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Posts Tagged ‘dates’

• Bag a British Bloke with Cockney Rhyming Slang?

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on March 6, 2013 | 12 Comments »

Ladies love men with accents. It’s a cliché, one so grounded in reality that a dating website called iloveyouraccent.com actually exists. Anyone who has read my dramatic Safa Boy Saga (and if you haven’t I really recommend it, it’s the most shocking my blog has ever been) knows the author’s fondness for foreign fellas. When a new guy showed up at my interactive theatre job, a new British guy, it was inevitable. Before the week was up I found myself sitting next to him at the pub, sharing a pint. Did I throw myself at him? Probably. I giggled at his cheeky sense of humor, asked him about horrible clichés (“what’s up with fish and chips?”), and sat enamored by every dulcet word escaping his lips.

Where does the origin of my admiration of Great Britain lie? Perhaps the seeds were sewn while watching the BBC sitcom Are You Being Served?  in the kitchen with my father as he cooked dinner. Or with bedtime stories from the Sherlock Holmes canon. Or with the height of Hugh Grant and Collin Farrell fame coinciding with my adolescence. Or the adorable-ness of The Beatles, immortalized in all songs and movies they ever created. Yes to all those, but also: it’s in my blood.

The-Beatles

So bloody cute [credit: fanpop.com]

 

I have long identified my self as a WASP: White, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant. That’s as specific as I can get concerning my heritage, and it’s down right boring. I am American. The last generation from either side of my family to immigrate to the United States has long since left memory. My given name is decidedly English, like at a “John Smith” level, and of the mix of European countries that compose my genetic code, Britain claims the largest percentage. This is something I’ve always clung to; the UK is infinitely more romantic than the US of A.

Flag on Britain MapI have never set foot on British soil. The closest I ever got was a layover in Heathrow Airport. I have certainly pretended to be on British soil a silly number of times, what with several plays and summers working at a Renaissance fair. My British accent is quite convincing, I’ve fooled scores of non-natives. Given all this, the fact I was drinking Stellas with a man who was born and raised on British land was exciting enough. That he had forsaken his homeland as a young adult, left it for my homeland was intriguing.

Brits have a significant American advantage as foreigners go: there is little language barrier. I’m familiar enough to know if a Brit says he wants to “bum a fag” he’s looking for a cigarette, not being a homophobic douche. That was just an example, my Brit doesn’t actually smoke. I beg him to tell me what other words differ across the pond. “Fanny” I already knew thanks to the film Billy Elliot (a tamer word for “butt” vs. a slang term for “vagina”). “Pants” means underpants. They actually say “tellie” for television and a “biscuit” is a cookie.

CRS

image: greatbritishmag.co.uk

Then the Brit opens a wardrobe of Narnia proportions: “Are you familiar with CRS?”
“No…I know RSC, Royal Shakespeare Company. Is that the dyslexic version?”
“No, not quite,” he laughs, “It’s Cockney Rhyming Slang.”

Cockney Rhyming Slang is intense. There are all sorts of fun theories as to its origin- if it was developed as a game or if it was made to befuddle outsiders. What’s for sure is that if you are unfamiliar, it makes absolutely no sense. It is not an easily cracked code. Or “a la mode” as you’d say in CRS.

CRS most often takes a phrase of two things, rhymes one of the words with the word you normally use, then cuts off the rhyming word so what your left with seems completely unrelated. That made no sense? It’s impossible to understand without an example. So here is the common example. Say you’re going up the stairs. “Stairs” rhymes with “apples and pears”. Now subtract the rhyming word, you’re left with “apples”. So instead of “going up the stairs” you’d say “going up the apples”.

You want a beer, you order a “Britney”. “Britney Spears” rhymes with “beers”. You lost your phone, you’ve lost your “dog and bone”. You got hit in the head, it’s a blow to your “loaf”. “Loaf of bread” rhymes with “head”.

CockneyRhymingSlang-colour-lores

The blog I nicked this from is really fantastic: paulbommer.blogspot.com (click for direct link).

I love it. I am horrible at learning new languages. I struggled with basic French in high school and again in college. I am abysmally mono-lingual. But Cockney Rhyming Slang, I could learn that! Okay, so it’s not actually a different language. Also, a large part of my motivation comes from the fact the person who taught it to me is an attractive man…But still! It is based on wit and cleverness! It’s perfect for me!

The day after my date I faced the all too common dilemma: I want to text him, but is it too soon? Yes. But maybe just one text to say I had a nice time and thank him for the drinks? I mean, that is polite. Right? Then it hit me- the absolute perfect text. One so fitting, cute and clever I beamed with joy as I hit send:

My attempt at CRS: Sending machine guns, I had a rats lemon last night. 

Was it too subtle? I wondered. No, I thought to myself, He’s smart and clever, he could easily get it. And even if he doesn’t, he’s guaranteed to text me back. He did text me back almost immediately, unable to figure out my first Rhyming Slang attempt! I confess I was a bit disappointed. What about you dear reader? Can you figure out the slang, and see what was actually a very simple text?

“Machine guns and tanks” rhymes with thanks. “Rats and mice” rhymes with nice. “Lemon and lime” rhymes with time.

Sending thanks, I had a nice time last night. 

Clever or ridiculous? Cheeky or trying way too hard? A second date did come of this; is Cockney Rhyming Slang to thank, or did I snag the date despite my overzealous attempts? Can I go to England just so I can utilize witty rhymes in all my pick up lines? Hairy Knees? (Please?)

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• The Man I Met at Goodwill

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , on August 16, 2012 | 6 Comments »

I go to thrift stores in search of designer dresses priced by people who think Betsey Johnson makes packaged desserts. I go to find garments that are almost too hip for me to pull of- like a blue suede tunic with fringe around the plunging neck line. I do not go thrifting to meet men. But if anyone in New York City is going to get picked up in a Goodwill, of course it’s going to be me.

I earn my living by being friendly and approachable. Sometimes I forget to turn this off. Therefore I am often asked for directions, drawn into random conversations, and asked for my opinions in dressing rooms. The last one is the weirdest. Does the overweight woman really think I’m going to tell her the truth (that she should go up a size) when she asks me what I think of the dress she’s tried on? Maybe she asks me because she knows I will lie: “Perfect for a wedding.” Does the middle-aged woman really think I have a valid opinion on the beige sweater she is trying on? “Looks cozy,” I say aloud, leaving my true thought, “and shapeless” to myself.

One Sunday morning I’m browsing the racks of the Goodwill on the Upper West Side when I hear a man’s voice, “What do you think of this jacket?”
I turn to see a guy around my age wearing a bright blue jacket with the name STEVE embroidered on the breast pocket. “Is your name ‘Steve’?” I ask.
“No. It’s Peter,” he replies.
“Well, it would be cool if your name was actually STEVE.” Were he a woman my reply would have most likely been, “Looks great!” but since he’s a man…in Goodwill…asking a pretty girl for fashion advice…I feel invited to be something of a sassy-pants. Besides, my true thought is it’s a dorky looking jacket.
steve-name-patch-with-merrow-border-red-white

While I’m not a fan of dorky jackets, the same is not so true of dorky men. Especially when they’re kind of cute, which Peter is. Besides, there’s something bizarre but intriguing about a man who makes a move at Goodwill. Shortly after, “So I told you my name, you should tell me yours”, a conversation about grad school, and a confession that he’s about to move to the neighborhood, Peter leaves Goodwill. He’s purchased the dorky jacket and procured my phone number. He’s been told if he wears the jacket on a date, I’ll immediately walk out. He thinks I’m kidding.

Alas, the moral of this story is “Don’t meet men at Goodwill.” Shocking, I know. Peter asks me out to a movie. My least favorite first date option. On the plus side, he doesn’t wear the jacket. We meet at the theater, with barely enough time for a conversation before we are sitting in silence in front of the big screen. This is not how you get to know someone. In the middle of the movie, Peter puts his hand on my leg. This is not how you get to know someone, and it’s certainly not how you attract someone. I remove his hand and think, At least he paid for the movie.

Perhaps I should have left right after the movie, but then I wouldn’t have a great ending to the story. I give him some benefit of the doubt, he didn’t persist being handsy, and we go get coffee. Over a chai latte it becomes more and more clear we have little in common. He’s dull. My wit may attract him (doubtful, probably just my legs) but it leaves him in the dust. I’m now looking for my exit.

throwing trash basketballHe finishes his drink and aims his cup at the garbage can by the door. “Do you think I can make the shot?” he asks.
“Do you play basketball?” I counter.
“No.”
“Hm, no. I don’t think you’ll make it.”
“Well let’s make this interesting,” he says, “If I make it, you give me a kiss.”
“Ok,” I say, hedging my bets, “And if you don’t make it, I leave.”
“High stakes.”
“Go big or go home.”

He didn’t make the shot. True to my word, I walked out of the café. Perfect exit. I never saw him again.

I’ll still look for love in Goodwill, but only in the shoe selection.

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• A Date with My Elementary School Nemesis: Running Uphill

Posted in Blast from the Past, Home Town SF, Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , on March 29, 2012 | 16 Comments »

It’s that time of year again. The time of year when seemingly well-adjusted, proudly independent young adults want to cry for their mommies and daddies. “I don’t wanna do my taxes! I dowaaannnnaaaa!!” My unconventional profession means I have a huge stack of tax forms to file, 15 in total. I anticipate filing my taxes will be about as painful as it was getting my tonsils removed, especially since I’m sure I owe the government money. Oh how I wish I was a kid again.

elementaryschool

This is an actual picture of my second grade class! I believe it is the only picture that exists (on the internet anyway) of me and my Elementary School Nemesis. Taken almost two decades prior to our date.

I know I will never be a kid again, I’m no Benjamin Button, but I have discovered a few ways to feel like a kid again.

  1. See the Wednesday matinée of any Broadway show (excluding Book of Mormon). Sit in the orchestra. Notice that 90% of the audience is well past retirement age. No one can feel old in this audience. If you are my age, you feel like a child.
  2. Order something from an ice cream truck. Something with rainbow sprinkles, strawberry flavored, in a novelty shape, or all of the above. Walk down the street eating it. Focus on how good it tastes, not the looks strangers are giving you or the fact you will probably get some on your shirt. If your hands are sticky, lick them.
  3. Go on a date with your Elementary School Nemesis.

◊

We had a lot of ground to cover, both literally and metaphorically. It was the first day of my visit to San Francisco, his last. Both of us hungry to take in our home town, the city where we had both been born and raised. But first we were just hungry. So we headed down the hill to North Beach, San Francisco’s “Little Italy”.

North Beach

North Beach, San Francisco

As with any trip in a city of your past, our walk was full of reminiscences and memories. “Hey, that’s the tree where I saw my beloved pet parakeet for the last time”, and “See? That park is where I broke my arm 3 times” (he spent most of third grade with his arm in a cast. I never signed it.) More fun however, were the things we remembered from our mutual past in elementary school.

“I remember a poem you wrote about bees.” I said. He laughed, “How the hell do you remember that? I don’t remember that at all.” ”I remember because the teacher read it out loud to the class instead of my poem. I was way jealous.” He laughed again, even harder, “Of course you remember that.” He grinned and took my hand. I smiled, “I never expected that story would make you want hold my hand.”

“Do you remember that Russian kid, Victor? In second grade?”
“Yeah, I think so, why?” I replied.
“That kid could barely speak any English but man, he was good at math.”
“That’s a random thing to remember.”
“Well, I copied off all his tests.”
“You didn’t!”
“Yeah I did!”
“Aw man, I wish I’d known that.”
“Why?”
“Because I so would have told on you.” I said and we both burst out laughing. It was too true. He squeezed my hand. There we were, holding hands: the little poet who cheated on tests and the little tattle-tale who wanted everything she did to be the best in the class.

“When I mentioned to my mother I was seeing you, she said, ‘Why? So you can push her in a mud puddle?’” “You better not!” I cried, surveying the bone-dry ground for possible traps. “I think you’re safe…for now,” he said. It was funny, we still pushed each other’s buttons (to use the cliché) like we had all through elementary school. The big difference was now there was chemistry, the pushing was blatantly flirtatious.

We ate lunch at a little café with drawings all over the walls. After a thoroughly satisfying pasta, we wandered around North Beach. Passing Washington Square Park (yes, there are parks with this name in both San Francisco and New York), Nemesis sighed, “Man, I wish I had my frisbee!” “How SoCal of you,” I teased, “You wanna kick off your shoes? Toss a frisbee around the grass? Chill out? Smoke some grass?” I’ve lived in NYC long enough to make fun of Californians, even though I’ll always be a proud native of the Golden State. “I’m so glad you don’t have your frisbee. I beyond suck at frisbee.” See? I still talk like a Californian. But I play frisbee like a New Yorker.

Washington Sq

Washington Square Park at sunset

The way back to his car was, of course, several blocks up hill. We were tired by the last block, the steepest so far. “Oh these hills!” I said, “Gotta love them.” “I’m going to kick this hill ass,” Nemesis announced and then began running up the incline. I giggled like a little kid and chased after him. I didn’t have a hope of catching him, “This isn’t fair! You had a head start! I haven’t been through basic training! Your legs are half a foot longer than mine!” I wheezed. He stopped and waited for me, grinning. No sooner did I reach him then I saw something, and started running again.

Near the top of the hill there was a Christmas tree placed by the curb, waiting for trash collection (this dates my story and forces me to reveal this all happened months ago, in January.) On top of the tree was a Christmas wreath. When I saw that wreath I couldn’t resist. It was the perfect shape. I ran to grab it. Holding it triumphantly in my hands I yelled to Nemesis, “Look, it’s your frisbee! Here, catch!” I said, and chucked it towards the ground by his feet. He covered his face, afraid I would hit him. “What! You think I would throw it at your head? Who do you think I am?!” ”I don’t know! You said you were bad at frisbee!” Then we were both laughing and a moment later we were kissing. Nemesis and Cliché standing by a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.

[Want more on Nemesis? See my previous posts: A Date with My Elementary School Nemesis: "Background" and "He's in the Navy"]

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• A Date with My Elementary School Nemesis: Background

Posted in Blast from the Past, Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , on January 24, 2012 | 5 Comments »

Hair pulling, teasing, pinching, name-calling, tattling, insulting, fighting. Oh boy, did we have a history.

Last week I went on a date with my elementary school nemesis.

You could say it was a date 2 months in the making. You could say it was a date 20 years in the making.

You could say it started with a Facebook message. You could say it started with a playground game of “Farmer in the Dell“.

When he picked me up for our date, my first glimpse of him was through the windshield of his brand-new BMW. It was the first time I’d seen him in almost a decade. The last time we’d seen each other was in high school, an interaction so brief he doesn’t even remember it. I, however, have a memory like the sticky traps city dwellers place in the crack behind their refrigerators. It doesn’t just catch the big mouse-sized memories; it catches dust, hair, any small particle. Besides, it’s hard to forget when someone makes you feel like shit.

It was one of the few house parties I went to in high school, some friend of a friend’s sweet sixteen. With probably fifty teenagers in attendance, this was not a rager but still a great party from my not-a-cool-kid perspective. While the birthday girl’s parents cut the cake, a live ska band played in the front room. The front man was about 6’2, still with the same fiery hair and cocky attitude he’d had since age 5. I had not seen him post-puberty but I recognized him immediately as my Elementary School Nemesis. He looked remarkably the same and yet so different… The little boy who had given me constant cause for cootie shots was now grown up, and inextricably attractive.

I, however, was unrecognizable from my elementary school self. My signature blonde pigtails replaced by an androgynous shaggy bob, so abused by home dye-jobs it looked like the worst-case-scenerio of a tye-dye shirt: when all the colors blend together and you’re left with something you’ll never wear. The adorable pink dresses that defined my K-5 signature style replaced by my teenaged signature style: best described as part punk-rock part creeps-leave-me-alone-if-I-wear-shapeless-clothing. The know-it-all nature I was known for in fourth grade had morphed into the awkward insecurity of a teenaged girl.

I was a cross between the weird girl in “The Breakfast Club” (but I wasn’t that weird) and pre-makeover Rachel Leigh Cook in “She’s All That” (but I wasn’t that hot).

I wasn’t the kind of girl who approached the lead singer of a band (as you know) or any kind of attractive teenaged boy for that mater (which might explain my recent travesty with just such a nineteen year-old). It was no small thing that I squeaked his name inquisitively as he walked right by me, “Nemesis?” He turned, “Yeah?” There was no look of recollection in his eyes, instead I saw the glaring sentiment: Girls like you don’t usually talk to boys like me. I swallowed, “New York Cliché, remember me?” He looked at me in disbelief, “New York Cliché? No way,” he scoffed. Then he laughed, that cruel way only attractive teenage boys can, “New York Cliché… do you still tell on every one all the time?” There was no friendliness in his voice. I do not recall my reply. I know I managed to refrain from running away to cry in the bathroom. That was the last time I saw or heard from my Elementary School Nemesis until about two months ago.

How did we get from there to actually going on a date? Stay Tuned.

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• How My Bike Got Its Name or My Huge Crush on a Safa

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2011 | 1 Comment »

[This is Part One of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction] 

Are you growing a beard? I ask him playfully.

I ask this question far too often. In my mind growing a beard means one of two things: you’re a college student or an actor. Therefore when I ask the question I expect an interesting answer: “Yeah, I’m so consumed with work on my thesis on [pretentious topic although it could make the world a better place], shaving seems trivial. Plus I think a beard will make me look intellectual.” or “Yes, I just got cast as Henry V.” In my mind Are you growing a beard is a conversation starter.  In reality it’s far more often a conversation dead-end: “No, I’m not  growing a beard, just lazy.” Ah, lazy, that’s attractive. (Like I should talk. I’m currently in major Fuck Shaving Legs Til Spring mode. But that’s not “written all over my face” so to speak.)

No trouble with attractiveness here, scruff or no scruff. Nor is there trouble with my potential conversation killer; he turns it into the conversation starter I always hope it to be. “I wish I could grow a beard! It’s too sparse, won’t grow properly. Look, I have a patch under my chin that just won’t grow. It’s completely smooth. Feel.”

Yes, I am at a bar with a guy who can’t grow a beard. Yes, that means he’s under 21. No, it’s not my first date with the under 21 set. (Remember Trader Joe’s Guy?) Yes, that means I did not learn my lesson. Yes, I touch his face and yes, moments later we’re kissing. I haven’t had a real crush since Sideburns Guy, and that was totally unrequited. I almost forgot how awesome it is to kiss your crush.

_______________________________________________________________

It had been a long weekend. Of working and flirting. Being in the theatre world means working weekends. Fortunately 8 hours of promoting goes by fast when you have a big ol’ crush on a guy promoting not 10 feet away from you. In between sales pitches we play the Get To Know You Game. He’s a “working traveler”, hailing from South Africa, on a trip around the world. So far he’s been all over Europe, now he’s in New York for 6 weeks, next stop Barbados. So you’re a drifter. I say.

During visits to the MOMA in the past 3 years, there is one photograph that struck me more than any other. I don’t remember the photographer, or the title, or even what it looked like exactly. I remember the description: “unknown drifter”. I fell in love with that description and the hazy memory of the image.  Ever since the word and concept of a “drifter” became heavily romanticized in my mind. “Moon River” featured in both “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Sex and the City” only adds to that.

Get To Know You Game continues for about a week. He’s a drifter, world traveler, just my physical type, intelligent, makes me laugh, and has a lovely South African accent.  I’m even more of a goner than I was before. At this point nothing can squash my level of crush and the prospect of a whirlwind fling. Not even when the game reveals he’s NINETEEN. That’s okay, I think to myself. He may be too young to drink, but that’s only in America. He’s not from America so it doesn’t count! Besides, I won’t get too attached, it’ll make the 6 week expiration date easy. This is I HAVE A HUGE CRUSH rational.

On Sunday night, the end of my week, he still hasn’t asked for my phone number. I hand him my phone and tell him I want his. Then I head off to a rehearsal. On the bike ride there my mind is buzzing: I’m not going to see my Safa (that’s slang for South African) until Thursday due to how our work schedules match up.  I have his phone number, I could take a risk here. It would likely be fun, what’s the worst that could happen? Finally a quick debate of passive vs. proactive. All that in the 7 minute ride to rehearsal.

Of course I texted him: Hope your day got better [it was a slow day for sales], if not I want to buy you a drink. Say yes. Apparently having a huge crush leads me to encourage underage drinking… He says yes. I speed bike home and scream at my roommate I’m meeting a hot South African for a drink in 15 minutes, I need something cute to wear but I don’t want it to look like I came home to change! He’s only ever seen me bundled up in a coat! Having a huge crush puts me Silly School Girl Mode, but you already knew that.

You know where this is going: two Stellas and some conversation later, I’m touching his face and we’re making out. Crush still intact. As two drinks in my limit these days (not to make Patti Stanger proud but because I have the lowest tolerance ever and I’m through puking on subway platforms), I’m about  ready to leave.

The bill comes and we bicker about it. I have no cash, he only has a $20.  I said I was buying you a drink. I’m a woman of my word, I say putting my debit card on the table. He hands me the $20, tries to slip it in my pocket, I refuse to take it. No means no! “Fine.” He plunks the $20 on the bar and says to the bartender, “Mate, you better thank her. You just got a huge tip thanks to her being a stubborn arse.” If an American called me a stubborn ass I’d probably get upset. When a South African calls me that, it’s adorable. Also adorable: how this bill got paid (in my mind anyway).

Our adorableness is confirmed by a woman standing outside the bar. A couple kisses standing next to my bike and instead of the standard “Get a room.” she says “I’m sorry, you guys are totally adorable.” She was probably drunk but that doesn’t change the fact.

I unlock my bike and he tells me how awesome it is. Yes, it is! He asks if it has a name. No, it doesn’t. Which is surprising coming from a girl who named her butt cheeks (Hank and Melvin; I was 15). No name has seemed right thus far. “You should call it Jabulani“, he says, “That means ‘Happiness’ in Zulu.” Did I mention the boy is fluent in English, Italian, and Afrikaans? Against all odds the name stuck. I still call my bike Jabulani.

Jabulani pretty much describes my feelings. Happy, tipsy, wheeling my bike with one-handed so I can hold my crush’s in the other. There’s a moment of “So what do we do now?” and it’s pretty obvious what he wants to do. It’s a first date, every other time I send the guy home with a good night kiss if he’s lucky. Tonight I do something I’ve never done before. I invite him back to my place. Got his phone number, made a date, got drinks, brought him back to my apartment- all in less than 6 hours. Apparently when I have a huge crush on a someone who is leaving the country in 6 weeks, this is how I roll.

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Two]

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• I Don’t Know How To Date Boys With Cars

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , on April 13, 2010 | 4 Comments »

My parents don’t own a car- they never have during my lifetime. They bike or walk everywhere, maybe take public transportation if it’s raining or a cross-city trip. This would be normal in NYC- more people than not live a car-free in this city. In my sphere of friends and acquaintances, no one owns a car around these parts except my former college professor who lives in NYC but commutes to Massachusetts to teach theatre 3 days per week (talk about a horrible commute!)

I went on a date a couple weeks ago and the guy picked me up, at my door, in a car. He was driving in from New Jersey- it shouldn’t have been that weird, but I was 200% thrown. I’m a city girl with limited experience with cars in general, but absolutely no experience with cars on a date. I didn’t know how to greet my date- the normal hug or handshake I wouldn’t think twice about on the street seemed impossible as I climbed into the vehicle. Perhaps this would have been helped had he gotten out and opened the door for me, though such a gesture would have been ludicrous double-parked on a narrow one way street (and made me feel like I’d stepped out of my apartment and into the 1950s).

The date never fully recovered from this awkward start. Dinner and a movie (well films, technically- the 2009 Academy Award nominated short films) in the village. Classification: OK First Date. An OK First Date usually merits a second in my book- I’ll give the benefit of the nerves/bad hair day/whatever. But as he neared my street in his SUV (circa 2000, so not totally reprehensible but still..) I realized I couldn’t do this again when the thought of a good night kiss crossed my mind. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to kiss him but the thing was: even if I did want to, I’d have to overcome even more obstacles than usual. Not just nerves and fear of bad breath and rejection but how do I lean over and not impale myself on the gear shift? How does this already awkward prone gesture have a prayer on front-facing seats? It doesn’t.

Too many added complications. I didn’t kiss him. Didn’t hug him. Just said good-bye and never saw him again. If I were him, I’d probably have spent hours obsessing wonder as to why I didn’t want a second date. He’d never guess his car was the deal breaker.

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• Man on the Street

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on March 4, 2010 | 4 Comments »

This is the story of the time I picked up a guy on a New York City street. It doesn’t just happen on TV.

On December 31st 2009 I lost my Unlimited Monthly Metro Card. I’m sure I was not alone in my plight, I’d even hazard a guess that more people lose their Metro Cards on New Year’s Eve than any other night of the year. For most people, you suck it up and buy a new one, start the year fresh. For me this carelessness changed my life.

The card was due to expire on January 5th, so the loss was rather small considering the monthly scale. But considering 6 days and $2.25 a pop fare, I decided to see how far I could get avoiding the subway. Pretty far, I’ve discovered. I haven’t bought an Unlimited Metro Card since.

And so I’ve been walking to and from work everyday. Well, every day it doesn’t snow. I love starting the day this way- fresh air, sunshine (if I’m lucky), and people watching. It’s wonderful to be in control of my commute, picking up the pace when I’m late rather than pacing in frustration when a subway is delayed. I enjoy seeing familiar faces on the streets, people who do the same walk as me every day. Shop keepers rolling up security doors, setting out produce in the morning. High schoolers traveling in packs, often comical in their naiveté and the fact that I know I was much the same and just as annoying during that phase. Dog walkers and the hideous, absurd winter get-ups they inflict upon their animals. The dad walking his two little girls  (ages 6 and 9 maybe) to school everyday, his back laden with Hannah Montana backpacks, his hands grasping little pink mitten-ed hands  makes me think of my daddy and our elementary school walks.

The walk home occurs less frequently and is generally less “savored”. Getting home is a goal that drives me more than getting to work and thus I’m less prone to distraction. Plus it’s often dark- harder to see things. It takes something bigger than dog sweaters and a colorful fruit display to get my attention.

The other day I was walking home from a rehearsal. It was about 9PM and I was lost in my own thoughts when I blinked and noticed the man walking two paces in front of me. Can you measure a person’s attractiveness from their back? I can’t. Sometimes I think I can and wind disappointed. That’s not what brought my eyes to staring at this guy. It was the banjo he had strapped on his back.

Now I live right by Lincoln Center and work in the Theatre District; Julliard students lugging around upright bases and pit orchestra players with trombone cases strapped to their backs are a common sight. But a banjo? Who plays the banjo and then walks up 9th Ave with the naked instrument slung over his shoulder like a messenger bag? I was driven to find out, more so than I was driven to get home.

My (annoying but I’m making progress to change it) proclivity of waiting for people for people to come to me gets trumped when I have something  very specific to come to with said person. With Banjo Guy I have just that. I need answers to all questions this banjo brings to mind.

I sidled up next to him,“So I have to ask, do you carry the banjo around just to look cool or do you actually play it?” (I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s a better line than my Trader Joe’s check out line line.)
He looks at the person assaulting him on the street (me), our eyes meet (me to myself: now lookie there he is cute! that’s lucky. Possibly a hipster, definitely from Brooklyn, the banjo indicates clear musical tendencies…), and he smiles at me (dimples!! ahhh!).
“You think it makes me look cool?”
I am so in. That’s not a Uh, why are you talking to me? Not a Fuck off, rando. Not even a Oh you think you’re clever? Nice try. It’s a genuine Ok, I accept your random offer of conversation, it’s welcome rather than weird. Sweet.

hipsterrelativity1

I would later learn he had a fixie bike in addition to the banjo. Along with many ironic t-shirts and leather jackets. And hipster glasses that he occasionally wore. On top of it all, he denied being a hipster, thus making him the perfect cliche. [image credit: dustinland.com]

Our conversation begins in the west 40s- I’m walking to the 60s (home), he’s looking for a bar to get a drink. Where in Hell’s Kitchen, he could have found a bar at pretty much any point during our 20 block walk. But he doesn’t, he walks with me all the way up the street. My burning questions answered: He dabbles in being a street musician (omg! me too! Christmas caroling for ever!) when he’s not tailoring men’s suits (omg you’re not an actor? I extra ♥ you!). Yep, he lives in Brooklyn (told ya!!!) Seems nice, a little bit off sense of humor, but I might like it.

I’m the one who ends the walk – needing to make the necessary veer left to get home.  Before I make said veer, Banjo Guy asks for my phone number. Striking up a conversation on the street? Total success. Not only that, he actually used the number to call me and make a date. Which actually happened last night. No blog worthy story from it (I’m spoiled. My first two first dates in NY were good stories. I now think all first dates should all be that way and this is far from reality) but it was a good date.

Yes, I had fun. Maybe I like him. No, didn’t bring his banjo along.

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