All The Stars In The Sky.

The cosmos is incredible. I've always been fascinated by stars but never really began to learn about them until fairly recently. It started with the show Wonders of the Universe and continues with Neil deGrasse Tyson's Death by Black Hole. After many online articles about the universe and multiple shows dumbed down for the layman, I still have no fuckin' clue what's going on out there. The cosmos is unfathomable to me. I can't wrap my mind around it. Seriously. We live on Earth. Earth is a part of our Solar System. There are hundreds of billions of stars in our galaxy, The Milky Way, and hundreds of billions of galaxies in the universe. So does my question, "Why can't I get a date?" really matter?

Nope. But neither does, "Is asking out a girl you talked to for 5 minutes at a bar via Facebook message creepy?"

I'm about to share with you, the exact message I sent to a girl I met 11 days ago for 5 minutes. Let me put it into context. Not that it matters. THERE ARE BILLIONS OF FUCKIN' GALAXIES IN THE UNIVERSE! I was out with my old friend Conor, who was meeting up with one of his friends. She brought us to a co-workers party at a bar. I didn't know anyone except for Conor and one of his friends from Harvard. I usually avoid scenarios like this mostly because I have no interest in meeting people and listening to their boring stories while I make little effort to hold back my dickhead comments. I don't do it to be mean. I do it because I need to be entertained somehow. That is until I drink myself into a coma and hope I don't wake up with pee on my cheek in the morning. But either way, there were women at the bar and the only other thing in the universe, besides the universe, I'm completely fascinated in but also completely ignorant of is Women. Black holes. Well Black/Yellow/White/Mulatto/Mestizo/Canadian, really any of the ones that look and taste good. (I'm done making comparisons to black holes and vagina openings (mouths?).)

When I was standing at the bar getting a round of drinks a girl came up next to me to do the same. We made small talk for a little bit about how it's a pain in the ass to get drinks at a packed bar. I told her she'd probably have more luck because...well...look at me. As we were waiting to get served, she introduced herself and we talked for a few minutes about nothing special. She got served first and ordered my drinks. I gave her the cash and even gave her some extra for a nice tip. For her and the bartender.

As I was standing talking to Conor and all of our new friends, I noticed that the new love of my life (it only takes 2 seconds of eye contact these days before I start writing love sonnets (poems are for pussies)) seemed to know everyone Conor's friend knew. I then realized she was a lawyer at the same law firm. Yes. Lawyer. I'm trying to find a chick that might swipe me into the train once in a goddamn while. Gold digger. When I realized I had a legitimate excuse at continuing the conversation we had at the bar, I made it my goal to charm. That's when I noticed some balding guy chattin' her up and hogging all of her attention. As I stood there, staring into my cheapest beer on the menu, I told myself to get ready for a break in their conversation. So I stood there and Uh-huh'd and OK'd my way through conversations with Conor and his friends but kept my eyes on the prize.

Now this is where I think I probably messed up. When I was keeping my eyes on the new love of my life, I forgot that Rape Eyes exist. What got me really pumped about talking to this girl is that I noticed her looking in my direction a bunch of times. At the time I thought: Oh shit. This girl wants to talk to me. But 11 days later, I'm starting to think: Fuck. It probably looked like I was red-lining on the Rape Eyes. Those probably weren't looks of "I want you to take my pantsuit off (she looked like she was headed to a business conference) and hug me really hard. For like 5-8 minutes. Then we can shower and cry together." They were looks of "Jesus Christ. This is why I don't go out after work. There's always some little faggy sorta Asian lookin' guy staring at me with his Rape Eyes and writing love sonnets in his head." But I honestly don't care. Hundreds of billions of stars in The Milky Way.

After what seemed like hours of staring at Ms. Lovely Lawyer (it was really like a half hour) I realized I had to pee. So I decided to take a quick break from love and empty my penis. I'm pretty sure I used to think all that watery stuff around your balls was pee. What an idiot I was, I never figured out why all that watery stuff in the ballbag was still there after I pee'd. (This was what I thought about while I was in the Men's bathroom.) I came back out. Fully charged and ready to go. But of course, when I came back, she was looking for her coat and getting ready to leave. Probably because the combination of my Rape Eyes and Balding Bill's boring ass conversations, reminded her that lawyer work can actually be far more fun than going to a bar.

So the rest of the night I thought about how often this happens to me. Not very. Girls don't ever introduce themselves to me, but if they do I dwell on them for days. And if they don't introduce themselves to me and I somehow get a chance to talk to them I'm always shocked and at a loss for words. Then I sit around and think about all the things I should have said. So when I woke up on Saturday, I did some really creepy research after I couldn't find Ms. Lovely on Facebook (I only had her first name), and decided that if I found her, I would reach out to her. And I found her.

This is creepy. I know. But for some reason I don’t really care. I’ve never done this before (but of course I would say that even if it wasn’t). The fact of the matter is, I thought you were cool and cute (which is #1 on the world’s endangered species list) and wanted to talk to you more but was outgunned by the dude with the bald spot (story of my life and one day (probably in about 4 years) I’ll be that bald guy, hopefully doing really cool stuff like talking to cool/cute girls at bars, actually, nevermind. I don’t want to be going to “cool” bars at 31). I’ll admit I don’t know how to talk to girls (women?) at loud bars on Friday nights (and beyond) because it’s weird and I’m not good at lying. Seriously. Talking to women at bars on Friday nights is the thing I’m worst at in life. That and Scattegories. Anyways. It would be cool to get a drink (in a bar, ha!) in a less loud place (or whatever people who go on dates do) and I could waste of few hours of your time.

So how did I get your full name? 

But seriously. I sat around and thought about how creepy this is for a few hours today. Then I decided, “What do I have to lose?” Either you’ll (a.) ignore this and make fun of me to your friends who I don’t know (please do, I encourage it), (b.) you’ll respond with something mean (/hilarious) like “Aw! That’s so cute. I only talk to guys that are 5’7” and up. The kiddie table is over there.”, or (c.) agree to it (and probably regret it sometime in the near future). I’m sure I’m missing a few somewhere in there.

There used to be a time when guys would force women (if I used “girls” in this sentence it makes it sound even more inappropriate) to go on dates or to get married. I always wonder how they got away with it. Then I remember they had guns and lived to be the ripe old age of 35. They just didn’t have the time to write Facebook messages (trying too hard to sound charming).

Either way. I hope you consider it (that sounded confident). Enjoy your weekend. At least you’ll have something to laugh about!

Now I’m going to go spend the day thinking about how I asked a girl I talked to for 5 minutes out through a Facebook message. Can’t wait.

Oh yea. I don’t have a gun and I’m 5’6”. No need to sound the alarm. Trust me.

- Marty

It sounds like I'm trying really hard. I know. And the thing is, I was. And I don't give shit. I wouldn't even take back the Scattegories joke if I had the opportunity. Even at the time I thought, "This is a terrible joke." But I put it in there because...well...why the fuck not? I kind of like what I wrote to her. Mostly because it was honest. It probably doesn't exude confidence, but I wasn't, so why would it? I don't know the rules of asking chicks out through Facebook. If there were rules, the person that came up with them should walk the plank because sitting around and thinking of rules on how to ask girls out on Facebook is the only thing lamer than...asking girls out on Facebook.

I don't know if this is some sort of epiphany or mid-life crisis. No matter how much I joke around about being a pervert or being creepy, I never act on any of those things in public. In fact, I spend hours obsessing on ways to not come off as creepy. It's the true reason I don't talk to girls at bars. I know that they know that my only interest at that moment is to hug them really long and really really hard. Where has this gotten me? And why do I give a shit if some cute 27 (?) year-old girl wearing a pantsuit to a bar thinks I'm creepy? She don't know me. I'm a grown ass man. I will not spend any more hours of my life worrying about sounding creepy. Probably.

She never responded. It would have been nice if she had but I didn't lose any sleep over it. Honestly. I would have lost sleep if I had never tried. But I did, and I was honest, I can't be ashamed or embarrassed by that.

Either way, I'll just continue looking up at the stars in the sky. For once in my life, I believe one day I'll have my very own.

Actually I hope I have one main one and then like four or five on the side.

Right Between The Eyes.

After work on Monday, I wasn't too tired and decided it was time to find my summer hat. I want something big and ridiculous. Mostly to make sure strangers have no interest in talking to me (shouldn't be hard if they are the proud owner of a vagina), and also because I'm ready to tap into my Latino heritage. Not.

I already see one I would wear every day.

I was standing on the train, in front of the doors, waiting for my stop, listening to OJ Da Juiceman. If you've ever taken a ride on any public train, you know how obnoxious and crazy the people can be so if you're tired from a long day at work, it's better to just pop in those earbuds and lose yourself in your chosen soundscape. I've often thought about how many times I've fucked myself over because of my headphones drowning out the conductors instructions about changed train lines. And how I hope nobody ever gets on the train firing an Uzi because the Gucci Mane/Juicy J songs I often listen to have every kind of gunshot somehow worked into the beat. I don't want the real ones to blend in.

On Monday, nothing seemed to be different. As the train pulled up to my stop (West 4th on an uptown C train) I turned around and patiently waited for the doors to open. I could see 2 people on the other side waiting to get on. One was a girl who looked like she was good at college and the other was a chubby black dude wearing a tucked in button down shirt and although I couldn't hear anything he was saying (because of the doors and my headphones) it quickly became apparent that he was upset about something. I could see his mouth moving as if he were yelling and his double chin a-jigglin'. I couldn't hear a thing.

Every person over the age of 11 (this might be generous) should understand that when you are outside of a train (or pretty much anything that you're trying to get into), it is polite to let everyone exit before you make your way inside (this includes hookers, obviously). Imagine if everyone in New York ignored this. It'd be impossible to get off the train. I'd probably still be wedged into some fat lady from New Jersey's fupa rolls, complaining about how lonely and short I am. Or imagine if you hailed a taxi that was pulling up to drop someone off and you just opened the door and got in, not letting the passengers get out. I can't imagine that's the best way to make new friends. (I've seriously wondered what age I will be when I start walking around SoHo waiting for taxis filled with models to pull up, just so I can open the door and barge in and hope one of them not only believes in Love At First Sight but also believes in Love At First Sight With A Little Racially Ambiguous Dude Who Complains All The Fucking Time And Can Barely Touch The Net On A Basketball Rim Even When He Takes A Running Start. The odds are against me.) 

As the doors opened, this chubby angry black dude (let's call him Mean Cee-Lo) stormed onto the train, yelling something I couldn't hear thanks to Mr. Juiceman, and tried to push me (and whoever was behind me patiently waiting to exit) back. For some reason, it instantly pissed me off so I shoved back and pushed him off the train. At this point I could tell he was still yelling and he grabbed the sleeve of my hoodie. I yanked and kept on walking towards the exit but quickly noticed he was not going to let go any time soon. He then tried to grab me and as I leaned all my weight towards the exit, I decided to shift it all back in the other direction as quickly as possible. I let my right fist steer my body. It was all a reaction. By the time I noticed what was going on my fist was about an inch from Mean Cee-Lo's lower forehead. 

Right where his fingers are touching. That's where my fist made a crash landing. I was aiming for his nose but you can't have everything you want in life.

I don't fight. Sure I talk an unbelievable amount of shit, especially if I'm hanging out with some big friends and I have a few too many Cosmos, but I never let it get out of hand. Especially not on a train platform where any number of crazy accidents can occur. And let's face it, I'm not ashamed to run. I've often said if they ever sent me to war, I'd spend all day playing dead or hiding. That, of course, would fill time in between my epic masturbatory sessions.

When my fist landed I realized what was going on. Mean Cee-Lo was obviously a bit dazed and plenty shocked. I don't think he expected some little bitchass Bruno Mars lookin' dude to have the balls to throw a punch. But it happened. As he tried to regain his footing, I backed away and squared up, ready to defend myself. He gained his balance, looked at me and completely surprised me.

He turned and got on the train, just as the doors closed. As I walked away, adjusting my stretched out hoodie and trying to make sense of what just happened, I looked around to see if anyone had noticed. It didn't seem like many people did. Or maybe New Yorkers are so used to seeing bullshit they've grown numb to it all. 1 year and 6 months in New York. That's how long it took me to punch somebody in the face. I'm glad I did it but I hope it never happens again. Next time, I'm sure I'll find myself on the track, in 9 different pieces, one more pathetic and dead as the next.

As the train passed I looked inside the car I had been riding and saw Mean Cee-Lo screaming. I have to believe that I gave him something new to yell about.

I never found a hat.

Fat guy in a little shirt.

Making fun of the way people dress is always fun but always far too easy. I do it often. When I walk dogs around the Financial District, I often find myself wondering, "Why do all these evil super-rich cocksmooches look so goddamn terrible?" Those commercials for those oversized Men's Wearhouse suits are really hittin' home with this crowd. But why is this the case?

One and a half men.

I'll admit I probably pay more attention to what people are wearing in old pictures, old movies, and period pieces, than most people do. And I'm also pretty interested in what the people around me are wearing. New York is a lot different than Chicago in that people (both men and women) care a great deal more about their clothes. And what happens is that you get a lot of guys that overdo it and look too cool for school (or gay) and a bunch of women that look like straight up idiots. "What the hell is she wearing?" is the question I ask myself the most. (It's right behind, "What's wrong with my rape eyes?")

I don't think people should spend countless hours and dollars on their appearance. If you don't give a shit, cool. Good for you. I just wonder why the "Button Down Shirt. Jeans. And Square Dress Shoes. Guys." are so bad at buying and wearing halfway decent looking clothes. They sincerely believe they look good/great/grand/wonderful. (If you don't think so then consider this, why do they put gel in their hair? Because they like the way it feels?) But of course there is something they all lack, and not just in the way they dress. It's Personality. Obviously.

Welfare line.

Big finance firms (the fact that I called them "finance firms" proves my ignorance for all these Wall Street corporations, I have no idea what they do) are very strange places. If I were to line up the team of young employees and pick the ones that stood out, on appearance alone, it'd be impossible. Because everyone (even the Indian guy scratching his balls in the back) all look the same. Clones. I've been told that "uncreative types" go into these fields and therefore I shouldn't be surprised that they don't have any personality in the way they dress. But I think that's bullshit. If you look at any old pictures from the Great Depression, you'll see guys standing in welfare lines that look better than the Express'd (for Men) out millionaires that cruise around lower Manhattan. Are these people afraid they'll lose their jobs for stirring up trouble with a halfway decent shirt and tie that isn't silk? I'd rather wear the Taco Bell uniform than the Asshole uniform.

People don't have "style" because they're boring and lazy. And that translates into how they dress. That's really all there is to it. But I guess it's convenient. When these dudes want to go out, they can just untuck their shirts, take off their ties, spray some fresh Axe, and go out and face rape chicks.

Baron. Get yourself a new shirt. Even inanimate objects like those buttons don't deserve that abuse.

OK. I'm done talking about that. Look at the buttons on that shirt. HOLY MOLY! (Just spent 15 minutes figuring out where this saying came from (even looked up "Moley") and the only conclusion I can come to is that "Moly" is used in that expression because it rhymes with Holy." Boring.) For some reason it reminds of this...

BUTTONS: "NO MAN TITTIES ARE POPPING OUT TODAY!"