA. My town has something along the lines of 7 gyms, all of them packed to the gills except for the Y, thus it is my gym of choice. There are only a handful of people on the cardio machines, and a smattering of people near the weights, most of them older men and women (45 +).

Usually, the guys that work there have Hot 97 or WBLS on in the mornings, which I generally don't mind. But, every now and then, they'll dig up some techno dance compilations that make me want to dig out my eardrums with a weight pin. Most are just mindless bass and weird squeals, but every now and then, a real gem comes on. I call these treasures "narratives."

The Narratives are pretty self-explanatory. Instead of having someone sing to the techno, they have someone talking, telling some sort of story. In 99% of the cases, the narrator is obviously from another country with no concept of what really goes on in an American club (actually, I don't have much idea either, but I hope it's different from what they describe.

The following are my Top Three Favorite Techno Narratives Of All Time:

East European Nightmare

This one begins with a distant drum beat. A young woman with a slight Eastern European accent soon begins talking.

"I can't remember what happened last night, but I do remember the song."

diggadiggaBOOM diggadiggaBOOM

"And the bass went ...like THIS"

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

"And millions of people waved their arms in the air. And the bass went...like THIS"

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM WHEEEEEEEEEE

She obviously remembers EVERYTHING that happened last night. I hate you, East Eurpean Girl.

Long Island Phone Call

In this masterpiece, the song begins with someone dialing a phone. A recorded operator answers, saying the number was disconnected. The caller dials again, then begins talking.

"You'll never believe what happened last night at the club. We went in and worked the crowd, house music everywhere. Then...I see his psycho ex-girlfriend in the DJ booth...that girl needs help!"

BUUHHHNA-BU-BUH BUNNA-BU-BUH BUNNA-BU-BAAA BOOM BOOM BOOM

"I know, right? She's whispering in his ear and giving ME dirty looks. I don't know what he ever saw in her. I wanted to get out of there, but the music was too good. That girl needs help!"

BUUHHHNA-BU-BUH BUNNA-BU-BUH BUNNA-BU-BAAA BOOM BOOM BOOM

Yeah, I have no real comments on this one. I take back my former comment about the creators' not having any American youth knowledge. This sounds pretty regionally correct.

Then there's my all-time favorite:

Uncomfortably Sexy Dream

[Low bass throughout. This is really less of dance song than it is a think-piece]

"In my dream, I felt the heat. I dreamed of you, it was so sweet. You kissed my neck, caressed my thighs. I traced my hands down to that prize.

"Ohhhh---my ecstasy! My dreams to be. The dreams that have come, the dreams that I seek. You are my ecstasy.

"I could not wait to begin. You laid me down, and wanted in. Shower me with your sweet cream..."

At this point, I'm sweating, aroused, and ashamed. I look around the room at the disgusted faces of the older men and women, trying to avoid eye contact. It's as if my grandparents came down to my basement while I was working out to some TyBo video, which promptly changed to porn. A lot of times, I have to put the weights down and just laugh to shake off the embarrassment. This episode happens SEVERAL TIMES A MONTH.

Get a new cd, Hoboken YMCA . . . but burn me a copy of that last track.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Sharp-Dressed Man

I took my level 3 with Delaney more than a year ago. The class was on Sundays from 12-3, a tough class to bring your A-game to, especially after Saturday night debauchery.

Delaney of course knew this, and gave our class advise that I'll always remember. He told us that, the worse we actually feel (from drinking, sickness, whatever), the more effort we should make to come in looking as refreshed as possible. For some reason, this just made a lot of sense to me.

Last night was my co-worker's farewell party, and I got wrecked. No two ways about it. I barely made it in to work today. I'm hungover, tired, and sick to my stomach. . .but I look like a million bucks. Thanks, Delaney!

The night started out at a place called Lemon, over on 18th and Park. It's pretty fru-fru by my standards, but Dionne likes her some apple martinis. Dionne also likes to set Jim up with her friend Maria, every time we're in the same room. It's pretty much acknowledged that we're not going to get together, but it always makes for some slightly uncomfortable situations. Evidentally, I'm a blusher, and do it often. I also do the lowered-head, mumbling idiot thing like the vulture in the Warner Brothers cartoons whenever I feel embarassed or awkward. I'm generally a mess when drunk.

Anyway, after the blood returned from my face to the rest of my body, we took off from there and went to Revival, one of my favorite bars in the city (16th between Irving and 3rd), where more drinking went on, and general good times. [Evidentally, one of my co-workers chipped in an extra $100 to cover the bill, and I've been trying to round up the cash all morning. The people hate a bill collector, just like in Biblical days.]

After a few more beers, I thought it would be a good idea to head to McManus to see if anyone was hanging out after Cagematch. I was also STARVING, and wanted food in the worst way.

I got there at around quarter to 1ish, but didn't see anyone there. The back was virtually empty. I thought it might be a good idea to just take a seat at one of the empty tables and order food anyway. I looked over into the kitchen, where the cook was staring at me with obvious malice. I cocked my head to the side slightly, and he began to shake his, very slowly, back and forth. I bowed (what an ass), then departed.

I settled on Bufallo Chicken Pizza upon returning to the Boken. Good stuff.

Head...hurting. Must get water from cooler.

 

[JamesKramer77]

I just got off the phone with my father. Either he or my mother will give me a call once a day to see how things are in my little world.

We spent a good three minutes discussing the half time show without mentioning the exposed breast at all. I'm not sure if we danced around the topic or just never got to it.

My Dad: "I think I'm getting old. Everything during the half time show was trash. I actually walked away. That Jackson girl can't even project her voice, not like that Josh Grabin. Such a nice voice. The girl did a good job...what's her name."

"Beyonce."

"Be-what?"

"Beyonce."

"Well, she did a good job, too. Not that Janet, though."

My parents are very old fashioned in most respects. My father moved to America from Germany when he was 16, and my mom is a former nun. 'Nuff said.

I'm going down to visit them this weekend in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. I feel like I should visit them more often, but things are always coming up. They're especially psyched for my visit since I'm bringing with me a tape of The Society's last performance. They've never seen me perform, though they've threatened to sneak a visit many times. I'm afraid the language and frank sexuality that I all but ooze on the stage will cause fits of vapors in my mother, and rage in my father.

Thankfully, this last performance was very tame by our standards. I think the worst is gets is our blackout line (Mark Sam Rosenthall and Sheffield Chastain: "Well, shit on a cracker."), which isn't bad at all.

I guess I'm most afraid that the tape will inspire them to see more shows. I realize that most people would be thrilled to have their parents want to see them on stage whenever possible, but it just weirds me out.

I can see the tape being bronzed. When I was 13, my brother, Ed Beck, and Tom Voltaggio made a movie about a soldier's journey into a magical world where he was tormented by a mischievous imp. The soldier was eventually forced to lay a trap whereby the imp mistakenly hanged himself. My brother taped over it with an episode of I Claudius. My parents still won't let him forget his mistake.

Also on the agenda this weekend, many huge meals "to fatten [me] up," cop dramas on TNT, and lectures on getting on with my life. I've been at my job for nearly five years now (though I've technically moved within my job, making my current position the second I've had since college). The inevitable "girlfriend" discussion will also occur.

My parents play good cop bad cop, but switch roles constantly. My brother is one of those guys who always has a girlfriend, and my parents are those folks that are always afraid that he'll come home one holiday with a wife. I, on the other hand, have always been encouraged to not get involved with anyone for years and years.

"There's plenty of time for that later. Settle down when you're thirty-five with a nice twenty-five year old. She'll hold up better that way. The women you date are much too old."

[The women I date are all either my age or a year younger, by the way]

What's funny is, now that I haven't been seeing anyone steadily for a while, their tune has started to change.

Dad: "No girlfriend, huh? I'm starting to wonder about you."

Mom: "Arnold, that's a terrible thing to say! He's still young, he has plenty of time--no need to start something serious!"

Me: "Well, I've been really busy, and it's harder to meet people in the city than you'd think."

Dad: "Any one on the horizon?"

Me: "Well, I've had my eye on this one girl, but I haven't asked her out yet."

Dad: "Well, wait a while. No need to get into something serious now while you're young."

Me: "But..."

Mom: "Well, maybe you should give her a shot. You wounldn't want the theater types to think you're...you know."

By the time I get back to Hoboken, my head is spinning, but I'm extremely well fed.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Family Loyalty

I am writing this from my brand new OS X Mac at work. The guys from IT exchanged my old one for this one yesterday. It has a lot of flashy bells and whistles, but the internet runs about 10 times slower. Over all, I'm not impressed. I fear change.

Today is my brother's 25th birthday; a big one. He's celebrating by flying off to Colorado with his girlfriend to go skiing. He also has to conduct some sort of seminar for work while he's there, but, overall, it sounds like he's in for a good time.

My parents always get flustered when they hear that Mark is going on trips with his girlfriend, mainly over the fact that they'll be sharing a room, and, consequently, a bed.

My brother has learned [as I have not] to limit the amount of info he tells them, but still confides in me. This puts me in a very interesting, and almost always, tragically unfortunate position. My mother thinks she's very slick, and will try to get info out of me on my brother all the time in the most un-slick ways imaginable.

"So, your brother must be having a good time in Colorado."

"Yeah, he was really looking forward to it."

"Do you think Erin went, as well?"

"If it's a work trip, then probably, yeah."

"Knowing your brother, they're probably sharing a room to save on company costs, right?"

"I don't know Mom, I just don't know."

I've only been caught in one of her "traps" once, but only because I hadn't been briefed by my brother beforehand on what I could and could not tell my parents. Mark is extremely loyal, and prides himself on never giving in to my parents in regard to info about me.

When we were kids, and my dad thought he was catching my brother or I in a lie, he'd sit us down beneath one of the living room lamps, and interrogate us KGB stlye. My dad used to get a real kick out of this. My brother would break down like a '75 Pinto. He couldn't take the pressure.

Loyalty and trust are huge issues in my family. My brother will often throw back at me the fact that he's never raised a hand to me ever in his life, which is true. I, on the other hand, have. I think we were something like 12 and 10 when were playing some neighborhood football at the field across from David Foell's house when a black labrador scampered onto the field. My brother, who is terrified of dogs, ran behind me to use me as a shield. All the guys there were essentially my friends, so I felt the pressure to look tough. I remember grabbing my brother and slapping him across the face, telling him to "snap out it." He was shocked and hurt. He STILL brings this up to this very day, and, it still breaks my heart.

There, I've gone all misty.

Happy birthday, Mark. I promise not to ever hit you or belittle your phobias again. Also, I won't tell Mom and Dad what you're doing with Erin in Colorado, unless Dad breaks out the interrogation lamp.

 

[JamesKramer77]

The Portrait of the Artist As A Captured Video Representation

I woke up this morning after a blisful 10 hour sleep, which is way too much for me. My old room at my parents' house is like a cave, and, in the absence of any and all light, my body hibernates until a stimulus rouses it. In this morning's case, that stimuilus was stimuli: the smell of cooking bacon from downstairs, a sharp pain in my lower back from sleeping too long, and the memories of the night before.

I brought the only video tape of my improv experience home this weekend. Until now, I was a mythical creature of the night, out and about in the "big city", performing and studying a very mysterious art. Finally, I had proof. Reactions were mixed.

How well does improv translate into video form? How much of the experience is in the there-and-then? Can things that were funny in the moment translate well on the big small screen?

My mom laughed at a few points of the performance, but was quick to criticize certain choices we made. My aunt laughed heartily throughout. My grandmother gave me homemade Italian coookies. My father...well, tough to say. Maybe improv isn't his cup of tea.

I go through weird phases when I promote shows. Many times, I'll send out invitations to everyone I know. Then, sometimes, I feel as though I shouldn't invite ANYone I know, and let those who really enjoy the shows find them, and not have to go purely out of guilt or because they feel they should because they know me. I then feel guilty and invite everyone anyway.

* * *

I was riding to a Sam's Club yesterday with my cousin and her daughter. On the way, we passed a Red Lobster. I laughed.

I watched Bush on Meet The Press this morning. I nodded.

...but then I felt GUILTY.

The two events formed a strange unconscious and unsavory bolus in my mind's mouth. Alright, alright, I was a little unfair in my judging of Red Lobster girl as "crazy". We actually did have one mini-date between Red Lobster-Super-Mega-Happy-Date and the cancellation of all dates from point of communication forward. She met me for a drink in between work and a Society rehearsal. We made the important conversational shift from trite comfortable discussion to serious business. We talked politics.

Now, despite the fact that she admitted to not following politics, and did in fact even state that her New Year's resolution (at this point a failed resolution) was to follow politics more closely, she still, STILL, took offense at my well-informed, open-minded opinions. I walked her to the subway afterward, and received the most passionless, obligatory cheek-kissed ever puckered. It was then that I knew that I'd lost her forever.

It was raining and Phil Collin's "Against The Odds" played in my mind. She was ...so...hot. But politically uninformed. Alas.

* * *

We drove by Red Lobster and I laughed. My cousin's daughter giggled and called me "Mr. Dirty Fancy Pants." Indeed.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Who Loves The Sun?

Good day, as days go.

I actually over-dressed for once for my ride to the gym. The unseasonal heat allowed me to scrap my winter hat (which also allowed me to show off my spiffy new hair cut, which, now that it's trim, means I can just roll out of bed and ride to the gym].

[Actually, I tend to do that anyway. I'm always amazed by the pretty boys and girls who actually get done-up at 6 in the morning to work out. I love people].

Speaking of people, they flood my barbershop, even if I do go at 8 in the morning on a Monday so as not to have to suffer through another business day with my fro hungry and ever-expanding.

For a short while, I experimented by going to the Supercuts and other crappy McDonald-ized barberies that exist in town. My establishment of choice for a while was a place called BangZ (it was always fun hearing people pronounce it as "Bang-zee". Harrumph. People.). Every single time, I left with elevated blood pressure from receiving the exact opposite of what I asked for. Always, ALWAYS, I got the near skin fade on the sides, and next to nothing on top. The sign in the window DOES say "we specialize in skin fades", which should have clued me in, but I'm a dope. Also, I bellieve that a colloquial definition of insanity is any repeated behavior where the person repeating expects a different outcome each time. I was clearly going crazy.

I left my developing insanity at BangZ and proceded to one of the local Italian barbershops. They close at 6 during the week, too early for me to get there. Thus, my early morning visit.

The shop was being shared when I was seated at the chair. I could tell right away that something was up. Pasqual, who is normally very loquacious, was practically ignoring the guy in the other chair, even though it was quite obvious that he not only knew the two barbers, but had in fact been coming to Hair I Am for twenty years, by his own count.

Finally, Pasqual put down his copy of the Post and proceeded to cut the guy's hair, making only the very minimum of conversation. It soon became apparent why.

Customer: "Pasqual, I've been coming here for what, fuck, twenty years now...you know what I like. Shorten up the sides, shorter in back, but leave something on top, for the luvagod."

P: "Sure, sure."

Customer: "Did you hear about [some woman]? She died. Forty years old, and dead."

P: "I heard, I heard."

Customer: "Shit, I'm only forty. Seventy percent of my friends are either dead or in jail."

P: "Natural causes?"

Customer: "Yeah right. A shiv here, some other shit there. It happens. The joint'll do that. I'm never going back, I tell you that much."

I share quick look with Pasqual. My barber wipes sweat from my brow, gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Customer: "Ever since my liver thing, I can't do no lifting, so I'm limited to odds and ends, whatever I can get to bring in some money, plus the other thing."

Bushy fro, skin fade, I didn't care, I just wanted to get the hell out of there.

The good news is, I survived my classic Italian barbershop experience, and I got to enjoy this beautiful day, during which I wandered to Virgin Megastore in Union Square during lunch and bought the new Walkmen cd, as well as one of the older White Stripes cds.

Also, The Society has begun its campaign to get a run at a theater, ANY theater. I've been pushing for the UCB, but I've been warned that the schedule is way too crowded as it is. No matter, the push continues. Check out my signature, the march is on!

* * *

I'm flying through American Psycho right now, having just finished The Rules of Attraction. I can't read works like this without hearing my mentor, Professor Dowling, speaking in my head, drawing on the connections that the characters are presenting, picking up on all the cool clues Elllis is laying down. Every once and a while, I feel the need to unleash my inner literature lion and let him graze. I think I want to be a professor.

What I DON'T want to be is dead, which has me hoping that aforementioned barbershop customer doesn't see me on the street [being that I live one block away from the barbershop...in a renovated Italian social club]. I'm too innocent to be shived. Plus, I was honestly concerned at the mention of his liver problem. That and the fact that all of his friends are in jail. Or dead. Of unnatural causes.

Shit, I'm going back to Bang-zee. Sorry Pasqual.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Virgin Memories

Another hour lunch break, another walk down to Virgin Megastore.

Every time I'm in a cd store, I check to see if:
a) I over-paid for whatever my last music purchase was
b) the new posthumous Elliott Smith album has come out yet

Today's visit proved a negative in both categories.

I'd never been in the downstairs section of the Union Square Virgin before. I had plenty of time, so I decided to have myself a little exploratory adventure. I was immediately overwhelmed by how cavernous the downstairs seemed, and my first thought upon descending down the escalator was a very ominious "I think I may die down here." For some reason, I next considered that, in the event of a nuclear war, the fact that I was so far below the earth's surface meant that I might actually survive down here, which cheered me up a little.

I made my way to the "Under $15" bargain bin to see what was what, and came across a copy of Say Anything, the classic Cameron Crowe film that made dorkiness cool again. This is also, incidentally, the movie to which a young Jimmy Kramer had his first ever kiss with a girl, Tracy Campbell.

In the course of my developing memory montage, just before my eyes glazed over in the bliss of thoughts of innocence lost, they wandered down to the copyright date: 1989!

Could this be true? I've been kissing girls for 14 years! This means that next year, I'm going to have to kiss someone special, or blow the entire event out by somehow finding Tracy Campbell, renting Say Anything, and reliving the moment...only better this time...and without any of my mother's spies.

Allow me to explain.

Some girl from a neighboring town frenched my friend Sammy Suckoneck when we were at a Phillies baseball game in the fifth grade. My friend Scott Goldman then got that girl's number and asked her out. I was dragged along for protection.

We went to the Marlton 8 in Cherry Hill, where we sneaked in to see the PG-13 Say Anything. I first met Tracy in the darkness of the theater. We did not speak during the film.

Let's back up a bit.

Picture my fifth grade classroom on a rainy day recess. It's the day after the baseball game debacle, and a few of my friends and I are peering into Sammy Suckoneck's mouth, inspecting for tell-tale tongue bumps, which, as every fifth grade boy knows, only emerge after whatever chemical miracle occurs when a boy's tongue touches a girl's tongue. It was, and is, as far as I can tell, common knowledge that only people who have french kissed have these "tongue bumps." Upon close inspection, Sammy had them, right where they always appear: on the back of the tongue near the uvula. Check your mirrors after reading this; sience doesn't lie.

Despite the teasing that inevitably went on, I didn't dare show my tongue for fear that there were no bumps. My secret shame: I'd never kissed a girl, and it seemed that I was a quickly dying breed at Brett Harte Elementary School. It should also be noted that I wore a condom in my shoe, "just in case." My ideas of what happens in the normal course of a date, or a day at elementary school, were muddled to say the least.

So, back to the night of nights.

The four of us watched the movie in complete silence. I would occassionally look over at Goldman to see if he was "doing it," which he never was.

We filed out, and realized that we had about fifteen minutes before our parents were scheduled to pick us up. We decided to hang out in back of the movie theater, by the dumpsters. It started to rain.

We made for the shelter of a nearby fire-escape, where the girls stood, their backs to the brick wall, and we, facing our dates. I tried to make some pathetic small talk, but cut myself short when I looked over and saw Goldman forcibly attacked by his date, his face all but swallowed by what looked like to me a very experienced kisser. I hardly had time to react before I felt two hands on my face pulling me, YANKING me, forward, where I too was swallowed in love's embrace. Something was alive in my mouth, and it wasn't anything that belonged to me.

It was slippery. It was disgusting. It was awesome.

Once the deed was done, I got Tracy's number, and Goldman and I sprinted to the front of the theater where his mom was waiting to pick us up. On the way home, Sam Cooke's "What A Wonderful World" was on the radio. I remember the line: "Don't know much about the French I took" coming on, and Scott and I losing it. Dopes.

A week passed. Tracy called once, we talked, but over all, I was too terrified to ever see her again. I was going out to play a Saturday afternoon's worth of war games over at David Foell's house when my mom snagged me while I was going to the garage to get on my bike.

"Jimmy, I never heard how that movie was last week."

"It was good Mom. I gotta ru..."

"Did you watch it with a girl?"

Pause. Oh shit. I didn't tell ANYone about that, not even my little brother. Damn my mother's ex-nun powers! She could pick out the shame in my soul like diners viewing a salad bar through the sneeze guard.

"I...uh..."

"I heard you were kissing some girl after the movie. A friend of mine saw you and told me about it in the supermarket."

This was possibly the worst moment I'd experienced up until that point. The only thing that could have made it worse would have been if she'd pulled the condom out of my shoe, which, thankfully, she did not.

We had a short conversation about my thoughts on the kiss, which was every bit as awkward as it sounds, at which point I was allowed to go, drenched in guilty sweat, to play. I didn't kiss another girl again until high school.

Ahh. Sweet memories. I might have recalled more, but my gaze landed on American Psycho 2. My disposition soon turned from nastolgic to nauseous.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Crossroads, bar brawl

I was just flipping through Live From New York at Barnes and Noble, then walked around to burn off the hoagie I ate for lunch. It's cloudy. I'm somber.

I'm at a point in my life as an improviser where it's getting tougher and tougher to justify what I'm doing practicing/performing several nights a week. I feel as though I'm dealing with my girlfriend in senior year of highschool; so good in the moment, but destined to end once Fall rolls around. I am constantly searching for the finishing line.

Problem is, I don't want it to end, but I feel as though it's time to, as the saying goes, shit or get off the pot. I'm awed and inspired by my friends and other performers who have so dedicated themselves, knowing exactly what they want to make happen. I want to be that person so badly, but am constantly thrown backwards by waves of dissatisfaction and some sort of fear of disrupting what has become the "norm" in my life.

It's not as though I've turned down any opportunities per se, just that I haven't created any for myself. As in anything in life, just skating safely on the outskirts isn't going to get you anywhere. Must dive in. Must stop creating weird analogies.

Blech, too bitter. Enough of this.

I watched a ton of movies this weekend and almost got into a bar brawl.

Lost in Translation--Good, not great.
Annie Hall--Always enjoyable.
Phone Booth--I want my hour and twenty minutes back, you hacks. Sutherland, did I somehow anger you? Never act that way again.
Mystic River--95% great. Sean Penn was exceptional.

I went to a bar on Friday night with my roommates and a friend visiting from DC. Evidently, it was some girl's birthday party, and there were pictures of her all over the place. My friend decided to take one with him, and was severely reprimanded by some drunk guy for doing so. Somehow, I got involved as an intermediary, and all drunk rage zeroed in on me. The drunk guy knocked the beer out of my hand, but not much else happened, besides my making some peace. I was disappointed that no one from The Sharks bought me another beer as a sign of good continued relations. Obviously, they'd never heard stories of my lightning fists, or Spider-Man-like ability to use wit to subdue my opponents as I dodge and leap from their every attack. Actually, it's this "wit", or lackthereof, that usually gets me in trouble.

Case in point, junior year of college. My team had just had a toga party, the first and last I'd ever been to. After a few hours of drunkenness, I thought it would be funny to visit other non-toga parties dressed in a toga. It didn't go over as I expected.

I made it to a party at the house of some friends, and didn't make it five feet up the driveway before capturing the attention of some local roustabout who made fun of me, took drags off his cigarette, then blew them in my face. I made some stupid comment that didn't even make sense as a comeback (I think it was, "smoke your cigarette", said with as much sinister flair as I could muster--think a skinny Clint Eastwood in glasses), and the next thing I knew, I was hit in the face, thrown back against some trashcans, then doing my best to regain my manhood wearing only some gymshorts and a now ripped white sheet. I tripped over one dangling end and fell on my back, where three or four guys took advantage of the situation by kicking me in the ribs and stomach. Special shout out to my friends who watched on the sidelines. You'll always hold a special place in my heart, guys.

I learned that day to increase the peace, not inflate the hate. Thus, this Friday night ended without any bruises, scratches, or ruined sleep accessories.

We left the bar unscathed. A picture of a drunk girl with the quote "I want to party" now hangs on my fridge. Trophy? Nay, Peace Prize.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Ack, my job.

Actually, I don't have a lot to complain about. I work in a very creative environment that some hundreds of thousands of avid readers would love to be a part of--science fiction and fantasy publishing.

I have exactly three pieces of art in my office: a Spider-Man poster, a promotional poster for a Stephen King book, and a Get Caught Reading poster of Billy Dee Williams, doctored to look like he's reading a biography on Bill Cosby.

The work is...meh. I write advertisments for our various books, a lot of which appear in national newspapers (if you see something particularly witty or eye-catching in the Times Book Review or USA Today, odds are I will claim that I wrote it). The work is nothing, however, without my co-workers.

To call them an eccentric bunch doesn't even begin to describe this crew. In many ways, I wish that this had been the job I'd one day aspired to, because it's ruined any and all future jobs I'll ever have.

Things are laid back to a ridiculous degree, even for book publishing. Cursing in the hallways? The louder the better. Sexual harassment? Pass the Playboy. Drinking on the job? Pass the bottle.

No matter how bad (or good) it usually gets, I have one little room where I am a rock, the private sector out in the hallway--the men's room. This USED to be a safe ground, but no more. Just yesterday, minding my own business, someone came in, washed his hands, dried them on a paper towel, and threw the wadded up towel into my occupied stall. I only saw his shoes, but the hunt is on.



The Society had two shows last week, both of which were good, but not great. I think one of our problems is limiting ourselves to perfoming at the same two venues monthly. I'm aching for us to spread our wings a bit, but conflicting schedules seem to be holding us back a bit. I plan to bring this up during practice tomorrow.

Also, had another i-date on Sunday afternoon, my first in a while. It started out in typical fashion, with something completely out of the ordinary. Upon meeting the girl, she immediately sat down and took out a sewing kit. I watched her sew her jacket for a while, then decided to break the silence with some of the 'ol get-ta-know-ya. I was actually surprised at how the date recovered from there. It seemed like it was heading for disaster from moment one.

It turns out that I can chalk this up to simply not being an asshole. Evidently, she's met a bunch of weirdos on her dates. Her last date grabbed her boob in a game of introductory grab-chest, then begged her to come back to his place "just to spoon...it would be so nice." Another recent date assumed they were going steady (do people still use this term?) after the first date. All throughout, her co-worker, who is in love with her, INSISTS on approving all of her men, all the while insisting that he should be the one with her. He actually called a few times during my date. I'm interested in hearing his take on the date. I could use another opinion.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Neat and tidy

I'm writing this from warm Florida. I'm staying at my brother's place, and really can't go anywhere until he gets home from work.

So far, we've done a lot of relaxing, went to Universal, did a 20 mile cycling tour, and hit the hot tub several times.

My brother lives in one of those gated communities. Actually, that's really all you see around here. He's trying to hook me up with a writing job at Disney, but I don't know if I can see myself down here.

First off, the stereotype is completely true: there are no young people down here, and by young, I mean under 45. My brother and his girlfriend are a startling exception.

Second, I'd love to be closer to my brother, but he's already informed me that he wouldn't want to live with me. He says it's because he wouldn't want a woman (his girlfriend? the seniors that sit by the pool?) to come between the two of us, but I know that it's for a different reason all together.

My brother is impossibly, painfully neat. Neat to the point that I'd bet a good sum that it's making him uncomfortable knowing that I haven't done my dishes from breakfast yet. I called and told him this not more than a half hour ago.

I'm a very neat guy, so I feel Mark's pain a little bit. I hate it when my roommates mess up the place, or leave crap around. Can't help it. It's the German in me. My brother, on the other hand, takes cleanliness to a whole new level. I've only been down here four days, and he's accused me of "stinking up his life." I know he doesn't mean it in a BAD way (I have been doing things to get on his nerves; it's fun), but I still pitty anyone who will ever have to live with him.

Still, it's nice to come back to a place where no dust exists, and where bugs die within a fifteen foot radius.

My brother will ask me from time to time if I'm dating anyone, and I'll describe my flavor of the week in turn, and show him pictures if I've got them. I'd never told him about the whole Internet thing, simply because I knew how he'd react. Not knowing this, he'd think it was more and more strange that I had jpegs of every girl I've gone out with in the last few months. He keeps warning me not to ask girls for their pictures like that, that they'll think I'm a weirdo. I finally told him about i-dating, and his reaction, though what I expected at first, soon turned warmer.

"THAT'S why you have all those damn pictures. What a relief!"

Next admission: my parents, though I don't need to do this until one of the dates turns into something more...consistent. In short: never.

Ok, off to hit the pool.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Last night, my brother and I went to see Gibson's The Passion of the Christ . It was an unusual movie-going experience. I'm not using "unusual" in a bad way; I simply mean that this particular experience was far from the norm.

When I was a sophmore in high school, I read Jurassic Park in preparation for the major blockbuster event coming that summer. Waiting to enter the theater, I remember all the tension that came with reading the book (active imagination), and thought to myself, "do I REALLY want to put myself through all this again?" Of course, the movie was unlike anything I'd ever seen, and I enjoyed it.

Last night was very similar. I grew up in a very spiritual household. I went to CCD for years, received some sacrements, and generally feel that I have a well above average understanding of scripture. That, along with all the media hype of how brutal the violence in the film was supposed to be didn't give me an "oh boy, I'm going to the movies" type of glee. Instead, the theater had the same feel as going to a loved-one's wake. Very solemn with a group understanding that what we were all about to see was in no way a fun time.

The film was indeed emotional. I actually didn't think my reaction would be as strong as it was, but I have to say that I walked out moved.

I tended not to get involved in the many discussion that took place, especially at work, in the build up to the release, simply because this type of subject, much like politics, tends to get heated very quickly. Strong opinions and beliefs can often lead to strong words. Not good work etiquette, though pretty typical by IRC standards. All the same, having seen it, I'm interested in hearing other's feelings.

In other news, Florida is over-run by chameleon-like lizards called anolls. They're everywhere. Orlando is over-run by country music stations, which, surprisingly, isn't so bad. I always found it interesting when people would mention that they listen to everything but country. I'm not a big fan, but I can see the appeal. Also, to paraphrase Chuck Klosterman, it would seem that people who claim to like "everything but country" really have no strong musical likings at all; they just don't want to be labled. I don't know where that little rant came from.

"She's got her daddy's money, her momma's good looks, and look who's lookin' at me." Rock on.

 

[JamesKramer77]

Back in Boken

...and it feels good to be home.

My brother woke me up at four thirty (a half hour after he usually gets up for work (!)), and we were out the door by five in order to get me to my six thirty flight. The flight was easy-breezy. I was in and out of sleep long enough to get my complimentary apple juice and animal crackers, then touched down at JFK. A few hours later, I was in Hoboken. Despite the fact that Hoboken is about five miles from JFK, and Orlando is...well, a lot more, it took equal time to get back to Hoboken as it did to get to JFK from Orlando.

Once home, I promptly found my apartment in complete disarray. Dishes piled like the Tower of Babel, a trail of spilled sauce, four lights burned out in the kitchen, and my computer mysteriously disconnected from the internet. One long nap and a roll of papertowel later, the apartment is back in shape, and I figured out the glitch in my computer.

The weather here is almost as nice as it was in Florida. I felt the need to walk about. Hoboken during the day is an awesome experience. You'd think the place would be dead, but quite the contrary. Tons of people are out and about. I rode my bike through a park on the way to the gym, and I'm pretty sure that every single kid from Hoboken High was just hanging out. Nice.

I went to the gym, then to the brand new Shop Rite that opened up a few blocks away. This place is my mecca. No more will I have to bend over and take it from the crap-ass A&P with their horrible selection and surly cashiers. Now, I have tons of selection, a fresh vegetable section that would make Mr. A&P weep, and a degree of surliness that is nearly undectable. Nearly.

The one criticism I have of the Shop Rite is its completely unorganized deli department. These guys could learn a thing or two from, I hate to say it, the meat ladies at A&P. I used to be able to zoom in and out of the deli section with ease. My happiness in a supermarket is directly equal to the amount of time I spend there. I consider myself a well-oiled shopping machine. I don't want to be there, the employees don't want to be there. I like to think that the longer I'm outside, the more time they have to live vicariously through me.

The Shop Rite deli folk like their jobs too much. They take time and care to make sure that the old Italian guy got exactly twelve olives. They hunt down Boar's Head Honey Ham until they find it, and if they don't, they'll honey up some other ham. It takes forEVER to get the hell out of there.

On they way home, I witnessed something I've never seen before, and more than likely will never see again. At a stop sign, a boy (17) ran around a corner, closely tailed by what can only be described as a moped gang. A pick-up truck had stopped at the stop sign, and the boy hopped in the bed of the truck. He then motioned for the driver to go, but started egging on his pursuers at the same time. The driver (whom I thought new this kid) didn't go anywhere in his confusion. The result was a total ass-whipping by the leader of the moped gang on this kid. It was like watching ghetto retarded One Eyed Jacks. It was sad. If I didn't have two bags of groceries balanced precariously on my two handlebars, I might have stopped.

I didn't though, came home, and made a Sherman's "Hot Ham" sandwhich. I'm not proud of this, but...well...there you have it

 

[JamesKramer77]

Happy EARLY St. Patrick's Day, suckers

There are hangovers, and then there's what I'm experiencing right now.

Yesterday was St. Patrick's Day in Hoboken. It's some sort of New Jersey thing to celebrate the day a week before the parade in New York, so as not to compete. Hoboken has one of the best known "festivals" in the area. People come from all over the state, even from New York, to take part in an all-day drink-a-thon, masked under the guise of a pathetic 20 minute parade.

My friends and I hit Dippers, a nearby bar, at 11 in the morning. My food in-take for yesterday consisted of three eggo waffles, eaten early. My day was a blur.

But, all good St. Patrick's Days in Hoboken are.

Last year's cloudy memories were particularly memorable, thanks mostly to the exploits of my friend Scott. Scott used to be my roommate, but ended up going to Georgetown for his MBA. He still makes it up to visit quite often, especially for the big town events.

Scott is known as a smooth talker, but is notoriously bad at sustaining conversations with strange women. Four out of five times, the girl ends up in tears, and Scott in bewilderment. It's uncanny and precise.

Last year, we started the day as we did this year, mind-foggingly drunk. Unlike this year, we took some time-outs for meals during the day. Toward the end of the day, we ended up at my then favorite bar in town, which has since turned into the Applebee's of Irish bars, an attrocity called Buskers. Blecch.

It was at this bar that I got a very obvious signal from a young lady across the room that I should approach her, buy her a beer, and begin talking to her. Scott, ever the faithful wingman, came with me to run interferrence on her friend, who seemed kind of cute, actually.

The two of us approached them, introduced ourselves, and separated into our separate camps. My entire conversation with my counterpart took about two minutes, and much of it was on how well Scott was getting along with the girl he was talking to. He had her laughing, she was touching his arm, it was magical. I, on the other hand, could barely get a smile out of my girl, and a touch anywhere on my body would have simply been to keep me away. No matter, I kept on talking, since the role of wingman had obviously switched to me. I remember looking at Scott, mentally noting his progress, looking down in my beer, then looking back up to see Scott's girl in tears. She grabbed the girl I was talking to by the arm, said in a choked sob that she was leaving because "[my] friend was being a jerk," and both girls were off. Scott had on his trademark utterly bewildered look.

"I don't get it," he later said, "everything was going great. We were talking about how much she liked basketball, and we started talking about our favorite players. She started telling me about this dream she had last night, it was about John Stockton. I said, 'John Stockton in his prime, or all old and fat?' She started crying and took off! I don't get it!"

I later learned that this girl gets into these situations a lot, and it only takes a few key phrases to set her off. Scott plus crazy girls plus Hoboken St. Patty's Day equals hilarity. I miss you, Scott.