Many moons ago I was forced to succumb to an undeniable truth: she doesn’t like you back. I was two years into a prolonged bout of unrequited love. Each week was a different rationalization: maybe what she means by ‘friends’ is “friends for right now!” No, she meant friends. For good. It was painful to finally shine a light on this and in my blindness I decided to get a bit slutty.

Yes, that’s right. It was time to live the college life for the first time since I’d arrived as a freshman in a committed (doomed to fail) relationship. After that I wallowed in self-pity, growing my hair far too long and generally being a negative neil that would make the current N² blush. Now, in the latter half of my second 3rd year, it was time to sleep around.

—

In preparation for my new life as a bachelor, I drive to the drugstore for some condoms. Having not purchased condoms in approximately 2 years, I’m a bit out of my element. There is simply too much variety: Trojan extra sensitive? I dunno, it’s been a while, maybe I don’t need any extra sensitivity. Magnums? I’m not trying to look like a kid in hand-me-down clothing, ok? Suddenly I realize I’ve been lingering in the condom aisle for an awkward amount of time and, no doubt, the guys who watch the security cameras are probably ridiculing me. In my haste I decide not to decide. I grab the Durex Assorted Condom pack. 25 condoms, 5 different types, 1 box. What a bargain!

The design on the box is simple: 5 bands of color wrap around the box signifying the 5 different types of condoms housed neatly inside. The problem is, upon opening the box, there’s no way to differentiate one condom from the other. They’re all different colors, sure, but no legend or key adorns the  box informing the buyer as to what they’ve gotten themselves into. Resigned to hindsight, I dump the contents of the box into my nightstand.

It’s Friday night, the following evening, and I’m on the prowl. I’ve set a date with a girl I met last week and I have my eyes set firmly on the prize. After drinking and merriment followed by impressing her friends with stupid jokes, it seems that I’ve garnered a universal seal of approval from everyone in the form of “you should take that chick home,” uttered by one of the drunker partygoers (I’m not actually sure if he knew either of us. Thanks for the nudge, random stranger!)

Upon arriving back at my conspicuously empty house, the two of us stumble into my room and begin a rapid descent into what should be passionate coitus. But if there’s one thing you can always rely on to make things awkward, it’s condoms. Suddenly realizing that a condom is a necessary component to any responsible hook-up, I lean over to my nightstand treasure trove and fumble for one. It is very dark, but I being suave and all that is man, manage to equip and get down to business.

Ten minutes later I experience something totally unexpected. Impotence. What? Me? Impossible. Sure enough, I’m suddenly not up to the task. Awkwardly I slowed to a halt.

“Uhhhh…”

“You ok?”

“I’m fine. He isn’t.”

“It’s okay!” she says with that sort of forced cheeriness you hear after you accidently spill a drink on someone. It’s never ok. Perhaps not your fault, but definitely not cool. I grimaced knowing that all sorts of self-criticism must be racing through her head right now and the “it’s me, not you” routine I was about to trot out never sounds potent. Fitting I guess, an impotent excuse for impotence. Now’s not the time for symmetry.

She asks cautiously if we might try again. Why not? With renewed vigor, she endeavors to impart some. Well, that’s nice I guess: battery runs out and I get rewarded with a jumpstart. A few minutes later, I reach into the nightstand once more, producing another condom. Again, back to business and again, 5 minutes later this time, impotence. At this point I’m sure my flushed cheeks have begun to act as a small light source, filling the room with their rosy, embarrassed glow.

Again with the “it’s ok, you’re probably just drunk…” routine, but a current of shame is surging through the room. I, of course,  shocked at my sexual insolvency. Her, likely, feeling that she’s not doing something right. After a few minutes of stunned awkward silence she offers “one more try?”

What the hell, right? At this point every subsequent failure results in some sort of undeserved foreplay. Once more to the nightstand which now stands as a sort of monolith, silhouetted by the only light in the room which emanates from my stereo. It now stands as a symbol of my latex oppression. A dim blue spectre of inevitable failure. I grab yet another condom, knowing full well that it won’t make a difference, put it on and try. Failure. At this point, my penis is having an identity crisis. I don’t even think that it knows what it’s for. I apologize and explain that it’s just not going to happen. After some time spent staring at the ceiling, she’s lightly snoring and I know the worst is over.

Maybe. In the morning, I wake up to realize that not only was that whole evening a horrible nightmare, but now I have to trudge through the awkwardness of driving her home, chit-chatting, both of us ignoring the flaccid elephant in the room, and me promising to call her again. Yeah right, I’m never talking to this girl again because, frankly, I never want to acknowledge that the last 12 hours have happened.

I shuffle back into my room, fully prepared to fill my saturday with videogames and escapism when I see the condom wrappers strewn about the floor. You did this to me. The last remnants of my failure are staring back at me from the floor and I notice something. They’re all blue. The same color. What are the odds? I pick one up to throw it away and I notice, in very fine print, stamped on the bottom right corner:

Benzocaine (0.5%)

Benzocaine…novacaine… cocaine… numbing agents. Already in the trash, the original Assorted Pack box proudly lists the different types of condoms which are unidentified inside. “EXTENDED PLEASURE” rounds out the list.

Wonderful. By sheer luck I managed to numb my penis THREE TIMES MORE THAN I HAD TO over the span of about 30 minutes. In case you’re curious, let’s do the probability math on my wonderful foray into casual sex:

5/25 * 4/24 * 3/23 =  1/230 chance of doing that ever again. Hindsight is always crystal clear, and this time it was “choose wisely”. I chose very, very poorly.

By Monday I had realized the comedy of the situation, imagined writing about it in some shitty blog I would surely own in the future, and vowed to redeem my tattered reputation next weekend. True Tales of Tantric Tragedy would soon have their sequel.

People say that New Yorkers are rude. Others say that they’re loud. I disagree with both. My initial observation is that New Yorkers have less of an internal monologue. That is to say that what many of us would keep to ourselves, New Yorkers have no problem sharing that information with those around them. Case in point: my first train ride from Brooklyn to the Lower East Side.

I received a call from my friend Trey asking if I’d like to join him for a sojourn into Manhattan today. He told me that the F Train would take me where I needed to go. After looking up the local subway entrances on Google Maps, I set out. I arrive at the train station shortly before it arrives. After climbing aboard I take my seat near the middle of the train car. A pallid Middle Eastern man sits a few seats from me. Sweat adorns his brow as he glances laboriously from passenger to passenger. Let’s call him Chuck. Chuck does not look like he’s having a very good time on the train. At our next stop another passenger boards and makes the mistake of sitting next to my ghostly co-passenger. Let’s call him Steve. Once the train is en-route to its next stop, Chuck mumbles something to Steve who nods with a mixture of mock concern and discomfort. A moment later, Chuck begins to moan with such theatrics that I thought he was joking.

“OH FUCK. NO! UUURRRGHHHHHHH” Chuck could easily be suffering a Stigmata given the way he’s carrying on. At this point there are 5 people besides Chuck and Steve on the train. There’s a couple towards the front who are now also peering over their shoulders with genuine concern (for their own safety) and genuine disgust, two separate passengers towards the back with headphones on, and myself. Chuck is still moaning in the sort of way I imagine someone under hypnosis would moan if the hypnotist suddenly informed them that they had eaten spoiled meat: “uuugh…nuuuurgh…” It is a rhythmic sort of moaning that I’m still unsure is sincere or not. It is soon proven to be authentic.

Without warning, Chuck gurgles one last pathetic groan before he slumps over in his seat, sweat gushing from his brow. He is paler than ever. Steve, of course, is freaked the fuck out. What did Chuck murmur to him before he died? Perhaps we’ll never know. Steve jumps out of his seat and makes a bee line for the train conductor who appears shortly thereafter to assess the scene. All five of us are staring at catatonic Chuck while the bus driver checks him over. By “checks him over,” what I mean is that the bus driver doesn’t do shit. He takes one look at him and concludes that Chuck is unresponsive. He makes no effort to touch him or do the whole “Annie! Annie! Are you OK?!” routine. He radios ahead that he’s got an unresponsive passenger. Dispatch tells him to proceed to the next stop where there will be an officer waiting.

We arrive at the next stop as the train conductor announces over the station’s loudspeaker that the train will be delayed while we all deal with Chuck. At this very moment, Chuck suddenly revives. He glances around at each of our slack jaws in surprise. He has no idea why we’re all gawking at him. What’s wrong with a bit of a cat nap, y’know? Mr. Conductor reappears, still on his radio:

“…scratch that. He’s up and alert now. Hey! What the hell’s going on?

“Nothing? I’m fine.”

“You were unconscious…”

“Oh?”

The police officer appears in the doorway to inquire as to what the situation is. The conductor brings him up to speed.

“Yo buddy, you don’ look so good. You feelin’ alright?”

My new favorite police officer in the world looks like he’s been on steroids since he was 14. He’s got some ridiculous tribal tattoo peeking out from under his short-sleeved uniform, crawling towards his hand.

“Yea, I’m fine! I’m just not feeling well that’s all. I had blood drawn today.”

“Oh? You sure bout that?” Tattoo’d Justice is suspicious. This guy might be a junky. He could be mentally unstable and the voices are telling him to kill us all. It’s anyone’s ballgame at this point.

Chuck rolls his sleeve up to reveal a very believable medical bandage. He most surely did have blood drawn today. After he satisfies the curiosity of everyone involved, Mr. Conductor politely informs the station that the train is once again operational. A few more poor souls filter into our car, completely unaware of the events that had just transpired. The couple towards the front of the car who witnessed the whole ordeal are still stealing glances back at Chuck who begins to notice them.

“Did you say I stink!?” Chuck is accusing the couple of declaring him foul. They quickly nod in disagreement and face forward. Whether their stop is next or not, they exit the train hurriedly.

For the remainder of the trip, Chuck asks anyone who glances his way, “I stink?!” It’s not really a question and not quite a statement. Most of the passengers, having not witnessed him slumped in his seat minutes before shrug their shoulders in neutrality. Some also nod in disagreement. At this point Chuck is addressing everyone and no one.

“Man, that was weird. I passed the fuck out! Those vampires… they’re suck you dry if you aren’t careful, you know!? I… I think I shit myself. When I was out, I mean. I think I shit myself. That’s why I’ve been asking if I stink. Man! Whooo!”

And that’s what I’m talking about. I think New York is a special place in which its residents never learn that it is not prudent to inform those in proximity that they might have shit themselves. You don’t really need to go around asking people if you smell like shit either, it’s usually pretty obvious if people think you do. About a minute rolls by and everyone on the car is in stunned silence. No one really knows how to deal with the force of nature that is Chuck, so we all just keep quiet. Finally, we approach our next stop and Chuck stands to exit the train. The car doors are right next to my seat.

As they open, Chuck declares emphatically, “Yup. Shit myself.” And exits the train. A powerful fecal aroma wafts over us in his wake. I endure it until the next stop which is thankfully mine.

Holy Shit.

I answered a bizarre phonecall on Tuesday. A producer from 20/20 wants to interview me for a segment about Adam that airs this Friday.

“Well, I’m moving to New York tomorrow morning, so I don’t think it’s very realistic that I’ll be able to drive up to LA on short notice and do this whole thing. Sorry”

In my naivete, I thought this would surely dissuade them.

“No problem! Actually, that’s great because we’re based in New York! We can send you a car and pick up you for an interview the day you arrive!”

Hmmm. Suddenly I have a valid excuse for wanting to do an interview with 20/20. Who am I kidding? Of course I want to be on 20/20. But the stubborn timid side of me always wants to pretend like I’m private and guarded and in no way do I want to capitalize off of Adam’s success. It’s bullshit. I absolutely should and would capitalize off of Adam’s success. It’s not like I’m without merit on my own anyway, so what’s a little unwarranted attention going to hurt?

“Alright, I’ve got an idea. Send the car to the airport, pick me up and we’ll do the interview, then you give me a ride back to Brooklyn where I’m staying.

“….fuck it, why not.”

Score. Now I don’t have to drop $50 for a cab from the airport. I hang up and glance in the mirror. I look like I should be committed: My hair, which has been growing past it’s due date for weeks is all over the place. The sides of my head would look ridiculous with wild locks climbing over each of my ears to explore their respective canals, but all attention is shifted to the top of my head. My hair stands almost perfectly verticle in some sort of bizarre Kramer-in-real-life hairdo. This is what happens when I don’t shower for a few days: my curls elongate and straighten, no doubt encouraged by whatever oils from my scalp that they’re being exposed to.

Originally I was going to wear this hair proudly on my trip to New York and find a new salon as soon as I got there, but there’s no way I can put my current visage on broadcast television. Thus began the quest.

There is an overabundance of little boutiques, barber shops, and salons in North Park (where I’m staying in San Diego). Having no preference besides avoiding a bad haircut, I set out on foot in search of one that is decent.

The first place I found was Lety’s Salon. I think that was the name. I ambulated within 10 feet of this place before hitting the abort button. Housed happily inside were 3 bubbly old ladies, heads covered in those space-age dome things which I imagine are intended to make their brittle, ancient hair look human once again. Commanding this storefront was a middle-aged asian lady who looked as though she’d seen her fair share of haircuts. No offense to the many asian beauticians out there, but curly hair like mine is just not a component of your cultural memory. I don’t blame you for consistently giving me bad haircuts. Because your people, for centuries, never had to deal with what I deal with on a daily basis. What I need is a jew. Someone who has seen hair far nappier than mine.

Next door was Ted’s Barber Shop. “Yes! I will be so legitimately hip if I get a trim from a barber,” I think to myself as I approach the threshhold of the shop. I’m immediately struck by a smell inside the shop that I imagine only comes into being once someone has been smoking in it for 80 years. It’s that stale, pale air that ages you with every inhalation. Sure enough, the only person in the entire shop is a man I presume to be Ted and he’s approximately 80 years old. My eyes briefly lock with his before tracing the wrinkles down his cheeks to the oxygen mask he’s pressing to his mouth with an intense desire to live. We say nothing to each other. He looks at me and I at him. He knows it’s coming. He’s seen so many young fellas flee his shop in terror of their own distant futures. And that’s exactly what I do. I wouldn’t call it fleeing per se, more a simple 180 turn and a brisk walk in the opposite direction I came in.

I passed other shops along the say, little hole-in-the-wall barber shops that I dismissed without even looking inside since my experience with Ted had permanently put me off the idea. Finally I passed by a salon, bathed in pink paint, curtains, etc. “Gorgeous” read the sign above the door. Well, if this doesn’t tickle my narcissism I don’t know what will. I’m pleasantly surprised to find a girl roughly my age inside with… cool hair. Purple and pink highlights against jet black hair? Cool. She’s not overtly jewish, but I don’t care once I meet someone who has cool looking hair that’s curly. Do they take walk ins? Check. An hour later I’m uncharacteristically pleased with the result and head home. There are many things that might go wrong in this interview tomorrow, but my hair will not be one of them.

Fuck you, LA.

Now that we’ve got that out of the way, I had a fantastic commute today. Moving out of a place you’ve stocked every useless belonging in for the last two years feels like a futile endeavor. I realize that I don’t have much of a frame of reference, but to my credit I’ve never lived as an adult in one place for more than a 2-year stint. So 24 months is pretty much my ceiling for accumulating worthless shit and it’s pretty daunting.

With every thing that I pack, something baffling appears in it’s place. Why do I have 3 Rosewood dragon sculptures? I bought these on a trip to San Francisco with my debate team in 9th grade. Precisely WHEN in the subsequent 8 years did I unwittingly reacquire these ultimate nerd cliches? I’ll have you know that I do NOT own an oversized silk shirt with anime shit airbrushed onto it. I still have some dignity.

I found what I believe to be a Will and Testament that I wrote during an existential crisis in my early twenties. I went through this phase where I would dwell on the various possibilities of my own death. I wasn’t suicidal, mind you, but actually somewhat terrified of dying in some sort of accident. I imagine that after the angst of my teen years in which I rarely enjoyed a single thing, the contrast of enjoying everything about college scared me in a way. Suddenly day-to-day life was enjoyable and I quickly realized I was scared to lose it so shortly after discovering the joys of adulthood. In an effort to quell my dwelling on all things morbid, I wrote a Will. It wasn’t so much a “this is what to do with my shit” kind of document, but more of a way of addressing the people I cared about one last time from beyond the grave; finally saying that which should have been said to them many times over already.

I found a play I had written in a notebook during high school. 17-year-old me is not very funny to 24-year-old me. Stupid jokes, mostly. I want to believe that I knew the audience I was writing to since it is utterly impossible to me that I was that immature. Unfortunately it appears that I was. I shamelessly stole Clerks and attempted to make it more absurd. At the very least, I remember it beyond far better than the other student-written plays that year.

I have been given many journals as gifts over my lifetime. My friends thought I should try writing, so they attempted to nurture me. Those gifts were thoughtful and I never used a single journal that they gave me. All they had to do, apparently, was buy me a domain name and I would have been all over it. Go figure.

After finally packing all my shit into various boxes and bins, I managed to cram all of it into my tiny Honda and hit the road. I took the 101 for the scenery and enjoyed the weather. Everything was fantastic until I hit LA. My goal was to get all the way to San Diego to unload my shit and then return to LA for fun and friends. My GPS put my arrival in San Diego at approximately 5:30.

Unfortunately, LA is a god forsaken wasteland in which all 5 million of its denizens decide, simultaneously, to get in their cars so that they can all NOT FUCKING MOVE for 4 hours. It’s like driving through molasses. After nearly 3 hours I travelled 40 miles and contemplated violence nearly as many times as there are exits on the 405 South. I gave up and had dinner with a friend. I paid $60 to park my car in a private garage for 2 days in order to ease my anxiety. I have a certain paranoia of having my car broken into at the same moment that everything I own is contained inside it.

I find it funny, too, because my intention all along with moving to New York has been to shed most of my material possessions as dead weight. True, I threw away 70% of what I had back in Santa Cruz, but that last 30% is persistent. It’s the undigested red meat in the Colon of Life. Books I swear I’ll read one day, music equipment, clothing, gadgets, speakers, etc. All things that could be sloughed off, but when push comes to shove some inner voice gives me a sort of “but Mooooom!” groan and I put them in the “do not toss” box.

I spent a few nights in LA with a car full of expensive shit which, luckily, did not get stolen. I left LA on Saturday night so that I could come down here to San Diego. I leave on Wednesday and I couldn’t be any more excited and nervous.