by Grace Anders
|Spoken word performance wasn't for me.--by mdiocuh galeals via Flickr|
Last week, I went on a date with a guy I met while ill with the same bubonic plague that seems to have claimed half of Manhattan. Although the night out was enjoyable and gave me an excuse to expand my palate beyond bottom-shelf whiskey, parts of the evening felt cliché.
It began with drinks at an establishment designed for the post-work thirty-something crowd --- an audience that I like to kid myself into thinking is too old to include me. Following the cocktails, we went to a spoken word performance.
If you've ever been to a spoken word performance, you can imagine what this was like. Seven tall, thin and tattooed orators of questionable skill and sobriety took turns reading what a generous person could call poetry, while a cellist played music to a beat I suspect only he could hear. Since I like wine tasting, art galleries, and other bourgeois pursuits, I walked into the event with high expectations. But after the 30-minute performance, I can safely say that I'll unlikely attend another.
I've taken the liberty of putting together the following formula for anyone interested in pursuing the, ahem, “art” of spoken word, however.
Take an off-putting, awkward, laugh-inducing statement, combine it with a random series of verbs and adjectives, combine it again with a statement about the difficulties of your first-world lifestyle, and Voila! You have a spoken word performance. You're now a professional spoken-word artist --- in other words, I hope you have waitressing skills.
The performance was followed by a visit to one of my new favorite places in town, Angel's Share in the East Village, a bar you can only find by going through the unmarked supply closet of a grab-and-go sushi restaurant. Orders range from house-infused vodka to the more exotic, “I'll have the drink with flames jumping out of the top, please.” It's definitely a cool spot worth checking out.
|Angel's Share in the East Village--by angela n. via Flickr|
Unfortunately, the date highlights are the venues and not the man. He's easy on the eyes, intelligent, and has a handful of other great characteristics, which I ought to appreciate. I actually don't have much bad to say; a rarity for me, as I've been accused of being too picky when it comes to men.
The keyword above is “much.” I don't have much bad to say – but I have a little.
He didn't make a move --- at all. Now, I have nothing against traditionalism. In fact, I maintain that dating would be less stressful if men still had to make their intentions clear before escorting a lady out on the town (home by 10pm, of course!) But I find it strange when a guy doesn't make any sort of move at the end, or at least make an awkward, self-deprecating joke about it.
|Shy men won't last long in the Big Apple--by rollenran via Flickr|
He's open-minded when it comes to several vices, including drug usage. And I'm not talking about passing around a joint at a Dave Matthews concert - more along the lines of planning your weekend around the eight hours you're going to spend high on hallucinogenic mushrooms. I'm not anti-drug, but I'm not keen on explaining to future children why Daddy's been focused on the ceiling for three hours either.
|Dave Matthews Concert-- by Ryan Grimm via Flickr|
I'm not sure how to wrap up this musing, but I suppose that's okay for a date noteworthy only for its ambiguity (and great flaming drinks). Second date details are likely to follow. Until then, I can only hope he's not reading this blog.
|My date was most memorable for the flaming drinks--by Hamachi! via Flickr|