Last month I went on a date with a guy from my improv class. Yes, I take improv class. I’m really bad at improv. Friends that see my shows always sweetly go, “You were funny! Good job!” Then they watch an actually good team and I can hear inside their brain going (much like Mel Gibson can), “Ooohhh… that’s what this is supposed to be. Having only watching Mackenzie shows, I thought Improv is that you’re just supposed to run onstage and say whatever comes out of your mouth. The least amount of sense it makes the “better” it is. Wow, how long has Mackenzie been doing this? How much money did she waste at acting college? That place seemed like a four-year long summer camp that took itself very seriously. She’s such a stupid fat bitch.” Well all friends that've had that same thought process, you are 100% right.
Anyway, I get asked out a lot at IO. Maybe I improvise slutty? Hm.
So this guy in my class asks me out, and he “seems funny.” Always the “seems funny!” I say this because these SF men have all the same things in common.
1. They have an “off” look. They are relatively normal looking, but there’s one physical attribute that most women see and think “red flag.” Or just plain “ew.” And that I solely am undoubtedly attracted to. This guy had giant, giant, 80’s punk Van Halen hair. I mean like, giant bleach blonde rocker hair. Proportioned to the rest of his body like a little miss cupcake doll. That much hair. Like Efomier’s hair, but bleached so it just stuck out in all directions.
2. They’re attractive in a way that only a very nice friend would say, yeah, I agree, he’s cute…
3. These men are uncomfortable in a group, yet still take improv classes...
4. They have odd relationships with their mothers.
5.They all tell me I should kiss them. Not a command, but more like a jarring suggestion in the vein of “come on dumbie, this is what you’re supposed to do now. It’s the logical conclusion for the action of this moment, you idiot. I bet you didn’t take physics ‘cuz you’re so dumb, and got a 1 on your AP Bio test even though you say you “love” it. Dumbbell.”
6. Let’s be honest, they’re all on the shorter end of the spectrum.
7. Most have never had a girlfriend.
8. This is getting weird. Back to story.
I don’t have a lot to say about this guy. Let’s call him something simple, like Guinevere. (Hair).
Guinevere tells me he has two tickets to a concert in Silver Lake. I tell him I can’t go to the opening band because I was busy… I forgot why. What was I doing in my stupid town that I would be busy until like 10:00? OH! I was meeting everyone I now work with and chugging sake because I was nervous.
(You can’t really chug sake it’s more like a … big sip… look around, pass the bottle, see how much is left of the bottle… get the bottle… big sip!.. thast’s how you chug sake I think.).
Anywho, he told me he wants to see the opening band. So I said, I have to go to work dinner, so either take someone else, or I’ll just meet you there.
But he insisted on picking me up and lives about an hour and a half away from me. I’m a Chatty Cathy in the car because I’m happy and full of Chinese and sake. So I guess that makes me more of a Silly Sing-Jade.
We get there and I get a drink. He tells me why he doesn’t drink, “I was raised in a trailer park. Like, my mom owned one. And she sold meth out of our RV. So I don’t drink.”
That was when I was probably the MOST attracted to him that night. Oooh, he’s weird. Mama like Guinevere…
Then it went down from there. He told me what he did for a living (for apparently like the sixth time. So what, I’m sorry I don’t understand/listen to you sometimes!). He makes 3D sitcoms. What? Like online? For a company?
“Yeah. Here, let me show you one. Hhmm… I have a couple on my phone… oh, this is my favorite one. I worked on this a lot.”
The video is about four minutes long and it’s the most offensive thing I’ve ever seen. It’s four skanky models naked just running around? All the usual things women who are LA “actresses” are asked to do. Jumping on a trampoline, hitting each other with pillows, using guns. The backdrop is all CGI of like, a rain forest, then a cloud, then a bedroom. Why would you show this to a girl on your first date? Like, serious, what goes through your mind?
“Oh, mm, cool. Where is the 3D-ness?”
“We haven’t figured that out yet.”
Stupid. Cut to the end of the night. Concert was dumb. I think the band was called like “Forbidden Light” or something like that. But we didn’t leave before he mentioned to me AT LEAST SEVEN TIMES that he “really wishes he would have seen that opening band.” “If it wasn’t for you… I would have seen them.”
Fuck you dude!
I say, “Guinevere, I told you over and over that I don’t know how long my dinner will take, so you should go with out me… or meet me there.” You stupid idiot.
G-Winny and I leave the venue, with one last time for him to go by the sign for the opening band and stare at it... look at me... then shake his head.
“I TOLD YOU I WOULD MEET YOU HERE SO YOU COULD SEE THEM!!!?!?!”
He drives me home. His car smelled bad. (That was probably a given). I noticed his air freshener was a bacon. A bacon. I told him, “Ha, that’s funny. I can smell the bacon scent.” Then he turned on me like a certain LACHSA all-star would if you told him you were pretty sure Stephen Sondheim was a football player.
“It doesn’t smell like bacon in here!!”
“…but… it’s a bacon… air freshener…”
“Yeah, but it wore out. I’ve had this in here for a REALLY LONG TIME! There is NO WAY you could still smell bacon!”
“Okay, okay, I don’t smell bacon.”
We turn down our street, and I could feel Bagely The Dog’s welcoming paws beckoning me home like a beacon in a torrid storm.
I give him a slight hug and run inside. He’s not going to trick me into making me kiss him...
I’m sure you think this relatively uninteresting tale has come to an end, but no, the best part is on its way…
About three hours later I’m about to fall asleep, reading in bed something simple like, A Light in August, or The Communist Manifesto. Just one of my lighter books I pick up willy-nilly, like you all reading this do with the names of nailpolish colors.
I get a text, written word-for-word below. From you know who: (Not Voldermort)
“Hey, thanks for going, bro. And hey, I don’t want to make you feel bad or anything but I think some dog dookie hitched a ride on your shoe into my car… Just sayin…’”
FURRY!!! HOW DARE HE! DOESN’T HE KNOW WHO I’M GOING TO BE!!! And no, there was no poop on my shoe!! We were at a concert! Seriously, what the fuck. And he continues to ask me out to this day?! TO THIS DAY.
1. There was no poop on my shoe
2. We weren’t even near grass
3. The word “dookie” is my least favorite word in the entire English language. Only seconded to “ba-dunk-a-dunk” as in reference to a large-assed woman.
4. I’m already done with this list.
I shouldn’t have re-told this story. I can feel my jaw rearing-up to clench on me all night long. (speaking of, what if I had a problem that I sleep blow-jobed? Like, my jaw has been killing me since I slept over at my friend’s house that contains four dudes. And I thought how terrible/kind-of-cool it would be to have a sleep blow-job problem. I could be on Oprah for that! Oh, wait, she’s dead…).
Stay tuned for Thrice Stories Numbers Two and Three.
(Image above is an incredibly beautiful painting I found when I typed in Guinevere)
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