My thirties seem to be zipping along.

It seems like I was 29 with “one more year of carefree living bro!” just days ago. I must be getting older because I watch the Jersey Shore with as much nostalgia as I do revulsion. When I hear Mike being mocked because he’s 27 and going after girls in their early 20’s, I find myself defending his whole ‘Situation.’

The problem with getting older isn’t the physiological slowing (that’s why God invented caffeine!), it’s the increasing awareness of the finiteness of things, people, and experiences.

That’s a fancy way of saying that I’m starting to freak about my parents dying.

Aaaaand I’m starting to think I need to marry a bitch so my mom can die with her Irish eyes smiling.

She’s “worried” about me. She’s worried that I will never meet a woman who is both willing and able to take care of me. Each year that passes she thinks that my chances are receding like my hairline. I’m the opposite; I think my chances are expanding like my waistline.

This is why she worries: both of my brothers are doctors. And they’re both married to doctors. I know it breaks her little heart when my father does the family introductions at holiday parties: “Hey, this is Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, Dr. Dawes, and… Bill.”

My dad finds that intro hilarious. My mom is different. I’m actually mixed, even though most people can’t tell. I’m half-white, half-trash. My dad is caucasian and my mom has a mullet. Don’t laugh, it frames her tooth well. I’m kidding of course. She has dentures.

Both of my parents are making a little bit more of an effort with our relationship now that they are convinced they’re gonna be dead soon. My mom even made the ‘this could be our final Christmas together as a family’ threat last month. (Irony alert: Oy vey).

My mom has gone so far as to apologize for the drinking she used to do. Recently, she confessed: “Billy, I have to tell you something: I drank through the entire pregnancy.”

In typical Southern fashion, she tried to make it seem okay when she added, “But don’t worry, it was alllll top shelf shit…. Bailey’s Irish cream, as a matter of fact.” Apparently, when her water broke it was 80 proof. Although I don’t remember my infancy (I mean, I was wasted, how could I?), I’m assuming her drinking mean I didn’t breastfeed. Or, if I DID breastfeed, it was probably with salt and lime. I’m too embarrassed to ask.

My mom wasn’t really a huge fan of church but went every Sunday JUST for the communion wine. My dad went to get salvation, my mom went to get sloshed on the blood of Christ. Or, as she called it, the ‘Christini.’

My dad has never been as fun or as Irish as my mother regarding church. He tended to take things a little more seriously. I grew up reading Christian comic books (the Adventures of Jesus Boy!), listening to Christian Rock (oxymoron alert), and worrying about the physical pain of perhaps going to hell. It’s a real place in his mind, replete with imps and dinosaurs and firey fire lapping up the flesh of naked sinners.

He was so afeared for my soul that my dad even sent me to JESUS camp. As much as I make fun of it, that camp is where I finally learned how to pray from the heart. I remember the first time I was overcome with emotion and got on my knees to pray: “Dear Jesus… please get me the fuck out of Jesus camp.”

My dad also thinks premarital sex and masturbation are sins. Sins that, if accrued too much, could result in my reservation in Hades. Because of this, my dad tried to cockblock me with religious imagery all over my bedroom walls growing up. While most kids had posters of metal bands and hot pinups on the wall, my walls had Bible verses and a poster of a little yellow duckling in high green grass that said, “Only the meek shall inherit the earth.” In retrospect, I was giving myself a daily reminder that “Hey Billy, be a pussy. It’ll suck in terms of your lifetime, but you’ll get a slice of Heaven out of the deal.”

He went so far as to put a plastic Jesus on the nightstand right by my bed. It was a bobble head, so most nights Jesus was very disappointed. Sometimes, 3 times a night….

My dad fit the three “R”’s that are destroying, I mean embodying, America today. He was religious, Republican and racist. I know, I know, those words are basically synonyms, but there it is. My dad went to weekly racist meetings every Sunday called ‘Church.’

Ironically, from the crucible of this upbringing, my first serious girlfriend in high school was black. Plus, I grew up in a very racist area… called the UNITED STATES.

For religious reasons, my dad didn’t think I should ‘COMMUNE’ with a black girl. I remember thinking, ‘But dad, isn’t The Bible black?… And wasn’t Eve black? I mean, she was made from a rib.”

My dad eventually came around and opened himself up to the idea that racism is bad. Or at least only acceptable within a small circle of good friends. I mean, I can’t hope for miracles, can I? My mom stopped drinking and turned her energies on being the emotional center of the family.

Truth be told, although my dad is a Republican and a homophobe and a racist and religious, he is probably the best human being I know. He is an inspiration and an amazing man. I don’t know exactly how that’s possible but it’s true. My mom was also an incredible mom who showered and showers me and my brothers with love and support. I kind of feel like I have the best parents ever, despite the things I wrote… which are like 87 percent true. I mean, they raised my two brilliant and amazing Doctor brothers… and Bill….

My parents are going to read this, but I am posting it anyway with two fervent hopes:

My parents have a very good sense of humor.
So does God.

I’m in my teeny dressing room right now, daydreaming about my hot female co-stars (I won’t mention names coughallofthemcough), thinking about the personal irony of playing “Val.”

See, I have a “recurring role” on “All My Children.”  For those of you who don’t know what a recurring role is — it’s a character who’s on the show sometimes, but isn’t really good looking enough to be on the show all the time.  I know I’m a good-looking guy (my mom told me so), but apparently producers and writers think there’s only so much of “me” an audience can look at week to week.

Being a recurring character is actually kind of a great gig for an actor.  Sure there’s less fame and money, but it frees up time for cool things like picking my nose, jerking off, and watching Batman reruns.  You know, Tuesdays.

It ironic because even though I have a crush on my female co-star, I play a homosexual on the soap.  In the soap world, apparently, I’m not that great looking AND I’m not that straight looking.

Even though I’m not gay, when they made me the offer, I took it.  I don’t mean “I took it!” — I wasn’t Robert DeNiro method acting the role — I mean I needed the money, so… crap, that doesn’t sound right either… you know what I mean….

I originated this role 10 years ago in New York.  One thing I learned about the crazy world of soap fans is that the people watching take these shows very seriously.  They think YOU are the character.  So much so that I would get hate mail — letters sent to my personal home address every week saying things like, “Young man, you are going to burn in the fires of eternal damnation unless you change your goddamn lifestyle!”

After a while, I decided to write back:

“Dear Dad, I’m just acting.  I know you wanted me to be an engineer… Why don’t you love me?”

…okay, so Dave Dawes never did, in fact, write me.  But he’s very much a Red-stater, though, and very much uncomfortable with anything involving ass banditry.  Truth be told, I did, in fact, get a couple of letters from folks who, shall we say, jumped off the high dive into the shallow end of the gene pool (read:  also Red-staters).

I’m looking at my clothes in the mirror wondering why gay guys have to wear such tight clothes?  It seems like some shirts only come in a size gay.  What’s the correlation between tight shirts and loose buttholes?

I hope my co-star still gets I’m straight.  I’m torn about random people thinking I’m gay.  On the one hand, when straight people think I’m gay, it annoys me.  (Does that mean I should stop rollerblading around in cutoff denim shorts and tank tops?  Really?)  On the flip side, when gay men think I’m straight, I also get self-conscious:  “Am I getting fat?”

Speaking of getting fat, I joined CRUNCH fitness recently, where everyone seems to be gay or gay-adjacent.  Even the guys working  the juice bar.  It makes me a tad paranoid.  “Hmmm…. I’m gonna watch you make that smoothie… What’s that?  No, no protein boost! NO PROTEIN BOOST!”

The other day, I was doing bicep curls and this handsome guy was staring at me.  In my 20’s, when gay men checked me out, I’d think “Do I look gay?  Am I giving off a gay vibe?  Am I latently gay?”  Now I’m in my 30’s and when gay guy look at me, I just think “I still got it!”   So, I went from furious to flattered in about four seconds.

To be honest, for the briefest of moments, his stare turned me a little gay.  Not permanently, but for a couple puckers of my butthole, I felt “Faaaaaaaabulous!”  I went from working my bi’s to turning bi.  I started jonesing for a whistle and disco ball, and before you know it, I was configuring window treatments in my head.

As I left the gym in my tank top, freshly swollen biceps, designer smoothie in hand, I caught eyes with a hot girl entering, who, in turn, completely ignored me.  I realized that I must have looked gayer than a vat of Kevin Spacey to her.  Maybe I shouldn’t have tied the bottom of my tank top into a knot.  Hmmmmm….

But herein lies the rub:  How do you take care of yourself and look good for women, without doing things that might make you look like women make you go ‘Ew!’:

Let’s face it — everything a man does to LOOK better is pretty much gay:

1. Expensive haircut (over $50) — kind of gay.
2. Going to the gym — getting to be gayer and gayer.
3. Going to the spa and tanning — pretty goddamned gay there, buddy.
4. Manicure/ Pedicure — Tom Cruise gay.
5. Getting eyebrows waxed — extra gay with a side of penis.
6. Getting chest waxed — extra gay with a side of penis with man gravy poured on top.
7. Shopping at Banana Republic - you are doing “the walrus” on Adam Lambert and Lance Bass and singing Broadway show tunes while you read this sentence.

Shopping at Banana Republic might be the epitome of this paradox.  Their cashmere blends are shnazzy and just expensive enough to make you feel like you actually have a positive net worth.  But, you can’t walk into the store without tripping over a cock!  Plus, those v-neck wearing workers there are just so damn nice, that it almost makes you wish you were gay!

I mean, you ask a gay guy at “The BR” for a particular pair of slacks and he starts running around the store like Lamar doing the javelin throw in Revenge of the Nerds:  “Oh my God!  I think we might have JUST run out!  What size are you?  We have a similar pant in a slate gray and another chino version but that’s pleated, and I’m sure you only do flat front, so let me run into the storeroom and check and see, but if we don’t have it here, I’ll call over to our nearest location to see if they have it.  Since you’ve been so patient here’s a Caramel Frappucino, and a coupon for 20 percent off your next penis — I mean purchase!  I’ll be right back!  Sit down while Hector gives you a back rub!”

So why should I be offended if I get cast gay sometimes?  I mean, gay guys always look happy (hence the origin of the “gay” moniker — true story); they always dress well; and they always, and inexplicably, have tons of money — even though they only work in retail or Human Resources!  You know why?  They’re not spending money on bitches!  Eat it, feminists!

I mean, has there ever been a poor pole smoker?  Maybe, but when’s the last time you saw a gay HOMELESS person?  Have you ever been walking down the street and seen a guy jiggling a cup and shouting, “Spare Cha-heyyyyyyyyyyyy-ange!”

To make matters worse, almost everything a man does to make a woman happy is considered “gay” by other men:  Snuggling, cuddling, spooning, or any derivation thereof;  watching TLC programming or any show that has the word “makeover” in the title;  shopping ANYWHERE; listening.

At this point, there’s not much left for straight people.  We’ve still got fantasy football and murder; I think those are mostly our gigs, still.  Oh yeah, also nose-picking and Batman reruns.

So here I am, in my dressing room at ‘ALL MY CHILDREN,’ about to go on tape as Val, Erica Kane’s loyal and longtime gay assistant.  I have a little lip gloss, some make-up, a nice Ellen Degeneris coif.  Plus, a v-neck cashmere-blend sweater from the Banana republic.  I look fab.  But, in my mind, I get to go to the Fusion office and flirt with the beautiful and charming Stephanie…

… and ACTION!  Time to snap off the light and go to set…. Well, not ‘snap!’ off the light…. ‘turn’ off the light… you know what I mean…

I will soon be met with the biggest challenge of any comic on the road:

I will try not to get laid.

Some of you will not get that or, worse still, think me douchey for saying it, but that’s the truest thing I can write about being on the road.   If you are on the road and seeing someone or attempting to see someone or have “standards” or waiting for the Penicillin to clear up that drip, there’s a very difficult and unsettling conundrum with which you have to wrestle.

I call it the “pilgrim’s paradox.”

On the one hand, the second you walk into a big, empty, lonely hotel room, you instinctively want to hump anything with a hole.

On the other hand, do you really want to jeopardize something good in your life and/or possibly deal with a slobbering drunk stranger and risk disease, or even worse, talking.

I don’t get presented with this all the time.  I mean, there are shows where almost everyone in the room hates my guts.  However, there are other shows where I’m convinced that if vaginas were detachable, I’d look like Bill Murray at the end of “Ghostbusters.”

Why is it so easy for male comics, a very subpar-looking bunch, to get laid?

First of all, in every comedy club —  for some obscure reason that no one has been adequately able to explain to me —  there exists a two-drink minimum.

“What?  You wanna laugh sober?!  Well then, I think it’s time for you to leave, ma’am….”

As a result of this arbitrary mandate, you get a lot of women who “don’t usually drink” ordering ginormous cocktails that they nonchalantly chug like cherry sodas because of the distracting sparklers, bamboo umbrellas, and teddy bears attached to them.  They think “yum, fruity!” and keep ordering, occasionally asserting (between languid draws on skinny straws) the following drunk girl mantra:   “Geez, I don’t feel a thing!”

After the third drink, they will stand up and experience a slightly re-matrixed configuration of gravity.  They will giggle and stumble and haphazardly hover over the seat when they pee.  By the middle of their fourth drink, they will realize they hate their boyfriend, who invariably just doesn’t “listen,” and they will want revenge.  And it turns out you made them chortle twice because something you said is just “soooooo fuckin’ true!”

They will then swiftly down their 4th to the dregs and that is when they approach you… a horny, intoxicated velociraptor, swirling a glass of ice cubes and bad intentions.

Mostly there is absolutely no temptation, as these stories from my 20’s will surely attest….

Story #1:

There was a girl in Chicago, a friend of a friend.  She kind of flirted with me before the show and she was actually kind of hot and fun.  And sober.

After the show, not so much.  She staggered up to me with a newly wandering eye, smiled, and grabbed the whole of my left butt cheek with velicoraptor claws.  This, of course, was in front of her 3 other friends, who laughed knowingly.

I was being treated like a piece of meat…. Finally!

I thought I’d love this reversal of gender roles, but, to be honest, my asshole puckered and my ears reddened.  I tried to laugh it off as if it was all just goofy horseplay, while deep down, my soul looked for ‘a happy place.’  Then she leaned into me, pinched my ass with tight finger forceps, and whispered with fiery breath, “I want to fuck you.”

Then she took a couple steps back and, with her good eye, winked at me.  That’s right, she winked.   In case I missed the subtle fragrance of innuendo she was wafting my way, she figured she’d remove all doubt and clear up that ambiguity with a wink.

“You want to fuck me?… Hmmm, meaning what?…. Oooooh, you’re winking… I get it!  Fuck, as in fuck fuck!  Ah-hah!  I thought you meant “fuck me” as in over pull me over in a police cruiser and give me a DUI!  Noooowww I get it!”

A few minutes later, she came in for a kiss on my mouthal area right in front of her friends.  I leaned back and said, “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t the FIRST time you’ve done something like this?”

Her friends erupted in knowing giggles again.  I almost expected a red flag to literally pop out of her vagina.

All of a sudden, this nice lady vehemently contested: “I never do this — I swear to God!”

“What, throw yourself on a comic?” I asked.

“No, throw myself on the opener.”

Somehow, I wrested myself free and went back to the hotel where Sportscenter and its ubiquitous theme music was dutifully waiting for me:  “Duh-nah-nah-DUH-nah-nah!”

Story #2

In Boston, I got 3 and 1/2 offers for threesomes.  Considering that I spent much of my masturbatory youth praying to Beelzebub to provide me with a delicious threeway, I just couldn’t imagine putting my happy into any of those horribly aggressive Southie Mouthies.  The accent alone made my penis wanna retreat behind my lungs.

One girl who offered a threesome opportunity wasn’t a Southie, but she was one of those confident fat girls whose mother apparently told her she had a “pretty face” growing up.  She had an enormous color dragon tattoo running along down her arm and back.  I think tattoo parlors should have a rule:  if you’re over 200 pounds and shorter than 5′6″, the only dragon tattoo you are allowed to have is Puff the Magic Dragon.

I told her I wasn’t down, at which point she called me “gay.”
I quipped, “If I hang out with you any longer, it might turn me gay….”

“DUH-nah-nah-DUH-nah-nah!”

Story #3

Maybe the reason I’m hesitant about hooking up with strangers may harken back to my FIRST experience hooking up with someone after a show.

And I mean IMMEDIATELY after a show.

I actually got head IN a comedy club (for legal purposes, I will call this club the “Laff Factorial”).

I’m not bragging — this girl was drunk!  And not just drunk, like “puke in the hair” drunk.  And not just her puke, I think other people’s puke may have been mixed in there too.

After the show, she aggressively grabbed my hand and said “Let’s go!”  I said “No, no, no!”  but I kind of jogged after her because she was pretty.  I faked resistance, all the while I’m sprinting after her with aerodynamically-shaped hands.

She led me up some stairs, took me into a little vestibule, and instantly dropped to her knees.

I said “No!” but I sort of shimmied off my Levis to help out.   I had never received hallway head before, and I found myself very unclear about what to do with my hands.  Do I interlace the fingers behind my head and “Calvin Klein” it?  Do I put my hands on my hips in a Peter North porn star pose and say bossy and dirty things?  I honestly don’t feel like I have the experience or equipment to justify that pose… So, do I just hit the “I’m a little teapot” stance?

In the end, I decided to put my hands on the crown at the top of her skull.  I looked for the place where there wasn’t any puke and planted my palms.  This will work, I thought.

And then….

Her hair moved.

Her whole scalpage area just… shifted.  Just a bit.  Enough.

For a second, I froze like a deer getting head in headlights.

I remember thinking… “Please have CANCER!”

That’s the first time I’ve ever wished that on anyone.  I was literally wishing that she was post-Chemo.   Probably not good karma to be thinking “cancer” and “please, please, please” at the same time, is it?

I was freaked out.  So I left IMMEDIATELY…

IMMEDIATELY after I came.  I mean, I’m not a quitter!  But I also wasn’t going to stick around like the Scooby Doo gang and try to figure out that mystery!  I think I almost knee’d her in the Adam’s Apple trying to get my pants up.

Anyway, I haven’t seen shim since.
—————————————

I have slowed down considerably since then.  I’m safely in my thirties now and I’m starting to think about finding someone who might put up with me for the long haul.

But, until that day, I might have to learn to like baseball, the most boring sport in the world that also, coincidentally, has the longest season.  That way, I will actually look forward to the day where I might enjoy a plethora of baseball highlights…

“DUH-dah-dah-DUH-dah-dah!”