Since the dawn of time, there has been dating, and thus, somewhere, there has always been some stupid male trying to impress a female: t-rexes flexing their tiny arms, chimpanzees shaking trees and beating their chests, Shakespeare writing poetry and prancing around in a codpiece the size of a basketball.
Like Shakespeare’s Cassius, I have a lean and hungry look, a desire to be king of the hipsters, lord of the lousy guitarists, Caesar of the tight jeaned masses, and of course, master of the minimalists.
The hungry look is also because have decided that I eat only local food scavenged from Park Slope garbage cans, and lean because I’m developing a hipster garter belt.
To mix my Shakespeare references like a DJ doing a totally awesome mash-up of Gregorian chants and Celine Dion tunes, my ambition needs a Lady Macbeth.
For this, like the t-rexes, chimps, and basketball wearing ruffle-collared men of yester paragraph, I must date.
As an unemployed manboy (which is to Brooklyn what Wall street bankers are to Manhattan-I even have unemployed business cards), my techniques are limited.
A personal favorite date is to cook my future Lady dinner, and I have become adept at timing it so that I finish cooking 10 minutes after you show up, so I can show off my mad sautéeing skills, and my gentleness with the microwave (to prove I would be a good father).
I can only cook one thing, so that kind of gets me stuck. So, during this thanksgiving break, I asked my family for dating advice (read: was given).
My father told me a story about a friend of his in high school, who would take a girl to the movies, and when she got up to go to the bathroom, would “accidentally” leave his hand on her seat, so when she sat back down, he could engage in some “accidental” “squeezee squeezee”.
My brother gave me this pick up line:
Lord Macbeth: “Did it hurt?”
Lady MacBeth: “Did what hurt?”
Lord Macbeth: “When you fell from heaven”
Lady Macbeth: “Aw, thats so swe-”
Lord Macbeth: “-cuz yo face is meeesssed UP”
My mother offered no advice other than to get a real bed (not a camp mat), get a real yob, and generally stop being silly. Given that this would defeat the purpose of getting my Laura MacBeth of my hipster kingdom, I go back to the advice she gave me as a 7 year old:
She called me into her bedroom, where she was ironing a shirt of mine, and with no preamble, no explanation of what the word she was about to use meant, said “Adam, I don’t want you marrying a bitch.”
So: hand on seat, good pick up line, no bed, no job, no bitch.
Homemade codpiece attached, a-dating I go.