Most Wednesday nights I can be found trudging around the Port Authority area towards a bar called Port 41. It’s a bikini bar, which means the bartenders are wearing nothing but bikinis, caesarian scars, and daddy issues. But it’s not like I’m there to drink – I’m there because they host one of the best comedy open mics in the city.

Your first look around Port 41 leaves you doubtful that it’s a worthwhile environment for laughter. It’s in a crappy part of town and it perpetually smells of cat urine. The cracked, moldy ceiling is made of something that can only be described as “obviously asbestos.” The regular clientele are semipro drunks, the kind who slap a waitress’s ass as they make out an overdue child support check. It is, on the surface, a place where hope goes to die.

But once you get on their stage, you realize it’s perfect. The saying goes that tragedy plus time equals comedy, and almost everything about the place is tragic. Nothing limits you – you can take risks, get honest, and get heckled by a fat guy with priors. It’s a divine way to inject some seediness into your week. I only hope I can be as funny as the bathroom graffiti.

September 8, 2010. Leave a comment or view the discussion here.

I have amazing opportunities for people watching at my job. I got to bear witness to the following interaction between two strangers today.

MALE taps FEMALE on the shoulder.

MALE: Hi. I hope I didn’t startle you.

FEMALE: No, it’s okay. What do you want?

MALE: This might sound weird, but this is the third time I’ve seen you today.

FEMALE: What do you mean?

MALE: I saw you on the subway this morning. Then later I saw you walking outside. I thought you were really cute, and when I saw you again, I figured I had to say something.

FEMALE is into it. MALE continues.

MALE: I’m Jonathan, by the way.

FEMALE: Sasha. Pleasure.

FEMALE blushes roses. They continue talking, begin to walk away, and are soon out of sight.

He’s kidding, right? I immediately discounted his method of approaching her as nothing more than a cheap pickup line. He alleges that he saw her on the subway this morning, then later saw her walking outside. These things are true of every person who leaves her house, but specific enough to seem like destiny. Jonathan had polished his bullshit into something serendipitous.

(I pointed out the girl’s outrageous blushing to a coworker. It was crazy. Her cheeks matched her lipstick. My wiser coworker informed me that it was makeup, but I’m skeptical – who would do that to her face on purpose?)

I went on about my day and didn’t think twice of the whimsical love story that was sure to become Jonathan and Sasha. I left work and stopped by a coffee place. As I sat there, sipping some sort of venti ordeal, I recognized the two of them bumbling down Broadway, hand in hand nearly six hours later. He with his backwards Kangol hat and she still with blood red cheeks. I guess it actually was makeup.

September 7, 2010. Leave a comment or view the discussion here.

My present struggle is the disparity between reality and expectation. The expectation was unprecedented success doing something I care about. The reality is a full time job in retail. Reality is kicking my ass.

But I’ll gladly work a low-income job if it lets me enjoy a no-income pursuit.

I’m doing standup comedy in New York. I’ve convinced myself that my ideas are so funny that I need to share them with people who have had anywhere from zero to I-lost-count drinks on a Monday night before they go back to their jobs on Tuesday morning, moving furniture or teaching math class.

When it goes well, you’ve never felt better. When it goes poorly, you want to die twice. I’ve known both of these. Well…mostly the second one.

September 6, 2010. Leave a comment or view the discussion here.

I turned 24 years old two and a half weeks ago. Since then, I have met a businessman from Spain who designs modular compost boxes, bombed at an open mic comedy night, eaten at a restaurant owned by Justin Timberlake, infringed upon a married woman’s personal space, hopped in a hot tub at 2 AM after a 45-minute cab ride, agonized over how to find the right girl, been sexually propositioned the wrong girl, and sung songs from Jesus Christ Superstar at a karaoke bar. Presently I’m holed up in a coffee shop, severely distracted by the young dreadlocked hippie mom breastfeeding her baby in the corner.

These things happened in New York City. I hesitate to call it home, but it’s certainly where I live.

My apartment is a tiny thing above Central Park in a neighborhood that’s far more strange than it is dangerous. You can buy pantyhose at the liquor store here. Yesterday I saw a guy shaving his head in the subway stop. And earlier this week I walked out my front door headed to work and was greeted by the sight of an old man facing me, dick in his hands, peeing on the sidewalk at 8 AM.

If this kind of thing is going to keep happening, I need to move before someone splashes on me.

September 5, 2010. Leave a comment or view the discussion here.

Is it just me, or does “Googling yourself” sound dirty?

September 4, 2010. Leave a comment or view the discussion here.