August 12th, 2002


Women Are Bad For Cell Phones

Sobbing women everywhere. What’s a fella to do?

The first one walked into my office Friday afternoon. It was Banana’s last day as an associate producer, and she was making the rounds, saying farewell to soon-to-be ex-coworkers.

I liked Banana, the funky bohemian chick from Silverlake who wore bright pink tennis shoes and occasionally made her own clothes. One time I tried to set her up with Rog, but she ended up dating perhaps the world’s only architect/Banana Republic model.

But although I was bummed to see her leave our agency, I remembered when she’d walk into my office and chat about her dreams … none of which had anything to do with being an associate producer.

She wanted to sing, she wanted to dance, she wanted to play the fricking flute. She took pictures, she took voiceover classes. I used to sit there leaning back in my Aeron chair, legs crossed, arms resting behind my head. I told her that life was too short to not pursue your dreams. It’s such a cliché, and always easier said than done. Always.

So Banana quit her job, and wouldn’t you know it, she’s pursuing her funky bohemian chick dreams. But before she went and became a photographer/flute instructor/voiceover artist, she was in my office, bawling her eyes out.

You women have got to understand that I can’t stand it when you do that. That whole sobbing thing. I mean what am I supposed to do? Change your diaper, or pull out my left teat and breastfeed you?

So I did what I normally do in those situations, I hugged her, uttered some comforting words, and gently patted her head like a grandmother would do to a six-year-old who just found out her puppy died.

And then I attempted to say something amusing to lighten the mood a bit. In this case, it was, "You do realize that if you get any wet mascara or snot on my shirt, I’m sending you the dry cleaning bill."

For some reason, this makes them cry even harder.

My retirement from partying was briefly interrupted by my buddy’s birthday at Karnak.

Johnny Black missed me - although I most certainly didn’t miss him - and he greeted me with open bottles. There was a fricking squadron of Black Label on both tables. And there were very, very bad people who were intent on getting me loaded. I didn’t stand a chance.

As revenge, I forced them to take highly incriminating photos, like this one…

Not too long after this, there was bad drama. The kind that had me comforting yet another sobbing girl. Once again the bear hug. Yet again the patting of the head. And what did I say this time? "It’s the completely asinine things we do that make us men. I have no idea why you women let us run the world."

Then I was outside trying to coax the bouncers into letting a buddy back into the club. The manager finally let him back in, and then somehow I ended up having a fifteen-minute discussion with one of the bouncers about why the French are obsessed with cheese.

The evening ended with someone tearing his cell phone in half with his bare hands. He’s an extremely strong dude, just not when it comes to females. Sometimes I think guys and girls were never meant to be together for prolonged periods of time. We make you cry. You make us wanna break stuff.