Now that I’m working Saturdays, and my weekend is down to one day, I really have to make the most of my Sundays.

This morning I slept in, but not too late (10am.) I then partook in my favorite Sunday morning activity: Sitting with my laptop for hours and hours at my local neighborhood coffee shop, until church gets out and all the sassy black church ladies invade.

When I left the coffee shop, it was so beautiful outside that I was inspired to go for a walk… to the Family Dollar Store. I could tell that I was in one of my moods where buying stuff was going to make me feel really, really good. Luckily, it was the Dollar Store, so I could afford to go a little crazy. I bought $20 worth of crap, including (but not limited to): B’day supplies for a certain someone’s B’day party next weekend, a makeshift toolbox (how butch!), and a giant mixing bowl to serve sangria in this summer.

After my little spending spree, it was time to head into the city and spend some serious dough. First momma got her hair did… which momma was desperately in need of. Seriously, my head is now 5 lbs. lighter. Love my hair stylist.

My new do’ came just in time too, as afterwards I had a hot (platonic) date with Shalisha. We went to our favorite cheap eats sushi restaurant in the EV, which gives you 50% off when you order as much raw fish as we do.

$15 worth of saki and $40 worth of sushi later, our bellies were full. But not too full for ice cream. Pistachio ice cream with rainbow sprinkles, to be exact.

With ice cream in hand, we took a walk through Tompkins Square Park, where we stopped to watch the doggies at the dog run. I also watched as some creepy old homeless(?) man grabbed Shalisha’s hand and kissed it.

After bidding adieu to Sha, I made my way down to the L.E.S. for my group’s monthly Sunday Night Improv Show. Post-show I hung out with Beta and her posse, drinking like no one had to work tomorrow. (Ah, the joys of performing a at bar…)

Even though I knew it was going to take me at least an hour to get home (thanks to the MTA, who’s decided that not a single train should be running on it’s designated track this weekend), I decided to stay out way past my bedtime. Because after all, Sundays are the new Saturday.

Now if only Monday could be the new Sunday…

Today was Judgement Day for me, Jeffrey and our slumbag landlord. (Slumbag = scumbag who refuses to fix anything, therefore forcing his tenants to live in slums-like conditions.)

Or at least, I thought it was supposed to be Judgement Day. But instead, it turned out to be Postponement Day.

Jeffrey and I were supposed to be at court at 9:30am. I wasn’t really sure what to expect, but I guess I was sort of under the impression that it would be a little bit like Judge Judy, except a lot shorter and much less sassier.

When we arrived to the court room there was a line of people waiting outside. As it turns out, everyone’s court time was 9:30am. I felt like I was at an open casting call, hoping to land the role of “Tenant Who is in the Right.”

As I was going over my lines in my head, and sizing up my competition, we were all called into the court room. I was happy about this because that meant that we got to listen in on each other’s cases. I love crazy people drama, and the majority of the people in that room looked like they knew how to bring it!

But much to my surprise, instead of it being “Twelve Angry Men,” it was more “A Room Full Passive People.”

The judge was a sweet, sensible Asian woman in a black tank top. She would have the lawyer and the tenant approach her desk, and then everyone would talk in hushed tones until a fair agreement was reached.

But before you could approach the judge’s desk, you had to go outside and talk your landlord’s lawyer, to see if you could resolve the situation on your own first.

Our landlord’s lawyer was surprisingly non-slimy. He was a fast talker and had a chipped tooth that I couldn’t stop staring at, but he actually sort of helped us out. He gave us the run down of how things were going to work, and then when we explained our situation to him, he told us not to settle. The fact the he had no idea what an absolute disaster our living situation was, was not surprising to me at all.

After the lawyer confided in us that he wasn’t a big fan of our landlord either, all three of us went back in and talked to the judge. She gave us a real court date for next month and advised us to get a lawyer… which scared me. But I think legally, she had to advise that, because then she went on to say that 90% of tenants defend themselves, and that there was a resource room down the hall where we could pick up some reading materials on how not to get fucked over in court.

On our way out the lawyer pointed us in the direction of the resource room and told us his motto, which was, “If it’s free, it’s for me.” Suddenly, it made perfect sense that this man worked for our landlord.

Jeffrey and I picked up some free pamphlets and were on our way. It was a beautiful day outside, and I wanted to be able to enjoy it… But I was still left with no answers and now even more to worry about. (Do we need a lawyer? Are we gonna get screwed if we try and represent ourselves? Should I wear a tie next time?)

However, instead of letting that ruin the rest of my day, I came up with my own motto: “If it’s not stress-free, it’s not for me.” So I chose to put all thoughts of lawyers and court and unpaid rent and legal fees and chipped teeth out of my head.

The day was still young, and I didn’t have to go back to work since I told them that I had to stay at home since the city workers were finishing putting in our new floor. (This was a half lie… they were putting in the floor, but I didn’t really have to stay at home, because Jeffrey had taken the day off too.)

After spending some quality time outside in my newly cleaned up backyard, I went for a nice long walk in my neighborhood, where I proceed to hit up some of the dollar stores and thrift shops that I had surprisingly, yet to venture in.

I was happy to have a chill afternoon, as my evening was very busy. It started off with an impromptu mojito party in the backyard with Jeffrey, his straight couple (Jon & Soph), and my straight couple (Jeannie and A. Rod.)

I had to ditch out of the party before it got too wild, as I had my Harold Team audition in the city. I met up with Beta and some other peeps at Ye Ol’ Sports Bar, before our 11pm(!) audition slot.

After our audition (which went just fine, thanks for asking) it was back to the bar to drink ourselves silly and not have worry about staying sober and clear-headed.

Yes, I wish that tonight my friends and I would have been able to celebrate the Slumbag getting his ass handed to him in court. But hopefully come next month, we’ll have good excuse to throw another mojito party.

Tonight was a milestone in my comedy career… I got paid to do improv! Although, considering how hilarious (and blog-worthy) the situation was, I totally would have done it for free.

Beta (a half-Jew) knows at least 4 of the 8 million people living in Manhattan. Through one of her more Jewish connections, she was asked to perform at a Shabbat dinner for Columbia grad students. Beta and I were the only people in our regular improv group (Shark Tank) that could do the show, so we asked some friends (Jeffrey, PW and S-Class) to perform with us.

My main concern for the show wasn’t that the five of us had never practiced together before. Instead, I was nervous because we were asked to keep the show rated PG. The last time Beta and I performed with “special guest” (Jeffrey and Codsie) it was probably our bluest show ever. I was so drunk, that it’s hard for me to recall specifics, but I do have a few fuzzy memories of some erotic poetry, peppered in with a little statutory rape. Comedy!

When we arrived at the dinner, we were definitely the odd-gentiles-out. Besides not being Jewish, we were also quite dressed down. Even though I guess the comic’s dress code is supposed to be somewhat disheveled and casual, I still felt like we were posers. When we first got there, someone asked us if we did improv professionally. Hilarious!

Comedy and Hilarity were the themes for the evening. Besides hiring us as the entertainment, they were also serving kosher Chinese food, which we were invited to eat.

But before we could eat, there were many, many prayers to be sung. They had “Shabbat Notes” (designed to look like Cliff Notes) on every table so that us non-Jews could follow along. And as if it wasn’t already obvious enough, S-Class told the three real Jews who were unfortunate enough to be stuck at a table with us, that we weren’t really Jewish.

Although the Shabbat Notes were supposed to guide us, they only confused me more with quotes such as, “Shabbat means being fully aware of the apple tree but having no judgments, plans, or prospects for it.” Right…

After the meal it was showtime! Normally, if we were playing for a group of college students, I would expect everyone to be drunk, and therefore laughing at anything that came out of our mouths. However, these were grad students, who are apparently much more serious. Also, no one was drinking, except for a dixie cup’s worth of wine we were given at the beginning of the meal. While we got a few laughs, I don’t think the crowd was really digging our goyish humor.

Once we were done semi-entertaining them, we tried to make our exit. However, we made the mistake of sitting back down at our table for a moment, which led to us having to sit through 5 pages of “After the Meal Blessings.”

On our way out (finally), I grabbed my Shabbat Notes, because it had a recipe for making Challah (Holla!) bread. I planned to rip the recipe out and just throw the rest of the booklet away. However, now I feel guilty after seeing this on the bottom of page two: “This booklet is yours to keep. If you do not wish to keep it, please return it to Hillel as it contains sacred texts.”

Oops. Good thing Jews don’t believe in hell, otherwise I might be going there.

No date for tonight. I could have had a very last minute Crazy Blind Date, but by the time they contacted me with all the info, I had already made up my mind that I was going straight home after work. I had an improv show tonight, and I knew if I didn’t go home and rest a bit in between, I would probably be a zombie on stage.

Although I’m feeling better, I’m still not back to my same ol’ self. Case in point: I also didn’t want to go on the date tonight because I knew that it would involve drinking, and seeing as I was meeting my improv group for a drink before the show, one social drinking event was going to be quite enough for me(!) Tonight I had my first drink in a week. I can’t remember the last time I stayed sober for that long. (Actually, I can, it was during The Master Cleanse Mindfuck of ‘07.)

Even with resting in between work and my show, I was still sort of a zombie on stage, but at least I didn’t pass out or fall over. After the show I went out with Beta and her posse to the Burp Castle, a bizarre monastery-themed bar in the EV that plays no music and if you talk above a whisper you get shushed by the bartender. At the B.C. I was almost hate crimed by a group of frat boy rapists who were not digging the whole “no talking above a whisper” theme.

By the time I got back home it was 2am, which was far too late for this little sickie to stay out and play. As I was in our front hall I noticed a small Fed Ex package sitting on the floor. “Oooh, I wonder if that’s for me?” I thought to myself, as I picked it up. Much to my surprise, it was! However, my delight soon turned to fear as I saw the name of the company it was shipped from: “Get Well Cuddles.” WTF?

I brought the package back to my room and stared at it for a minute. I was afraid that it was going to be like The Ark of the Covenant, and blind me with a radiant white light once I opened it. What was to be found inside was slightly less terrifying, but only slightly. The contents of the box were: Gourmet cookies, hard candies, cammomile tea, and a teddy bear that was wearing a “Get Well Soon” sweater. Bernard, my V-day date who is rehearsing at the Jersey Rep. for the next 5 weeks sent it to me. Once my initial fear subsided, I was able to appreciate the gift a bit more. I was maybe even touched by it. Maybe.

For a minute I consider letting the bear sleep in bed with me. But then I had a vision of him coming alive in the middle of the night, a la Chucky. So now he lives safely tucked away in my closet. I hope.

Tonight was the night that my liver has been dreading all month. It was the night of my holiday work party. And if that wasn’t reason enough to get trashed, I also had an improv show and Jeannie’s mistletoe party this evening as well.

1. HOLIDAY WORK PARTY.
Ah, the miracle of alcohol. For one night, and one night only, I am able to get sloshed and honestly believe that I like all of my co-workers. (Well, except for the two that I refuse to speak to unless it is work related and I have no choice.) This year’s party was much tamer than last year’s. (Of course, I had to leave early, so I’m sure I missed out on some juicy drama.) But even so, last year, not two hours into our party and someone was already passed out in the bathroom. This year, people were much more well behaved. That’s probably because we didn’t start off the night with tequila shots. We did however have an open bar from 6-10, which I took full advantage of. I had a shot of Jagger, a glass of Shiraz, and I’m guessing 6 G&T’s, but I lost count somewhere along my drunken way. At 9:30, upon departing, I was hugging and kissing my co-workers good-bye… a sure sign that I had too much to drink. I got on the L train and made my way over to the East Village. This year, I was thankfully sober enough to stay conscious on the subway. Last year I woke up at the last stop in Canarsie at 3:30 in the morning.

2. IMPROV SHOW.
Sometimes, I clearly don’t know when enough is enough. Normally when I do a show I like to partake in a little pre-show drinking. It’s sort of like a warm-up, to loosen me up a bit. Blocking out how drunk I already was, I decided to split a six-pack of Stella with Beta. Our show actually went pretty well and I don’t think I slurred any of my words. But I will have to confirm that with my teammates the next time I see them. It’s all still a little fuzzy to me.

3. JEANNE’S MISTELTOE PARTY.


Sometimes, I do know when enough is enough. The non-alcoholic part of my brain took control and didn’t allow myself to drink anything at Jeannie’s party. (In retrospect, I probably should have had some water, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.) Instead of drinking, I just played the tamborine to keep myself awake. Thankfully, I didn’t end up like this lesbian did:

Yes, I know it’s bitchy. But I’m sorry, if anyone falls asleep at a party, I’m gonna take pictures.

Tonight my improv group had a show. For those of who have never seen us, or are unfamiliar with the world of long-form improvisation, to start off a show it is customary to get a suggestion (usually a random word) from the audience. The suggestion acts as a springboard, and it is used to inspire the beginnings of scenes. Each group uses their suggestion in a slightly different way. For my group, we get the suggestion and then take turns telling short anecdotes (one or two sentences) about what the suggestion reminds us of from our own personal life experiences.

Tonight our suggestion was:

Oregon Trail.

The story I told was how Oregon Trail made me think of when I was in 4th grade and my mom was my computer teacher. Sometimes, during our lunch period, my mom would let me and my girlfriends (not those kind of girlfriends, these kind) come and use the computer lab to work on our poetry. You see, my girlfriends and I had started a poetry club, and we wanted to type our poems up and make our very own anthology. I wish to god I still had those poems. I honestly couldn’t even tell you what they were about, but I’m guessing they were mostly involved praising nature.

My love of poetry stayed with me for quite awhile and in high school I got in to some deeper shit. Every summer I would go to a 3 day poetry camp, called Wordland, taught by my drama teacher and her hippie poet husband… and I FUCKING LOVED IT. Seriously, it was always the highlight of my summer.

My last summer after high school, right before I went off to college to become a real boy, I went to camp for one last nerdfest. Wordland was extra magical that summer, as my future high school sweetheart went as well and we ended up having our first heavy make-out session lying in the tar driveway, underneath the stars at some Christian Brother’s retreat in Stillwater, MN.

After camp was over, I spent the rest of the summer working on my first (and final) book of poetry. I used my sister’s beat up old typewriter that was missing the ‘n’ key, leaving me to write in every ‘n’ by hand. My book was called Dreamsense. I dedicated it to my dog Happy, and made copies for my six closest friends.

Below is an awful, awful poem from Dreamsense about said make-out fest with my new girlfriend:

your palace of Lips
entangles me
eyes
like two black stones
standing in a pool of intensity
falling back into heaven
causing an electric shock of spine wonderment
a swelling river sweeps through my throat
leaving only the tastes of swirls
and pink
to remain bittersweet in my toes

It’s interesting that our kiss remained bittersweet (in my toes– WTF?) This probably had to do with the fact that I was a flaming gaywad, and deep down inside, my body was rejecting her womanly lips. (These lips, not those lips!)

I’ve been late to work every day this week. And not just 5 or 10 minutes. 20 is my minimum. Yesterday, it was almost an hour. Partially, I blame my job for being so lax about it. And partially I blame my brain for tricking myself into believing that even though I moved further out and I have to take two trains to work now, my commute isn’t any longer.

Tonight I went to go cheer on my teammates the Halster and RoboRob as they performed as stereotypes (college activist girl and Scottish lad, respectively) against a team of mentally retarded characters in the UCB’s “Offensive Fest” Cagematch. I was slightly disappointed in the retard team because A.) Only one person was wearing a helmet. B.) No one drooled on stage. C.) No one dressed as this.

After the stereotypes kicked some retard ass, we all went out to ye ol’ comedy bar for a post show drink… which does not bode well for me getting to work on time in the morning, especially as the hour of 3am quickly approaches. And tomorrow night I have a show, which I know we’ll all go out after, which does not bode well for me getting to work in a timely fashion Saturday morning.

I guess it would help if I ever stayed at work late, to make up for the hours that I missed. But honestly, I have a hard time staying at work until 6:30, when I’m actually scheduled to leave.

Seriously, why does work have to get in the way of everything?

God, if you’re out there and you’re listening to my prayers (or reading my blog) tonight, please make me rich so I don’t ever have to work again.

Amen and good night.