Normally I don’t like to share any details about my personal life on this page, because I like to think the content here is slightly more rewarding than that of a LiveJournal. Also, I’d feel really bad (yes, I have emotions, contrary to popular belief) about dragging unsuspecting people into the spotlight. Ah, but today is not a normal day! I’ve decided I want to spend my next two entries (as this will probably turn into a long, detailed story) recounting an event from last week. Why? Because it is as much about a sociological phenomenon as it is a personal story. This is a story about a date. Actually, it was a double date. A blind(ish) double date.
It started Mid-March, as I was sitting in my room with Ken and Jack trying to figure out how to put together an Ikea shelf unit for my ungodly record collection. Jack had been caught in one of his loops all night, continually harping on the fact that glue was required in Ikea shelf construction. I tried to convince him that because glue was not called for in the directions, it was unnecessary. Jack grew irate. Ken, meanwhile, was spending the night trading e-mails on his Sidekick with his harem of online girlfriends from a vast array of social networking websites, dating services, and the Craigslist personals. Suddenly, he sat up. His jaw dropped.
“Oh, my God!” He exclaimed, and began to laugh. “Evan, you’re going to kill me.”
I became nervous. Ken would not say something like that if he was not in fact being serious.
“Oh yeah, you’re totally going to kill me,” he repeated.
Apparently Ken had recently discovered a Craigslist personal ad written by two young NYU students, both of whom were looking for older guys to get lunch with somewhere in the West Village. They promised that if all went well, “we could be going to bars and such.” They were looking for mature men (25-30) with diverse interests, and promised to return the favor after receiving pictures from respondents. Ken, sensing a chance to flirt with college girls, pounced at the opportunity. Without consultation, he elected me to join him on the date, and told the girls that we met their age requirements (even though I did not), and were two “extremely busy people” (even though I was not). He joked that meeting for tea would be preferred to meeting for lunch, because that way if they turned out to be creepy, “it’s all over in 15 minutes (insert smiley face)”. Oh, and he chose send them my photo along with his own; never mind potential consequences (ie. what if it’s someone I know?). He also happened not to mention any of this to me until one of the girls – we’ll call her Mookie (as in, Mookie Wilson, my favorite all-time New York Met) — wrote to say they were intrigued by us.
At first I was slightly angered at his offering up my services, because let’s face it…on a scale of 1-10 Craigslist is maybe a 2 when it comes to meeting people. Furthermore, personal ads in general are creepy. My general stance on people who write [sincere] ads is that they’re doing so for a simple reason: they do not attract people either physically, mentally, or both.
I left Ken to handle all the communication because he enjoys the chase, and fancied himself an expert. The girls (who, it turned out, were roommates) sent their photos. Mookie had green eyes and dark brown hair, with long bangs swept across her forehead. She looked fair-skinned, and very pretty. Her roommate – we’ll call her Lita (after Lita Ford? No, I don’t know…) – looked quite Aryan. Pale, blond haired and blue/green eyed. Lita, although not as as attractive as Mookie, was a nice looking girl. Then again, who could really tell—they were both potentially only “MySpace hot,” a topic I’ve explored in depth in the past.
Over the next week, Ken and Mookie wrote to one another in an attempt to firm up the details. Ken had plans to travel to Hawaii for a week, so the meeting was placed momentarily on hold. Following his return, he immediately (as he is wont to do) began to pester me about when we would see the girls. It took another few e-mails to decide on a place and time. Ken played the role of dominating male figure well, chiding them with remarks such as, “We only like redheads,” and correct use of a semi-colon would only earn [a girl] “some” points with us. Finally, Ken consented, stating he “guessed” we could meet them in spite of their flaws.
With Ken’s hectic schedule of practices, work and other dates with Internet girls, and my…uh…hectic schedule of super-important business meetings charity work crime-fighting…whatever, the point is, it took a few days to agree on a time. We settled for Thursday the 12th of April. Mookie recommended a cafe in the West Village. Ken wasn’t so sure about it.
“I know where that is,” he said to me one afternoon, “but the thing is, we need to start there and then have a place in mind where we can move them, because girls like being led around by guys.”
It pained me to have to think about all these head games and superficial details. I asked why he didn’t just recommend a different place. Wasn’t that essentially the same thing?
Ken agreed, and asked which place I had in mind, only I didn’t have one in mind. He asked if I had ever been to Mud (which he had heard of before) and we decided to suggest that cafe. Neither of knew exactly where it was, so we had to look up the location before he could assertively respond with an address. Ken, ever-so-sly, suggested to Mookie that she call him to confirm, but she simply responded with an affirmation: Thursday at 6:30pm.
On Wednesday, I needed to be reminded that Thursday was the date. I started to imagine all the different ways I could enjoy this experience solely for my own comedic benefit. I also tried to conjure ways to add an element of my typical ingenuity to the festivities. That night, following a discussion with my sister, I decided I would surreptitiously record the entire date with a hidden microphone. I found a roll of medical tape and practiced concealing my binaural in-ears, first by taping them to my chest under a t-shirt, and then by taping them to my wrists beneath long-sleeves. I elected not to tell Ken right away that I would be recording the date.
Feeling confident that I would reach a new height of personal gratification upon completing the task at hand, I slept soundly Wednesday night. This figured to be my finest hour. In my mind, there was no doubt my cynicism and lack of passion, when combined with Ken’s aggressive pursuit and machismo, would be the perfect antidote for an otherwise lovely double date.
To be continued…
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