say never Mark. You know marijuana is a drug.”
“Really?”
“So is cocaine.”
“Let’s just say I won’t do any drugs that don’t come from mother earth. Since you have to grow weed and cocoa plants, I think that is a safer bet, don’t you?” I asked.
“It’s a lot healthier for you. God only knows what people put in those acid tabs.”
Thus my philosophy on life began and spanned throughout the next decade. My first few months in New York had not only taught me that it was OK to be gay, but also OK to financially support every drug dealer and bartender in the New York metropolitan area for the next eight years.
THE PICK-UP ARTIST
When you’re single and living in the big city, there is nothing better than long nights out with your friends, searching for your next lover. We have found, as a culture, that drinking and socializing at bars has been a foolproof way of getting someone into the sack. There is something about alcohol that lowers inhibitions and makes people more willing to do things or sleep with people that they normally wouldn’t. For me, going out and drinking let me create a world in which, only I exist. I am not above creating fake professions, wild nonsensical back-stories, or faux celebrity relatives to get someone to notice me. I completely lose my bullshit filter and it’s anyone’s guess what ridiculous nonsense would come flying out of my mouth. The following are a few situations that I have gotten myself into that have proved disastrous in finding that new lover.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After moving to New York, my friend Valerie gave me her friend Ashley’s brother’s fake ID. Tired of missing out on the fun of going out with everyone else, I accepted it, but there were some clear discrepancies between the ID and me. For one, it said my name was Brennan Kasperzack. My name is Mark Rosenberg, however my middle name happens to be Brennan, so it seemed meant to be. Secondly, it said I was six feet, two inches tall. I stand at a mighty five feet, eight inches tall. Brennan has dark brown hair and I have blonde hair. Brennan has brown eyes and mine are blue. There were so many clear differences between my ID and I that I never thought in a million years it would work, but time and time again, it never failed to get me where I needed to be.
After about a year of using it, I got pretty cocky. It didn’t seem to matter that I was not who I claimed to be so I continued the charade. One night, when a group of friends and I were out at our favorite bar, Posh, the bouncer came over to me.
“Hey,” he said. You have to appreciate the rituals of the gay male mating call.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Nothing much, just thought I would come over and say ‘hi’. I have seen you in here a lot lately.”
“Yea, my friends and I love this place. The drinks are strong and the dancing is always so much fun.”
“You’re name is Brennan, right?” he asked.
“What?” I said with confusion.
“Brennan. You’re name is Brennan, right? I remember it from your ID.”
“Ummm…yes, of course it is. My name is Brennan. Brennan Kasperzack.”
“What are your plans for the evening?”
“Not much. Just hanging out here.”
We were at a loss for conversation. After about ten drinks, the only conversation I am usually up for is one that revolves around ABC soaps or a dance off. Sensing he wasn’t a fan of One Life to Live, I dragged him onto the dance floor and we began dancing.
“You’re from Ohio, right?” he yelled over the music as we were dancing.
“What?” I yelled back.
“You’re from Ohio, right?” I had forgotten that my alter ego Brennan Kasperzack was from Columbus, Ohio.
“Yea.” I yelled back.
“Me too,” he said. Fuck. I had never been to Ohio and was too drunk to lie about anything so I just continued dancing. “Columbus, right?”
“Uh, yes,” I said. “Brennan Kasperzack from Columbus, Ohio.”
“I am from Columbus,” he said.
Great. I tried to pull away from him on the dance floor. There was simply no way I could continue to have a conversation about a place I had never been to, let alone lived in.
He followed me as I sat down on a barstool.
“I think you are really cute,” he said. “I thought you were really cute the first time I saw you come in here.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re really hot.” All tact had seemed to fly out the door.
“Where in Columbus did you grow up?” he asked.
Were we really still talking about Ohio? Surely there must have been something more interesting we could have spoken about. Having remembered my fake address, I replied:
“15409 Cherry Vale Road,” I replied.
“Oh my God, I lived down the street on Rolling Bluff Road.”
Seriously? How the hell was it possible that this guy lived down the street from the real Brennan Kasperzack?
“What a coincidence.”
“What high school did you go to?” he asked.
“Private school,” I replied. I figured that was a good way to get out of making something even more ridiculous up.
“Holy Child?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied.
“Oh my God, I went there too!” he said. “What year did you graduate?”
“2000,” I said, hoping he wasn’t going to catch me in a lie.
“No wonder you look familiar. I graduated in 1998. We must have crossed paths at some point in high school,” he said as he was patting my back.
“Wow, what a small world,” I said as I signaled the bartender over to refill my drink.
“Want to come back to my place for a nightcap?” he asked.
I did, but I certainly could not continue talking about the goings on in Columbus, Ohio.
“Sure,” I responded, “Let’s not talk about Ohio anymore. I have really bad memories about that place. My father used to beat me. The first chance that I got I left and I will never go back to Ohio. Columbus, Ohio, where I am from. I really don’t even like talking about my past.”
“That’s horrible,” as he said this Valerie and the rest of my party were approaching. I gave her a leave-me-alone look, but she came up anyway.
“Mark, where the hell have you been?” she asked in my direction. I pretended to ignore her. I was Brennan Kasperzack now and Brennan Kasperzack was going to hook up with the hot bouncer. “Mark!” Valerie yelled in my ear, “we are leaving, now. Let’s go.”
“Who’s Mark?” the bouncer asked.
“I have no idea who this girl is,” I said referring to my good friend Valerie.
“Mark, let’s go,” Valerie said once more.
“Who is Mark?” the bouncer asked.
“Mark,” Valerie said as she gestured toward me. “Mark Rosenberg.”
“You? You’re Jewish?” he said as he looked me deep in the eyes.
“I have no idea who this girl is,” I continued, “my name is Brennan Kasperzack from Columbus, Ohio. Are you lost little girl?”
“Fuck you,” Valerie said, “Let’s go.”
“I