The American Dream is done.  Now, it’s the Chinese Dream.  The American Dream used to be a fantasy about how great life was going to be in the future.  Now, it’s a memory of how things used to be in the past.  You want to see the American Dream now, you have to go to China.  If we’re lucky, we’ll be the guys in Inception, and we’ll figure out how to break in, so that we can have a nice dream too.  Otherwise, we gotta keep living this nightmare.

It’s upsetting.  We’re supposed to be doing better than generations before us, and we’re doing worse. . . .  And, we have the Internet.  Think about that.  We have a tool that can transmit money and ideas faster and more powerfully than any Army.  You can push a button and wipe out someone’s identity or, by contrast, donate enough money to feed an entire village.  And, with all that power, we’re dying economically, and there’s still nothing to watch on tv.  What good is the Internet – a giant shopping spree that’s one button-push, one mouse-click away  — if you have no money, and there’s nothing to watch to take your mind off how bad things are?

Making it even worse is that you don’t even need an Internet connection anymore.  You don’t even need a house.  You could be a homeless person who lives in a Starbucks as long as you have an iPhone, and you can get groceries delivered to you.  But, then there’s the rub — a Chinese guy on a bicycle shows up with your delivery and reminds you that this is his dream, not yours.  Then he steals your iPhone, reverse engineers it to make a better, cheaper model made in Beijing, and then throws you out of Starbuck’s, which has been renamed General Tso’s Tea Room.

The other day, my girlfriend and I paid the cleaners to deliver our laundry.  So not only didn’t we clean or fold the stuff, we didn’t even bring it home.  One hundred years ago, you had to schlep your stuff to a river and bang it against a giant rock.  To do laundry, you had to be stronger than a bodybuilder.  Just cleaning your jeans meant that you probably could bench 225.  Now you don’t even need to be able to lift your laundry bag, you just have to be strong enough to hit “Enter” or to go SWOOSH on your iPhone touchpad.  But, if you don’t have money, and the Chinese guy took your iPhone, all of that doesn’t matter.  And, of course, the ultimate in-your-face irony of it all is that the Chinese guy probably made all his money by owning and running dry cleaners and laundromats.

So, I’m pissed.  This is bullshit.  The American Dream was promised to me.  I was told that if I did well in school and played by the rules and did what I was told, I’d get the American Dream circa 1954.  I’d have a good job, and a beautiful wife and a great house, and marvelous kids who would be fantastic.  And, a dog, and two cars and an awesome garage with awesome stuff.  And, I could come home every day at 5, and have a martini and read the newspaper, and fuck my wife (when she wasn’t in a valium-induced haze) and take 4 weeks paid vacation every year with full benefits, health insurance with dental and life insurance and a guaranteed pension.  And, where is that?  It’s gone.  They pulled the bait and switch on me.  I held up my end.  I did what they said.  I played by the rules.  And, I live in a dump.  I’m not married, not because I don’t want to be (though we can debate that topic another time), but because the marriage tax is way too heavy a burden.  At the same time, I live in sin, not ‘cause I love my girlfriend so goddamn much (though I do — that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it) but because I can’t afford to live alone.  I have health insurance that covers me in the event I get hit by a bus (as long as it’s going 55 mph, being driven by Keanu Reeves, and Dennis Hopper has rigged the thing with dynamite), but otherwise, I’m on my own.  And, if I ever have a kid, the best thing I could do for him or her is to give it up for adoption or sell it to a lab for the stem cells because I can’t afford to raise the child.

It’s so depressing.  And, making matters worse is that women (with their feminism, and their great educations, and their work ethic) are making men increasingly irrelevant.  It used to be that a guy could say, “This is my house.  I bought it with money I made at my job.”  You can’t say that anymore.  I’m living paycheck to paycheck.  Plus, my girlfriend makes more money than I do.  So, now, not only am I not the breadwinner, I’m practically a freeloader.  If I’m lucky, I’ll have the money to chip in on the new big-screen t.v. she wants.  Do you know how demoralizing it is as a man to know that you might not own your own t.v.?  Screw the house.  Because whether she pays more for the house or not, your wife or girlfriend was always gonna be in charge of what happens in the house.  But, if you don’t own the t.v., and can’t control what’s being watched, you’re screwed.

And, let me tell you something, making less than your girlfriend blows.  And, what’s worse is that she doens’t get in my face about it. She’s really nice.  She’s perfectly happy to pay for things.  Like it’s no big deal.  She doesn‘t realize that every time she buys our dinner or pays for our trip, it’s like I’ve been magically transported to a time when I was 12.

But, as bad as housing costs have gotten, college costs are worse.  So, even as I sit here thinking that it might be nice if my girlfriend and I had a kid or two, I’m thinking there’s no way we can afford to educate (much less raise them).  And, that sucks.  The American Dream does not involve paying more for college than for a house . . . at least it shouldn’t.  I got lucky.  I was able to pay off my student loans.  But, right now, my girlfriend and I barely have enough money for a vacation.  In fact, we don’t.  Our vacation money only gets us as far as our parents’ houses, and that’s not a vacation.  That’s a yearly reminder of how much we don’t have.

And, why is it so expensive?  Why do 4 years of college cost what it takes to buy a house?  You can’t live in your college dorm forever.  A diploma is nice, but it’s not gonna keep the rain from falling on you or keep the cold out.  Believe me, there are homeless people with college educations.

Besides, what do you learn in college that you can’t learn elsewhere for a lot less?  I spent my college years drunk most of the time.  You know what I learned from that: how not to throw up in bed, and that if I take a midterm exam drunk I do just as well as when I’m sober.

We were supposed to go off to college and learn all these great things that would help us have a bigger, brighter future than our parents.  Every generation is supposed to do better.  We’re supposed to be physically bigger, smarter, more capable.  Well, I’m shorter than my dad, not as smart, and he managed to work his entire adult life without getting fired.  I had been fired 7 times by my thirties.  He lives in Florida now, living off the retirement money that he socked away while he was working.  I have a 401(k) from the one job I managed to hold onto for a couple of years, but if I had to live off of it, I’d be living on my dad’s porch with a tin cup and a sign.

My dad has lived in million dollar homes that he bought with his own money.  I live in a rent-stabilized apartment, that I couldn’t afford to buy if they sold it a foreclosure auction, and it was located in Mexico in the poorest section of a town that has no name.

You see these articles about whether buying real estate is a good idea.  And, it’s such a foreign concept when you have no money.  It’s like a person with false teeth reading about the benefits of flossing.  Yeah, it’s a great idea, but it just doesn’t apply to you.

The articles about buying real estate might as well be about life in India.  Because that has about the same effect on my life.

What else is part of the American Dream?  A good job with benefits?  Well, I think we all know what happened to that.  Gone.  Baby.  Gone.  Benefits today is when you show up at your job and you still have it for at least one more day.

And, what about the retirement party with gold watch for years of service?  Used to be that most people worked for the same company for their entire career.  Now, it’s a miracle if you work for the same company for an entire year.  As I mentioned, I’ve been fired 7 times since college, no one’s giving me a gold watch.  They might give me some Gold Bond medicated powder for my ass — for all the time’s it’s been kicked.  And, they’re certainly not giving me a watch.  Maybe a stopwatch, so I can time how long it takes for me to exit their premises.

The point is, the American Dream is an illusion.  It’s a fraud.  It’s not gonna necessarily be better for you than it was for your parents.  That used to be the case.  In the beginning of the country, it was the case.  Yes, if your parents came here from some country where people’s hands were cut off for shoplifiting, where women are beaten for looking at a guy, where they chase Jews with farm implements for sport, where getting a drink of water was your day’s activity, than yes, you almost certainly will have a better life than your parents.  But, if you’re like me — raised in the suburbs — it’s not necessarily gonna be better.  It’s probably gonna be worse.  Because our parents — those selfish bastards — decided to do all the fun stuff with the bad consequences and leave us the mess.  And, they didn’t have the decency to get rich doing it and leave us a big inheritance.

After years of dating, my girlfriend and I moved together.  And, moving in has consequences. 

For example, my girlfriend seems to think that our sex life has suffered. 

I suppose it’s true to some extent.  I mean, when you first start dating, sex is pretty wild.  It’s like a rock concert: It’s always better when you’re drunk or high; after it’s over you always think, “I should do that more often;” and, of course, it costs more than you think. 

But, when you start living together, the rock concert is over.  Now, sex is a reunion concert for some tired old fogies.  There’s no screaming, shouting, flicking your tongue.  There’s no jumping around the stage.  You just stay in your place, barely moving.  You just stick with the old favorites.  And, every so often, you get a little pain in your hip or your back and that reminds you that you’re not 20 anymore.  And, then, when you finish, you’re like “thank you and good night.”  And, that’s it.  When the show’s over, it’s over.  There’s no encore.  I don’t care if my girlfriend holds up her lighter and screams “Freebird.”  I’m done.    

Point is — when you move in together, romance moves out.  Romance when you’re living together is when the other person cares enough to go into the other room to fart.  

So, with this as a backdrop, my girlfriend asked me the other day: “what happened to foreplay?”  And, I tried to come up with a satisfactory answer.  Here were my best attempts: 

1.  What happened to foreplay?  What happened to my favorite pair of socks – the ones with the holes right where I like them?  “Yeah, baby, I’m pretty sure I put the foreplay in the same place you put my socks.”  Next thing I know she’s out back digging through a dumpster. 

2. What happened to foreplay?  It lives in a retirement community with: new car smell, bright colors, belief in Santa, career aspirations, hope for mankind and the Jeopardy category, “Things that Fade” 

3. What happened to foreplay? I’m pretty sure it retired to Florida to play golf.  But, let me call my dad and check.  “Yeah, hi, dad.  How are you?  Yep, I know Florida is hot this time of year.  Uh-huh.  Uh-huh.  Yeah, the Knicks do suck.  Uh-huh.  I’m sure if you were coach, they would play defense.  Listen, dad, not to interrupt — but, I’m calling to see if you’ve seen Foreplay?  Remember him?  Handsome guy.  Suave.  Really had a way with the ladies.  What?  What’s that?  Oh man.  He died?  What?  The coroner said he died of boredom.  Wow.  Thanks for telling me.  Yeah, love you too. Have a good time at the doctor today.” . . . .  “Hey, Honey, I got some good news and some bad news.  Good news is my dad’s cholesterol levels are in check.  Bad news is foreplay’s dead.  Sorry.” 

4. What happened to foreplay?  “You know it’s funny you ask that.  It’s actually pretty mysterious.  I’m pretty sure foreplay disappeared the same day you started leaving the bathroom door open.  I wonder if foul play is involved.  Maybe we should call a private investigator.” 

5. What happened to foreplay?  “We’ve been dating for years, and we  live together.  That’s what happened to it.  Geez, it’s like putting on a sweater that you got for Christmas 5 years ago and being pissed that there’s no tree, no gift wrap and no card.  It’s still a gift.  You didn’t have to pay for it, and it still fits.  So, stop complaining.” 

6. What happened to foreplay?  “It was on a plane with Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper.  Yeah, in fact, there’s a new Don McLean song.  It’s called ‘The Day the Foreplay Died.’” 

7. What happened to foreplay?  “Well let me ask you something — Are those sweatpants made by Victoria’s Secret?  Do they make a strapless terrycloth robe?  Are those slippers suddenly gonna grow 5 inch stiletto heels?” 

8. What happened to foreplay?  “It’s in storage.  With my golf clubs, the photos of my ex-girlfriends and my freedom.” 

9. What happened to foreplay?  “It was defeated by morning breath, which, by the way, is like a Taliban insurgency.  You have no idea where it’s hiding.  You don’t see it coming.  It’s completely outmatched – what with the toothpaste, the floss, and the mouthwash.  But somehow, every morning, morning breath comes back and launches another guerrilla attack – wreaking havoc, creating a big stink.  In fact, it smells like a suicide bomber blew himself up inside your mouth. 

10. What happened to foreplay?  “Foreplay, technically and scientifically speaking is not absolutely necessary, and, as a guy, I only do things that are means to an end.  I eat because I have to.  I breathe because I have to.  I leave my mouth hanging open and put my hands down my pants when I watch t.v., because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to understand what I am watching.  If you ever ask a guy if he wants to take a walk, the response will be, “sure.  Where to?”  If the answer is “oh, nowhere, just take a walk.”  The guy will look at you like you’re crazy.  Who walks nowhere?” 

11. What happened to foreplay?  “Look, this isn’t some romantic comedy with Jennifer Anniston.  Two hours from now, the credits don’t roll, and this movie doesn’t end.  This story isn’t boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back.  The End.  This story is boy and girl live together.  Girl leaves bathroom door open.  Girl parades around house in assortment of unflattering clothes.  Boy scratches his balls at inopportune times.  Girl complains of bloating and flatulence.  Boy complains of bloating and flatulence.  Girl snores.  Boy wakes up in the middle of the night screaming about being chased by Little Baby Alligators.  Girl chastises boy for his out-of-style wardrobe.  Boy retaliates by wearing underwear and socks with holes.  Girl responds by “forgetting” to DVR boy’s favorite reality show – America’s Next Top Model.  Boy comes home drunk.  Girl comes home drunker.  Boy intentionally sets alarm for really early the next morning.  Girl “accidentally” kicks boy in groin while they’re lying on the couch.  Boy complains to his mother.  Girl complains to Boy’s mother.  That’s what happened to foreplay.” 

Honestly, I don’t what the big deal is about foreplay is.  I think women are hung up on it, particularly kissing, because when they’re little, they read these books like: Snow White, where the prince kisses her, and they live happily ever after.  But, that’s not the guy’s perspective.  From our perspective what happens is that Prince kisses Snow White, and she wakes up and moves in with him.  If he doesn’t kiss her, she keeps on sleeping, and he can go play golf or watch tv or whatever he wants to do.  Besides “happily ever after?”  You know how much pressure that is?  I kiss you and now it’s my job to make sure that you’re happy for ever after?  I don’t make that kind of money.

So, in response to all of this, my girlfriend said, “Well kissing and foreplay can add to the sexual experience, make it more beautiful and meaningful.”

It wasn’t a bad point, but I had a quick response.  I said to her: “Well, you know what, writing a letter by hand and mailing it can make the letter more beautiful and meaningful, but last time I checked you seemed pretty committed to email.  If anything, you seem to be moving toward texting, which isn’t even words.”

That’s what happened to foreplay.

Did you ever notice that when you complain about your job, people will immediately say, “well you should do what you love, and the money will follow.”

Where were these people when I was growing up?  How come no one ever told me that I was allowed to enjoy myself?  I spent the last 10, 20 . . . well, basically until like yesterday just doing what I was told, and working as hard as balls to finish the project as soon as possible to get to the next thing.  And, not once, did I realize that I was actually allowed to enjoy myself while I was doing whatever I was doing.

In fact, no one ever said, I could pick things to do that I like doing.  I was like some sort of wind-up toy soldier that my folks wound up when I was born, and then I spent the rest of my life just marching forward.  You think I liked taking 97 AP classes in high school?  Did anyone ever ask me if I wanted to take calculus?  No, I just did it because that’s what you’re supposed to do.  And, what good did it do me?  You wanna know how many times you have use calculus day-to-day?

Then, I went to college and ran out of people telling me what I was supposed to do next, and what happened?  That’s right.  I filled in the gaps with what was left – cutting class to go to the gym for 3 hours at a time and binge-drinking.  By the end of my sophomore year, the people I knew best on campus were the weightlifting coach, the football team, and the bartender.  By the end of my junior year, I could claim that my neck was wider than my head from all that weightlifting and that I once took a midterm exam while drunk.

And, get this – I got a better grade on that test than I did on an exam I took sober earlier that day.

By the way, what if what you love doing doesn’t pay?  I mean my idea of a great day is wake up late, drink a cup of coffee, go for a run, watch a movie and drink really good red wine.  And, unless I’m missing something no one’s looking for a drunken Jewish jogger.  There’s not a lot of money to be made in that field.

Honestly, as far as I can tell, the jobs where you can make the most money are the ones that no one can possibly love doing.  And, I know, I was a lawyer, and I f’ing hated it.

Also, what if what you love is bad for you (or others)?  What if you love obsessive nose-picking?  Or painting your toe-nails purple?  Or being drunk?  Is there really money to be made that way?

Of course, every job is just about marketing, so if you can figure out a viral video to post on YouTube showing you just sitting in a chair, giving yourself a pedicure, and drinking beer, you can become a zillionaire.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my girlfriend and I are talking about having kids.

Well, she talks, and I do a lot of nodding as I ask myself how on earth we’ll be able to afford this and wonder which closet in our 1-bedroom apartment the kid will grow up in.  Who knows?  If we’re really lucky, maybe the kid will be a wizard, and he’ll spend most of the year at Hogwarts.

As my girlfriend and I talk about kids, it makes me think and wonder why, in fact, do people have kids.  As far as I can tell, there are about 8 reasons (there may be more, but I don’t want to keep you here all day, reading and reading and reading).  So, here are the ones I’ve thought of:

One reason is that there are some women who really like kids.  These women just have a thing, a way, with kids.  These women are special people.  They are to be applauded, because it means that at least some of us will grow up and not be completely fucked up.  My girlfriend is one of these women, which means that despite all of my eccentricities, neuroses and anxieties, any kid we have will have a fighting chance to not carry on my family’s craziness.

Then, there are women (and my girlfriend also falls in this category a bit), who are 30 plus and are really friggin’ tired of people telling them where they can get a good deal on a cat.  These women don’t want to be cat-woman.  They don’t see Miss Havisham as a heroic figure.  They don’t see the beauty of “spinster-chic”  and they don’t want to.

And, then there are the women, the obnoxious, pampered ones – you know who I’m talking about.  The Paris Hiltons of the world.  The ones who think they’re too good for everybody.  The ones who think that kids are just another accessory, like a Gucci handbag or Prada shoes.  The ones who have about as many maternal instincts as Hitler.

These women don’t even want to experience childbirth.  But, they don’t want to adopt either and give some poor kid the benefits of money and privilege.  No, they want to have a biological kid, but they don’t want to mess up their body too much by doing that.  They want to get just pregnant enough so they can be photographed in a fabulous dress, sporting a “baby bump.”

So, they take a bunch of fertility pills the size of basketballs and have turkey basters of their husband’s stuff jammed in every orifice in their body till they conceive (because you know they’re not having sex with their husbands), and then they get that embryo extracted and jammed into some surrogate.

And, they do this for one reason and one reason only — so that one day they will have the opportunity to sit at café, having brunch, while drinking cosmos or mimosas and complaining about the child and the nanny even though they never talk to the child and only talk to the nanny to yell at her that the MacLaren stroller is worth more than she is, “so you better stop screwing around because there are plenty of other, poor, unsuspecting young women who are here in this country illegally who I can underpay to raise my child, while I spend my husband’s money.”

Now, on the guy side, there are guys like me who just want to make a bigger, faster, more powerful version of themselves — the bionic carbon copy.  Maybe one who won’t drink so much, will take college more seriously, and who will be smart enough to go into a line of work that pays well.  Yes, maybe, maybe, maybe, we can have a kid who won’t spend his entire life doing everything the hard way, will learn how to talk to women before he’s in his late 20’s, and will be so talented at something that we’ll be able to take credit for creating him and bestowing his gifts on the world.  I’ve never seen an interview with Picasso’s dad, but I bet he spent some time before he died feeling pretty good about creating Picasso 2.0, the one that can sleep with six women and invent cubism all before noon.

And, then there are the other guys.  These guys that don’t want to recreate themselves to fix the past.  No, these guys are hung up on the past and want to punish somebody for what was done to them.  Like fraternity brothers who keep up the tradition of hazing because “hey, man, they did that shit to me.”
But, the problem for these guys are that they can’t get back at their parents, because their parents are dead or too old and decrepit to make revenge any fun.
Look, every guy, at some level, wants to get his dad.  That’s evolution.  That’s Oedipal.  Only problem is, when you get to the point when you’re sure you can do it.  When you absolutely know that you could kill the man for all the things he did (or allegedly did) to you – it’s too late.  The old man is an old man.  He’s shrunk down to the size of a raisin, wears trifocals, a hearing aid, and has prostate problems.  Beating up that guy is no fun.  Beating up that guy would just make you more ashamed of yourself than you already are.

So, you have a kid, ‘cause you think “Goddamnit, somebody’s got to pay.”  Of course, this is not a healthy resolution of anger.  It causes twisted results.  I mean, it was this kind of thinking that led George W. Bush to attack Iraq instead of doing what he wanted to do, which was choke the living shit out of his dad, George H.W. Bush.  So, now our country has spent billions of dollars and thousands of lives on a war, when really what should’ve happened is a slap-fight at the Bush family compound in Kennebunkport, Maine.

Now some people, their driving motivation for having a kid is fear of growing old alone and without the means to take care of themselves.  I call this the “401(k) Rationale.”  Usually these are people who spent all their money on drugs and vacations.  The ones who cashed in their retirement money to go to Vegas.  So, they have a kid because they think, “where the hell am I gonna live when I get older and can’t wipe my own ass?”

Then, there’s what I call the “Crazy, Krazy Glue” theorem.  This is where the couple looks at each other, and think, “Well, this will fix everything.”  They figure the kid will give them something to talk about.  That the kid will be the divorce blocker.  When, in fact, the kid becomes a witness to: (a) the slow unraveling of his parents’ psyches; (b) the horrors of a loveless marriage; (c) a referee; and (d) an extra teammate for the parent who is nicer.  And, the crazy thing about this couple is that years later, when their kid is 40 or 45 years old, these two nutjobs will act surprised that the kid is still childless and single.

And, finally, of course, there’s biology.  You may think that you have some “higher” purpose in life.  But, honestly, our only real purpose is to reproduce.  We’re all just a bag of skin, filled with the seeds of the next generation.  Just piñatas full of DNA.  That’s right.  Every time you orgasm, it’s like a 5 year old with a blindfold and a stick cracked you open so that you could pass on your genetic Nestle Crunch miniatures.

You think you’re having sex because it’s fun and it feels good.  No.  You’re doing it for biological reasons.  But, God (or nature) realized that people are so lazy, that if sex wasn’t fun and didn’t feel good, they’d have sex as often as they eat broccoli and go to the gym, and then the human race would’ve been Adam, Eve and that’s it.

And, knowing how stupid we all are, God (or nature) made it really simple.  There’s just 2 interlocking parts, and only one of them moves (and only a little), because if sex were any more complicated than that we’d have about as much chance of procreating as we do of figuring out cold fusion.

Regrettably, the problem with all of these reasons that people have kids is that, honestly, none of these are really good reasons.  I mean, there’s how many bazillion people on the planet?  It’s enough.  We could be done.  We don’t need anymore.  In fact, there’s a pretty good argument that the world would be a far better place without any of us.

But, let’s not be so bleak and pessimistic.  People have kids.  That’s what we do, and we’re gonna keep on doing it (especially those of us who live in China, India, Brazil, and pretty much anywhere in the world that isn’t the U.S. or Europe).  So, taking this as a given, one of the most pressing issues is: what do you name this precious little bundle?

One of the big issues is what to name the child.  My girlfriend thinks that if we have a son we should name him Declan, which is Gaelic for . . . I don’t know what because I’m Jewish.

Yes, I’m Jewish, and she’s Black.  What the hell does “Declan” have to do with either of those cultures?  Why not just name the kid Yao Ming?

My buddy suggested that we “name the kid after your favorite parent.”  Man, I am not having a son named Mommy.

Actually, in Jewish tradition we don’t name kids after older, living relatives.  Because there’s a superstition that if you name the kid after a living relative, when God decides that it’s the older person’s time to die and comes to collect the soul, he’ll get confused.

That’s right, God – the all-knowing, all-powerful, perfect being, the one who created the entire universe in just 6 days — won’t know the difference between the bundle of joy and a 90 year-old man who won’t stop telling you stories about the Great Depression.

I mean, I get that they’re both bald and toothless, but have you ever smelled an old man?  That’s not “new baby” smell.  That’s not the smell of talcum powder and sweet milk breath.

That’s the smell of mildewed clothes and breath from the crypt.

That’s the smell of anger, exhaustion and decay.

That’s the smell of someone who wears a diaper not because he can’t control himself but because “dammit, I don’t wanna control myself anymore.  I’ve spent 90 years doing what people told me to do.  And, for once, I’m gonna do what I want.

By the way, I know the “jr.” thing is a tradition, and I don’t want to insult someone’s cultural traditions, but, I mean, how uncreative can you get?

There are books and websites devoted only to baby names.  In every language, every culture.  And, you can’t take 10 seconds to look one of those up and pick one?  You’ll spend hours playing video games.  Hours on Facebook.  Hours playing Farmville. Hours picking a cool email name for yourself, but, you won’t take 10 seconds to see if there’s another boy’s name that starts with “J” so you don’t have to name your son John Johnson, Jr?  What did you name your dog – dog?

Actually, these same people will take days to agonize over what to name the family pet.  With the kid, there’s no thought involved.  They just look at him quickly and say: “you, you’re John Jr.”  But, the puppy, they get all sentimental and weepy, and say, “Oh, he’s so cute.  And, he’s so much better than the other ones.  We have to give him a special name.  You, puppy, you are Señor Brown Socks.”

Point is, I think you can spring for a new name.  It’s not like the kid won’t know he’s yours ‘cause he has his own name.  Believe me, he’ll know.  Who else is going to serve as the target of all his unresolved anger?

Fact is, kids names are a very serious topic.  You can’t just name the kid anything.  You have to use the Joey LaRocca test.  Joey LaRocca was a kid I went to school with from kindergarten through high school.  He was a good guy, a funny guy, and a friend.  But, Joey was a clown and a loud-mouth, and for those 12 years, he tortured every kid who was a bit different or had a different name.  If a boy’s name was “Ivan.”  He was re-named “Yvonne.”  There was another kid in our class whose name was “Kuveikis” and he had a slightly big head, and for 12 years Joey called him “K-Headis (pronounced kuh-head-is)”.  God protect you if your name rhymed with any word for human genitalia.  Joey’s name-calling probably would’ve landed you in therapy to this day.

So, for God sakes, be careful when naming your child.  I don’t care if you loved your Uncle Wilberforce and your Aunt Fanny.  No kid needs the extra baggage of such a name.  I, for one, am going to follow this piece of advice.  Because I know about the Joey LaRoccas of the world.  So, as much as I love my girlfriend, and as much as I want her to be happy and have what she wants, there is no way, no how, that I am going to allow my child to spend his formative years being called Declan the Short and Embittered Mulatto.  Instead, I am going to going to give the kid a good name, a proud name, a name that allows him to honor the best of his African-American and Jewish backgrounds and yet still allows him to hold his head high.

That’s right world. My son will be named LeBron Einstein.

My girlfriend told me a story today about one of her friends.  It seems the friend was having trouble understanding the behavior of her ex-boyfriend.  After relaying the story to me, my girlfriend said, “You’re a man.  You tell me — why do men do things like this?”

Honestly, I had no idea.

More importantly, though, I questioned one of the assumptions of her question.  Specifically, she was assuming that I am a man.

Now, it is true that I am old enough to be a man.  But, I have to tell you, most of the time, I don’t feel like a “man.”  I don’t feel like a “boy,” but I don’t feel like a “man.”  Mostly, I just feel like a guy.

Frankly, it’s a little hard to feel like a man.  I look young for my age.  And, I’m a short-statured, neurotic, hypochondriac who worries that I will never really achieve anything of substance and who frets constantly over his ultimate, but unavoidable death.  That’s not exactly the “man” you read about in the epic books about heroes.

No, that “man” is much, much different.  That “man” is a man of confidence.  He is statuesque.  He is a rugged Viking who runs corporations and who, in his spare time, mountain-climbs, hang-glides, and plays lead guitar in a rock band.  He, in short, is a bold, risk-taker who does not need to collect a handful of paper towel before grasping the door handle of a public restroom.

Real men are a little threatening.  And, that’s obviously not me.  How do I know?

Because everyone, and I mean everyone stops me to ask for directions.  Even when I’m jogging.  Why do they ask me?  Why don’t they ask a guy who’s standing still?

And by the way, it’s not just here.  I’ve been in Europe, on vacation, running through the streets, and people ask me for directions.

It’s as if wearing wraparound shades and running tights makes me look like a Park Ranger with the U.N. rather than what I really look like – a kid trying out for the j.v. squad of the X-Men.

On the other hand, the good news is that I’ve now learned to say “go down the block and make a right” in six different languages.

It’s like they assume that because I’m running, I must know how to get places.  No.  I just go nowhere a lot faster.  Seriously, the reason I’m running is because I’m neurotic, and I’m just trying to stay one step ahead of whatever’s chasing me.

And, this happens to me all the time.  A guy once tried to ask me for directions while I was running a 10K in Central Park.  Why me?  Why don’t you ask the Kenyan at the front of the pack?  That guy could stop, eat, give directions, and still win.

But, I draw the line at kids.  I will not give directions to kids.  My buddy’s kid came up to me one day, and said, “can you help me find my daddy?’

Now my buddy is a good guy.  I’ve known him forever.  But, if there’s one person on the planet less suited to be a father than me, it’s him.  So, I looked at the kid, and I was like, “dude, trust me, stay lost.  You’ll have a much better life.”

In high school, to prove I was tough enough to be a man, I was on the wrestling team.  Thing is, women were not particularly impressed that I could put another guy on his back and lie on top of him for a long time.

I also lifted weights.  But women don’t want a guy who looks like a fire hydrant with arms.  I used to tell women I could bench more than I weighed, and that impressed them till they found out they weighed more than I did.  Let me tell you something, nothing takes the romance out of an evening faster than a woman finding out that she weighs more than her date.  Last Thanksgiving my girlfriend found out that I weighed less than she did, and she put me on a 10,000 calorie a day diet.

The other problem I’m having is that I’m not doing as well as my friends.  A lot of my buddies are investment bankers and rich lawyers, who:

1. think that flying first class instead of a private jet is slumming it;
2. believe that a “reasonable” price for a bottle of wine is what I pay for rent; and
3. think that $20 is pocket change.

Meantime, I take my loose change to the bank every month to have money for food.

When these friends come to New York from out of town, they stay at places like the Peninsula and the Four Seasons.  When I visit them, I sleep on their couch.  Nothing makes you feel like less of a grownup than staying on someone’s couch.

Seriously, I just went to visit a good friend of mine from high school.  When we were kids, I was a straight arrow who did well in school, and this guy got his jollies by defecating in public.  Now, I’m a broke comedian, and he’s the VP of a real estate development company.  He has a wife, 3 kids, and a giant house with a pool.  I have a disgruntled girlfriend, a series of disgruntled ex-girlfriends, and a walk-up apartment filled with dust bunnies bigger than I am.

So I’m at this guy’s house, and I’m staying on the couch.  He and his family go to sleep, and I’m wide awake, staring at the Fisher-Price toys and listening to the sound of like a billion frogs in the dude’s backyard.  And, every croak the frogs make sounds to me like the following:  “Ribet.  Loser!  Ribet!  Fuckup!  Ribet.  Get a life!”

And, in my exhausted, hazy, mental state, I started thinking that I shouldn’t fight it, that if I don’t act too adult, I can just blend in with his kids, and I can stay there forever – rent free.

The other difficulty about being a “man” is that I’m filled with fears and anxieties.  Real men stand up for what they believe in.  They are literally willing to die for a cause.  I’m scared of death  . . . and pain, while we’re at it.  So I might stub a toe for my cause, but death?  No thanks.  Besides, what if I die for my cause and then they find out my cause was wrong?  Seriously, what if it was 500 years ago, and you were a flat-earther?  How stupid would you feel if you died for that cause?

Real men don’t worry about trivialities like that.  But I do.  I worry about everything.  I worry about money and respect and whether people like me and whether I’ve offended people and whether I’m working hard enough and whether Global Warming will literally melt the planet and whether the Great Pacific Garbage Patch is going to eventually kill all life as we know it and whether there’s a burglar hiding behind the shower curtain when I come home.  But, mostly, I worry about health and disease.

See, I come from a family of hypochondriacs.  And, of course, we’re all convinced we’re dying.  And, the thing is we’re right.  We just haven’t figured out what from yet.

In case you didn’t know, we hypochondriacs have a union.  Of course, no one goes to meetings, ‘cause someone might have something.  However, we do have a code:
THE HYPOCHONDRIACS’ CODE:

1. If you think you are okay, think again.
2. An intact hymen is a good sign, but not an absolute guarantee.
3. The subway pole is the instrument of the devil.
4. People who agree to have sex with you are part of an evil conspiracy to give you herpes.
5. Assume everyone is sick. . . except your mother, and even she is suspect.
6. On the 7th day, God created Purell
7. Heaven is a hermetically-sealed clean room
8. No man is an island, but wouldn’t it be nice?
9. Whatever doesn’t kill me, doesn’t make me stronger, ‘cause it might mutate and come back.
10. If someone chews the caps of their pen, they are a Philistine and not to be trusted

And, I know what the real men are thinking (if they are reading this): “Stop crying and be a man.”

I wish I could.

My girlfriend and I just moved in together, and I’m having trouble adjusting.  The biggest issue is that living together requires compromise and the sharing.  I don’t like to give people a sip, how am I gonna share my life?

Sharing stinks.  I want all, not half.  What idiot wants half?

I’m a Jewish guy.  We don’t do half.  I don’t care if you’re talking money or the West Bank.  If you’re a Jewish guy who’s okay with half, you don’t get into Israel or Goldman Sachs.

But, it’s not just Jews.  Look at Tiger Woods.  The guy literally has it all.  And, yet he wanted more.  He’s like, “I got a hot woman, now I want all the ugly ones too.”

And the thing that guys want more than anything else is their freedom.

This country was founded by men who were all about freedom — freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom from having to wear those stupid, white wigs.  It’s America, the land of the free, not America the land of cuddle time.

And, people will say, yeah, but if you’re free, you don’t get intimacy and togetherness.  Intimacy and togetherness are over-rated. We all get more intimacy and togetherness than we can handle sitting in cubicles all day, listening to the person next to us describe their diet plans, their bowel movements, and their outlandish (and unrealistic) hopes and dreams. Enough intimacy and togetherness. How about a little estrangement and solitude?  You know how I know freedom is more important than intimacy and togetheness — put it this way, you think Lincoln could’ve avoided the Civil War by saying: “Look we don’t actually have to free the slaves, just give them more hugs.” 

Meantime, women, are less concerned with freedom.  They’re about partnering up.   Look how young girls are always drawing on the back of their notebook a big heart with their name and the name of some cute little boy they’re gonna marry someday.    That’s nice, except for one thing.  You know that big heart you just drew around our names — the one that shows how much you love us — that thing is a fence locking me in.

Women are so eager to partner up, they have no problem compromising.  Look who they’re partnering with — us.  My girlfriend was so eager to be in a relationship with me, that she converted.  She gave up Jesus — the ultimate rockstar — to be with me.  Meantime, I’m kvetching because I have to give up sleeping on the diagonal.

If freedom is so important, then why did I move in with my girlfriend?  Because she cried . . . a lot.

I mean, I could’ve gone on living alone.  But, I’m standing there, and she raised the topic of living together, and I hesitated a moment too long — as I pictured how much I like living alone — and she started crying.  So, I threw myself on the grenade and said:  “Baby, don’t worry.  I love you.  I just want to be with you.”

It was pathetic.  It was like I was some effeminate male character from the film version of a Jane Austen novel.  You know – the one who stammers and has floppy hair and is played by Hugh Grant or Colin Firth.  The one who thinks that kissing is a big deal and that it’s possible to be in love with someone besides yourself.

But, even though this went against what I wanted, I did it because I had to get her to stop crying so I wouldn’t feel like such a jerk for making her cry, and wouldn’t feel like a bad guy for being the one thing in this world that is getting in the way of having the life she wants.  Literally, it’s that powerful.  I want to protect her more than anything in the world.  And, the sick thing is, the thing I’m protecting her from is me.  Because she doesn’t know it, but sooner or later she’s gonna realize that I’m not the guy she wants.  I may look like him.  I may act like him from time to time.  But, if our lives together were a movie, it wouldn’t be a romantic comedy or a chick-flick, it would be a horror film — The Attack of the Neurotic Commitment-Phobe.

First thing that happens when you move in with your girlfriend, she says “we have to consolidate our stuff.”

Consolidate — that means we take all her stuff and put it over here.  And, we take all my stuff and put it on the curb.

I have a wolf poster.  It’s a wolf – a lone wolf.  And, she wants it gone.  Why?  Isn’t it obvious?  She doesn’t want me getting any ideas, about leaving the pack and going on my own.  Forget howling at the moon.  Forget hunting.  The only thing I’m allowed to hunt for these days are the take-out menus and clean socks.

By the way – did we throw out her stuff?  I don’t know.  As long as her stuff isn’t blocking the t.v., what do I care.  Not like she would listen to what I have to say on the subject anyway.  At the same time, I’m not really sure why she needs that many handbags.  It’s like she has one for every day, 2 for every mood, and one where she keeps the secrets of how women get men to do anything they want.  For all I know, there’s a mini-Oprah in there saying: “Now listen, if he doesn’t do exactly what you want, just start crying.”

Then, she holds out these five pieces of paper to me, and, she says: “You know what this is?”

And, thinking she’s trying to make it up to me, I say, “Playoff tickets?!”

“No.  Better.  They’re Bed Bath & Beyond coupons.  And, I can use them all together to totally re-do this place.”

I don’t want to re-do this place.  I want to re-do this situation.  I’m serious.  I want a do-over.  Hit rewind.  Back to when Bed, Bath & Beyond was something I made fun of and not where I go every weekend.

I mean, I’m not married.  This isn’t supposed to be happening to me yet.

Because this isn’t about decorating.  This is about control.  It’s the battle over who’s place this really is.  Then, finally, it’ll get down to what this is really all about – who’s in charge of this relationship.

So, I told her that I wasn’t happy.  I said, “I’m not happy.”

Well, first I got drunk – because I’m scared of her when I’m sober.  And, then I told her.

And, she said, “what are you talking about?  It’s your apartment too.”

And, I said, “no, it’s not.  If it were mine, I would know where stuff is – right on the floor where I left it.  I wouldn’t be scared to eat in the living room.  And, I wouldn’t clean the toilet every time I use it because I’m petrified that you’ll know I made a doody.

That’s my apartment.  My apartment is a place of total freedom.  It’s the United States before 9/11.

Now, I live in China.  Yeah, it’s exotic and filed with cool shit.  But if I hang my towel in the wrong place there could be a government crackdown.

After about a year together, my girlfriend asked me: “when are we getting married?”  Now, look, I’m Jewish, and my girlfriend is Black and was raised Christian.  So I said, “Look, baby, religion is important to me, you’re gonna have to convert.

So she did!  Talk about calling my bluff!

By the way, if I had known she was going to do this, I would’ve asked for something way better.  Like a lifetime supply of blowjobs.  Because religion’s nice, but God doesn’t suck dicks.  He doesn’t –  I checked the New Testament, too.

Honestly, I can’t believe she actually went through with it.  In fact, I was worried she’d either start crying or break up with me when I asked, so I didn’t mention this till she was out of town and I was drunk.

But, she did it alright.  Just went ahead and converted.  Jeez, who converts?!  Who does that?!  Being Black isn’t hard enough?  Noooooooo, you gotta be Black and Jewish?  Sure, why not?  Let me just make my status in society as difficult as possible.  In fact, next thing you know she’ll become gay.  Then, she’ll be a gay, Black, Jewish, lesbian.  And, why don’t we just throw in a sex-change while we’re at it.  Then she can be a gay, Black, Jewish, lesbian, transgenderian.  Transgenderite?  Genderan?  I don’t know.  Whatever it is — that’s what she will be.  In fact, why stop there?  Why not get some Michael Jackson skin whitening cream, and you can be a gay, Black, Jewish, lesbian, transgenderite, albino.  People will write about you.  You’ll be famous.  You’ll be the most unique minority ever.

So, now I owe her.  Because converting’s big.  Not something you do every day.  Now, unless I can think of some other completely unreasonable request, I’m gonna have to marry her.

On the other hand, when you think about it, what’s the big deal about converting?  I mean, she’s doesn’t like being Jewish?  Fine.  Eat bacon and don’t go to temple – you’ll be like every other Jew in the world.  Seriously, all Jews love bacon.  There’s not one Jew alive who doesn’t eat bacon.  In fact, two Jewish guys just invented “Bacon Salt,” and “Bacon-flavored mayonnaise” – both of which are kosher.  Don’t ask me how.  But, they are.  Why do you think those ultra-orthodox guys sport those sidecurls – religion?  Wrong!  That’s an homage to their favorite food – 2 strips of Oscar Mayer’s finest.  And, that’s why we fast on Yom Kippur – the day of Atonement.  Because after 364 days of eating bacon, you gotta take a day off from eating to digest.

So, what’s the big deal about converting?  But, getting married?!!!  That’s huge!!!  If I don’t like that, it’s horrible and complicated.  Lawyers get involved.  There’s fighting.  Maybe even crying and hitting.  She could take half my stuff.  You know how long it took me to put that cd collection together?  And rip them all onto my iPod?  And, my television!  God, she can’t have my television!  Dude, I love my television!  And, my baseball card collection.  I don’t want to give her half of that!  I started collecting that when I was 5 years old. . . .  See!!!  What she’s asking me to do is bigger.  Way bigger.

Okay, yes, I concede, she gave up Jesus.  And, he is the Son of God, the Messiah, the Savior, the ultimate rockstar of all time, and she picked me instead – a high-strung, hypochondriac with OCD and control issues.  Okay, fine, that’s humbling.  But, honestly, did she really talk to Jesus everyday?  No, I don’t think so.  And, she certainly wasn’t sleeping with Jesus.  I’m not saying sex with me is some sort of Messianic experience, but it’s still sex, and she doesn’t have to go through 12 apostles to get to me.

And, sure, she gave up Christmas.  I get that.  But, it’s one day a year.  Besides, you know what – if you’re Jewish you can still participate.  You don’t have to completely sit that one out.  You can go to the parties and you can help your friends decorate their tree.  And, I watch Rudolph and Frosty every year.  I love that stuff – Heat Miser, Freeze Miser.  That stuff’s awesome.  You just don’t have the tree in your house – big deal.  Frankly, that’s an advantage.  You don’t have to pick pine needles out of the carpeting for the next 11 months.  Besides, last Hanukkah I bought her 8 sex toys – 1 for each day.

And, honestly, I already made a big compromise.  I gave up the left side of the bed, and I let her go to the bathroom first every morning.  You don’t think that’s big?  Every morning I gotta lie there on the bad side of the bed, my bladder bursting, while I wait for her to do whatever the hell women do in the bathroom every morning.

Of course, since we didn’t get married right after the conversion, I heard about it – and I mean from everyone.

My mother’s pissed.  I’m like, “Ma, you should be happy.  I got one to come over to our team.”  And, all she can say – this woman who helped instill these Jewish values in me – is “Who cares about religion?  Just get married and give me some grandkids.”

My buddies are on me too.  Talk about hypocrites.  I mean, how many times did I listen to all the fucked up shit they did in their relationships?!  What’s the big deal about what I did?  I didn’t cheat on her – like some people I know.  I didn’t giver her a STD – again, like some people I know.  All I did was ask her to convert.  And, to what?  A zombie?  No, just into a Jew.

Even our Rabbi got into the act.  The dude’s this young, hip, laid back guy who listens to everything from the Grateful Dead to hip hop, so I figured he’d understand the pressures on modern men like myself.  I figured he’d understand my philosophical ambivalence about the institution of marriage.  But all he can say is: “yo dog, if you’re not getting married, what the fuck did we do all of this for?”

In all seriousness, I realize that converting is a big step.  You have to really love someone to convert for them.  It’s actually kind of scary that she could love me that much.  And, without qualification.  She doesn’t say, “I love you . . . sometimes.”  Or, “I love you . . .  if you would convert from being such an anxious, neurotic, hypochondriac with control issues.”  She just loves me, period.  It’s hard to even imagine.

Because I know what kind of arrogant, self-absorbed, petty, non-charitable person I can be.  In fact, I’m not sure I deserve this kind of love.  It’s really a huge responsibility.  Too much responsibility.  I mean, what an awful burden to know you’re loved that much.  Because now I have to measure up.  I have to live up to this love she’s giving me, this trust that I will be a good and reliable and supportive relationship partner.  Man, that’s too much pressure.

Plus, it means, I’m supposed to love her right back.  Yikes!  I don’t even know if I’m capable of that.  I mean, I’m nice to her.  I help her out as much as possible, but unqualified, unreserved love?  What if I don’t feel like it sometimes?

Besides which — how do you even know you love someone?  I always figured the only way you can really tell is if you miss them when they’re dead.  But, that’s not really a great test, since I’d basically have to kill her to find out if I really cared.

The big problem is that nothing is what it’s supposed to be.  In fact, life is radically different than advertised.

Like the first time you have sex.  It’s supposed to make you feel adult, not self-conscious that you didn’t know that leotards can’t be yanked off and ashamed that you threw up everywhere but in the toilet.

Yep, first time I had sex, it was with an older woman, and I repaid her by projectile vomiting and then passing out.

Of course, it was lucky for me, because an hour later her boyfriend showed up, and if I hadn’t already been unconscious, he would’ve beaten me till I was.

And, by the way, you know how first times have a profound effect on your life?  To this day, every time I have sex, I get a little nauseous and worry that a macho Nicaraguan man is about to kick my ass.

But, first times you do anything do affect you.  They are what you remember most, what mold you into who you become.  For example:

First time you kiss someone.
First time you masturbate thinking of the person who first kissed you.

First time you get drunk.
First time you throw up in bed from drinking.
First time your parents call all the local area hospitals because you didn’t come home when you were supposed to.

First time you look around at college and realize you’re not nearly as smart as you thought.
First time you get a D in college.
First time your parents ask you why they bothered spending all that money on tuition.

First time you have to borrow money from one of your friends who got a job right after college.
First time you stop answering calls from said friend.

First job you get that makes you realize that your dad was right when he said: “just wait, you’ll see.”

First time you meet a woman you think you can marry.
First time you have sex with her, then do a #2 in her toilet and overflow the damn thing.

First time your girlfriend says “I’m late.”
First time you realize that the phrase “Planned Parenthood” is ironic.

First time you get engaged.
First time you break off a wedding engagement.
First time you sleep in the office because you’re afraid that ghosts of your relationship are haunting the apartment.
First time you get drunk and play a game of chicken with a car barreling down a snow-covered street in the bad part of Washington, D.C. at 3 am on Thursday in January 1996.
First time you get fired because all you do is stare out the window thinking about how much you fucked up.

First time you realize that work sucks, but unemployment isn’t “chic”
First time you get a job paying 50% less than before you were fired.
First time you realize your father was right when he said, “life is unfair and  . . . well, that’s it.”

First time you realize that sleeping with your best friend’s girlfriend doesn’t make anyone feel better and causes herpes of the soul.
First time you realize that sleeping with 10 women in one week costs thousands in dinners, therapy and STD testing and causes recurrent nightmares about large women who eat their sexual conquests.
First time you sleep with someone who wasn’t born when you graduated from high school
First time you realize that 20 years is not an age gap, but an age Grand Canyon.

First time you meet another woman who makes you forget the ex-fiancee.
First time you move in with her even though you swore you’d “never do that again.”
First time you break up with your live-in girlfriend but continue living with her, sleeping in the same bed for another 2 months, but neither have sex nor talk.
First time you don’t see the “low-ceiling” sign while moving your ex-live-in girlfriend’s stuff and wedge the moving truck into an underpass.

First time you pay a booty call on your ex-live-in girlfriend and bump into her new guy in the stairwell.
First time you throw the first but not the last punch.
First time a woman says that you scare her in a creepy way – a way that makes her question how she dated you in the first place.

First time you get fired for the 2d time.
First time you realize you are too old to be cute

First time you move cities to get a fresh start.
First time you realize you can run, but you can’t hide.

First time you go speed-dating.
First time you realize that you can’t lie about your height when your 6 speed-dates can see you in-person.
First time you realize that 45 minutes is plenty of time to strike out 10 times.

First time you do online dating.
First time you put your ex’s picture in a drawer while posting your online dating profile so she can’t see what you’re up to.
First time you meet a woman who says she actually prefers uncircumcised penises (also known as the first time you realize there is absolutely no accounting for taste, uch!)

First time you meet a woman in your new fresh-start city who makes you think life might continue.
First time you break up with your new fresh-start girlfriend.
First time you call your ex-fresh-start girlfriend, beg her to take you back and get engaged – even though you’re already dating another woman.
First time you break off an engagement after only 12 hours.
First time you spend a weekend lying naked on the floor while two women call you non-stop for 48 hours to tell you that they’ve never met anyone so crazy.

First time you pay a stripper $1000 for extra attention in the backroom.
First time you cry in a strip club.
First time you ask a doctor whether there’s an STD called “Gonoccocus Kill the Jew-Us”.

First time you get fired for the third time
First time you get fired for the fourth time

First time you realize that, in fact, no one cares or pays attention.
First time you realize that it might take 4 weeks before anyone discovered your rotting corpse, sitting there, holding the remote.

First time you realize that performing stand-up comedy is a humiliating and degrading way of airing your personal laundry in public, but is also way cheaper than therapy.
First time someone comes up to you on the street and says, “hey, I saw you perform.  You’re funny.”

First time you realize you need to just chuck out your ideas of what you thought your life would be and just have fun living the life you’ve got.

Life is about firsts.

First kiss.
First car.
First time you get fired for the second time.  And, the third time.  And, the fourth time.  And, the . . . .  Well you get the point — I’ve been fired a lot.

I’ve been fired so many times that my business card is just my name, my number and a picture of my mother weeping uncontrollably.

But, it’s not all bad.  There’s an upside to getting fired.  You learn a lot about yourself.  For instance, I learned that my nose runs when I cry.

Having been fired so many times, I’ve come to realize that a job is a huge priority in life.  But, it’s not the highest priority.  And, I know, some will disagree. But I still think sex is a higher priority and I can prove it.  Because if you don’t have sex you masturbate.  But, if you don’t have a job, you don’t go into a room by yourself, look at photographs of your ex co-workers, and pretend to work.

Of course, I didn’t just get fired from any old job.  Before I got into comedy I was a lawyer.

Truth is, I wanted to become a chef, but my dad  reminded me that I once microwaved a Nestle Crunch bar with the aluminum foil still on.
So, cooking school was out.

And, what other choice did I have?  I graduated with a liberal arts degree, and I was too scared to go backpacking in Europe and too selfish to join the Peace Corps.

So, I got into law, and I was promptly fired from my first law job.  Because apparently, if you go around saying “law sucks” people start to take it personally.

Actually, the truth is, I had no passion for law, and you need passion to do something well.  I, apparently, have two passions — complaining and getting fired.  Because I do both with unparalleled excellence.

I was fired despite good intentions and working hard.  Because, to make it in law, you have to produce results while constantly being reminded that you’re doing it wrong.  And, in this way, it’s just like going down on a woman.  Although judges rarely squeeze your head between their knees, come on your face, break your nose with their clitoris, or smell like low tide.

Now when you get fired, they never tell you the truth.  They candy-coat it.  When I got fired the first time, my boss told me it was “not a good fit.”
What he was really saying was: “You’re about as useful as a third nipple on a dude.”

By the way, “Not a good fit” doesn’t really apply.  “Not a good fit” is a size 6 woman trying to squeeze into a size 4 dress.  What my boss was telling me was that I was like a size 36 woman trying to squeeze into that same dress.

Meantime, why am I not a good fit?  I groveled.  I told him how terrific he was even though his breath stank like it came up from his stomach.  I didn’t laugh at him even though he looked and acted like a chimp on crystal-meth, always walking the halls, knuckles low, rubbing his nose and looking sideways into everyone’s office, like they were hiding bananas in there.  Why did we have to be watched so closely?  Was he afraid I was going to tunnel out of my office with a spoon to get to the men’s room?

Besides, work is not a good fit for anyone.  Work is unnatural.  Eating is natural.  Having sex is natural.  But human beings didn’t evolve from apes and start walking upright so they could carry a briefcase without dragging it on the ground.  People didn’t develop opposable thumbs so they could better control a mouse.  Going to a cookie party at 3 pm is not the modern day version of being a hunter-gatherer.

Truth be told, what “Not a good fit” means is “willing to eat shit.  Eating shit is one of the most important parts of growing up.  When you’re a kid, you don’t have to eat shit.  Someone feeds you.  When you’re an adult, no one feeds you.  You literally have to eat shit to feed yourself.

Then, they told me that “everyone here loves working with you.”  Really?  So, you mean I’m being fired because my working here has made everyone so ecstatic and created such a state of euphoria in the office that nothing is getting done?  Is that what you’re telling me?  My being here is like one big LSD trip with Sgt. Pepper playing in the background?

Then, they told me “We don’t want to keep you from realizing your true potential.”  This is the one that I love.  These guys were so giving, so altruistic, that they were willing to let me go.  Me – their star employee, that everyone loves working with – so that I would be able to realize my true potential
And, what is my true potential?  Apparently, it is binge drinking, deep depression, and a string of unfulfilling relationships.

When I got fired, the first thing that happened is that my work colleagues acted like I had a contagious disease.   I wish it had been contagious.  I wish being fired was a fatal, flesh-eating virus and that I could have just walked through the halls breathing on everyone, giving them a big dose of what I just got – the boss’s dick right up my ego.  If I’m going, I’m taking the ship down with me.  Especially, that dude who never washes his hands after he uses the bathroom.
Altruism?  Un-unh, I got Me-truism.  I’m going so postal with my being fired germs and bio-toxins that the Hazmat squad will have to clean the place up with a mop.  When they send CSI in afterwards, they’ll be like: “What happened here?  Dude got fired, and then he breathed on everyone.  Okay, shit, everyone out.  This place is quarantined.”

Truth is, being fired is worse than having a contagious disease.  Because there are women who will sleep with you even if you have herpes, but if they know you’ve been fired and don’t have a job, forget it.

Now, your friends, they don’t treat you like you’re contagious.  They act like being fired is the same as getting terminal cancer.  Yeah, all of a sudden they’re acting all nice, asking me how I feel, buying me drinks, telling me it’s okay to cry if I want.  You know it’s bad when you’re a dude and your friends are nice.
Plus, I know as soon as I walked away, my friends started speculating about whether I was gonna make it.  I’ve got 3 really close buddies, and I know one turned to the other and said, “Whaddya think?  He’ll pull through, right?”  “Nah, the dude’s fucked.  He’d be better off if he really did have cancer.”

Oh, and I love what my friends said whenever I saw them.  They always hit me with the clichés.  My favorite was: “Well you hated that job.  They’re doing you a favor.”  My boss took away my job, my health insurance and my dignity — that’s not a favor.  You wanna do me a favor?  Loan me $20, that’s a favor.  Or pay my Con Ed bill.  Better yet, suck my dick, that’s a big favor.

Of course, one of the worst parts of being fired is finding a new job.  Just getting an interview is impossible.  One summer, I sent out 210 letters and got 3 interviews.

So, if you’re lucky enough to get a job interview, it feels like getting lucky enough to get on the liver transplant waiting list.  And then, when you go on the interview you have to lie in a million different ways to make it seem like you want the particular job, when all you really want is for someone to like you, to regain a shred of your dignity and to have some money in your pocket.  “Why do I want this job?  I don’t, really.  It’s just that I’m broke and have less self-esteem than Lindsay Lohan.

And if getting an interview is like getting on the liver waiting list, getting the new job is like getting the new liver – you have no idea whether it will work out, but you’re just so grateful to have it. Of course, you gotta hope this new job isn’t the equivalent of a liver harvested from an octogenarian with hepatitis.  I mean if you go from being a senior v.p. to filling boxes with packing peanuts, it’s a pretty good bet that your body’s gonna reject that transplant pretty quickly.

After my last firing, I got a job working as a contract lawyer for the City.  And, my office was near Ground Zero.  Now, look, I don’t want to say anything negative about 9/11 or besmirch the memories of the people whose lives were lost, but the tourists that go down there, what are they looking at?  There’s nothing there.  It’s just a hole.  If they love holes so much, I got a hole for them — it’s the one that used to be filled with my job, my income and my self-esteem.

My girlfriend and I just moved in together.  What was I thinking?  I’ve done this before, and I’m 0 for 2.
And, the game hasn’t changed.  The rules are the same.  I haven’t upgraded my skills.  It’s not like all of a sudden I’m the LeBron James of living together.  I’m more like the Rick James of living together — totally out of control and headed for a crash.

I must be like one of these military guys who keeps coming back from Iraq, and after a couple of months he volunteers to go back “into the shit.”  I know it’s not good for me.  I know people are gonna get hurt, there’s gonna be collateral damage, and I’m not gonna be the same when I come back.  But, I thrive on the excitement of all the fighting.

Moving is traumatic enough.  It’s right up there with death and Thanksgiving with family.

But we made it harder.  We actually moved to a neighborhood we’re we are the outsiders.

Now, look, we’re not your everyday couple.  My girlfriend is Black and has an afro bigger than Angela Davis.  And, I’m a Jewish momma’s boy who has a conniption every time someone stands too close to me.

But, in most of NYC, that’s not too odd.

However, we decided to throw another complication into the mix.  We moved to a neighborhood where no one speaks English.

Oh, boy, no es bueno.

Right away there were problems with the apartment.  So, I call the new landlord, but I don’t get a live person, I get “press 1 for this, press 2 for that.”  Except, it’s all in Spanish, so it’s “Oprima numero uno para Graciela” “Opima dos para Esmeralda.”  And, the voicemails of all these senoritas are the same: “Okay, papi, if jew have a problema, liv a mesaje at the bip-tone.”

So, I just keep oprima’ing, leaving mesajes about my problemas at the bip-tones for the cast of Sabado Gigante.

Nothing gets done.  Nada.  Well, I bought a subscription to Telemundo and an abandoned building in the South Bronx, but, otherwise, nothing.

Meanwhile, I decided to walk around my neighborhood to see where everything was.  And, I guess I was walking too close to this guy, because he whips around and says, “Hombre, que es su problema?”
Although he said that with a much better accent.

Anyway, I didn’t want to cause trouble.  So, I said, “Fear not, amigo.  I am the white angel of gentrification.  I bring you Starbuck’s.  And NPR.  And, Cran-Walnut vegan muffins.

That seemed to calm the guy down.  So, then I said, “Now, get out of the way, because I’m white and I need to buy my latte and the New York Times.”

No, look, I understand the guy’s concern.  He’s probably lived there his whole life, and now he sees some white people, and he’s worried about gentrification.  I would be too.  You put too many white people together and weird shit happens – you get Iowa, or Republicans or genocide.

I mean, I’m white, but I live in New York because I enjoy diversity (and I’m afraid of being the only Jew in town).

Only problem is that once gentrification starts, diversity starts to disappear.  In a gentrified neighborhood, diversity is: Jews who don’t complain, the Black guy who went to Harvard, and the blond investment banker and his power-hungry Asian wife.

Meantime, I’m sitting in the apartment right after we moved in, and there’s a knock on the door.  I answer.  And, it’s this nice old lady from downstairs.

She says, “I just met your wife.”

I say, “Oh, no, you didn’t.  Because I’m awake, and I’m only married in my nightmares.

Anyway, the woman asks if she can come in.  I say, “sure.”

Big mistake.  It’s like vampires.  Once they’re in, you can’t get them to leave.  Because no sooner do I close the door than she whips out a Bible and invites my girlfriend and me to bible study class in the lobby.

So, I say, “well, look, we’re Jewish.”  Figuring that like all non-Jews, she’s a little anti-semitic, and this will get us off the hook.

But, check this out, she says, “oh, no problem.  We start at the beginning.”

So, do we, but we don’t keep going till we’re in someone else’s apartment.

One problem with the apartment is that our names are not on the buzzer outside, so I told the building super.  His response –  “You no need name.  If anybody visit, they know.  Eet’s you.”

So, if you ever come over for dinner.  My name is Ortiz.  That’s right.  I’m a 300-pound, Black, designated hitter for the Red Sox.  My name is Big Papi.

A bigger problem is that there’s all this noise from upstairs.  It sounds like they’re tap-dancing with Timberland boots.  And, it starts at like 6 a.m.  So, we go up to complain, and the neighbors say: “Well, if you want to sleep, just sleep after 7:30, when the kids go to school”

Really? Well, how do I make the hyperspace leap from 6 to 7:30?  I sleep on a mattress, not in a Space Shuttle.  My closets are not worm-holes.  My couch is comfy, but it doesn’t have a cryo-sleep setting.

So, I’m suffering sleep deprivation, which is by far the worst thing in the world.

I’m serious.  Going without sex is bad.  Being constipated is worse.  But, those are nothing compared to going without sleep.  Because you can go 2 or 3 days without fucking or shitting, and that won’t make you fall asleep  at work and get yelled at by your boss.  Lack of sex or doody won’t make you fall face down in your food.  And it certainly won’t make you accidentally call your girlfriend by your ex-girlfriend’s name.

So now I’m pissed.  I want vengeance.  I’m Charles Bronson in “Death Wish.”  So, I’m gonna rent a midget, put him on stilts and hold him against the ceiling and let him run back and forth.  Either that or I’m going to buy one of those tennis ball cannons.  And, not just any one.  I’m getting the Serena Williams model – that blasts these things at 150 mph and screams with every serve.