The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not

Ok Cupid finally came through with a very entertaining, yet mildly age inappropriate dating situation.

Back tracking - a few weeks ago a wise talking (email= talking) 29 year old peeked my interest with his witty and biting e-banter. Of course our 4:30am drunken IM exchange was a hoot (I still cannot for the life of me remember what I was typing or HOW) which lead to The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not asking me out on a real live date.

The days between the asking and the going were filled with one of my favorite activities, internet snooping, compiling of facktoids and fashioning a fully rounded persona, chock full of assumptions and creative conjecture. I quickly discovered that I may be socializing with the new millennium’s Talented Mr. Ripley (the Believe it or Not part just kinda rolls off the tongue after one says The Talented Mr. Ripley… or maybe that’s just me). Anyways the guy is the type who may or may not write grad students’ doctorial dissertations for cash, and/ or use his wits not always for good but most certainly for gain. The more I read the more I liked. My date was showing signs of brilliance and craftiness combined with a very low moral set…… yummmmmm.

The locale for our rendezvous was ladies choice but he picked the time 9:30pm (oh these kids and their late nights out) and the borough, Queens. What the what? NOBODY who lives in Manhattan chooses to go to Queens unless there is a baseball or racquet involved, but I was happy considering that this old lady would not have to drag her ass across the river in the middle of the night.

I picked a swank hidden speakeasy-ish bar in LIC where the bartenders ne ‘mixologists’ sport suspenders, custom chop your ice, and utilize at least 7 ingredients per beverage. I arrived 2 minutes early (as per usual) while The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not wandered aimlessly along the banks of the East River. Once he realized that “Queens is hard” his call for help was answered with my booming instructions, “WALK NORTH EAST” while the circa 1928 live jazz band rocked out a Cole Porter ditty.

He finally arrived looking like a cross between an undergrad shuffling across the quad to grab a slice and person who was rudely shaken out of bed by the words, “Call 911, the apartment is on fire” This guy was one button fly away from wearing sweat pants… really? But I swallowed my pride and put all my faith in his charm, and thank god the kid had charm.

We talked and laughed and after several fancy drinks (and one Jameson’s – that one’s for you Swason) we gazed glassy eyed at each other across the table. Of course he was adamant that I become a performer (oh sweet child) and demanded that I begin writing my 7 min. stand up routine ASAP. He also told me stories with no endings, or stories that ended like, “So Shelly Long and I spent the afternoon placing 60 mini cottage cheese containers into her fridge”. Maybe it was the free flowing liquor or the jaunty way his head of bobbing black curls danced as he spoke but I was entertained.

The evening ended with a bit of snogging on the empty dark streets of LIC and a walk to the 7 train. I don’t want to tip my hand in fear that The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not may actually read the blog (even though he has stated that he probably will not) so I will just say that it would be lovely to hang out again and maybe hear more about those intriguing D list celebrity cottage cheese containers.