Scooter really is his name. Maybe I should have made up an alias for him, but honestly, the name is like, 80% of the story.
So, the two of us were texting before our blind date, and naturally I dropped that I had a blog because, truth be told, this thing is a real dick magnet. Sorry, for the crude phrasing, but there is no better way to put it. This blog is the Greased Lightening of digital media.
Scooter asked if I was going to blog about him.
Although I was entering into this date with an open mind, I knew somewhere deep down the odds were that I would end up blogging about a blind date with a guy named Scooter.
And here we are.
I have no choice. You know who did have a choice? Scooter’s parents. They did not have to name their kid Scooter, practically forcing me to blog about him.
But like I told Scooter, I only blog about people if you give me something to blog about. Bless his heart, he thought I meant if we had a great date, but I set him straight and let him know that this was all in his hands. I only blog about a guy when he gives me 400+ words worth of material (See: 700 words on The Bicycle Thief). Unfortunately for Scooter, I’ve already passed 200 words and I haven’t even made it to the restaurant yet.
Scoots and I met at a restaurant in West Hollywood, where the waitresses’ uniforms looked like they were in a production of Newsies at Saint Agatha’s School for Wayward Girls. It was both adorable and uncomfortable.
To get the conversation rolling, I told Scootie-Toots that he looked like Peter from Homeland.
It was as if I just told him he looked like Mandy Patinkin.
“But it’s a compliment,” I told him. Maybe he thought I meant Mandy Patinkin? “He’s the young guy who works with Carrie on season 2.”
“No, I know who you’re talking about, I just don’t look like him. We’re just both the same age with dark hair. That would be like if I told you that you look like Emma Stone just because you’re both pale red heads.”
At this point, I’m a little miffed. Obviously, I look like Lindsay Lohan circa Herbie Fully Loaded.
“Right, but I don’t look like Emma Stone and you do look like the guy from Homeland.”
From there the conversation only went down hill. We moved on from him vaguely insulting my skin tone to him flat out pooping on the city where I basically grew up.
“So, where did you go to school?” Scoots-boots inquired.
“Emerson College in Boston.”
“Oh, I spent about 6 months there for a TV show I was producing… Terrible city.”
“You know that those Boston Marathon bombings occurred in Boston, right? Like, two days ago.”
“Ya, it doesn’t make it any less of hell hole.”
It should be noted that Scooter was saying all of this in a pin striped blazer. He was saying this in a pin striped blazer, and this whole time his name was SCOOTER.
Finally, the bill comes, and I made a VERY half-hearted courtesy reach for the check. He looks at it and says to me, “guess what our waitress’s name is.”
SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOTER SCOOOOOOOOTERRRRRRR!!!!!
Victoria, if you are reading this, you were perfectly lovely, and those suspenders looked darling on you.
Scooter, if you are reading this, you can’t have that poor of an attitude AND be named Scooter.
Razor Scooter and I have not spoken since.