The Comedy Club
Once I became single again, my friends took it upon themselves to start casually introducing me to every single one of their male friends in the hopes that I would find love. I should have told them that I wasn't ready for love. I wasn't even ready for lust. I was still in recovery mode.
It's funny how first instincts are always right. Usually we form an opinion about something on a shockingly-valid snap judgement, then we take a second look, get additional data, and create what we assume to be a more educated second opinion. Like when Danny Charbonneau asked me to go see Shyamalan's "Signs" with him at the Sherwood Theaters. I was only thirteen, but somehow my intuition told me it would be a horrible film, so I politely declined. And then he took his shirt off, and then I said yes.
So when my friend Paulina insisted that I have a date with her old Jewish-Israeli classmate, David, I gave her a friendly, split-second "no". I had just recently dated a Jewish-Israeli man, and while I had loved and respected many of his qualities, I didn't think it would be wise to enter a new relationship with somone who, of all the people on this planet whom I could be dating, might share so many of the same habits and mannerisms.
"But Joooooni..." Paulina moaned, "You never humor me. You treat me like I don't know men. He's amazing, really. Don't you trust me?"
"That's really not the issue," I assured her.
"He's really active and athletic, and he loves to read."
"I don't--"
"He has a Ph.D in neuroscience from John Hopkins."
"Whoa, what is he, like fifty years old?"
"No, see, that's the thing!" she gushed. "He's only 29! Totally within your age range, and he's a genius, like you!"
"Hmm, that's pretty cool. What is he, like a brain surgeon or something?"
"No, he's involved in a research project that he got a federal grant for. He works to explore the nature of human spirituality and to define scientifically the interrelationship of thought, decision, and cognition."
"Wow, okay, maybe it wouldn't be that bad."
"See? Let me talk to him."
So she talked to him, and then he talked to me, and I talked to myself about whether or not I was ready to endure what could possibly be a date with the biggest nerd on the planet, and I decided that I was since the number one thing on my list of Priorities for Future Mate is intelligence, so I talked back to him and we talked about having a date.
"Where would you like me to take you, my dear?" he asked. He sounded friendly and easy-going.
"Well, we could go to the comedy club in Irvine. I've been going there for a few weeks now, and they have really hilarious improv."
"I have a friend who is a co-owner there. Let's go, it would be really great to meet up with him. I haven't seen him since we went to a mutual friend's wedding in Boston."
"Okay cool...well, the only night I am available is Tuesday night so...yeah, just pick me up or whatever." Not only do I hate dating, but I despise people who take forever to arrange simple details.
On Tuesday night at 6:57 he texted me that he was outside the gates of my apartments. His text had two smiley faces. I wore my mediumly-cute outfit because I wanted to show that I didn't much care to be dating, and that I never try too hard, and that deep down I was merely studious, as you would be if you were worthy of dating a neuroscientist.
I went down to meet him. Obviously Paula had showed me some pictures of him before we met, and I'd decided that mathematically I was fine with the fact that he was only moderately-good looking since John Hopkins + Ph.D > perfect teeth. He was okay in real life. He was dressed in a plaid button down and nice khaki pants and some awkward sneakers. He was probably about 5'11", and he had dark hair, dark eyes, and a short, dark beard. He was cute in a clumsy way, and if you took away his gangly clothes, he actually had a great body and a kind, chisely face. I decided maybe this wouldn't be too horrible.
We went back to his car, which was really old and really dirty. He isn't from the area, so I made up some excuse about how I knew how to get there better, and we should take my car. If you say it vaguely and quickly, the logic doesn't really matter.
The truth is that I hate when people drive me because almost everyone is a horrible driver, and I'm an artful liar when it comes to getting people to sit in my passenger seat once they've asked me to sit in theirs.
We went to the place; it wasn't too far away. We ate at a fancy restaurant, where he informed me that he's a vegetarian, which I respect, and that he never drinks or smokes, which I admire. I got salad and pizza because I don't believe in changing for anyone ever, and he got salad and steamed vegetables that smelled obnoxious. Or maybe it was our conversation that was obnoxious.
It started when I was asking about his decision to become a vegetarian. I always love hearing the story. For some people it's moral, for others it's a matter of health, but there are some really good stories, weird stories, if you move beyond that. I know one guy who switched after watching a Food Network show about hamburgers. Apparentely it was kind of gory. He threw up in his living room and never ate meat again.
"My friend from college is a nutritionist, see," David explained as he munched on a carrot, "I did my undergrad studies at Harvard--I mean, it's not a big deal or something. But I don't try to hide it. I mean, just so you know, I went there."
"Okay," I nodded encouragingly.
"So my friend was taking all these nutrition classes. Her name is Clara Bartlebey! Have you heard of her?"
"Sorry, no."
"Okay, well, she is kind of famous in the diet and exercise world. So she talked to my professor and I about making the switch. My professors and I were very close. We're still great friends to this day. Have you heard of Marcos Laurel?"
"I haven't." I smiled apologetically.
"He's one of the leading chemists in the industry. A really brilliant mind, you should hear him speak some time. We should go to one of his lectures."
"Which industry, exactly, do you mean? In the field of neuroscience? Medical research?"
"No, he's a chemist for Ford. He works on developing more effecient and effective fluids and fuels for them. I mean, he's a professor, too, you know."
"Ah, okay."
"So anyway, she sold us on it and we decided to make the switch. We joined a gym with another friend of ours, Leo Tropt. Have you read his work?"
"@#)(#%)(&#@%)(&@#%)(&#%???" I thought to myself.
Just because I was a neuroscientifical simpleton didn't give him the right to quiz me about everyone he'd met since birth. I may not be a biochemist but I am more well-effing-read than half of my country, that's for sure. So I changed the subject, which is one of my more well-developed social skills.
But the name-dropping was not limited to the vegetarian thing. I have never, ever talked to anyone at such length about their other friends. It was disarmingly bizzare. I felt like he was trying to sell me on the fact that he was an upstanding citizen by proving that he had more friends than any other human being.
"Oh man, I have to tell you this funny story. One time, I was talking to my friend Ben, and he's this rabbi in New York City, see, and he runs the biggest synagouge in all of New York..." On and on and on. He had a friend who was a hairdresser in Bali. He had a friend who knew the mayor of the town I was born in (not just creepy, but also extremely unlikely). He had a friend who turned down an opportunity to invest with Bill Gates back when Bill Gates was in college. He had a friend who invited him to book a speaking tour of colleges in the Mid West.
Every single thing we talked about, he had a friend who was not only associated with that subject, but who was an executive in it, or majored in it, or was the senator for it, or invented it.
I felt like he was throwing tomatoes at me while I was in the stocks in Douche Central. So I tried to eagerly change subjects entirely and take on the one thing that really interested me about David: his work.
"Paula told me about the project you're working on. It truly sounds amazing. I am fascinated by the functions of the mind and how it liases thought between the body and spirit."
He lit up when I mentioned his work, but not in the way I'd hoped. My postulate for this new branch of enthralling conversation was that, inspired by the passion he felt for this obviously-engaging field of research, he would feel at home enough to let his guard down and be himself--no such luck.
"Oooooooohhhhhhhhhhh my job is simply fascinating."
"Yes, tell me about that."
What followed was a white paper report of his medical findings, not an anecdote. It was insulting, not only because I do consider myself to have a well-versed academic vocabulary, but because he was tossing words out that he KNEW normal people couldn't POSSIBLY have an inkling of, like pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, coryza, and aniseikonia (these are real words; I checked). He gave me a twenty-three minute running commentary of every experiment he had engaged himself in since high school, and I could barely get a word in edgewise. I was drowning in an unbelieveable Sea of Mystery, chained underwater in the Doucheland Sound...so I volunteered that we skip dessert and get the check and head out to the show.
When the comedy club line turned out to be much longer than we'd expected, I was tempted to grab opportunity by the hangnails and suggest we just call it a night. Oh, hindsight. If only I had known what awaited me within those red-curtained walls.
Here's the thing: the comedy club was amazing as always. The comedians we saw were true entertainers, really intellectual, witty guys who knew how to work within the socioeconomic limits of the predominately Asian and White crowd's viewpoint of what was acceptable and what was not. I laughed as hard as I ever have. The only problem is, so did David.
There is something about a horrible laugh that can kill a moment instantly. I don't know about you, but bad laughs irritate the shit out of me. I could have the sweetest, kindest, most romantic suitor on the planet on my doorstep and I'd still send him home. I mean, it's just the turnoff of the century.
For girls, a good laugh is a sign of a happy future, a home filled with popsicle-toting kids and anniversary trips and grins and a lifetime of silliness and fun memories. So guys, when you're moments from sealing the deal and you bust out a squawky guffaw, just know in advance that she is going to pull up that tank and pull down that mini and leave you with nothing to laugh about.
I'm sorry to rant, but to be honest, I think I could even have Jake Gyllenhaal in Calvin Kleins on leopard-print sheets and I'd still walk away if that laugh was atrocious.
The entirety of the audience was ridging up against our little table in the middle front of that comedy room. I could feel a massive energy force of criticism building a shield around David and I, and he had NO IDEA. I mean, he just laughed and laughed! He seriously had no idea. Did his worldly friends never tell him about this unsightly blemish on his personality?
David's laugh was actually so abhorrent that the comedian trailed off in the middle of a joke and just stared at us. I was burning hot. I already have red hair and a reddish complexion, so if I get embarrassed or excited, I look like a forest fire is consuming my face skin. At one point, I excused myself to the bathroom even when I didn't have to go--I just wanted to wipe the pints of sweat off my palms.
I am glad that the comedians that night were extra, extra funny. If I were a slightly-less-moral person, I would have driven away while I was on my bathroom break and left David there, clueless and alone, hyenaing up the city of Irvine. But I knew that I would feel terribly guilty about it, and that I would have to confess it to my perfect brother someday down the line, and my mom would chastise me, and my sister would judge me, and once again I would have black sheeped myself into the trenches of romance. So I just skipped the whole ordeal and opted for one more painful hour.
As I drove us back to my apartment, going slightly over the speed limit so it would be over faster, I tried to have the courtesy to not be stony and silent. David was still on a high from the excitement of the night. "Great food, good laughs, beautiful company." I really hate to crush people's feelings because...in all honesty, love and lust are kind of difficult, and I wouldn't want someone to be stony and silent to me.
"I had such a great time tonight, Joni!" he piped up from the other side of the car. It felt like we were miles apart. I had the impression he was squeaking at me with a megaphone from three countries away.
"Yeah..." I mumbled vaguely.
"What a great night," he repeated, smiling to himself.
"Yeah..." I sighed.
"That was the cheapest, most amazing date I have ever been on!"
"Cheapest? How so?" I thought back to the overpriced banana foster I had gormandized, and his limited-edition vodka purchase in the club.
"Well, at the end of the night, the servers usually bring all of the checks to each table. They bring them all at the same time. But they forgot to bring ours!"
"What are you saying?" I felt my foot draining off the accelerator, and the car slowed naturally as horror crept over my tired mind.
"Remember that short brunette who served us? She looks just like my friend Marnie. I met Marnie at swim meet; we had a match against them one time. Anyway! Yeah! She just forgot our check entirely! So we just left and had a great night, all at the expense of the club!"
I looked sideways at him, disgusted. "Are you serious?"
"What, you think I should have said something?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Aw, c'mon, it's not a big deal."
I know that you get back what you put out, and that expectations have everything to do with results. I told myself that it's okay to get punished for dating when you don't want to be dating: "David was just a paragraph. The universe knows that you aren't ready, so it gives you lackluster opportunities until you are emotionally embracive, and then it presents you with beautiful futures." I tried to focus less on counseling myself in my head as I was saying good night, so I could look more appreciative. David was mid-sentence, and I'd stopped listening ages ago.
"...and I thought maybe you could keep it and paste it in your diary, since I know you're really into journaling and all of that."
"Oh," I said obtusely as he handed me something. "Thanks." I took the slip of white paper and casually glanced at it in the yellowy mid-morning street light.
IRVN CMDY CLBGUEST PASSTWO TICKETS RESERVED FOR DAVID B*****($0.00)
"Wow, um, you didn't pay for these tickets either?"
"Oh, well, I have this friend, see--"
"That's awesome, David; thanks very much for everything..." I closed the gate and it gave the definitive slam that cheap apartment gates with no pressurized quiet-time closer thingies like to slam, and for once, I thanked God for the lack.
It's funny how first instincts are always right. Usually we form an opinion about something on a shockingly-valid snap judgement, then we take a second look, get additional data, and create what we assume to be a more educated second opinion. Like when Danny Charbonneau asked me to go see Shyamalan's "Signs" with him at the Sherwood Theaters. I was only thirteen, but somehow my intuition told me it would be a horrible film, so I politely declined. And then he took his shirt off, and then I said yes.
So when my friend Paulina insisted that I have a date with her old Jewish-Israeli classmate, David, I gave her a friendly, split-second "no". I had just recently dated a Jewish-Israeli man, and while I had loved and respected many of his qualities, I didn't think it would be wise to enter a new relationship with somone who, of all the people on this planet whom I could be dating, might share so many of the same habits and mannerisms.
"But Joooooni..." Paulina moaned, "You never humor me. You treat me like I don't know men. He's amazing, really. Don't you trust me?"
"That's really not the issue," I assured her.
"He's really active and athletic, and he loves to read."
"I don't--"
"He has a Ph.D in neuroscience from John Hopkins."
"Whoa, what is he, like fifty years old?"
"No, see, that's the thing!" she gushed. "He's only 29! Totally within your age range, and he's a genius, like you!"
"Hmm, that's pretty cool. What is he, like a brain surgeon or something?"
"No, he's involved in a research project that he got a federal grant for. He works to explore the nature of human spirituality and to define scientifically the interrelationship of thought, decision, and cognition."
"Wow, okay, maybe it wouldn't be that bad."
"See? Let me talk to him."
So she talked to him, and then he talked to me, and I talked to myself about whether or not I was ready to endure what could possibly be a date with the biggest nerd on the planet, and I decided that I was since the number one thing on my list of Priorities for Future Mate is intelligence, so I talked back to him and we talked about having a date.
"Where would you like me to take you, my dear?" he asked. He sounded friendly and easy-going.
"Well, we could go to the comedy club in Irvine. I've been going there for a few weeks now, and they have really hilarious improv."
"I have a friend who is a co-owner there. Let's go, it would be really great to meet up with him. I haven't seen him since we went to a mutual friend's wedding in Boston."
"Okay cool...well, the only night I am available is Tuesday night so...yeah, just pick me up or whatever." Not only do I hate dating, but I despise people who take forever to arrange simple details.
On Tuesday night at 6:57 he texted me that he was outside the gates of my apartments. His text had two smiley faces. I wore my mediumly-cute outfit because I wanted to show that I didn't much care to be dating, and that I never try too hard, and that deep down I was merely studious, as you would be if you were worthy of dating a neuroscientist.
I went down to meet him. Obviously Paula had showed me some pictures of him before we met, and I'd decided that mathematically I was fine with the fact that he was only moderately-good looking since John Hopkins + Ph.D > perfect teeth. He was okay in real life. He was dressed in a plaid button down and nice khaki pants and some awkward sneakers. He was probably about 5'11", and he had dark hair, dark eyes, and a short, dark beard. He was cute in a clumsy way, and if you took away his gangly clothes, he actually had a great body and a kind, chisely face. I decided maybe this wouldn't be too horrible.
We went back to his car, which was really old and really dirty. He isn't from the area, so I made up some excuse about how I knew how to get there better, and we should take my car. If you say it vaguely and quickly, the logic doesn't really matter.
The truth is that I hate when people drive me because almost everyone is a horrible driver, and I'm an artful liar when it comes to getting people to sit in my passenger seat once they've asked me to sit in theirs.
We went to the place; it wasn't too far away. We ate at a fancy restaurant, where he informed me that he's a vegetarian, which I respect, and that he never drinks or smokes, which I admire. I got salad and pizza because I don't believe in changing for anyone ever, and he got salad and steamed vegetables that smelled obnoxious. Or maybe it was our conversation that was obnoxious.
It started when I was asking about his decision to become a vegetarian. I always love hearing the story. For some people it's moral, for others it's a matter of health, but there are some really good stories, weird stories, if you move beyond that. I know one guy who switched after watching a Food Network show about hamburgers. Apparentely it was kind of gory. He threw up in his living room and never ate meat again.
"My friend from college is a nutritionist, see," David explained as he munched on a carrot, "I did my undergrad studies at Harvard--I mean, it's not a big deal or something. But I don't try to hide it. I mean, just so you know, I went there."
"Okay," I nodded encouragingly.
"So my friend was taking all these nutrition classes. Her name is Clara Bartlebey! Have you heard of her?"
"Sorry, no."
"Okay, well, she is kind of famous in the diet and exercise world. So she talked to my professor and I about making the switch. My professors and I were very close. We're still great friends to this day. Have you heard of Marcos Laurel?"
"I haven't." I smiled apologetically.
"He's one of the leading chemists in the industry. A really brilliant mind, you should hear him speak some time. We should go to one of his lectures."
"Which industry, exactly, do you mean? In the field of neuroscience? Medical research?"
"No, he's a chemist for Ford. He works on developing more effecient and effective fluids and fuels for them. I mean, he's a professor, too, you know."
"Ah, okay."
"So anyway, she sold us on it and we decided to make the switch. We joined a gym with another friend of ours, Leo Tropt. Have you read his work?"
"@#)(#%)(&#@%)(&@#%)(&#%???" I thought to myself.
Just because I was a neuroscientifical simpleton didn't give him the right to quiz me about everyone he'd met since birth. I may not be a biochemist but I am more well-effing-read than half of my country, that's for sure. So I changed the subject, which is one of my more well-developed social skills.
But the name-dropping was not limited to the vegetarian thing. I have never, ever talked to anyone at such length about their other friends. It was disarmingly bizzare. I felt like he was trying to sell me on the fact that he was an upstanding citizen by proving that he had more friends than any other human being.
"Oh man, I have to tell you this funny story. One time, I was talking to my friend Ben, and he's this rabbi in New York City, see, and he runs the biggest synagouge in all of New York..." On and on and on. He had a friend who was a hairdresser in Bali. He had a friend who knew the mayor of the town I was born in (not just creepy, but also extremely unlikely). He had a friend who turned down an opportunity to invest with Bill Gates back when Bill Gates was in college. He had a friend who invited him to book a speaking tour of colleges in the Mid West.
Every single thing we talked about, he had a friend who was not only associated with that subject, but who was an executive in it, or majored in it, or was the senator for it, or invented it.
I felt like he was throwing tomatoes at me while I was in the stocks in Douche Central. So I tried to eagerly change subjects entirely and take on the one thing that really interested me about David: his work.
"Paula told me about the project you're working on. It truly sounds amazing. I am fascinated by the functions of the mind and how it liases thought between the body and spirit."
He lit up when I mentioned his work, but not in the way I'd hoped. My postulate for this new branch of enthralling conversation was that, inspired by the passion he felt for this obviously-engaging field of research, he would feel at home enough to let his guard down and be himself--no such luck.
"Oooooooohhhhhhhhhhh my job is simply fascinating."
"Yes, tell me about that."
What followed was a white paper report of his medical findings, not an anecdote. It was insulting, not only because I do consider myself to have a well-versed academic vocabulary, but because he was tossing words out that he KNEW normal people couldn't POSSIBLY have an inkling of, like pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis, coryza, and aniseikonia (these are real words; I checked). He gave me a twenty-three minute running commentary of every experiment he had engaged himself in since high school, and I could barely get a word in edgewise. I was drowning in an unbelieveable Sea of Mystery, chained underwater in the Doucheland Sound...so I volunteered that we skip dessert and get the check and head out to the show.
When the comedy club line turned out to be much longer than we'd expected, I was tempted to grab opportunity by the hangnails and suggest we just call it a night. Oh, hindsight. If only I had known what awaited me within those red-curtained walls.
Here's the thing: the comedy club was amazing as always. The comedians we saw were true entertainers, really intellectual, witty guys who knew how to work within the socioeconomic limits of the predominately Asian and White crowd's viewpoint of what was acceptable and what was not. I laughed as hard as I ever have. The only problem is, so did David.
There is something about a horrible laugh that can kill a moment instantly. I don't know about you, but bad laughs irritate the shit out of me. I could have the sweetest, kindest, most romantic suitor on the planet on my doorstep and I'd still send him home. I mean, it's just the turnoff of the century.
For girls, a good laugh is a sign of a happy future, a home filled with popsicle-toting kids and anniversary trips and grins and a lifetime of silliness and fun memories. So guys, when you're moments from sealing the deal and you bust out a squawky guffaw, just know in advance that she is going to pull up that tank and pull down that mini and leave you with nothing to laugh about.
I'm sorry to rant, but to be honest, I think I could even have Jake Gyllenhaal in Calvin Kleins on leopard-print sheets and I'd still walk away if that laugh was atrocious.
The entirety of the audience was ridging up against our little table in the middle front of that comedy room. I could feel a massive energy force of criticism building a shield around David and I, and he had NO IDEA. I mean, he just laughed and laughed! He seriously had no idea. Did his worldly friends never tell him about this unsightly blemish on his personality?
David's laugh was actually so abhorrent that the comedian trailed off in the middle of a joke and just stared at us. I was burning hot. I already have red hair and a reddish complexion, so if I get embarrassed or excited, I look like a forest fire is consuming my face skin. At one point, I excused myself to the bathroom even when I didn't have to go--I just wanted to wipe the pints of sweat off my palms.
I am glad that the comedians that night were extra, extra funny. If I were a slightly-less-moral person, I would have driven away while I was on my bathroom break and left David there, clueless and alone, hyenaing up the city of Irvine. But I knew that I would feel terribly guilty about it, and that I would have to confess it to my perfect brother someday down the line, and my mom would chastise me, and my sister would judge me, and once again I would have black sheeped myself into the trenches of romance. So I just skipped the whole ordeal and opted for one more painful hour.
As I drove us back to my apartment, going slightly over the speed limit so it would be over faster, I tried to have the courtesy to not be stony and silent. David was still on a high from the excitement of the night. "Great food, good laughs, beautiful company." I really hate to crush people's feelings because...in all honesty, love and lust are kind of difficult, and I wouldn't want someone to be stony and silent to me.
"I had such a great time tonight, Joni!" he piped up from the other side of the car. It felt like we were miles apart. I had the impression he was squeaking at me with a megaphone from three countries away.
"Yeah..." I mumbled vaguely.
"What a great night," he repeated, smiling to himself.
"Yeah..." I sighed.
"That was the cheapest, most amazing date I have ever been on!"
"Cheapest? How so?" I thought back to the overpriced banana foster I had gormandized, and his limited-edition vodka purchase in the club.
"Well, at the end of the night, the servers usually bring all of the checks to each table. They bring them all at the same time. But they forgot to bring ours!"
"What are you saying?" I felt my foot draining off the accelerator, and the car slowed naturally as horror crept over my tired mind.
"Remember that short brunette who served us? She looks just like my friend Marnie. I met Marnie at swim meet; we had a match against them one time. Anyway! Yeah! She just forgot our check entirely! So we just left and had a great night, all at the expense of the club!"
I looked sideways at him, disgusted. "Are you serious?"
"What, you think I should have said something?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Aw, c'mon, it's not a big deal."
I know that you get back what you put out, and that expectations have everything to do with results. I told myself that it's okay to get punished for dating when you don't want to be dating: "David was just a paragraph. The universe knows that you aren't ready, so it gives you lackluster opportunities until you are emotionally embracive, and then it presents you with beautiful futures." I tried to focus less on counseling myself in my head as I was saying good night, so I could look more appreciative. David was mid-sentence, and I'd stopped listening ages ago.
"...and I thought maybe you could keep it and paste it in your diary, since I know you're really into journaling and all of that."
"Oh," I said obtusely as he handed me something. "Thanks." I took the slip of white paper and casually glanced at it in the yellowy mid-morning street light.
IRVN CMDY CLBGUEST PASSTWO TICKETS RESERVED FOR DAVID B*****($0.00)
"Wow, um, you didn't pay for these tickets either?"
"Oh, well, I have this friend, see--"
"That's awesome, David; thanks very much for everything..." I closed the gate and it gave the definitive slam that cheap apartment gates with no pressurized quiet-time closer thingies like to slam, and for once, I thanked God for the lack.