Warren Piece
Tonight’s date was with Warren Piece. This is actually his real name and not a pseudonym, I swear to Zeus.
On an extremely relevant note, this is what pops up when I google image search “Warren Piece”:
Warren and I met up at The Dove, right below Washington Square Park. From the bar’s kinda twee website, I had assumed that it would look like the inside of a uterus, but it seemed pretty nifty. However, the two of us immediately skipped off for dinner to a Thai place a couple streets over. The calamari was very good; the cockroach on the seat next to us was less so. Then we ended up at Barrow Street, where a weak-chinned fellow stole Warren’s barstool. Thanks, weak-chinned guy – we’re pretty sure you live with your mom and are devoted to horse-shoe contests.
I loved Warren’s sense of humor like a fat kid loves cake, or like naked mole rats love tubers, or like my grandmother loves running over people with her motor scooter. I think that our combined mockery of various individuals and groups shot so many holes in my karma that I’ll probably wake up tomorrow as the aforementioned cockroach. I don’t even care though, since it was worth it to hear Warren give a run-down of his grandmother’s doll-buying habits, create back-stories for the bar patrons around us, and tell me about the mythical Roman Emperor Nipple Face. Example:
Emperor Nipple Face: I sneeze milk!
And scene.
Those oiled-up Budweiser harlots in the picture above tangentially remind me of something pertaining to my own self-image that came up during the date. Warren is only an inch or two taller than me, and stepping out with guys who are nearer to my height always makes me feel self-conscious – that is, although I find them just as attractive as taller fellows (Warren is a cutie patootie, to borrow an expression which Steve Gowa apparently stole from Rosie O’Donnell), the height similarity sometimes makes me feel a little … galumphing. I had a boyfriend in high school who was almost exactly my height and weight, and I remember slumping a lot and wearing flats exclusively. While my mad crossword skillz have improved since I was a teenager, my lingering discomfort over feeling big-ish has not. This is a negligible issue, but it did remind me that I’m more conscious of my size and looks than I like to think I am – a realization that’s certainly been compounded by the stress of trying to look cute for two consecutive nights.
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