Dan AllenNYC-based producer and storyteller

Some of you (or none of you) have probably been asking yourself, “How is a comedian/blogger with one TV credit, who rides public transportation and has low self-esteem able to jet set around the world like Mary-Kate and Ashley?” I have five words for you, “I think I’m a gigolo”—albeit, a very skinny one who’s so-so in bed and endowed with a penis that is slightly above average if the conditions are perfect (temperature, humidity, time of day, music selection, amount of hair, lighting, latitude, seasonal equinox, full moon, viewer must be far-sighted, etc…) . I didn’t plan on this happening and not sure how I feel about this emasculating situation. I met a girl who happens to be a lawyer. I guess she enjoys my company because she keeps inviting me to fabulous weekend getaways like London and the Cayman Islands. The cynical side of me thinks that this is an elaborate documentary produced my Ashton Kutcher and directed by John Landis of Trading Places I keep anticipating of overhearing Randolph Duke in a bathroom say, “Pay up, Mortimer. I’ve won the bet.”

Unfortunately, I cannot reciprocate her generosity monetarily. However, I am a distant relative of Ethan Allen and come from a family of carpenters who intrinsically contain the meager knowledge of a handyman. I should emphasize the word, “meager.” I’m the black sheep of the family when it comes to tools. The only “tools” I’m truly comfortable with are in Microsoft Word: Spelling and Grammar, Thesaurus, Dictionary, and Word Count.



I remember a miserable moment at an Allen family reunion. There stood three of my uncles, two cousins, my father and myself around the front of my 88’ Honda Accord with its hood propped up and smoke was billowing out of the engine. Uncle Mike took a drag off his Doral cigarette and easily diagnosed the problem, “Oh, I thought it was something hard. Looks like all you need is to replace the oil gasket. Just get yourself a torque wrench and…” He was cut off by Uncle Jim who elbowed him and shook his head, “It’s a waste of time, Mike. The boy don’t know.” Mike responded, “What do you mean? He’s just gotta replace the oil gasket?” Jim kept shaking his head in disgust and sighed, “I know. Your boy could do it. My Jimmy could do it. He can’t. Like I said before. The boy don’t know”, he closed the hood, polished of his Genesee Beer and stamped out his Bucks cigarette.



Everyone slowly scattered backwards away from the car and made faces as if a skunk had sprayed the engine. Each one giving me a disappointed look like I had fucked up a scholarship to Harvard. To make matters worse they all patted my Dad’s back with condolences as if I had just came out of the closet on Super Bowl Sunday.

The irony is that I know for a fact that none of them can email an attachment.