TOP 5 CONVERSATIONAL MOMENTS
(on bad first dates)

I don't get too many dating opportunities, so when I do it's a big deal. But sometimes one never knows what one will get on a first date. Below are some of the more interesting moments I have had.


CONVERSATION #1

INITIALS: A.W.
AGE: 23
PLACE: Classy Diner
TIME FRAME: 20 minutes after meeting

Me: I bore you, don’t I?
AW: Nope.
(Silence.)
Me: So…want to order?
AW: Sure.
(Waitress arrives.)
Waitress: What cha want?
(AW stares.)
Waitress: Well, did you want something?
AW: Yeah, I do. I want something that died in pain.
(Exchange of glances all around.)
AW: Something that suffered in life.
Waitress: Are you sick?
AW: No, I’m hungry.
Waitress: So, what do you want…to eat?
AW: Anger. Flesh.
Waitress: You want a steak?
AW: I want feeling. Some kind of expression. Madness will do.
Waitress: Mister, your friend’s fucked up. (Waitress begins to leave.)
AW: No, wait. I want your tears, in a bowl. I want your hopes, boiled in fear. And I want your will, chewed by doubt and free to disappear.
Waitress: Shit, girl.


CONVERSATION #2

INITIALS: D.L.
AGE: 31
PLACE: Hotel Lounge
TIME FRAME: 7 minutes after meeting

DL: I think you’re pretty cute.
Me: Hey, thanks. You’re attractive, too.
DL: Let’s toast to our attractiveness.
(We toast and take a sip of wine.)
DL: Ah, that’s really nice.
Me: Yeah.
DL: So, let’s get to the real business. How big’s your dick?


CONVERSATION #3

INITIALS: J.K.
AGE: 24
PLACE: Fancy Korean Restaurant
TIME FRAME: 5 minutes into dinner

Me: This is a really nice place.
JK: Yeah, I like it. I come here all the time.
Me: You like the food that much?
JK: Hee-hee, yeah. And the waiters are all really hot.
(I look at the waiters.)
Me: Yeah, that’s strange. There are only really good-looking men working here. How’s that?
JK: The owner is a gay Korean guy. He wants only hot guys to work for him.
Me: Wow, that must be frustrating—to eat at a place with hot waiters serving you, but they’re all gay!
JK: No. I’ve fucked them all. Oh, and those two came over together last week. Hey, guys! (Waves to waiters at the bar.)


CONVERSATION #4

INITIALS: N.V.
AGE: 28
PLACE: An Italian Eatery
TIME FRAME: 30 minutes into dinner

Me: So tell me about the design project you’re working on.
NV: It’s a bar in the East village.
Me: Cool. What’s your inspiration?
(Her phone rings.)
NV: Sorry, hold on. (Looks at phone) Oh, shit.
Me: What’s wrong?
NV: It’s my boyfriend. But he’s supposed to be busy right now.
Me: You have a boyfriend?
NV: Didn’t I tell you?
Me: No.
NV: I have to answer this.
Me. Well, okay…
NV (on phone): Hi, baby. Yeah… Just having dinner with a friend. I thought you… What, why? Don’t you like her? I spent $300 on a stripper for you and you think she’s ugly? (Listens a moment.) Well fine, get a different one, but I’m not paying for it.


CONVERSATION #5

INITIALS: E.G.
AGE: 32
PLACE: Swings at a park
TIME FRAME: 4 hours after meeting

EG: This is so fun! (She swings.)
Me: It’s great to be a kid sometimes.
EG: Yeah. I feel really relaxed with you. Like I can tell you anything.
Me: Ha, okay, so tell me something.
EG: Hm, well. Have you ever fucked a cantaloupe?
Me: What?
EG: It’s something guys do, right? You cut a hole in the cantaloupe, and then you put it in the oven for a few minutes to warm it up. It’s supposed to feel just like a girl.
Me: Huh.
EG: I like frozen pickles.



Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: I'm Not Single, I'm Romantically Challenged
Related Posting: The Knight Rider Guy
Related Posting: Reconsider This

WHAT ARE YOU AFRAID OF?


I swear there is a phobia for everything. There are so many phobias out there that it’s pretty certain each and everyone of us suffers from one to some degree. So I went looking for a phobia to have. And to my delight, I found one. But, in the search for the name of my own phobia, I discovered that the range of human fears is vast and divergent, and when compared to some of the other phobias, mine is disappointingly uncool.

You have your common fears, like the fear of spiders (Arachnephobia), and the fear of heights (Batophobia), and the fear of flying (Aviophobia). Mine falls some where between these and the next level. For beyond these, you have the truly remarkable, like the fear of fat people (Cacomorphobia), the fear of being tickled by feathers (Pteronophobia), and of course Autodysomophobia, the fear of people with a vile odor. A step yet above these, you have the fear of hearing good news (Euphobia), the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth (Arachibutyrophobia), and heaven forbid, the fear of the great mole rat (Zemmiphobia).

One of my personal favorites from this catagory is Levophobia, the fear of things to or on the left side of the body. Could you imagine being a lefty with this problem?

But wait, it gets even better. I came across a few other phobias that are deserving of some individual attention. These phobias must be the crowning achievements of the human ability to shit ourselves over everyday things, as I read somewhere recently, "Our deepest fears reside just behind the everyday and the banal."

Firstly, how the hell does someone who suffers from Barophobia, the fear of gravity, get through life? At a website titled "Barophobia: Treatment and Hope" one learns that "most barophobia therapies take months or years and sometimes even require the patient to be exposed repeatedly to their fear." What? If therapies only "sometimes require the patient to be exposed repeatedly to their fear," then where the hell are they when they aren't being exposed to gravity? You can’t exactly avoid gravity. Where do you go to feel safe? Does this person spend his or her life hanging from things? Are they the ones who become astronauts and want to live in space stations?

And as if that isn't bizarre enough, the website later goes on to say that "Barophobia will likely cost you tens, even hundreds of thousands of dollars over the course of your lifetime, let alone the cost to your health and quality of life. Now Barophobia can be gone for less than the price of a round-trip airline ticket." Would someone really, really smart please give me just one reason why a person who suffers from the fear of GRAVITY would even care how much an airline ticket costs. Planes come down, sometimes very hard, like crashing-type hard. At least if you're in orbit, you can pretty much chill and not worry about it.

Second. Last I heard, the Dutch were not a particularly frightening or dangerous folk. In fact, they are very peaceful and jolly. Historically, they have contributed greatly to the world with cartography, art, and smelly cheeses. Nevertheless, Dutchphobia exists.

One website assures us that Dutchphobia is "unwarranted and irrational." No shit. And I wonder - can someone who suffers from this fear actually detect a Dutch person in a crowd? I tried to find out, but there seems to be very little about this mysterious phobia. I did come across one chat room, however, dedicated entirely to Dutchphobia. But it was all in Dutch. (www.dimitri.org/?itemid=249)

And finally, Walloonphobia—The fear of the Walloons. Oh my god, who the fuck are the Walloons*?

As horrible as it would be to have to suffer from any one of these phobias, it soon occurred to me that it’s possible for someone to suffer from more than one phobia at the same time. Imagine the possible repercussions of this. If you have Stasibasiphobia, you have the fear of standing or walking. But what if you also have Kathisophobia, the fear of sitting down? Now what are you going to do? If you suffer from this combination, then you’d probably be happy to also suffer from the fear of gravity if only you could do something about it. But you can’t.

However, it works the other way, too. Having to go through life with Panophobia, the fear of everything, is inconceivable. Everything you taste, touch, smell, hear and see—clothes, food, shower curtains, lady bugs, a Q-Tip—would scare the shit out of you. The only way I can imagine one could live a semi-normal life with this problem would be to also suffer from Optophobia, the fear of opening one's eyes. At least with your eyes closed, you can’t scare yourself to death if you look in a mirror.

Lastly, I have some advice for women. I highly recommend that every woman screen their potential partner for the following four phobias before committing to a serious relationship. You may otherwise be very disappointed.

1. Dishabiliophobia—the fear of undressing in front of someone
2. Clinophobia—the fear of going to bed
3. Eurotophobia—the fear of female genitalia
4. And finally, Ithyphallophobia—the fear of having an erection

All of this makes me feel a little dissatisfied with my phobia. It’s not so bad going through life with Helminthophobia, the fear of being infested with worms. (It's just that I'm always so hungry, and so I wonder...)

If you’re interested in finding the name of a phobia, or just want to see what other phobias are out there, you can visit:

www.phobialist.com

Cartoon: "I have a phobia of people with phobias."



( * The Walloons, by the way, are a group of people living in Southern Belgium who traditionally spoke a dialect of French called Walloon, but who today for the most part speak standard French.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

THE KNIGHT RIDER GUY

I am up late tonight and, feeling like I don't have anyone in my life right now, started thinking about the first time I was interested in a girl. (Really, I'm thinking about the larger, metaphysical aspects of relationships and love, what it means to find "the one" and whether people are in our lives to fulfill a certain purpose for that period, then move on - but all that shit is just way to heavy to write about at two in the morning.)

When I started liking girls, I was in elementary school. Back then, and I mean way back then, the coolest thing around was the Knight Rider guy, David Hasselhoff. The Knight Rider guy showed the world how to swoon women, and every Friday night at 8, you bet I was taking notes.

He always knew what to do. And I noticed his shirts were always unbuttoned down a few holes. Even though at 12 years of age I didn’t have curly eye-catching chest hair, like my idol and mentor, I understood that an unbuttoned shirt was the key to getting girls. And that was how I was going to score my first date ever.

I had the hots for this girl named Carrie. She was delicate and reminded me of tissue paper. One day in class we were standing in line to pick up our projects. Carrie and I were at the back of the line. This was my in.

Trained to be ever vigilant, my shirt was already unbuttoned and I arranged the slit of the opening to show just the right amount of my muscular 12 year old chest. Show too little, and it might not work. Too much, and she might faint. I stood right behind her and leaned one shoulder against the wall, an advanced move that I still had not fully mastered, but she couldn’t tell. I was too good, and I was good to go.

“Hi, Carrie. What’s up?”

She turned around. “Hey, Space Boy. How are you today?”

“Fabulous, now that I’m looking at you.” I did a dramatic look-away, to lure her in. The Knight Rider guy used it once on a lawyer chick that kept ignoring him. Carrie didn’t have a chance.

“W-whaaat?” She was obviously sweep off her feet.

“You know, baby. Want to sit together at lunch?”

“Oh, Space Boy…”

Yeah, baby, just say it…

“…your shirt’s undone. And, you look ridiculous.”



Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: I'm Not Single, I'm Romantically Challenged
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KLINGON AS A SECOND LANGUAGE


One day, years ago in Las Vegas, I decided to take a break from my college studies and go to the Strip. I wanted to check out the new pirate show at the Treasure Island where they have actual pirate ships sail across the front of the hotel and actual pirates battle it out with cannons and sabers and swinging on ropes and shit. One of the ships even sinks right there in front of the hotel! Cool. So, I hopped a bus.

It was a hot late afternoon. I waited 20 minutes for the bus. No water. No A/C. No bench to sit on. No bus stop booth to hide from the sun. You could have played connect the dots with the balls of sweat on my face if they would have just stopped streaming down my neck. When the bus arrived, I was relieved. Finally! The doors opened and I flung myself in.

I paid my fare and thanked the driver. Eager to get off my feet, I turned around to look for an open seat. My heart stopped. Every seat was taken. No, not only was every seat taken, but every seat was taken by a Klingon. That’s right, Klingons were on that bus. How many? Like, all of them.

I thought about backing slowly off the bus, but the driver suddenly closed the doors and hit the gas. Shit. I was being kidnapped by a bunch of Klingons on public transportation. You just can’t make this shit up, man.

“You’re going to have to find a seat, sir,” said the driver.

I looked at the driver. “What...You're driving a bus and you're fucking blind?" I felt like saying it, but I didn’t. He might have been half Klingie or something, and I didn’t want to take my chances. I took a deep breath and forced myself to move down the narrow aisle between the seats. I avoided dozens of legs and feet covered in what I’m sure was the latest in Klingon fashion: boots with horns and studs and gadgets, leather pants with what looked like blades strapped to them. I think I stepped on someone’s cape.

Way in the back I found an empty seat. Of course, there was a Klingon sitting in the seat next to it. He, she, it stared at me a moment. I looked away, searching for another seat but knowing full well that that seat was the only one available. I was already at the back of the bus. Where was I going to go? So I looked back at the seat. The Klingon grimaced, or smiled--I couldn’t tell what it was exactly because his, her, its forehead and nose were wrinkled permanently into place.

I sat down, compactly. The bus moved along for a little while and nothing happened. Suddenly, the Klingon wanted to communicate with me. He, she, it gave me an inquisitive look.

“Hey there,” I said. “Vacationing?”

“nuqneH!” it bellowed. (Roughly translated as “Hello,” but it’s closer to “What do you want?”)

“Uh, so… Okay…” (Exactly translated as "What the fuck?")

“qaStaH nuq.” (What’s happening?)

“Huh?”

“qaStaH nuq,” it said again.

“Listen, I’m not a…a Klingon...sir, ma’am? I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“yIDoghQo'.” (Don’t be silly!) It did that grimacing smile thing again. “Ah, spek some Englash, I do!”

“Ah, well that’s wonderful. Just wonderful.”

Others of its kind began to take interest in our conversation. They were turning around in their seats and looking at us. I looked out the window and wondered how much longer it would be to my stop. I considered getting out a little early.

“You learn Klingon!” One of the bigger ones shouted from a couple seats away. “Come with us!”

“Oh no, I’m busy. And, I don’t see much use for Klingon, uh, on this planet. But thank you.”

There was that uncomfortable silence that you hate when two people have just met but have nothing to say to each other. Except in this case, I was wondering just how serious these people were about being Klingons. I mean, in the Star Trek shows, aren’t Klingons merciless warriors or something? Don’t they kill things they don’t like? Drink blood, collect skulls, and all that?

“So, are all of you part of some convention or social-psycho study or something?” I tried to deliver the question with a warm, friendly smile. I didn’t get any in return, though.

A few of them started talking in their own language. Others turned around, seemingly finished with me. My little neighbor, however, was not finished with me.

“Heghlu'meH QaQ jajvam.” (Today is a good day to die.)

“Sure, sounds like fun.” I had no idea what it was saying to me, but I couldn’t stop the flow of feeling a little sinister at this point.

“bIjatlh 'e' yImev. naDevvo' yIghoS.” (Shut up! Go away!) And it pushed me a little out of my seat.

“Hey, now! I don’t know how Klingons flirt, but on this planet, buddy, pushing is considered a little rude.”

We had a short staring contest. I don’t think Klingons even have eye lids.

We arrived at my stop. I stood up. They all watched as I moved to the rear doors and exited. I stood on the edge of the street and waved as they peered at me through the windows of the bus. I walked over to the Treasure Island hotel and watched the pirate show. Somehow, it just wasn’t as interesting as I thought it would be.


(Did you know that there is actually a Klingon Language Institute? What a crazy little world we live on.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005


Related Posting: Planned Procrastination - Avoid Getting a Life

THE DRAMA OF EATING


Lately, I’ve been eating out a lot. Like, every meal. I rather go to the diner three blocks away for 2 eggs over easy than get the pan and spatula out to do it myself. Anyway, I’ve tried a number of wonderful new places in the last few weeks. It’s always an interesting, eccentric experience eating someplace new. New environments. New smells. New options and new possibilities. And to add to the adventure, it’s even more peculiar when having dinner with a new friend, or someone with whom you’ve never eaten before.

One recent evening, I was eating at a trendy French restaurant called L’Orange Bleu for the second time ever (in two weeks). The atmosphere and décor are Mediterranean, alluring. The presentation of the food is inspiring. And the food itself has capricious qualities. Everyone, like my friend and I, was dressed casually, but nicely. The wine was good. The air was crisp. Everything was perfect.

That’s when I started to feel a little sinister. I asked myself questions like: What makes all of these things important so as to make this a fun place to eat? And, why is it so interesting to watch how other people eat? I started to watch how my friend ate her food. How far away from the edge of the table is she? Does she chew enough before she starts talking so partially chewed food doesn’t become airborne? What’s she going to do with that little piece of meat that’s sort of hanging off her plate? Does she even see it? And then I started to worry that maybe she was watching me, too. What if I don’t negotiate my roughly chopped salad in an impressive manner, will she think less of me? Should I pretend there’s something really interesting on the wall behind her so she’d look at it while I pick my teeth, or will she not notice if I just cover my mouth with my hand, pretending to ponder one of her great questions, while covertly probing the afflicted area with the nail of my thumb?

The whole act of eating out, or a “formal” meal at home, is theatrical. The dishes, the candles, the linen, the china, the placement of the silverware, the décor, even the atmosphere and the lighting are all props and parts of a stage scene. In fact, we even refer to the setting of the table much like we do the setting of a dramatic play. Mannerisms, etiquette of the table, the public conversation, the dolled-up outfits, all seem like characterizations in a production called Public Social Interaction.

Especially when eating out, the food we eat often arrives from some unseen special room called the kitchen which is hidden behind closed doors or curtains, as if the wizard himself were back there pulling levers and pushing buttons. Once the food is prepared, serving it is a presentation of discrete surprises, like little gifts on a plate (generally intended for just one person). And somewhere between the kitchen and the table, secrets were hidden. How was this food made? What exactly is in it? How many fingers were in this food that I am now expected to eat with a fork and knife?

It’s not like we’re peasants or farmers, for whom food eaten represents a hard day's work, and that work has a relationship of cultivation and preparation to the food itself. No, our food is a thing purchased, separate from the work required to obtain it (except for the trip to the store or market, but even now Fresh Direct delivers). It is often prepared for us, and we are excited to enjoy it within the highly formalized drama of eating. And in its ideal state, that drama is entertainment.

Eating out is not meant to be boring. It is meant to be fantasy. That’s why there is drama, and staging, and acting. It is an additional expense we pay to do, like seeing a movie or a play for that matter, where we suspend our disbelief that what we are experiencing is not real (that French restaurant is not in France); except, in our dining experiences, we pay to be an active part of the production.

And we’re often judged on our performance. Emily, an actress, use to tell me to move my plate closer to me while eating, instead of leaning into it and “looking like a Neanderthal.” Socio-cultural backgrounds respected, does it really make a difference? Do I suddenly devolve into a lesser creature if I do one or the other? On the other hand, she’d overlook the placing of my elbows on the table during the main course. Why is that okay? As you know, elbows on the table during the main course is just plain inappropiate table etiquette, as if one's elbows tarnish the flavoring of the food or ruin the enjoyment of the whole evening. (After the transformation of the table from a main-course setting to a dessert or drinks setting, however, elbows and pretty much anything else is allowed on the table.)

So why is it so fun to go out to eat? There's good food and good conversation, that's true, but perhaps we also have an inner desire for impromptu performance. Perhaps we all fancy ourselves great actors. And somehow the act of eating, and going out, reflects one's social capital and establishes one's social standing (if you're a good performer) in the eyes of those around us. In any case, it makes a good topic of conversation at the table.



Downs - Copyright © 2005

(Ideas were inspired by the art critic John Berger and by Emily, a very talented actress.)