Michael Cera
First off, I would like to thank the misfortune of betting against the Germans for bringing me out on what was, well, let’s just say a rather mediocre night. While the mates came round more times than I could count, I somehow managed to be the only one to not have a memorable night.My mates dropped me off a little bit early so I took a seat at the bar where I could watch the door, hoping for my beautiful date to arrive. To my mild pleasure I saw her waiting at the reception, and after a quick exchange of names we took our seats. Lo and behold my best mates and their lovely ladies decided to take part in a date of their own right beside our table, directly in my line of sight. My date, however, was pleasant conversation and was able to hold my attention without me getting distracted.
The first drink order was a good indicator: she had a nice dark ale, which I found more than attractive, and her looks also helped boost my interest. Conversation seemed to exchange quite well while waiting for our meals. She was a 20-year-old third-year theatre student looking to make a life as an actress. After a few pre-drinks, and looking to have a big night, I asked if she would like to do some shots. Lo and behold my night took a horrible turn for the worse when I learned she was no partier.
She was a bartender, despite not being as rowdy as I had hoped. Conversation flowed consistently through the meal, of which I was absolutely enjoying every bite. Part way through the meal, my flatmates appeared in the bar as well, now bringing the total number of people watching the date to seven. I was under a lot of pressure to make the night something special, but I was unable to succeed. Sorry to Critic and its readers for not delivering the spectacular article I was hoping to write. The bar tab was left with $12 to spare, and I was more than happy to break away for a cigarette when given the chance. Thanks to Angus and Critic for a great meal!
Alia Shawkat
So where the hell to begin? I walked to Angus and basically froze my tits off on the way. I was too cold to be nervous, though as I walked in just slightly late I felt a momentary flutter of nerves. What if he was really cute? What if I was blatantly reaching? What if he was super smart and I felt like an idiot?I shouldn’t have worried. The waitresses got my date, who was wearing a beanie and … he was cute enough, but just kind of inoffensively average looking. He was Canadian, an exchange student, and as we sat down a very generic ice-breaking conversation unfolded. It’s kind of weird, I’m trying to remember what we talked about at this point, but our later conversations – or should I say, his monologues – kind of eclipse the earlier parts of the date.
I get that students are poor, and that it’s probably an incentive for going on the date. God knows I can’t afford a nice steak, but this guy was really poor. And I heard all about it: tax fraud, debt collectors, a diet consisting solely of beans and white bread, below the poverty line. Seriously, no girl wants to hear that on the first date. Or second. Or third.
I also heard about pregnancy scares, working for Audi, arrest warrants for Nevada, the girls he’d gotten with during O-Week and Hyde … oh my God. We did talk about tattoos, which could have been a shared topic of interest, but it felt like he was just filling in the time till the food arrived and gave zero fucks about mine. The date ended with us getting a cocktail at the bar, him leaving before I’d finished mine, and parting ways with a handshake. Cheers, Critic, for hooking me up with a guy who was literally only there for the free food and some counselling.