Chance on Reno

A while ago I dated someone who once took a rather un-fulfilling trip to Reno. I guess Reno isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Who woulda thunk it?

Anyhow, while discussing his Reno Va-cay I had an epiphany: “Chance on Reno” would be a great porn title.

I tried to spec a script to him, but he declined. Apparently, not everyone thought it was as brilliant of an idea as I did. I think this disconnect, frankly, really began to weigh on our relationship. Ultimately, it’s probably why we broke up. But alas, the dream of “Chance on Reno” lives on for me.

Three possible plot lines:

1. “Chance” goes to Reno in order to drink himself to death. While there he meets “Reno” a lovable, sensitive prostitute with heart of gold. She’s also great in bed. P.S. I don’t want to hear anything about that little movie “Leaving Las Vegas.” Those bastards stole my idea…seven years ago.

2. “Chance” is a lovable but cautious young boy just entering into his “manhood.” His teacher, “Ms. Reno”, will show him more than just how to calculate dividends.

3. “Chance” is a sad man who’s lost his kitten. He lives in New Jersey. “Reno” is a hairstylist. She’s from New York. She consoles him. The rest writes itself.

Can anyone else say “brilliant?” Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Even the fortune teller can’t help me

So, after much pressing from some over-anxious friends, I found myself in the beaded “office” of a fortune teller the other day. She was a tiny German woman who wore an embroidered shawl and a headscarf with bells on it, she also pronounced my name like “Kah tah.” I felt very exotic just being around her.

As she gave me a tarot card reading, she kept hissing and hawing, like she was shocked and slightly discomforted by what she saw.

The diagnosis? Apparently, I have a lot of negative energy being directed at me from different people (who she chose not to name).

“I can’t even help you,” she said. “A lot of people are very jealous of you and there negative energy is bringing you down. It is very strong.”

“Well,” I said, “Can’t you at least tell me who they are? I could beat them up or something.”

“No,” she said, raising her hand. “These people are very strong.”

“How strong?” I whispered.

“Very strong,” she said.

“Like, China strong?” I said.

“China strong,” she repeated.

“Wow,” I whispered, then gasped, “China strong.”

“Yes, China strong,” she said. “Even I can’t help you. You must go now.”

“Can you at least tell me who my soulmate is or something like that?” I asked.

She looked at the cards, shook her head and said, “Your soulmate is dead.”

After a short pause she repeated, “You must go now.”

“But…I mean, shouldn’t I know something else about him.  Did he live in China?” I stammered.

“No,” she said. “Time’s up.”

And then she pointed to the door.

Hmmm. Something tells me the stars don’t like me. Can’t imagine where I’m getting that feeling from….

Since you said goodbye…shoop, shoop

Finally! A song about a girl named “Katie” besides that “kkkkkkatie” song from 1921.

I would say I’m bringing Sexy Back…but I think we all know that’s not true.

Can I be the possessive one?

So yesterday I reveal to Julie that some people I know think that the two of us are an “item.”

Me: Yeah, apparently they think we’re gay because I brought you to that party that one time…

Hmm. It is an honor to be considered, your girlfriend though.

Julie: I am equally honored. We can be each others beards.

Me: Yep. The next time we get hit on by some undesirable men at a bar, we can just say, “I’m with her.”

Julie: Can I be the possessive one? I can be very aggressive.

Me: Sure. (Pause) Just don’t hurt me.

Julie: I’d never hurt you, baby. I’d just drape my arms protectively around your shoulders. (Pause) And…I might start fights for fun.

Me: Eh, I can deal with that. Though if a cute guy comes along…I totally swing both ways.

Julie: But of course.

I’m not the kinda girl you take home to Mom

Yesterday while cleaning out my room, I found an old email from guy that I had dated when I was 19. I had, for some unknown reason, printed it out. It read:

Yeah, well. I don’t think you can meet my mom yet. She overheard me yesterday talking about how we do whiskey bombs together. Didn’t go over well. You don’t, like, do charity on the side, do you? Charity might help.

Sigh. If only he’d known about the tube of half-used toothpaste I once tried to give to the Salvation Army. That might have saved me.

Amore

A play in three acts:

Act 1:

Man sees woman on the street, smiles at woman.  Woman smiles back.

Act 2:

Woman approaches man only to notice that man is wearing a wedding ring.  Woman’s smile fades.

Act 3:

Man notices woman noticing his ring.  Takes off ring and says, “My wife’s out of town.”

Ah, the city.  So many stories.  So many lies.

I’m-a gonna get it, I’m-a gonna give it good…

“Hey, you,” the man on the street corner calls out to me, “Hey, You!”

“What?” I say, turning around.

“You got a nice ass,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say, “Well, I’ll tell my mother you said that, she’s the one who gave it to me.”

Party people.

At a party the other night I had this conversation with a man in his thirties:

Him:  You know men your own age just don’t get you, that’s the problem.

Me: Yeah, well, men your age aren’t any better, they’re just better at lying.

Him: Well, (puts his arm around me and takes a puff of his cigar) I think you’re adorable. (winks)  And I’m not lying.

Me:  Ok, Rico, you can tone the Suav-ee down.

I have a crush and I hate him.

Listen Mr. Smile your oh so cute smile all the time at me–

I am not in the mood for shaking hands or sweaty palms. Please take your smiles elsewhere.

Sincerely,

Girl who doesn’t need it right now.

Snow White?

Today as I was walking to work a little girl walking four feet behind me with her mother kept running up to me and then turning back to her mother.

After three or four times of doing this, she says to her mother “Mommy, it’s Snow White!”

The mom apologizes and says, “Sorry, we saw a play and you look like Snow White in the play.”

“That’s ok,” I say.

The little girl runs up to me again and puts her hand up, saying, “Stop!”

So, I do.

Then she says, “Do you sleep in a glass coffin?”

“No,” I say, “But after I get my tax return I might.”