Friday, January 19, 2007

(Almost) Defending the JAP

It's funny that I wanted to blog about Jewish American Princesses, because I just spent an evening with a bunch of total non-JAPs from Texas. Now my position on this issue is all the more radical.

Rednecks in disguise. No offense to the fine state of Texas, but those girls made me miss the good ole' JAPs from the Upper East Side, and even the ones from NJ or freakin' Connecticut.

JAPs are obnoxious and hardly tolerable, granted. But at least they don't hush you when you try to speak and they want to hear somebody else. After being hushed by one of those specimens, I had a very clear choice: fight her on the spot and just leave, or become totally disinterested in the situation, and in them as living creatures. I was with a couple of good friends, so I decided to take it on the chin and just check my e-mail until they were done.

It may not occur to most men, but most JAPs actually have manners.

"Snake it, take it, panther princess you must stay."
That is because manners are actually part of your education, and most JAPs are indeed educated. But those girls... God, I could have killed them.

Of course, it is highly probable that I would have had a terrible time with a group of JAPs as well. But at least I wouldn't have felt humiliated by a bunch of morons who don't understand why an avenue block is longer than a street block in Manhattan.

Maybe we've got the JAPs in New York, but:

1. If you can't stand them, just stay away from them --that's what I do;
2. Call me a snob, but I wouldn't trade a thousand JAPs for any one of those girls I just had a terrible time with.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

Collaborative Blogging

I've been very busy in real life this week, and it's probably going to be the case until Monday, so I can't structure my wild neurotic imaginings as gently as I usually aspire to.

So I'm just going to give you the subjects I've been considering, and I would seriously appreciate it if you could turn them into draft posts for me. I will then edit them, publish them under my name and take full credit for them.

Thank you in advance,
SZ.

P.S.: List of subjects:
- Defending the Jewish American Princess;
- Friendship between heterosexual men and women;
- Intolerably crappy amateur stand-up comedians;
- Adam Sandler's Click;
- Tired of hearing "Williamsburg is the new SoHo";
- Stomachache.

P.P.S.: Don't even try to steal those subjects from me.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Manipulator?

I was discussing a serious matter with my roommate the other day. We were in disagreement at first, but she quickly surrendered. Now I won’t bore you to death with our small-time domestic issues, but on this very instance it was pretty clear that I was right. Still, she felt the need to minimize her defeat by calling me a manipulator. She said I constantly manipulated her, but that it was OK.

My first reaction was one of surprise, followed by a perfect sophism: “If I really manipulated you, I said, you wouldn’t notice it, by definition. So you can’t admit that I was right and at the same time make the argument that I’m manipulating you.” She’s not exceedingly bright, and most of all doesn’t like to think when it requires some effort, so she dropped the charges on this one: “Let’s order Thai.”

This is not the first time it happens (we’ve ordered Thai before, but I am referring to my roommate calling me a manipulator). Being a fully-licensed introspective procrastinator, I had to further investigate. Am I a manipulator? Is it possible to be one even though you’re not aware of it? I guess that would make you the worst kind of manipulator: the neurotic compulsive manipulator. In other words, the manipulator from hell.

If I take a serious, objective look at my roommate track record, I have to admit I’ve been pretty lucky so far. Of course, the fact that I’ve always refused to have a male roommate certainly helps. I can only share an apartment with women. When you live with a man - or worse, many men - there usually comes a time when he thinks he can just pretend you’re not here, and then even the best friend you ever had becomes an absolute monster and a full-fledged domestic dictator. He will call it comfort, but this is simply unacceptable.

Conversely, if your roommate is from the opposite sex, you can feel as comfortable as you want in his or her company, but you’ll never let loose so badly. Shame is the beginning of civilization. So women only.

Still this bright policy cannot account for everything. My current roommate cooks for me, does my bed (yes, I swear), and even occasionally cleans my room. The girl I was living with before that used to take care of my laundry. She even shaved my beard once (I was out of blades, so she cleaned her own shaver and lent it to me, but I didn’t know how to use it). And the one before that used to make sure I was wearing a scarf during the winter time. Of course, I never asked for such favors. To the best of my self-knowledge, I never even wished for them.

So basically I have no idea what’s going on, but it does seems that the women I live with like to take care of me. Maybe something in my deeply damaged personality awakes their maternal instincts, or maybe all women do those things when you live with them and I naively think I’m the only man benefiting from it.

The worst thing is, if you return the favor too often, you may start a vicious circle of attentions and treats that will eventually tear your relationship apart or worse, entice you into sleeping together.

Or maybe I am indeed the manipulator from hell.

Saturday, January 13, 2007

The Aftermath: Cold Sweats

This is just unbelievable.

I was already very pleased with not having had any sex on the Ferris Bueller night, as I took the time to explain yesterday. Turns out there’s more to it. I think the shitty DVD player virtually saved my life!

Seriously. I was procrastinating pretty late last night (which is what insomniacs usually do) and chatting with the amazing Sabrina_C (which is what righteous bloggers usually do), when I took a look at one of the three condoms I had purchased for the occasion on Thursday night.
Having nothing better to do between two witty replies from Sabrina, I auscultated the packaging in detail. And here is what it reads:

“This product is intended to help prevent pregnancy. It does not protect against HIV infection (AIDS) and other sexually transmitted diseases. In order to help reduce the risk of transmission of many STDs, including HIV infection (AIDS), use a latex condom.”

Can you believe this? What the f*** is going on here? Who would design and sell a condom that doesn’t protect against STDs? It’s like selling an umbrella that doesn’t protect against downpours, only showers! Who are these people?

The name of the brand is Naturalamb. It is distributed by Church & Dwight Co., Inc., in New Jersey.

DO NOT BUY THOSE CONDOMS. They sit on the condom aisle at Duane Reade, along with the other brands, without any warning of any kind. The box says they feel great, and they’re even a bit more expensive than the others, so you’re actually paying a premium for a chance to catch a nasty STD! How fucked-up is that?

And if this merely aims at avoiding litigation, why would you scare the shit out of people like that?

OK, let the anger come back down. Breathe in, breathe out. There’s a minimal chance she had AIDS alright, but still… I could have caught a minor, pain-in-the-ass disease! Those condoms should be prohibited from sale.

In any event, I’m so glad I didn’t get laid!

I Win

I knew it! It was her DVD player, not the disc!

So tonight I watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off on my beloved BlackBook. I don’t know how or why, but I had to wait for more than 20 years to see this classic. Seriously, I enjoyed it so much, I wound up thinking, you know, it’s a good thing I didn’t get laid last night.

Two questions arise.

Number one: what would have happened if we had been able to watch the whole movie yesterday night? Well, two possibilities here.

- Maybe it wouldn’t have disturbed my master plan, and we would have had sex like animals on her couch. Don’t blame me, but I liked this movie so much, I honestly think it would have been a waste to have sex instead of watching it.

- Which leads me to the second possibility: in any event, I would have liked it to the same extent last night, and it would have captivated me to the point where I would totally have forgotten about the original master plan.

See? That’s the first reason why it’s a good thing I didn’t get laid.

Number two now: whose master plan was really at work, mine or hers? I mean, now that it’s clear that the fault was on her DVD player, not my disc (I hate myself for having doubted Netflix), the thought crossed my mind: maybe that was just the way she operates.

She’s got it all covered, you see: “Why go out and have drink? Just come over, let’s watch a movie!” So you get there, and bam! No movie! Now that I mention it, I do remember her saying: “Oh, maybe it’s the machine…”

The conclusion is absolutely unavoidable. She knew. From the start. Again, two possibilities:

- She is a psychotic. She likes to have men come over to her apartment thinking they’re going to get laid, and leave completely puzzled and insecure about their most elementary power of seduction.

- I am a neurotic. I was relying so heavily on my so-called master plan that the very trick that was supposed to get me laid -- the damaged DVD player -- actually made me fail.

Consequently, conclusion of the conclusion: she’s either deeply troubled as a psychotic, or deeply troubled by the failing of her own master plan.

Bottom line: I win.

Friday, January 12, 2007

One Hot Date

What’s the deal with women? Seriously, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to grasp even the most simplistic notion of their psyche.

There’s this nice girl I called to go out on a date, and she says, “Why don’t you come watch a movie at home instead?”. “It’s a great idea, I reply, and I have Netflix!” So I go to her place with Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in my left pocket and three condoms in my right pocket.

First strange phenomenon: she asks me to sit on the chair, while she alone enjoys the couch. At this point, I just think, “Well, maybe she’s just feeling awkward about asking me to sit with her.” So I start feeling awkward too. We watch the movie, and it’s a funny movie, so we share a few laughs. But honestly, I could have watched Ferris Bueller in the comfort of my own house, in my own bed, on my beautiful, brand new MacBook (yes, the black one).

After thirty minutes or so, the disc doesn’t work anymore: the movie stops for ten seconds, then goes on again, then stops again. We have to surrender to the inconvenient truth: this Netflix Ferris Bueller DVD is damaged. Believe it or not, I take it as a sign. A sign that I wasn’t here to watch a movie in the first place. I’m here to undertake serious business, and if the movie itself doesn’t want to be watched, I can only understand it as an encouragement to pursue my righteous goal.

So we start talking. We talk about everything and anything. About living in New York, about our mutual friend (my roommate), about our mutual friend’s boyfriend, who will probably never marry her even though she’s certain he will… And then, out of the blue, she goes: “You know, I’ve been so tired this week… I think this is my time to go to bed.”

I’m completely puzzled. Does she mean she wants me to leave, or is this an awkward, slash kinky invitation to try my luck? I try to think really fast about what I should say right now, but I was never good at that, so I just blurt out: “Oh, do you want me to leave?”

Now, this was the worst thing to say. I should have known (and I actually knew) that this is the one and only question you should never, ever ask a woman. Whatever they want you to do, however they feel about you or your presence in their surroundings, they will answer, 90% of the time, something along those lines: “I’m sorry, I’m so tired. But thanks for coming!”

Naturally, she had her own version of that line. They all have theirs. Truth be told, I don’t even remember. I just took the disc out of the DVD player, put my hand in my right pocket to apologize to the three unused condoms, and went to get my coat in the lobby.

Walking back home on First Avenue, I found myself wondering: what the hell is the deal with women?