Peter Digglewink Dates Online

I have recently begun to explore the world of online dating. This is new to me. Until now, my only experience with on line dating was striking up a conversation with my grocery store cashier. This was a peculiar relationship. Indeed, for months my only purchases were magnum condoms, whipped cream, and craisins. Why craisins? Well, if you would like to find out more, perhaps you should contact me via my new online dating page.

This, you see, is my problem. Until now, I have sought to woo women with my profound brilliance and useful knowledge of the sexual possibilities of dried fruit. These are woeful strategies. And while I’ve longed for quite some time to possess the sexual credibility to call myself a “playa”, I’m afraid a “playa” I am not. So it is that today I set up my very own online dating profile, excerpted below for your viewing pleasure. I look forward to your comments. Constructive criticism would be appreciated.

Appearance: If you’ve ever watched an NBA game on television, then you already have a pretty good sense of who I am. I am the ultimate combination of basketball superstars. Jordan’s hair. Barkley’s girth. Bird’s skin-tone. Muggsy Bogues’s height. Indeed, I AM what you think of when you think of the NBA.

Profession: I am what many consider to be the best lawyer in the United States of America. Dershowitz ain’t got shit on me. Should you choose to respond to my many emails, many of which say things like “please respond to this email”, you will learn about my profoundly successful legal career. As a matter of fact, in recent years the New York Times named me “Attorney of the Century”, albeit in an advertisement I personally wrote and paid to have run in the New York Times. But still, every word was true.

Interests: I am a student of history. Indeed, I read many biographies of past US Presidents and reality television stars, sometimes simultaneously. So it is that I confuse historical icons with quirky 20-somethings trying to keep it real. For instance, the sixth President of the United States was none other than John Quincy Adams, or as his congressional brethren called him, J-Woww.

What I Am Looking For In A Woman: I like my women like I like my Chinese dumplings – piping hot and vegetarian.

My Ideal First Date: We will meet under a streetlight in the dim, grey light of dusk. You will look beautiful. I will look nothing like my picture. Our eyes will meet and I will be drawn to you from across the street. I will dart across traffic to greet you. I will get hit by a 2001 Ford Focus. It will not hurt. I will rise from the street and embrace you. You will not call the police. Our affair will begin.

Lastly, I realize my picture is quite old. Also, I realize it is a picture of Muhammed Ali. I have no explanation for this whatsoever.

New Year’s with Peter Digglewink

I don’t know much about basketball. Admittedly, until this week I thought Gilbert Arenas were a series of basketball stadiums. But recently I have found myself in a similar situation to the Wizards’ star – I am talking, of course, about my recent legal troubles. Unlike Mr. Arenas, I am not being held on a gun charge. No, my crime is far worse. I am being accused of terrorism. It all started innocently enough.

In the weeks leading up to New Year’s Eve, I realized that the Ball-Dropping at Times Square was not exactly the most practical celebration. It’s late, of course. It’s crowded. People are cold. I can sympathize. I too waited a little too long for a certain ball to descend. So I decided to sponsor and promote a mammoth New Year’s Eve party of my own – New Year’s with Peter Digglewink – to be held on the roof of my building downtown. It was going to be amazing.

The plan was a simple one. I would surround my building with rented vans bearing the party’s slogan – “New Year’s with Peter Digglewink” – and at 11:00 I would blast music from the vans’ speakers and fireworks from each van’s roof. Then we would celebrate for the next hour until 2010 arrived.

For most of the evening, everything went according to plan. The speakers were tested. The fireworks seemed ready. A steady flow of party-goers climbed up to the roof throughout the night. The only hitch was the space on the side of the vans. There was too little room, it seemed, to write the entire slogan. So instead, we only used the acronym for the party’s name: New Year’s with Peter Digglewink. This, it turned out, was out fatal flaw.

As approximately 10:45, an image flashed across the television of my apartment building in downtown Manhattan with the words “Developing Situation” plastered across the screen. This was news to me, as the only developing situation I was aware of was the rockin’ party taking place on the roof. It has become evident to me, though, over the last several weeks that despite my brilliance, I am often quite naive. You see, as people crowded onto my roof in the manner of the unwitting welcomers in Independence Day, news copters spotted the growing crowd and the appearance of the vans below. In a regrettable turn of events, the party’s slogan – New Years with Peter Digglewink – had, of course, been shortened to its acronym: NYPD. So it was that the news copters thought our party was a riot and our speaker-laden vans a surrounding police brigade.

Once the fireworks started, the real NYPD came. The charges were many. But even the NYPD had to admit that only the city’s best parties begin when Peter Digglewink’s ball drops.

Week 2 Playoff Predictions

Cardinals over Saints: Much like myself in each of my sexual encounters to date, the Saints have peaked too early. The Cardinals, however, are on the rise (absolutely no pun intended) and with Kurt Warner on the verge of retirement, it is clear that he would want to finish on top. That time I intended a pun.

Colts over Ravens: As interesting as is the money line on this game is the over/under line for Joe Flacco eyebrows. If he gets the wax earlier in the week, he will play with one eyebrow. If he waxes closer to game day, he will have two. Thus the over/under on Flacco Gameday Eyebrows (FGE’s) is 1.5. Manning, on the other hand, always has two. Colts win.

Jets over Chargers: If my parents didn’t name me Peter, I would apparently have been called LaDanian. True story. This would have been awful for LaDanian Tomlinson, considering it would have relegated him to being only the second most famous LaDanian in history. Our bond not withstanding, this matchup favors the Jets.

Cowboys over Vikings: If a Cowboy and a Viking were actually forced to fight, I believe the result would hinder on the factor of whether the fight took place on the high seas. Since this one does not, I choose the Cowboys to prevail.

Digglewink’s Week 1 Playoff Picks

Bengals over Jets: It upsets me to pick against my favorite team here, but the truth is that Mark Sanchez performs worse in cold-weather than male genitalia. Also, I’m concerned the Bengals have seen the Jets entire package, as opposed to my package, which is so huge it can only be seen piece be piece, much like the Cloverfield Monster. But I digress…

Ravens over Patriots: The Ravens will clearly win this game because the Patriots are playing without any knees.

Packers over Cardinals: When we were in kindergarten together, Kurt Warner used to beat me up. Thus, I cannot root for him in this football game.

Eagles over Cowboys: I have never heard of either of these teams.

The Digglewink Redemption

My apologies, friends, for my prolonged absence from this space. I must admit I was not in the mood to write. You see, I attended my 35th high school reunion this weekend and, as many of my older readers can attest, there are few weeks as stressful as the one leading up to a high school reunion.

Attending a high school reunion returns to a man his youthful insecurities – those long ago drowned in Zima – and as the date grew closer, I began examining myself with a lens so thick a ray of sunlight could have set me ablaze. Admittedly, I have let myself go since my high school years. Indeed, I bear the shape of a backwards question mark. But it’s not that I feared people would think I have fallen off since high school. I feared they wouldn’t have remembered me at all.

This is a strange thing for a man of my stature to think, of course. I am, after all, wildly successful. The problem, though, is the virtual anonymity in which I lived in high school. I did not play sports. I did not attend the prom. My afternoons were spent not with friends, but with my beloved Mr. Waffles. And because of my self-imposed banishment from the teenage social scene, I feared that at this reunion, my classmates would see me for the first time. And that their impressions would not be favorable.

That changed, of course, when I was invited to give the keynote address. A day before the reunion I received a phone call from Lulubelle Jones, our former class president. Due to my status as the most successful alumnus of P.S. 954, she felt, I would undoubtedly offer some unique and profound insights on our generation. This, of course, is true. I am exceedingly brilliant. And, I figured, my former classmates could not help but be impressed by my celebrity as an internationally renowned attorney. It would be the perfect redemption.

The evening did not start off well.

In keeping with the school’s mascot of “The Colonials”, the invitation implored everyone to dust off their old Colonial gear and wear it to the event. Having never attended a pep rally or football game, I knew not of this mascot. So it was that I arrived for the evening in traditional colonial garb of knickers, a top hat, and a pipe. I looked, of course, like a snowman.

The evening grew worse from there.

My classmates had collectively softened since high school, so there were no outright insults. There were, instead, a series of sideways glances and finger-points. “What?” I’d ask. “Is my top hat askew?” But no one, it seemed, would answer. I realized then that despite my many television appearances, no one there knew who I was. Discussing my legal career would not sufficiently impress them, I knew. I had to think bigger. So I called the biggest thinker I knew – my legal partner, Ferdinand Smith.

“Tell them you’re a rock star,” Ferdy said. He’d already had a few drinks. “If they’re not going to be impressed with Digglewink and Smith LLP, then their standards are way too high. Reach higher.”

“But they’ll know I’m no rock star,” I said. “They’d have recognized me if I was one.”

“Well,” Ferdy thought. “Pick someone from 20-30 years ago. That way they’d know the name and be impressed, but wouldn’t necessarily recognize the person.”

“Ferdy!” I shouted. “You’re brilliant.”

“Yes,” he said. “I am.”

I must admit that I have no real knowledge of popular music. I listen only to NPR and the last music I purchased was an eight track. But I remembered back to the last CD I’d heard, in Ferdy’s car, on the day his son was born. Joshua Tree, it was called. So it was that I then made the biggest mistake of my life.

Standing at the podium Saturday night, I looked out over my peers. My knickers felt tight as I stood there, my top hat heavy on my head. In my classmates’ faces I saw quizzical looks, but I knew that they would soon be replaced by stares of awe. After all, I, Peter Digglewink, would not only be a world-famous attorney, but also a former international pop star. They’d never know the difference. As I adjusted the mic and removed my top hat, a smile of redemption spread across my face. “My name is Peter Digglewink,” I told them. “But you may know me as Bono.”

The Digglewink Water Cooler Plan

I am particularly bad at exclamation pointing. Allow me to explain. From time to time, I have a hard time keeping the shift key pressed while hitting the ‘1’ key, resulting in countless sentences that look like  “I am on fire1”

Unfortunately, this is one of many communicative flaws.

Though you would never guess based on my suave demeanor on this weblog, I actually have been known to appear slightly awkward in person. My anxieties and eccentricities often result in strange encounters with everyone from my former secretary, Juan, to the cadre of women I have seduced over the years – or, well, tried to.

Let’s start with Juan. He had grown used to my awkward ways. Much of my communication around the office, you see, is predicated upon the fact that there is literally no situation in which you can say “Can I get an amen?” and someone will not offer one in return. Seriously. Try it. They may be reluctant at first but eventually you will indeed receive an amen. This is the centerpiece of all Digglewink interpersonal communication. It is also often the extent of my social acumen.

The problem, of course, is that there are only so many times in a row that you can ask for – and receive – amens before awkward pauses engulf the conversation. This is why Juan developed the DWCP: The Digglewink Water Cooler Plan.

The DWCP enables me to participate in water cooler conversations by giving me bits of information about different things in the news. This way, I can provide educated opinions about any and all water cooler topics for a total of between one and two minutes without appearing awkward. For years now, I have been known to have the knack for saying the right things at the right time. The conversation will be going along, and I’ll pipe up with “I cannot believe they went for it on fourth down” or “That Giselia is a fine-looking lady.” This works wonders. Except, of course, for that one day last month when Juan was upset with me for denying his request for a raise.

Juan chose, in response, to humiliate me in front of my colleagues. And of course, he chose to do this at the worst possible time – right after my worst ever social miscue, when my “party pooper” costume went over disastrously at the firm’s annual Halloween bash.

The next day, Juan handed me the day’s talking points. I should have known something was wrong. But trusting Juan as I did, I blindly went into battle with the knowledge I’d gained from his note.

“So,” I said to the crowd gathered around the water cooler. “How about those Yankees? They were super in that World Series Game 4 last night, weren’t they?”

“Yeah, Pete,” said Walter du Fromage. “Their bats really came alive.”

“True,” I confirmed. “Who do you think will be the MVP?”

“A-Rod, maybe,” he said. “Maybe Damon. You?”

“Well,” I said, as confident as ever. “I think it simply has to be Pumpernickel.”

The room fell silent, but still I wasn’t worried. I’d memorized Juan’s notes, of course. “Randy Pumpernickel,” I said.

“Randy…Pumpernickel?” Walter asked. He spoke softly, deliberately, trying hard not to upset the balance in the room.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Randy Pumpernickel. And if not him, then definitely Ted Graham.”

“Teddy Graham?” Walter asked.

“Yeah, he’s fantastic! Really plays a mean shortstop.”

“Yes,” Walter smiled. “Those guys are great.”

Awkward silence fell.

“Can I get an amen?” I asked.

“Amen,” Walter said.

It wasn’t until I returned to my desk and explored The Google that I discovered I’d been had. I’d actually recommended as the most valuable player a delicious bear-shaped snack. Someone had to pay. And that someone was Juan.

When I found him seconds later, he was already cleaning out his desk. Still, it didn’t stop me from shouting to him the two words he most deserved: “You’re fired1”

The Stress of the Vending Machine

The most stressful period in a man’s life, I’m convinced, is the five to ten seconds between when he inserts the dollar into a vending machine and when the chips fall to the bottom. I am absolutely certain of this. Mortgage payments, marriage, unemployment – these are things you can chew over. You can turn them over in your mind while you lay awake at night and then reevaluate them in the light of day. Not vending machines. This is a concentrated stress, a five second period when the very strongest human emotions boil to the surface. It’s like a space expedition – everything has to go right. Anything can go wrong. And in such a time of heightened emotions, even the best of friendships can falter. Thus almost spelled the end this week of Digglewink & Smith LLP. Smith almost went this way. I almost went mine. All over a bag of chips. I’ll explain.

The best vending machine in the city sits on our floor in the Empire State Building. This machine has no peers. It is a wall’s length of chips, pretzels, burritos, burgers and eastern European cuisine. It is – in a word – amazing. And even more amazing is the fact that so few people use it! The other lawyers at our firm prefer to eat in “restaurants”. They clearly have no idea what they are missing. So for the last two decades, the only two people who have kept it in business were Ferdinand Smith, my legal partner, and myself. Until this week.

It’s a common tale, I suppose, of deception of the highest order. I put my crisp dollar in the machine and waited for the chips – BBQ Baked Lays – to fall. They never did. Instead the bag dangled like a playful marsupial from the coils of slot D8. I shook, punched, and tipped the machine, but alas, nothing happened. So I retreated to my office to do the only thing I could: grab another dollar.

On the way back to the machine, I ran into Ferdinand. This was where the trouble began. He was carrying two bags of chips…BBQ Baked Lays. In the social science of of vending machine behavior, it is clear that if a bag is dangling, it will only take one dollar to purchase both that bag and the one behind it. To some, this is logic. To the best of us, it’s thievery! So I confronted him. “Ferdy!” I said. “Did you take my chips?”

“Your…”

“Chips! I put a dollar in the machine, but the chips wouldn’t fall. They were dangling.”

“I didn’t see them.”

“Dangling.”

“I didn’t–”

“Dangling!”

“Liar!”

Can you believe it?! He wouldn’t admit it! So what did I do? Did I punch him in the face? Did I slap him with an open palm?

Yes. Both. No, of course I didn’t.

I fired him. No, of course I didn’t.

What I did, of course, was pout.

It was not my proudest moment. It was not Ferdy’s most comfortable. But in the end, my silence was worth it. Those five to ten seconds I stood waiting for my next bag of chips were excruciating. But in the end, it was a lot easier than finding a new partner. And a heck of a lot less stress.

Eight Facts about Peter Digglewink

If we are going to go further in our blogger-bloggee relationship, I feel that I must disclose a few things about myself.

1. I prefer oranges to apples, like anyone with class.

2. I once bought roses for a girl, who turned out to be a guy. With a beard. And a fedora. I prefer not to discuss this further.

3. If I were black, my nickname would be the “Afro-disiac.” Since I’m not, it is Pete.

4. The guy reimbursed me for the roses. He was cool about it.

5. I was the basis for the guy in the bar in Good Will Hunting. Except I don’t really like apples (see no. 1) and I never would have said that I did. Way to take some creative license, Matt Damon. Liar.

6. I once authored a book of limericks, entitled “There was a cat named Mr. Waffles”

An excerpt from page 16:

There was a cat named Mr. Waffles,

Who everyday dined on falafels

The rest continued on page 17.

7. I may or may not have once french-kissed a circus clown.

8. Mr. Waffles did not actually dine on falafels. If Matt Damon could make shit up, so could I.

The Hours I Rode Carl

I was thirty-three when I first took a lover. Late, I know. It happened in 1989 on a Saturday morning in the rain. Her name was Penelope, her hair was soft, and a librarian only interrupted once. It was magical.

One thing about tourists is that they never know where they are going. I was walking down 34rd street this morning and literally could not push past the crowds of people marching down the street. The problem, I found, is the same problem that led to the awkward transition between the first paragraph of this post and the second: no segway.

For those of you who are unaware, a segway is a stand-up, motorized scooter commonly used by tour groups, police officers, and now, Peter Digglewink. That’s right, friends. At approximately 10:33 this morning, I bought one, rode it to the Empire State Building, through the lobby, into the elevator, and into my office on the eighty-sixth floor.

Am I standing on it now?

Yes. I most certainly am.

I was also standing on it earlier this afternoon, during a meeting of the partners of the small firm that bears my name. I strode through the door just after eleven, fashionably late as always, and studied my reflection the partners’ widened eyes. “Peter?” they gasped. “Is that…”

“Oh yes.”

“But…what happened to the Digglewagon?”

“It’s still in the garage,” I said. “This…” I paused dramatically… “is for the street.”

There’s no easy way, I’ve discovered, to make an older man feel young. But when I rode Carl down Broadway – I named my segway Carl – I couldn’t help but feel the years fall from my body. Women stared from sidewalks. Wind blew hair I’d lost years earlier. A marching band assembled and accompanied me on a spontaneous parade. It was, as with Penelope, magical.

Then I fell.

This is nothing new. While I was blessed with a superior intellect, a larger than average chin, and nineteen glorious years with Mr. Waffles, I was never given the gift of balance. I generally average about two falls per week. But as Tiger Woods, John Edwards, and any Tom Wolfe character can attest, a fall is made worse when it comes from great heights. And Carl, I must say, was very tall.

I awoke several minutes later on the sidewalk. The marching band had dispersed by then and the only stares I drew were from concerned onlookers and cops. “Am I…going to make it?” I asked.

“No,” I was told. “You’re probably going to die.”

“Really?”

“No.” Never trust a homeless man with life-affirming news.

As I walked back to my building, holding a street-vendor’s ice to my head and trapped behind the same crowd of tourists from earlier in the day, I couldn’t help but dream with nostalgia about the afternoon’s events. After all, the hours I rode Carl were among the best of my life. And then, like that, the glory was taken from me.

At that moment, I couldn’t help but think back to that wonderful Saturday morning in 1989, when Penelope and I finished and she left the library on the arm of another man.

And that, my friends, is a segue.

Peter Digglewink On Children

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning – and fell more than seven feet to the ground. Let me explain. One thing they don’t tell you about getting old is that a good night’s sleep is hard to come by – my bladder holds about as much water as Patrick Ewing’s pores. As a result, one must learn to rise from bed to use the restroom throughout the night. While challenging on a normal night, this is especially difficult when you sleep on a top bunk of a child’s bunkbed.

Why, you might ask, am I sleeping in a bunkbed? Innocent reasons, of course. I am spending the week in Boston with my sister’s family and have been assigned to the top bunk in my nephew’s bedroom.  This has not been pleasant. As someone with a profound understanding of the art of parenting (I read books), I am dismayed to see the awful behavior of my nephews and nieces. And so today, friends, I offer some thoughts of my own on the subject of raising children.

In some circles, I am considered an expert on parenting. In fact, I once pitched a book, “Peter Digglewink On Children”, but it was promptly rejected by every publisher in the city. One major film director showed significant interest in it, but his recent incarceration in Switzerland has derailed the project indefinitely.

In the interest of full disclosure, I have not raised any children. However, I have raised plenty of cattle and frankly, the same principles apply: a pack mentality, plenty of accidents, and during their formative years a larger than normal consumption of grass.

Ultimately, I have boiled my philosophy down to Digglewink’s Three Principles of Parenting:

1. Limit Television Consumption: Instead, children should spend time exercising outside or reading books, such as “Peter Digglewink On Children” or my wildly successful novel, “There’s a Voyeur in the Foyer”.

2. Limit Participation in Civil War Reenactments: It is natural that your child will, from a young age, want to participate in Civil War reenactments. All children do. But as my father told me when I was a child, “War separates the men from the boys.” Reenactments, it would seem then, separate the strange men from the strange boys. Such separation is not required.

3. Limit exposure to sunlight: Children and plants both need sunlight to survive. The question, of course, is “How much?” As a child, I was not allowed to spend much time outside the house. My parents worried that I might fall in with the wrong crowd – or worse, somehow blend in to my surroundings despite my garish outfits. But thanks to their expert parenting, I instead fell in with the right crowd: Mr. Waffles (see About section).

The truth is, friends, that it doesn’t take a village to raise a child. It takes “Peter Digglewink on Children.” So if you know any publishers, please send them my way. Of course, I don’t know if I will ever really be a parent. Because of my profound brilliance and legal skills, things tend to come easy to me. I enjoy that. Parenting, on the other hand,  is hard. And let me tell you, it has been quite a while since I have found something hard. Quite a while. A long, long while since I have found something hard.