I hail a taxi. The driver asks me what kind of comedy I like. My first thought is that this is a lame pick-up line. My second is: I should stop flattering myself. I respond truthfully. (This is not always the case. I frequently fuck with prying cab drivers with complete fabrications. It’s my opportunity to be a proctologist or zookeeper. Sometimes both. ) But okay, I’ll play along. Louis C.K. is far and away the reigning comic genus. Anyone who says otherwise can come over here and box with my kangaroo. The driver then proceeds to tell me he’s a big fan of George Carlin and launches into one of Carlin’s monologues. I’d be cool with that… if it was the 1970’s. Don’t get me wrong, I think the man was a genus; his work was groundbreaking…when Flock of Seagulls was a band and not a reason to hide your French fries. Seriously people, not dissing George Carlin, the guy was a pants peeing ten on the Richter scale of humor. And okay, cool, if this guy likes George Carlin, that’s all good, but keep your hands on the wheel and eyes on the street as you mangle bits of Seven Words You Can’t Say On Television. I secretly check my email as I listen to this intended entertainment.
Next up was his query about what kind of music I listen to. Definitely a pick up line. In fact the second most tired one ever. (Do not ask me what the first is, you should know this, Class.) I sigh, revert to fuck-with-the-driver- mode and tell him I have a rare congenital disease which makes all music sound like cats in a bag- hoping he’ll get the hint and focus on his driving instead of fantasies of picking up a woman who actually gets turned on by cab drivers. He’s undeterred and forges on ahead with an offer to take me to listen to music one night. Still in kindness mode, (And not forgetting for a minute that this man held my life in his hands. A growing concern considering he kept swiveling around during his attempts to woo me). I opt for “No thank you.” (Instead of what part of cats in a bag are you not getting? The fact I made it up? Or the part that if it hadn’t I would not want to go hear music at all?) Then I foolishly follow with “You probably should focus on women your own age”. What the hell was I thinking here? All I wanted to do was make him go away, and now I’ve opened a Pandora’s box. Although in my defense, tossing the age card may be cheap, but it’s frequently a really good way to get rid of unwanted attention. Women who mention their age usually have given up. It’s akin to saying; I’m Joan Rivers, and am so old, I’m not even trying to stay in the game. Not working this time however- the guy pulls a full on Linda Blair, turns all the way around to inspect me, and nearly causes an black Mercedes to nearly run us into the community gardens in front of NYU.
After regaining control of the vehicle he proceeds to tell me he’s 35 but doesn’t mind older women. (Maybe that’s why he opened with George Carlin- someone who might be in my wheelhouse, or wheelchair as the case may be.) I told him I didn’t mind troglodytes. As I paid the fare and hopped out, he asked if we could be Facebook friends.