There must be a certain type of guy that's destined to date really neurotic women.
In college, I'd go to parties dominated by wholesome looking all-American College Republican type girls. In the corner, there'd be a dark haired waif with circles under her eyes wearing gypsy garb and smoking French cigarettes. "She looks.....interesting," I'd say to the host/hostess, "can you introduce me?"
Since then, I've functioned as a sort of Ellis Island for the alienated among the female gender. Give me your tired, your poor, your medicated obsessive-compulsives yearning for sensitive male companionship.....
As much as I complain about my status as a psycho magnet, I seek it out. Remember in The Great Gatsby when Nick talks about how he's become a victim of veteran bores because they can sniff him out as a non-judgmental type of person? I don't know if it's phermones or facial/body language, but I send out the same vibe to maladjusted women.
And it's skewered my perception of normalcy. I was dicussing a recent paramour with a female co-worker of mine and I mentioned that she had recently switched therapists.
"She's in therapy?" asked my co-worker, incredulously wrinkling her nose.
"Of course. Isn't everyone?" I said by way of response.
Apparently, the answer is no. I have learned from my various sounding boards that bisexuality is not the female norm, that most women do not take pills to regulate their behavior and that hospitalizations for exhaustion are etremely uncommon. At least in the respectable world.
I was thinking about this last night during a phone conversation with Mar. She wants to give it another shot.
The last time we got back together, we lasted exactly three days. I reminded her of this. She responded by accusing me of focusing solely on the bad times and keeping her on a sort of probationary status. She insisted that she has grown up tremendously from a year ago and reminded me that she broke up with L because she still had feelings for me.
"Hold on," I interjected, "I never made any promises. All you did was complain about L. You opened an eHarmony account, for Christ's sake."
"I had some very good times with L. I told him about the eHarmony account. It was mostly done as a joke. I don't want to be just an occasional fuck for you, David. That's not who I am."
I suggested we talk next week, when I get back from Cali.
No, she's not just an occasional fuck. It would be easy if she were. As it is, it's more complicated. I still have feelings for her, and she still makes me laugh. But she has a gift for doing and saying the wrong thing that is absolutely mind-blowing. Some highlights:
1. When she met my friend Len, she kept asking him, in my presence, if she was hotter than my ex-wife. He demurred, and finally she said,
"Would you rather fuck me or his ex-wife if we were both in the same room?"
Bad move there.
2. We had been arguing, and as a peace-offering I invited her to brunch with a few of my buddies. My buddies and I started ribbing eachother, as is our wont, and Mar piped in with,
"I think David's gay. I'm just waiting for him to come out of the closet."
Again, if you're still angry, don't reach for my olive branch. All she did there was alienate my friends.
3. I think she enjoyed setting up little conflicts between me and some of her male friends. It's a fairly common game and quite a few women play it. Anyway, for my birthday she took me out to dinner. We were enjoying drinks afterwards when she went off to make a phone call. When she returned, she asked if it would be all right if she left me for a half-hour or so to hook up with her male friend Smug and some of his buddies and she and I could hook up maybe later in the evening?
"Mar," I said, "it's my birthday. You're supposed to have a romantic evening with your significant other on his birthday...."
"Oh, right, I forgot it was your birthday..."
"You forgot?"
"Well, Smug just asked me to come out with him. I told him I'd like to, but I'd have to check with you because it's your birthday and I wasn't sure if it was the right thing to do..."
"You said that? Jesus."
She started crying hysterically at this point.
"I'm sorry, David, I'm an idiot! I'm a fucking idiot!"
The waitress sent someone over to ask if things were OK. I said they were, then I told Mar to go out with Smug and not to bother coming back to my apartment that night because I wasn't in the mood to see her.
4. At the first party I took her to, she asked my buddy Z.B. for his phone number. I didn't know about it at the time---Z.B. was embarrassed for me, and didn't tell me until after we had broken up. When I reminded her about it later, she insisted that she had not done it in a sexual/romantic way but in a networking-for-friends way.
"Seriously, David, I didn't see anything improper in it. That's how I expand my circle of friends."
"Well, Z.B. and I did...."
These are four examples, culled from among many.
Currently I'm seeing three women in rotation: Mar, Submissive Liz and Christy. Sometimes Suburban Melissa pops back into the picture. I don't feel like scuttling my options for a return to a relationship that didn't leave me feeling that great about myself to begin with. Even if I am still fond of her.
In other news, Christy has been on me about not spending enough time with her on the phone/IM. I like Christy, but she lives a ways away and I really, really hate to be nagged. And I'm starting to feel nagged. I'm getting together with her in a couple weeks. We'll see what happens.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
One More Short Rant
OK, as we all know, yesterday was gay pride day. There was a big parade in Chicago, as there was in most metropolitan areas. The guy in the desk to the left of me (the one who wants to nuke the middle east?) was complaining about a network news promo during the baseball game. Gay pride parade, details at 9:00 or some such. Anyway, he was upset that they showed a picture of the parade.
"My kid was watching the game and they cut to the parade. What if there had been two guys kissing? I don't want him to see that."
"Well," I said, "it's unlikely they'd put that image on the tv screen for a news promo, but is it that big a deal?"
He looked at me as if I had suggested that he take his son to visit an s&m dungeon.
The guy sitting to his left concurred with him. So did the woman sitting to my right. Apparently, it's a form of child abuse to expose kids to the fact that some people are gay. I didn't know this.
This was followed by a joke or two about fudgepacking or some comparable verb.
I came back to the fundamental question: what's the big deal? Why does it bother you so much? I asked the single guy in our group:
"Haven't you noticed that gay men usually have female friends? Do you know what a great opening you have when you are introduced to a girl by one of her gay friends? That's the best opening in the world! Right away, you get points for being confident, tolerant and secure. There's no better introduction I'd rather have."
I could have asked him if he'd even touched a woman in the last two years. I suspect the answer is no, but that would have been mean. He is a nice guy after all.
But really---I live in Chicago. Maybe I do cultivate friends who test the boundaries of acceptable sexual behavior (threesomes, bondage scenes, etc.) and I'd never hold myself up as a model of bourgeois respectability. But all the same---what's the big fucking deal?
"My kid was watching the game and they cut to the parade. What if there had been two guys kissing? I don't want him to see that."
"Well," I said, "it's unlikely they'd put that image on the tv screen for a news promo, but is it that big a deal?"
He looked at me as if I had suggested that he take his son to visit an s&m dungeon.
The guy sitting to his left concurred with him. So did the woman sitting to my right. Apparently, it's a form of child abuse to expose kids to the fact that some people are gay. I didn't know this.
This was followed by a joke or two about fudgepacking or some comparable verb.
I came back to the fundamental question: what's the big deal? Why does it bother you so much? I asked the single guy in our group:
"Haven't you noticed that gay men usually have female friends? Do you know what a great opening you have when you are introduced to a girl by one of her gay friends? That's the best opening in the world! Right away, you get points for being confident, tolerant and secure. There's no better introduction I'd rather have."
I could have asked him if he'd even touched a woman in the last two years. I suspect the answer is no, but that would have been mean. He is a nice guy after all.
But really---I live in Chicago. Maybe I do cultivate friends who test the boundaries of acceptable sexual behavior (threesomes, bondage scenes, etc.) and I'd never hold myself up as a model of bourgeois respectability. But all the same---what's the big fucking deal?
Burning the Candle at Both Ends
OK, fans, I have an action-packed weekend to report on here. Unfortunately for your humble narrator, sex was NOT one of the activities on the menu. If you are one those who only read this column for its occasionally graphic descriptions of bizarre fetishes and tawdry encounters, read no further. If, however, the events of my life are of some interest to you, then read on, Gentle Reader, read on....
Friday night marked my reunion with M, my college flame. We met for drinks (or, rather, I drank) at a downtown spot filled with traders and a third-rate cover band blaring out second-rate 70s and 80s hair numbers (again, why do bars always feel compelled to make conversation as difficult as possible?). M looked good for someone coming off of chemo---she's very thin but she always has been, and the short length of her hair was very becoming. We moved on to a restaurant and had a very pleasant dinner.
Meeting with her again was bittersweet---we were very close at one point in our lives but I couldn't help thinking, on seeing her again, that our year-long fling must have been patched together with glue. M is very intense, hyperactively driven and opinionated. I'm more relaxed and mellow. There was a physical chemistry when we dated, but she's probably not someone I would get seriously involved with today. Then again, perhaps she would be. Displaying good judgment in dating and relationships has never been my most, shall we say, salient quality. Oh well----at least I keep things interesting.
Anyway, after dinner and chitchat she had to leave for the suburbs, where she was spending the night with a friend. I have no memory of getting home. I woke up and found a trail of clothes leading from the door to my bed. Unfortunately, they were my own.
Saturday, I had an afternoon barbeque with Katie. Katie is an early-20-something I met several months ago at a local bar. We bonded over a love of poetry. She mentioned pretty early that she had a boyfriend, but that didn't stop me from hitting on her. However, her rejection of my advances was conducted very gracefully---we were sitting close together and I moved in to kiss her. She turned her head, but didn't move her body or get up and leave. She smiled and reminded me that she was seeing someone. I think I may have tried to kiss her again (I'm almost sure of it) but she just smiled again and turned her head. Well, as far as rejections go it was a pretty classy one so we became friends.
Apparently, she has a number of male friends because guess what? The male-female ratio at the barbeque was at least 20-1 in favor of the men. And the woman? Married to one of the men. In fairness to Katie, she did have other guests arriving later (I had to leave at 7:00 to meet M and some of her friends for dinner) and the people she did invite were fascinating and diverse. The food was well-prepared and I continued drinking from where I left off the night before.
Sunday morning I cut through the fog of another hangover to run 11 miles---the marathon is less than four months away and the show must go on. This was followed by a barbeque at Grandpa's with Urban Mellisa, UMB and a Romanian friend of Grandpas. And of course more drinking was involved. I went home at the end of the night and called Christy. We talked dirty to eachother for about ten minutes, said goodnight and I fell asleep, another summer weekend gone.
This blog will be on hiatus for about a week---I am leaving on Wednesday for a hiking/climbing trip in Yosemite with some buddies I've known since college. This is a male trip so I don't anticipate any stories or adventures but rest assured I will keep you all posted.
Friday night marked my reunion with M, my college flame. We met for drinks (or, rather, I drank) at a downtown spot filled with traders and a third-rate cover band blaring out second-rate 70s and 80s hair numbers (again, why do bars always feel compelled to make conversation as difficult as possible?). M looked good for someone coming off of chemo---she's very thin but she always has been, and the short length of her hair was very becoming. We moved on to a restaurant and had a very pleasant dinner.
Meeting with her again was bittersweet---we were very close at one point in our lives but I couldn't help thinking, on seeing her again, that our year-long fling must have been patched together with glue. M is very intense, hyperactively driven and opinionated. I'm more relaxed and mellow. There was a physical chemistry when we dated, but she's probably not someone I would get seriously involved with today. Then again, perhaps she would be. Displaying good judgment in dating and relationships has never been my most, shall we say, salient quality. Oh well----at least I keep things interesting.
Anyway, after dinner and chitchat she had to leave for the suburbs, where she was spending the night with a friend. I have no memory of getting home. I woke up and found a trail of clothes leading from the door to my bed. Unfortunately, they were my own.
Saturday, I had an afternoon barbeque with Katie. Katie is an early-20-something I met several months ago at a local bar. We bonded over a love of poetry. She mentioned pretty early that she had a boyfriend, but that didn't stop me from hitting on her. However, her rejection of my advances was conducted very gracefully---we were sitting close together and I moved in to kiss her. She turned her head, but didn't move her body or get up and leave. She smiled and reminded me that she was seeing someone. I think I may have tried to kiss her again (I'm almost sure of it) but she just smiled again and turned her head. Well, as far as rejections go it was a pretty classy one so we became friends.
Apparently, she has a number of male friends because guess what? The male-female ratio at the barbeque was at least 20-1 in favor of the men. And the woman? Married to one of the men. In fairness to Katie, she did have other guests arriving later (I had to leave at 7:00 to meet M and some of her friends for dinner) and the people she did invite were fascinating and diverse. The food was well-prepared and I continued drinking from where I left off the night before.
Sunday morning I cut through the fog of another hangover to run 11 miles---the marathon is less than four months away and the show must go on. This was followed by a barbeque at Grandpa's with Urban Mellisa, UMB and a Romanian friend of Grandpas. And of course more drinking was involved. I went home at the end of the night and called Christy. We talked dirty to eachother for about ten minutes, said goodnight and I fell asleep, another summer weekend gone.
This blog will be on hiatus for about a week---I am leaving on Wednesday for a hiking/climbing trip in Yosemite with some buddies I've known since college. This is a male trip so I don't anticipate any stories or adventures but rest assured I will keep you all posted.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Vegetarian Chicks
My former college flame M (see my May 30 post Are Men Naturally Snoopy) will be in town this weekend for work and I'm looking forward to seeing her again. It will probably be a group dinner type situation.
After getting kicked out of college, I bummed around in a series of low-status, low-pay McJob-type jobs while M went to law school. I ran into her on the street in '98 (Chicago really is a small town sometimes) and my then-wife and I ended up living three buildings down from her in Lakeview. We went out for drinks a couple times.
She moved to New York to become a legal recruiter and a few years back contracted non-hodgkins lymphoma which eventuallly spread to her brain. She's off chemotherapy now and hopefully has the cancer beaten for good.
Two things that caught my attention in the email heralding her imminent arrival in Chicago were the announcements that she's become a vegatarian (although of the fish eating variety) and that she no longer drinks alcohol.
So, I see a possible Sunday brunch at a yuppie-trendy vegetarian spot in a heavily gentrified neighborhood serving soy bacon and NO bloody marys....OK, OK, she's right to be concerned about her health after what she's been through and I'm in no position to judge someone else's culinary peculiarities, me of the Chicago-style hot dog...
Still...
I'm a live-and-let-live kinda guy, but a major major turnoff for me in a girl is vegetarianism. I believe in a healthy lifestyle---I make my own (very sensible, I might add) lunches, generally avoid fast-food chains and get plenty of fruits and vegetables in my diet but I also looooove a good steak and have been known to get into heated arguments with my co-workers about the location of the restaurant selling Chicago's best burgers.
When a girl becomes a vegetarian, it's like she's joined a cult. Joie de vivre is replaced by a sort of Calvinist stoicism. If she's motivated by health concerns, you get "...how can you eat that shit, do you know what that does to your stomach/arteries/heart?" If she's motivated by one-world spiritual karmic animal welfare, it's worse. Far worse. You're reminded that you're contributing to the destruction of the rain forests, the slaughter of the innocents, third world poverty, global warming, the oppression of the working class and the perpetuation of the phallocracy.
All by eating a hamburger.
Dating becomes a real pain-in-the-ass as all restaurants are screened for suitability, and suitability does not mean a couple of meat-free offerings. It means adherence to a code, it means a stable of choices, vegetarian friendly, or, if you will, carnivore hostile.
I have a weakness for old-style art-deco diners, the kind run by middle-aged Greeks that serve hot roast beef sandwiches topped by mashed potatoes with the whole thing smothered in gravy. Those kinds of restaurants are out.
So are Chicago's wonderful hot dog stands. The ones with the Vienna Beef sign in the window or over the door. Every neighborhood worth living in has at least one.
Barbecues are always problematic. Portobello mushrooms demand their own separate grill. It's not enough to clean a grill that previously held a steak. The vegetables must be completely uncontaminated by the meat.
No, when I date a vegetarian those pleasant establishments become memories of a distant past. Instead, I find myself sitting across from an anemic (produce all the statistics you can that show a vegetarian diet is healthy, my eyes tell me otherwise) waif in a crowded upscale bobo restaurant surrounded by the upper-middle class faces of privilege and political correctness, listening to WORLD MUSIC in the background, giving my order for a Save The World Tofu Omelette to a white guy wearing a sari.
I'll take a healthy looking girl with an order of bacon and eggs, sunny side up, in a relaxed setting with a waitress who knows how to make a perfect bloody mary. Any day.
After getting kicked out of college, I bummed around in a series of low-status, low-pay McJob-type jobs while M went to law school. I ran into her on the street in '98 (Chicago really is a small town sometimes) and my then-wife and I ended up living three buildings down from her in Lakeview. We went out for drinks a couple times.
She moved to New York to become a legal recruiter and a few years back contracted non-hodgkins lymphoma which eventuallly spread to her brain. She's off chemotherapy now and hopefully has the cancer beaten for good.
Two things that caught my attention in the email heralding her imminent arrival in Chicago were the announcements that she's become a vegatarian (although of the fish eating variety) and that she no longer drinks alcohol.
So, I see a possible Sunday brunch at a yuppie-trendy vegetarian spot in a heavily gentrified neighborhood serving soy bacon and NO bloody marys....OK, OK, she's right to be concerned about her health after what she's been through and I'm in no position to judge someone else's culinary peculiarities, me of the Chicago-style hot dog...
Still...
I'm a live-and-let-live kinda guy, but a major major turnoff for me in a girl is vegetarianism. I believe in a healthy lifestyle---I make my own (very sensible, I might add) lunches, generally avoid fast-food chains and get plenty of fruits and vegetables in my diet but I also looooove a good steak and have been known to get into heated arguments with my co-workers about the location of the restaurant selling Chicago's best burgers.
When a girl becomes a vegetarian, it's like she's joined a cult. Joie de vivre is replaced by a sort of Calvinist stoicism. If she's motivated by health concerns, you get "...how can you eat that shit, do you know what that does to your stomach/arteries/heart?" If she's motivated by one-world spiritual karmic animal welfare, it's worse. Far worse. You're reminded that you're contributing to the destruction of the rain forests, the slaughter of the innocents, third world poverty, global warming, the oppression of the working class and the perpetuation of the phallocracy.
All by eating a hamburger.
Dating becomes a real pain-in-the-ass as all restaurants are screened for suitability, and suitability does not mean a couple of meat-free offerings. It means adherence to a code, it means a stable of choices, vegetarian friendly, or, if you will, carnivore hostile.
I have a weakness for old-style art-deco diners, the kind run by middle-aged Greeks that serve hot roast beef sandwiches topped by mashed potatoes with the whole thing smothered in gravy. Those kinds of restaurants are out.
So are Chicago's wonderful hot dog stands. The ones with the Vienna Beef sign in the window or over the door. Every neighborhood worth living in has at least one.
Barbecues are always problematic. Portobello mushrooms demand their own separate grill. It's not enough to clean a grill that previously held a steak. The vegetables must be completely uncontaminated by the meat.
No, when I date a vegetarian those pleasant establishments become memories of a distant past. Instead, I find myself sitting across from an anemic (produce all the statistics you can that show a vegetarian diet is healthy, my eyes tell me otherwise) waif in a crowded upscale bobo restaurant surrounded by the upper-middle class faces of privilege and political correctness, listening to WORLD MUSIC in the background, giving my order for a Save The World Tofu Omelette to a white guy wearing a sari.
I'll take a healthy looking girl with an order of bacon and eggs, sunny side up, in a relaxed setting with a waitress who knows how to make a perfect bloody mary. Any day.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Thoughts on Dealing with Men
OK, fans, here it is---my long awaited sequel to Thoughts on Dealing with Women.
David Mamet wrote once that men are the puppy dogs of the universe----we want to be liked. It's true. Keep that in mind before you begin.
On a first date, if you're doing all the talking, then the date is not going very well. I don't care how in the zone you think you are. Trust me on this one.
Avoid complaining. There are few things more repelling in a woman than bitterness. Neither looks nor intelligence can compensate for bitterness. I've been on many dates during which the girl would start in on what a bitch her co-workers were or her roommate was or what an asshole her ex is and I've watched her face contort in anger and it's not pleasant. I plan my exit strategy at that point.
And I hope that doesn't sound bitter in and of itself....
It's considered bad form to talk about the new shoes or jewelry you bought for your date. It's fishing for compliments. It's more impressive just to display them without the commentary. It's what makes the difference between Stylish Girl and Shopping Girl. Men love Stylish Girl. Shopping Girl tries too hard and it doesn't come off.
If he compliments you, simply say "thank you." It's impressive when a girl knows how to take a compliment.
Do not check your cell phone during the date.
Conversational integrity is a big plus. If he starts in on baseball, it's OK to say, "I never really got into baseball." He'll appreciate the honesty and switch topics. Better this than to feign interest and feel bored for the next twenty minutes.
If he's divorced, it's OK to ask what the issues were. He should understand this---if there's a deal breaker, i.e., he's a compulsive gambler or workaholic, better to find out early. However, it's not a good idea to dwell on it early in the dating process. After a few sentences, the conversation should discreetly be moved to another topic. If he's still bitter, he may not be ready to date.
And if you decide you're not interested in him, the classy thing is just to say something along the lines of, "...you seem like a nice guy, but I just don't see it happening." You shouldn't be expected to go into the details and if he's at all sophisticated, he won't ask for them.
One more thing: every guy I know hates to be nagged. The woman who masters the art of getting what she wants from men without haranguing them will find all doors open to her.
I hope this helps...
David Mamet wrote once that men are the puppy dogs of the universe----we want to be liked. It's true. Keep that in mind before you begin.
On a first date, if you're doing all the talking, then the date is not going very well. I don't care how in the zone you think you are. Trust me on this one.
Avoid complaining. There are few things more repelling in a woman than bitterness. Neither looks nor intelligence can compensate for bitterness. I've been on many dates during which the girl would start in on what a bitch her co-workers were or her roommate was or what an asshole her ex is and I've watched her face contort in anger and it's not pleasant. I plan my exit strategy at that point.
And I hope that doesn't sound bitter in and of itself....
It's considered bad form to talk about the new shoes or jewelry you bought for your date. It's fishing for compliments. It's more impressive just to display them without the commentary. It's what makes the difference between Stylish Girl and Shopping Girl. Men love Stylish Girl. Shopping Girl tries too hard and it doesn't come off.
If he compliments you, simply say "thank you." It's impressive when a girl knows how to take a compliment.
Do not check your cell phone during the date.
Conversational integrity is a big plus. If he starts in on baseball, it's OK to say, "I never really got into baseball." He'll appreciate the honesty and switch topics. Better this than to feign interest and feel bored for the next twenty minutes.
If he's divorced, it's OK to ask what the issues were. He should understand this---if there's a deal breaker, i.e., he's a compulsive gambler or workaholic, better to find out early. However, it's not a good idea to dwell on it early in the dating process. After a few sentences, the conversation should discreetly be moved to another topic. If he's still bitter, he may not be ready to date.
And if you decide you're not interested in him, the classy thing is just to say something along the lines of, "...you seem like a nice guy, but I just don't see it happening." You shouldn't be expected to go into the details and if he's at all sophisticated, he won't ask for them.
One more thing: every guy I know hates to be nagged. The woman who masters the art of getting what she wants from men without haranguing them will find all doors open to her.
I hope this helps...
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
A Very Unusual Shower
I got a call from Mar on Sunday, inviting me for bloody marys. I wasn't doing anything at the time, so I agreed to meet her at the brunch restaurant I had introduced her to and effectively ceded to her after our breakup.
She invited me to get a drink on her tab and began talking about her real estate investment scheme which, as far as I could tell, involved flipping property and "kicking money upstairs." Ostensibly so she would have more money for graduate school. When I told her that I didn't have money to invest, she switched the topic to her sometime boyfriend, L. She had opened an e-harmony account. L, she said, was putting her to sleep. He never wanted to do anything and she missed the plays, movies, picnics and concerts that she and I used to attend. I listened to her and ordered another bloody.
After a couple drinks, I told her that I had to get to the tanning salon.
"Can I come too? I've always wanted to try tanning."
So, I used a guest pass on her. She found it very relaxing. After we were finished:
"Can I shower at your place, David? My shower is leaking into the wall."
So, we wound up in the shower together. When I moved to kiss her, she drew back.
"I don't think L would like it if we slept together."
I thought to myself: no he wouldn't. He didn't like it when we slept together before. He wouldn't like your eharmony account either. Nor the fact that we're in the shower together.
Mar started crying, her tears blending with the water from the shower. "I don't want to be a bad person, David. I don't. I love you...."
I got out of the shower, dried myself off, grabbed a magazine and lay down on my bed. Mar was in the room a few minutes later, typing away at the computer. We had played this game before.
"Mar," I said, "I'm going to have to ask you to leave the room for a few minutes."
"Why?"
"I need to masturbate. I'm a little worked up."
"I can be here for that, can't I?"
"Oh....you wanna watch?"
"Yes."
She got on the bed and watched me begin. Then she started crying again.
"Don't take advantage of me David. Don't play me."
"How am I taking advantage? You have your clothes on. I'm the one who's naked. I'm not touching you, am I?"
"I would leave L for you in a second..."
She took over for me. First with her hands, then with her mouth. When we had finished, we lay back on the bed together. Then I put on some Digable Planets. We spent the afternoon singing along to cheesey 80s videos on youtube. Then we ordered Chinese. Then we watched a DVD of the 90s MTV show Liquid Television. Then we made love for a long time. Then we fell asleep.
It made me think: some of the best sex I've had has been post-breakup sex. For old times sake because one of you might meet someone so this could be the last time better make it count sex. The pleasant smell of a familiar body that knows where to touch you from experience, and vice-versa. The healthy thing is to quit an ex cold turkey. The fun thing is to enjoy the occasional sessions. While they last.
"Yes."
She got on the bed and watched me begin. Then she started crying again.
"Don't take advantage of me David. Don't play me."
"How am I taking advantage? You have your clothes on. I'm the one who's naked. I'm not touching you, am I?"
"I would leave L for you in a second..."
She took over for me. First with her hands, then with her mouth. When we had finished, we lay back on the bed together. Then I put on some Digable Planets. We spent the afternoon singing along to cheesey 80s videos on youtube. Then we ordered Chinese. Then we watched a DVD of the 90s MTV show Liquid Television. Then we made love for a long time. Then we fell asleep.
It made me think: some of the best sex I've had has been post-breakup sex. For old times sake because one of you might meet someone so this could be the last time better make it count sex. The pleasant smell of a familiar body that knows where to touch you from experience, and vice-versa. The healthy thing is to quit an ex cold turkey. The fun thing is to enjoy the occasional sessions. While they last.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
An Evening of Jazz
Friday I got together with Urban Melissa and our two Romanian friends, Grandpa and Waffle, for an evening at a wine bar and a chance to hear Urban Melissa's boyfriend play the saxophone in a jazz duet.
Grandpa is an engineer, about 50, with a strip of white hair on the back of his head. He recently shaved his beard. A few years ago, he got a divorce and still carries the sadness. He's one of those guys who could be so money, but he doesn't see it yet. Give him some nice clothes and put him in the bar of any hotel on Michigan Avenue (and get him to smile once in awhile) and his old-school European charm would make him the hit of the 40-something wealthy divorcees (they are legion in Chicago) who frequent such establishments. Sophisticated, traveled, fluent in French, well-mannered, fuhgitaboutit....instead, he complains about how hard it is to meet people after a certain age. I met attending a film class.
Waffle is his female sidekick. Their relationship is ambiguous---they travel together and dine out, but both have mentioned other people they have dated. Maybe they're friends with benefits. Waffle is about 40, a red-headed theatre-goer and overall aesthete who runs her own business. She is very sarcastic and has a gift for perfectly timed quips.
Urban Melissa told me before the outing that she had a talk with her boyfriend (referred to hereafter as UMB) and straightened him out on the jealousy issue, explaining again that she and I are just friends. She asked me not to mention it to him. She also updated me on the threesome situation---she approached UMB a while back about a threesome but he felt that it might screw up their relationship. Apparently, he's had a change of heart and now they just need to find an attractive woman who won't get emotionally attached. She had thought about approaching Mar, but is unsure about her mental state. I happen to know that UMB can't stand Mar, so that probably takes her off the short list.
The danger, of course, is that someone always feels left out in a threesome. My hunch tells me that this could end very badly.
Anyway, UMB was terriffic on the saxophone. He plays with a silky smooth tone, along the lines of Lester Young and Stan Getz. He concentrated mostly on standards such as Gee, Baby, Ain't I Good to You and The Sunny Side of the Street. The din of the conversation was deafening, even at our own table. I'm a jazz fanatic but it was hard to give the playing my full attention, as Urban Melissa and everyone else kept talking over the music. I was torn between giving my full attention to the music and being sociable. Eventually, I compromised---listening attentively to one song, conversing with my companions during the next.
Afterward, UMB very graciously apologized for running out the previous week, explaining that he was feeling the effects of the alcohol. I said no problem, he bought me a shot and we chatted for a bit.
I couldn't help wondering how UMB felt about the fact that his girlfriend was talking the whole time he was playing. This never happens to any of the rock musicians I know. It's symptomatic of the lack of respect shown to jazz that it's relegated to background music for patrons who frequent jazz establishments for their sophisticated iconography but have no idea what they're listening to. Nor do they care to learn. They just keep talking and talking and talking. And it makes going to jazz clubs a real pain in the ass sometimes.
That reminds me of an experiment conducted by the Washington Post. They sent Joshua Bell, one of the top violinists in the world, to play his Stradivarius in a D.C. subway station for commuters. There's even a time-lapse video. Joshua Bell playing the Chaconne, everyone rushing past. Fucking Amazing.
Or maybe I'm just becoming a crank in my old age.
On another front, I've started getting text messages from Mar again. I'd really rather not hang out with her socially, but I don't want to be rude to her either. What to do, what to do....
Grandpa is an engineer, about 50, with a strip of white hair on the back of his head. He recently shaved his beard. A few years ago, he got a divorce and still carries the sadness. He's one of those guys who could be so money, but he doesn't see it yet. Give him some nice clothes and put him in the bar of any hotel on Michigan Avenue (and get him to smile once in awhile) and his old-school European charm would make him the hit of the 40-something wealthy divorcees (they are legion in Chicago) who frequent such establishments. Sophisticated, traveled, fluent in French, well-mannered, fuhgitaboutit....instead, he complains about how hard it is to meet people after a certain age. I met attending a film class.
Waffle is his female sidekick. Their relationship is ambiguous---they travel together and dine out, but both have mentioned other people they have dated. Maybe they're friends with benefits. Waffle is about 40, a red-headed theatre-goer and overall aesthete who runs her own business. She is very sarcastic and has a gift for perfectly timed quips.
Urban Melissa told me before the outing that she had a talk with her boyfriend (referred to hereafter as UMB) and straightened him out on the jealousy issue, explaining again that she and I are just friends. She asked me not to mention it to him. She also updated me on the threesome situation---she approached UMB a while back about a threesome but he felt that it might screw up their relationship. Apparently, he's had a change of heart and now they just need to find an attractive woman who won't get emotionally attached. She had thought about approaching Mar, but is unsure about her mental state. I happen to know that UMB can't stand Mar, so that probably takes her off the short list.
The danger, of course, is that someone always feels left out in a threesome. My hunch tells me that this could end very badly.
Anyway, UMB was terriffic on the saxophone. He plays with a silky smooth tone, along the lines of Lester Young and Stan Getz. He concentrated mostly on standards such as Gee, Baby, Ain't I Good to You and The Sunny Side of the Street. The din of the conversation was deafening, even at our own table. I'm a jazz fanatic but it was hard to give the playing my full attention, as Urban Melissa and everyone else kept talking over the music. I was torn between giving my full attention to the music and being sociable. Eventually, I compromised---listening attentively to one song, conversing with my companions during the next.
Afterward, UMB very graciously apologized for running out the previous week, explaining that he was feeling the effects of the alcohol. I said no problem, he bought me a shot and we chatted for a bit.
I couldn't help wondering how UMB felt about the fact that his girlfriend was talking the whole time he was playing. This never happens to any of the rock musicians I know. It's symptomatic of the lack of respect shown to jazz that it's relegated to background music for patrons who frequent jazz establishments for their sophisticated iconography but have no idea what they're listening to. Nor do they care to learn. They just keep talking and talking and talking. And it makes going to jazz clubs a real pain in the ass sometimes.
That reminds me of an experiment conducted by the Washington Post. They sent Joshua Bell, one of the top violinists in the world, to play his Stradivarius in a D.C. subway station for commuters. There's even a time-lapse video. Joshua Bell playing the Chaconne, everyone rushing past. Fucking Amazing.
Or maybe I'm just becoming a crank in my old age.
On another front, I've started getting text messages from Mar again. I'd really rather not hang out with her socially, but I don't want to be rude to her either. What to do, what to do....
Thursday, June 14, 2007
My Biggest Dating Blunder This Year Part 2
The very next day, I received a phone call from Restraining Order asking me to remove the salacious comment she had left on my myspace page. I told her it was already gone. She asked me what I was up to, and the conversation took off from there. She told me she had just been upset the morning of her psychiatric appointment because when she asked me to go with her, I had declined.
Of course I had. I had things to do and the prospect of sitting in the waiting room at a suburban psychiatrist's office didn't sound all that appealing.
Her reaction also gave me an inkling that she was used to getting exactly what she wanted from men. And this is always a very bad sign.
She was leaving for her parents' house in another town to chill out for a few days (outside of her part-time modelling gig she didn't appear to have many responsibilities) but wanted to get together for a dinner or movie when she got back. I agreed and we resumed our IM conversations for a few more days.
She also began plotting her rise up my myspace friends list, constantly badgering me to move her into my top 8, my top 4, etc. I'm usually happy to accommodate someone who sleeps with me in any way I can (I once told Submissive Liz that she could smoke in my apartment. "After all," I said, "you went down on me.") but I don't like to be badgered and, besides, she was getting awfully territorial with the woman who was at the time my #1 friend. At this point it was restricted to a few catty comments but I worried where it might lead.
She moved back to the city, and I began getting late night calls for phone sex. She was more articulate in her erotic banter than she was in her day-to-day conversations and I was happy to go along, but she started getting, ummm....clingy. She suggested finding an apartment together so that I could bring dates home and we could have threesomes all the time. As a twenty-five year old man, I would have thought that I had landed in the paradise of all my adolescent wet dreams. As a 38-year-old, however, I was more aware of warning signs even if I often chose to ignore them. Keep in mind that we had only had one actual date at this point.
She even sent me a text that said: Davey, I wuv u. I didn't know what to make of this.
We made plans to get together on a Saturday night. Friday I had a date with someone else.
During my Friday date, she called twice. Dating protocal dictates against taking calls from someone else so her messages waited until the next morning.
When I did check my messages, I heard RO's breathy, stoner voice cancel our date. I called her back to ask what was up.
RO: I called you last night. You didn't pick up the phone and you didn't call me back.
Me: I'm calling you this morning. It won't surprise you, I hope, to learn that I don't always answer my phone and that I sometimes turn it off? I think the next morning is a reasonable time frame.
RO: Well, I was just on myspace last night dropping friends I haven't talked to in awhile. I wanted to talk to you.
Me: Was I dropped?
RO: (pause) You'll have to find out.
Me: OK. Whatever. Look, it was nice talking to you.
RO: Another thing....I hacked your number one friend's myspace account. It's very easy. I didn't hack yours because I respect you but I hacked hers and I read your letters to her. That's why I'm upset.
(A ridiculous desperate lie, of course.)
Me: I see. What bothered you so much in those letters?
RO: Just.....things.....
Me: Don't you see anything wrong with hacking someone's account?
RO: Davey....lighten up.....
This went on until I finally hung up on her. She was upset that I hadn't called her back right away and was trying to pick a fight.
That night at Nick's I got a call from her. She would forget the whole thing if I would move her to the top of my myspace friends list. I refused, of course. I received a text minutes later:
Don't get fired at work, you jerk.
Followed by:
My dad says hi.
Followed by:
I will forward our chats and emails to everyone in your office.
Followed by:
I want my candles back. The police are on their way.
I was getting a little unsettled at this point so I went home. She called me and told me that she was filing a police complaint against me. I asked why. She responded:
"You knew I was under the care of a psychiatrist but you chose to fuck me anyway."
What can possibly be said in response to a statement like that?
She gave me the name of her attorney and suggested I hire one. Then the emails started. She wanted her dad reimbursed for our unused theatre tickets. She had told her dad about our phone sex sessions. Her dad said "hi". She would forward our IM sex sessions everywhere. She would cause me to lose my job.
I went to work in an apprehensive mood. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
Three days later, she sent me an email. It read:
"Gandhi said an eye for an eye will leave the world blind. I am sorry. I was having a breakdown. I have talked to my doctors and have decided to stick to my principles. I mean you no harm. I did forward our emails to Mar. I am truly sorry."
So she had wound up in the hospital again.
Two days later she sent me another email, asking me to acknowledge that she meant me no harm. I blocked her from my myspace account and have not heard from her since.
Of course I had. I had things to do and the prospect of sitting in the waiting room at a suburban psychiatrist's office didn't sound all that appealing.
Her reaction also gave me an inkling that she was used to getting exactly what she wanted from men. And this is always a very bad sign.
She was leaving for her parents' house in another town to chill out for a few days (outside of her part-time modelling gig she didn't appear to have many responsibilities) but wanted to get together for a dinner or movie when she got back. I agreed and we resumed our IM conversations for a few more days.
She also began plotting her rise up my myspace friends list, constantly badgering me to move her into my top 8, my top 4, etc. I'm usually happy to accommodate someone who sleeps with me in any way I can (I once told Submissive Liz that she could smoke in my apartment. "After all," I said, "you went down on me.") but I don't like to be badgered and, besides, she was getting awfully territorial with the woman who was at the time my #1 friend. At this point it was restricted to a few catty comments but I worried where it might lead.
She moved back to the city, and I began getting late night calls for phone sex. She was more articulate in her erotic banter than she was in her day-to-day conversations and I was happy to go along, but she started getting, ummm....clingy. She suggested finding an apartment together so that I could bring dates home and we could have threesomes all the time. As a twenty-five year old man, I would have thought that I had landed in the paradise of all my adolescent wet dreams. As a 38-year-old, however, I was more aware of warning signs even if I often chose to ignore them. Keep in mind that we had only had one actual date at this point.
She even sent me a text that said: Davey, I wuv u. I didn't know what to make of this.
We made plans to get together on a Saturday night. Friday I had a date with someone else.
During my Friday date, she called twice. Dating protocal dictates against taking calls from someone else so her messages waited until the next morning.
When I did check my messages, I heard RO's breathy, stoner voice cancel our date. I called her back to ask what was up.
RO: I called you last night. You didn't pick up the phone and you didn't call me back.
Me: I'm calling you this morning. It won't surprise you, I hope, to learn that I don't always answer my phone and that I sometimes turn it off? I think the next morning is a reasonable time frame.
RO: Well, I was just on myspace last night dropping friends I haven't talked to in awhile. I wanted to talk to you.
Me: Was I dropped?
RO: (pause) You'll have to find out.
Me: OK. Whatever. Look, it was nice talking to you.
RO: Another thing....I hacked your number one friend's myspace account. It's very easy. I didn't hack yours because I respect you but I hacked hers and I read your letters to her. That's why I'm upset.
(A ridiculous desperate lie, of course.)
Me: I see. What bothered you so much in those letters?
RO: Just.....things.....
Me: Don't you see anything wrong with hacking someone's account?
RO: Davey....lighten up.....
This went on until I finally hung up on her. She was upset that I hadn't called her back right away and was trying to pick a fight.
That night at Nick's I got a call from her. She would forget the whole thing if I would move her to the top of my myspace friends list. I refused, of course. I received a text minutes later:
Don't get fired at work, you jerk.
Followed by:
My dad says hi.
Followed by:
I will forward our chats and emails to everyone in your office.
Followed by:
I want my candles back. The police are on their way.
I was getting a little unsettled at this point so I went home. She called me and told me that she was filing a police complaint against me. I asked why. She responded:
"You knew I was under the care of a psychiatrist but you chose to fuck me anyway."
What can possibly be said in response to a statement like that?
She gave me the name of her attorney and suggested I hire one. Then the emails started. She wanted her dad reimbursed for our unused theatre tickets. She had told her dad about our phone sex sessions. Her dad said "hi". She would forward our IM sex sessions everywhere. She would cause me to lose my job.
I went to work in an apprehensive mood. Nothing was out of the ordinary.
Three days later, she sent me an email. It read:
"Gandhi said an eye for an eye will leave the world blind. I am sorry. I was having a breakdown. I have talked to my doctors and have decided to stick to my principles. I mean you no harm. I did forward our emails to Mar. I am truly sorry."
So she had wound up in the hospital again.
Two days later she sent me another email, asking me to acknowledge that she meant me no harm. I blocked her from my myspace account and have not heard from her since.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
My Biggest Dating Blunder This Year Part 1
OK, we're back to stories of degradation again. I knew I'd have to get around to writing about Restraining Order sooner or later.
I met Restraining Order online. We arranged a meeting despite five big bright red warning signs that, had I not been thinking with my penis, should have sent me screaming in the other direction. The warning signs?
1) The first photo she sent was a nude job. Not a polaroid---a professionally done shot. I appreciated her moxie, to be honest about it.
2) She lied about her age. Her profile said 24. Over the course of our IM conversations I realized that her timeline didn't add up and asked her how old she really was. She copped to being 29 but said she'd lose modelling assignments for being over 25 and that everyone in the industry lied about age.
3) She friend-requested 2 ex-girlfriends of mine on myspace. When one of them didn't respond, RO sent her a message to the effect of: I hope you're not intimidated by my looks and I understand that you used to date David.
4) Her spelling was about the worst I've ever come across. I'm no grammar nazi, but I had to wondered if I was actually corresponding with a sixth grader.
5) She shared her poetry with me. It was truly awful.
Those were the signs. Being in therapy didn't count---I like to date interesting girls and interesting girls are often going to come out of adolescence damaged. So it goes.
For our first date, Ro came to my apartment and I prepared chicken cordon blue with a rice pilaf and paired it with a nice pinot noir. Ro arrived in a miniskirt and turtleneck---I should mention that it was February. She was Jewish and had dark, short curly hair, dark eyes and a slender body bordering on emaciated. At 6'0", she towered over me (I list myslef as 5'9", but I think I'm closer to 5'81/2"). She brought me a present consisting of six candles.
We spent the next three hours talking about childhood and families and broaching subjects that are not usually first date subjects---there was a chemistry between us that we both felt. After awhile we started making out and headed for the bed. We both agreed not to have sex just yet. She had a wonderfully feminine vanilla smell about her that drove me wild and I went down on her for a loooong time. Despite our mutual agreement, there was some penetration involved but I wouldn't call it actual sex.
The next morning we lolled about until she mentioned that she was going to be late for her psychiatrist's appointment. She followed with, her back turned toward me,
"Can we have sex?"
I'm not a morning sex person anyway, but the way she said it was cold, impersonal. If she had looked me in the eyes and said, maybe, "I want to have sex with you" or "I want you", that might have been different. At any rate, I wasn't in the mood and my body wouldn't fully cooperate. She was a bit miffed. She recovered enough to leave a salacious message on my myspace comments. Then she left a half-hour later.
An hour went by, and I got a call from her informing me that she had missed her psychiatric appointment and was out of a drug I had never heard of, called adderall. She didn't want to use the emergency number for fear that she'd be committed again. She knew that Mar had access to gobs and gobs of pharmaceuticals and begged me to contact her to see if she had any adderall.
This is the point in the story where I do something really really stupid.
I called Mar and asked if she had access to something called adderall.
Mar flipped out.
"Oh my God, David, have you sunk so low? You got yourself addicted and now you're coming to me for a fix? Damn you!"
I told her it wasn't for me. It was for someone else. Who had missed a psychiatric appointment.
"I'm not getting drugs for any of your sluts!" *click*
I called RO back. No go on the adderall.
At home was an email from Mar. It ended with:
"...by the way: sex is waaaaaaay greater with someone my own age. So Fuck Off. Your newly estranged ex-friend, Mar."
I texted RO to let her know that her contact lenses were on my sink. She texted back:
"You can throw them away. And my number. Be well."
Little did I know that my adventures with RO were only beginning. More in part 2.
I met Restraining Order online. We arranged a meeting despite five big bright red warning signs that, had I not been thinking with my penis, should have sent me screaming in the other direction. The warning signs?
1) The first photo she sent was a nude job. Not a polaroid---a professionally done shot. I appreciated her moxie, to be honest about it.
2) She lied about her age. Her profile said 24. Over the course of our IM conversations I realized that her timeline didn't add up and asked her how old she really was. She copped to being 29 but said she'd lose modelling assignments for being over 25 and that everyone in the industry lied about age.
3) She friend-requested 2 ex-girlfriends of mine on myspace. When one of them didn't respond, RO sent her a message to the effect of: I hope you're not intimidated by my looks and I understand that you used to date David.
4) Her spelling was about the worst I've ever come across. I'm no grammar nazi, but I had to wondered if I was actually corresponding with a sixth grader.
5) She shared her poetry with me. It was truly awful.
Those were the signs. Being in therapy didn't count---I like to date interesting girls and interesting girls are often going to come out of adolescence damaged. So it goes.
For our first date, Ro came to my apartment and I prepared chicken cordon blue with a rice pilaf and paired it with a nice pinot noir. Ro arrived in a miniskirt and turtleneck---I should mention that it was February. She was Jewish and had dark, short curly hair, dark eyes and a slender body bordering on emaciated. At 6'0", she towered over me (I list myslef as 5'9", but I think I'm closer to 5'81/2"). She brought me a present consisting of six candles.
We spent the next three hours talking about childhood and families and broaching subjects that are not usually first date subjects---there was a chemistry between us that we both felt. After awhile we started making out and headed for the bed. We both agreed not to have sex just yet. She had a wonderfully feminine vanilla smell about her that drove me wild and I went down on her for a loooong time. Despite our mutual agreement, there was some penetration involved but I wouldn't call it actual sex.
The next morning we lolled about until she mentioned that she was going to be late for her psychiatrist's appointment. She followed with, her back turned toward me,
"Can we have sex?"
I'm not a morning sex person anyway, but the way she said it was cold, impersonal. If she had looked me in the eyes and said, maybe, "I want to have sex with you" or "I want you", that might have been different. At any rate, I wasn't in the mood and my body wouldn't fully cooperate. She was a bit miffed. She recovered enough to leave a salacious message on my myspace comments. Then she left a half-hour later.
An hour went by, and I got a call from her informing me that she had missed her psychiatric appointment and was out of a drug I had never heard of, called adderall. She didn't want to use the emergency number for fear that she'd be committed again. She knew that Mar had access to gobs and gobs of pharmaceuticals and begged me to contact her to see if she had any adderall.
This is the point in the story where I do something really really stupid.
I called Mar and asked if she had access to something called adderall.
Mar flipped out.
"Oh my God, David, have you sunk so low? You got yourself addicted and now you're coming to me for a fix? Damn you!"
I told her it wasn't for me. It was for someone else. Who had missed a psychiatric appointment.
"I'm not getting drugs for any of your sluts!" *click*
I called RO back. No go on the adderall.
At home was an email from Mar. It ended with:
"...by the way: sex is waaaaaaay greater with someone my own age. So Fuck Off. Your newly estranged ex-friend, Mar."
I texted RO to let her know that her contact lenses were on my sink. She texted back:
"You can throw them away. And my number. Be well."
Little did I know that my adventures with RO were only beginning. More in part 2.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Thoughts on Dealing with Women
I was sharing a cold one with Drinking Buddy the other night, and in the spirit of that honesty that washes over men after the third shot, he said,"You get laid a lot more than I do."I responded,"I get rejected a lot more than you do, too."We laughed and the bartender smiled and set two more shot glasses in front of us.
I started this blog primarily for a male audience---I wanted to write honestly about my life. However, my involvement with some of the women I've met through myspace pretty much shut down the possibility of using that venue for a blog. There's a lot to be said for anonymity. I realize that some of the things I write make me look like an asshole, but when you hold back it's always the writing that suffers. You, Gentle Reader, are privy to my joys, my sorrows, my triumphs and my failures. I am neither a saint nor a demon---I am simply a man.
I'm no Don Juan---I get shot down a lot. My phone calls are often unreturned. And I've been on my share of dates during which I've looked across the table and thought, "...she is not charmed by my blarney at all." But I strongly suspect that I do better than most single/divorced men my age. And I'd like to share my thoughts on how to deal with women.
We've all heard the tired cliche: treat 'em like shit and they'll respect you. In all cliches, there's a small kernel of truth---we like challenges. Neither men nor women respect members of the opposite sex who have no self-esteem and defer to us on all issues great and small. However, the guys who mouth this cliche are usually the ones we never see except in the company of men. Why is that?Because they don't really like women. They're heterosexual, but they don't enjoy the company of women. They have no female friends. Sex becomes purely conquest, a gauge to measure their superiority or inferiority in relation to other men. Ultimately, they derive their validation from the approval of their buddies. We've all known men like this.
So I would say, cultivate a slight air of mystery, but don't be a jerk. Don't wear your heart/feelings on your sleeve, but be considerate. Women appreciate consideration and little acts of kindness just like we do. It won't make you a wussy-boy to show a little bit of your sensitive side. On the other hand, belittling the waiter during your date does not make you look like an alpha-male. It makes you look like a jerk.
Relax. Don't be afraid to laugh at yourself. The ability to laugh at your flaws and your ridiculous moments shows confidence. Women find that sexy.
Smile.
Don't be pushy. Intimacy occurs on its own time. Pushiness reeks of desperation. And if you do meet with rejection, that doesn't mean she's a bitch. Just accept that you're not her type. And show a little humor and graciousness in dealing with rejection. That just might impress her, and it's always a good thing to have another friend on your side. You can probably learn more about women from your female friends than you can from the guys at the bar. And she just might have a friend that's your type.
I started this blog primarily for a male audience---I wanted to write honestly about my life. However, my involvement with some of the women I've met through myspace pretty much shut down the possibility of using that venue for a blog. There's a lot to be said for anonymity. I realize that some of the things I write make me look like an asshole, but when you hold back it's always the writing that suffers. You, Gentle Reader, are privy to my joys, my sorrows, my triumphs and my failures. I am neither a saint nor a demon---I am simply a man.
I'm no Don Juan---I get shot down a lot. My phone calls are often unreturned. And I've been on my share of dates during which I've looked across the table and thought, "...she is not charmed by my blarney at all." But I strongly suspect that I do better than most single/divorced men my age. And I'd like to share my thoughts on how to deal with women.
We've all heard the tired cliche: treat 'em like shit and they'll respect you. In all cliches, there's a small kernel of truth---we like challenges. Neither men nor women respect members of the opposite sex who have no self-esteem and defer to us on all issues great and small. However, the guys who mouth this cliche are usually the ones we never see except in the company of men. Why is that?Because they don't really like women. They're heterosexual, but they don't enjoy the company of women. They have no female friends. Sex becomes purely conquest, a gauge to measure their superiority or inferiority in relation to other men. Ultimately, they derive their validation from the approval of their buddies. We've all known men like this.
So I would say, cultivate a slight air of mystery, but don't be a jerk. Don't wear your heart/feelings on your sleeve, but be considerate. Women appreciate consideration and little acts of kindness just like we do. It won't make you a wussy-boy to show a little bit of your sensitive side. On the other hand, belittling the waiter during your date does not make you look like an alpha-male. It makes you look like a jerk.
Relax. Don't be afraid to laugh at yourself. The ability to laugh at your flaws and your ridiculous moments shows confidence. Women find that sexy.
Smile.
Don't be pushy. Intimacy occurs on its own time. Pushiness reeks of desperation. And if you do meet with rejection, that doesn't mean she's a bitch. Just accept that you're not her type. And show a little humor and graciousness in dealing with rejection. That just might impress her, and it's always a good thing to have another friend on your side. You can probably learn more about women from your female friends than you can from the guys at the bar. And she just might have a friend that's your type.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Martinis with Rod Serling
There are two competing interpretations of bucolic life in American popular culture: the sentimental and the darkly foreboding. The sentimental stretches from Norman Rockwell and The Andy Griffith Show and today pops up in the propaganda of both major political parties. The darkly foreboding stretches from Shirly Jackson's The Lottery and can be seen in films like Deliverance and the work of David Lynch.
My view of rural America tends to follow the darkly foreboding.
I was thinking about this as I sat in a small town restaurant with Len on Friday, watching the customers file in and out. No zombie film could have done it justice: here were the faces of the defeated, the bovine expressions of men and women beaten down by life, married couples sitting across from eachother and staring blankly with nothing to say. The atmosphere was heavy, oppressive.
And I was attempting to order a martini, straight up, Absolut, with olives.
"I'm sorry," said the middle-aged woman whose task it was to take our beverage orders, "it's my first day. What's in a martini? Just vodka?"
She came back with a martini glass. It contained approximately one shot of vodka and an olive.
"Try this and tell me if this is OK."
It was room temperature.
"Yes, it's fine.....what there is of it...."
Len and I were in town for our twentieth high school reunion and I was having thoughts of returning to Chicago. I wasn't sure I wanted to remain in a town in which I couldn't order a simple martini.
From the restaurant, we journeyed to the bar adjoining the local bowling alley to meet and greet our classmates, nearly all of whom were married with children. Conversations at the early stages of a class reunion always resemble job interviews with everyone shuffling from group to group, shaking hands, making self-conscious eye contact and nodding sagely at everything said. Just then, Acid Steve walked into the room.
Acid Steve had been my friend since we were eight years old. He was never particularly gifted with either brains or good judgment, but he was my friend, after all. We don't ask much more from old friends than shared experiences. After high school, he had disappeared for a few years. There were rumors of drug deals and insurance fraud, but very little was known with certainty. And I was seeing him for the first time in seventeen years.
He had changed. His facial expressions had crystallized into a series of maniacally intense tics and every seven or eight words were punctuated by the "heh heh heh" triplet of an artificial chuckle. He told me that he spent his time tinkering with bicycles and between sips of beer mentioned something about "finding God." I thought back to the ending of "Old Yeller." If ever there was a case for the mercy killing of a member of the class of 1987, this was it.
I had to get away.
Len and I drove to a tavern with a disreputable reputation and settled in to our drinks. Before long, a dirty-blonde 20-something approached and asked to borrow my sunglasses for her pool game.
"You can if you're careful. These are $200 sunglasses."
I had actually purchased them for $6 at an outlet mall, and they're the kind that usually retail for about $20. Price, however, is not the issue. Sunglasses and watches are really the only two ways men can accessorize, and these were good shades. Perfect for my face. She told me her life story: 23 years old, living with her parents and a six-month daughter. No boyfriend. She was well-built with freckles---the type I refer to as "country pretty."
As we were talking, her friend came up to me and said,
"I just want to tell you that you are gorgeous."
I was in the Twilight Zone! Such things do not happen to me, and my first inclination was to make sure my wallet was still there. It was, and as I basked in my new-found popularity Len walked by.
"David, you pimp."
A third girl told me,
"Jamie and Laura both like you. Which one do you like?"
A feather would have tipped the scales between the two. The feather, in this case, was a pair of sunglasses which Jamie had apparently slipped into her purse.
I asked Jamie for her number but told her I was leaving town on Sunday. She was going back to her parents in a bit and asked about tomorrow. We made plans to get together and I asked for my sunglasses back.
"You're from Chicago. You can afford sunglasses."
Such logic baffled me and although it wasn't exactly comme il faut, I pressed the issue.
"I'll give them to you when I see you again."
I knew I would never see my sunglasses again.
The next night was the Main Event---the reunion itself. As everyone I was attracted to was either married or otherwise hooked up, I resigned myself to a night of drinking and platonic socializing. I ordered a martini, straight up with olives from the bartender.
"That's a fancy drink," offered a guy behind me.
The bartender returned with a plastic cup conaining crushed ice with as much vermouth as vodka and apologized for the absence of the olive, as they were out. I decided to stick with wine for the remainder of the evening---a fresh box had been opened so I reasoned that it would at least be fresh.
As the evening faded into an alcohol-induced fog, I found myself at the same dive tavern as the night before. This time, a thirty-something came up behind me and squeezed my ass.
"Nice ass," she said as she resumed dancing with her overweight female friend. Len immediately cut in front of me to talk to her, as did a married classmate of ours. That was fine---I was too drunk. I had passed the point of no return an hour ago and did not have the sober command of my verbal skills to make flirty chit-chat. Besides, the bartenders were shooing us outside. I ran into a girl I knew from high school who used to be pretty---we hugged eachother. My married classmate was on her immediately, putting his arm around her and escorting her outside.
The world had definitely gotten more competitive.
Outside, nine guys were involved in a knock-down drag-out fight that resembled a scrum. I thought I saw someone get curbed, then realized that everyone was too drunk to do any damage more serious than a bloody lip or a broken nose. The cops were nowhere to be found. We made vague plans to go to an afterhours party but ended up going home instead.
I was glad to leave for Chicago. Submissive Liz texted me for a booty call, and this time I invited her over. It was nice.
Even better than having a martini.
My view of rural America tends to follow the darkly foreboding.
I was thinking about this as I sat in a small town restaurant with Len on Friday, watching the customers file in and out. No zombie film could have done it justice: here were the faces of the defeated, the bovine expressions of men and women beaten down by life, married couples sitting across from eachother and staring blankly with nothing to say. The atmosphere was heavy, oppressive.
And I was attempting to order a martini, straight up, Absolut, with olives.
"I'm sorry," said the middle-aged woman whose task it was to take our beverage orders, "it's my first day. What's in a martini? Just vodka?"
She came back with a martini glass. It contained approximately one shot of vodka and an olive.
"Try this and tell me if this is OK."
It was room temperature.
"Yes, it's fine.....what there is of it...."
Len and I were in town for our twentieth high school reunion and I was having thoughts of returning to Chicago. I wasn't sure I wanted to remain in a town in which I couldn't order a simple martini.
From the restaurant, we journeyed to the bar adjoining the local bowling alley to meet and greet our classmates, nearly all of whom were married with children. Conversations at the early stages of a class reunion always resemble job interviews with everyone shuffling from group to group, shaking hands, making self-conscious eye contact and nodding sagely at everything said. Just then, Acid Steve walked into the room.
Acid Steve had been my friend since we were eight years old. He was never particularly gifted with either brains or good judgment, but he was my friend, after all. We don't ask much more from old friends than shared experiences. After high school, he had disappeared for a few years. There were rumors of drug deals and insurance fraud, but very little was known with certainty. And I was seeing him for the first time in seventeen years.
He had changed. His facial expressions had crystallized into a series of maniacally intense tics and every seven or eight words were punctuated by the "heh heh heh" triplet of an artificial chuckle. He told me that he spent his time tinkering with bicycles and between sips of beer mentioned something about "finding God." I thought back to the ending of "Old Yeller." If ever there was a case for the mercy killing of a member of the class of 1987, this was it.
I had to get away.
Len and I drove to a tavern with a disreputable reputation and settled in to our drinks. Before long, a dirty-blonde 20-something approached and asked to borrow my sunglasses for her pool game.
"You can if you're careful. These are $200 sunglasses."
I had actually purchased them for $6 at an outlet mall, and they're the kind that usually retail for about $20. Price, however, is not the issue. Sunglasses and watches are really the only two ways men can accessorize, and these were good shades. Perfect for my face. She told me her life story: 23 years old, living with her parents and a six-month daughter. No boyfriend. She was well-built with freckles---the type I refer to as "country pretty."
As we were talking, her friend came up to me and said,
"I just want to tell you that you are gorgeous."
I was in the Twilight Zone! Such things do not happen to me, and my first inclination was to make sure my wallet was still there. It was, and as I basked in my new-found popularity Len walked by.
"David, you pimp."
A third girl told me,
"Jamie and Laura both like you. Which one do you like?"
A feather would have tipped the scales between the two. The feather, in this case, was a pair of sunglasses which Jamie had apparently slipped into her purse.
I asked Jamie for her number but told her I was leaving town on Sunday. She was going back to her parents in a bit and asked about tomorrow. We made plans to get together and I asked for my sunglasses back.
"You're from Chicago. You can afford sunglasses."
Such logic baffled me and although it wasn't exactly comme il faut, I pressed the issue.
"I'll give them to you when I see you again."
I knew I would never see my sunglasses again.
The next night was the Main Event---the reunion itself. As everyone I was attracted to was either married or otherwise hooked up, I resigned myself to a night of drinking and platonic socializing. I ordered a martini, straight up with olives from the bartender.
"That's a fancy drink," offered a guy behind me.
The bartender returned with a plastic cup conaining crushed ice with as much vermouth as vodka and apologized for the absence of the olive, as they were out. I decided to stick with wine for the remainder of the evening---a fresh box had been opened so I reasoned that it would at least be fresh.
As the evening faded into an alcohol-induced fog, I found myself at the same dive tavern as the night before. This time, a thirty-something came up behind me and squeezed my ass.
"Nice ass," she said as she resumed dancing with her overweight female friend. Len immediately cut in front of me to talk to her, as did a married classmate of ours. That was fine---I was too drunk. I had passed the point of no return an hour ago and did not have the sober command of my verbal skills to make flirty chit-chat. Besides, the bartenders were shooing us outside. I ran into a girl I knew from high school who used to be pretty---we hugged eachother. My married classmate was on her immediately, putting his arm around her and escorting her outside.
The world had definitely gotten more competitive.
Outside, nine guys were involved in a knock-down drag-out fight that resembled a scrum. I thought I saw someone get curbed, then realized that everyone was too drunk to do any damage more serious than a bloody lip or a broken nose. The cops were nowhere to be found. We made vague plans to go to an afterhours party but ended up going home instead.
I was glad to leave for Chicago. Submissive Liz texted me for a booty call, and this time I invited her over. It was nice.
Even better than having a martini.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Epilogue
OK, Urban Melissa's Boyfriend is insane. Last night he left abruptly before the band started, leaving me with the tab. I shrugged it off as due to the stress of his Series 6 exam preparation or perhaps some drug he was on. Well, I just got a call from Urban Melissa----her boyfriend saw me check my text messages last night and noticed her name among my earlier texts---and all hell has broken loose! He barged in on her, started checking her phone, accused her of having an affair with me and using the text message feature to arrange a rendez-vous after the show!
Keep in mind that he was there because I was interested in one of the musicians. He was helping me establish street cred.
UMB uses cocaine, and I've been around enough coke users to see the ugly side effects of paranoia. His previous girlfriend cheated on him, too.
But, you know what? Get over it. We've all been cheated on. It does not give you license to treat your girlfriend and her friends like shit. I think the kid needs to grow up.
Urban Melissa doesn't know what to do right now. They were planning on moving in together. I give it three weeks.
Keep in mind that he was there because I was interested in one of the musicians. He was helping me establish street cred.
UMB uses cocaine, and I've been around enough coke users to see the ugly side effects of paranoia. His previous girlfriend cheated on him, too.
But, you know what? Get over it. We've all been cheated on. It does not give you license to treat your girlfriend and her friends like shit. I think the kid needs to grow up.
Urban Melissa doesn't know what to do right now. They were planning on moving in together. I give it three weeks.
Why I'm Not Cool
Urban Melissa's Boyfriend met me last night an hour before Musician's band was scheduled to play and introduced me to some of the denizens of Chicago's music scene. The Musician came in, at some point I called out to her---the jukebox was blaring and she didn't hear me---and UMB said,
"Dude, it's too early, don't. Trust me---I know the scene."
He had me there. The simple truth is, I'm not cool. I'm fit, reasonably attractive and intelligent enough to carry on an adult conversation but.....not cool.
I can portray cool. I'm almost 39 years old and I've learned over the years how to affect a certain nonchalance that's passable for most of the evening but in the end, The Truth Will Out: the nervous 13-year-old with thick glasses and braces emerges, usually at the wrong moment.
I nodded coolly (another affectation) at UMB and ordered another beer. A while later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and The Musician greeted me with a big hug and a smile.
"David, thanks for coming! I'm sorry, I forgot to put you on the list---I've had sooo much going on."
We talked neighborhood/scene talk for a bit---a representative from her label was there and she was rather flushed. After a bit, she excused herself and made the rounds of the room. At one point, I said, "Hey, Stevie Nicks, lay off the beer....you're on soon." She laughed.
An hour after they were scheduled to play, they finally took the stage. Their music was......intellectual. They are all excellent musicians and I could appreciate what they were doing, but it was not a performance for a general public. The room, I quickly gathered, was packed with other musicians. The sound was missing something----swing, emotion....feeling.
After the last note sounded, I approached The Musican and shook her hand.
"Thanks for inviting me, I enjoyed your show. Have a good evening."
I would be up for seeing her again, but she'll have to show a bit more interest. She has my email address, so she can contact me if she wishes. Otherwise, the situation with The Musician will die on the vine.
Hey, maybe I'm cooler than I thought....
"Dude, it's too early, don't. Trust me---I know the scene."
He had me there. The simple truth is, I'm not cool. I'm fit, reasonably attractive and intelligent enough to carry on an adult conversation but.....not cool.
I can portray cool. I'm almost 39 years old and I've learned over the years how to affect a certain nonchalance that's passable for most of the evening but in the end, The Truth Will Out: the nervous 13-year-old with thick glasses and braces emerges, usually at the wrong moment.
I nodded coolly (another affectation) at UMB and ordered another beer. A while later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and The Musician greeted me with a big hug and a smile.
"David, thanks for coming! I'm sorry, I forgot to put you on the list---I've had sooo much going on."
We talked neighborhood/scene talk for a bit---a representative from her label was there and she was rather flushed. After a bit, she excused herself and made the rounds of the room. At one point, I said, "Hey, Stevie Nicks, lay off the beer....you're on soon." She laughed.
An hour after they were scheduled to play, they finally took the stage. Their music was......intellectual. They are all excellent musicians and I could appreciate what they were doing, but it was not a performance for a general public. The room, I quickly gathered, was packed with other musicians. The sound was missing something----swing, emotion....feeling.
After the last note sounded, I approached The Musican and shook her hand.
"Thanks for inviting me, I enjoyed your show. Have a good evening."
I would be up for seeing her again, but she'll have to show a bit more interest. She has my email address, so she can contact me if she wishes. Otherwise, the situation with The Musician will die on the vine.
Hey, maybe I'm cooler than I thought....
Monday, June 4, 2007
The Weekend's Box Score
OK, tomorrow I see The Musician perform. Readers of my previous post will recall my anxiety----not sure she likes me, want to arrive with fun group that will provide social cachet, etc. Well, I have the most fortuitous development to report: At Urban Melissa's party on Friday night I was speaking with her boyfriend, also a musician, and not only does he know the bandmembers, he's performed with the leader on several occasions! He told me he'd be happy to introduce me to everyone in the group so regardless of what happens later, at least the foundations are in place.
Urban Melissa once told me that her boyfriend thinks I have designs on her but that he's jealous of everybody. He's a cool guy, been friendly to me on the three or four occasions we've met and we 've had great conversations about music and similar topics. I think (hope) the party dispelled any concerns on his part. Urban Melissa is a "touchy" girl with a lot of male friends and no guy likes to watch his girlfriend put her arm around another man's shoulders more than twice during the evening so I understand where he's coming from.
This Saturday, Christy arrived in town with two of her girlfriends---they stayed at a motel, she stayed with me. In my previous post I provided a product review of Rize 2, the herbal sexual stimulant I used doing Christy's previous visit. Well, Gentle Reader, there were three capsules in that bottle, leaving me with two. Having Raised Christy's expectations and not wanting to disappoint her by falling short of my previous ardor, I took the second capsule. I had six condoms remaining, which I figured should be enough for the 24-or-so hours we had planned together.
They were----just.
This raises an interesting ethical dilemma: as a lifelong baseball fan who shares the country's outrage at Barry Bonds' use of performance enhancing drugs in his pursuit of Hank Aaron's home run record, how can I justify using a sexual stimulant?
Is this considered cheating? Should my marathon bedroom performances be erased from the record book?
My rationalization is this: Barry Bonds used drugs. I used an herbal, over-the-counter stimulant, not much different from the legal body-building powders available at GNC. If any of my loyal readers has a different opinion, I will be happy to entertain it.
Anyway, I don't wish to give the impression that the entire weekend was spent in bed. It was also spent on the desk, the floor, the chair, the shower.......
OK, OK...
Saturday afternoon after our second tryst we went shopping on Michigan Avenue and Christy suggested several items of clothing that she thought would look good on me. I bought them all. Like most men I will employ almost any strategem to avoid shopping for clothes with a significant other, but Christy made it fun. Somehow. She has very good taste and she didn't ask the sort of inane questions that men hate to hear their girlfriends ask during shopping trips.
This was followed by a romantic walk on the beach, drinks with her girlfriends and finally dinner. Which was followed by a trip home for more coupling. Which was followed by a trip to a bar with her girlfriends so that they could meet some eligible Chicago men. Which was followed by a trip home for more coupling and finally sleep.
I'm not much for morning sex. Yes, like most men I usually wake up with a hard-on but my first inclinations are as likely to be of a digestive as of a sexual nature. After our early morning tryst, I found myself consumed by a desire to be alone. I was starting to feel......smothered. Christy was telling me what a wonderful time she had had and how much she liked me and kept stroking my hair and my face and I was thinking ahead to how I would spend the afternoon and evening. Hmmmm......Cubs on tv, a play with some friends, drinks, laundry....hmmmmm....Cubs on tv, a play with some friends......
Christy is nice. She is pretty. She has poise. We share chemistry. What she lacks, however, are "interests". I divide the world in two: people who take an interest and people who don't. And by "interest", I don't mean an interest in baseball or American Idol. I mean an interest in what's happening in the world. A curiosity about people, about other countries and cultures. A desire to travel. A passion for ideas.
I want my next girlfriend to be the kind of woman who always keeps a book by her nightstand. Who's not afraid of movies with subtitles. Who is open to different musical experiences. I like Christy, but, the travelling distance between us aside, dating her regularly would only lead to more mornings like Sunday.
We'll see what happens tomorrow.
Urban Melissa once told me that her boyfriend thinks I have designs on her but that he's jealous of everybody. He's a cool guy, been friendly to me on the three or four occasions we've met and we 've had great conversations about music and similar topics. I think (hope) the party dispelled any concerns on his part. Urban Melissa is a "touchy" girl with a lot of male friends and no guy likes to watch his girlfriend put her arm around another man's shoulders more than twice during the evening so I understand where he's coming from.
This Saturday, Christy arrived in town with two of her girlfriends---they stayed at a motel, she stayed with me. In my previous post I provided a product review of Rize 2, the herbal sexual stimulant I used doing Christy's previous visit. Well, Gentle Reader, there were three capsules in that bottle, leaving me with two. Having Raised Christy's expectations and not wanting to disappoint her by falling short of my previous ardor, I took the second capsule. I had six condoms remaining, which I figured should be enough for the 24-or-so hours we had planned together.
They were----just.
This raises an interesting ethical dilemma: as a lifelong baseball fan who shares the country's outrage at Barry Bonds' use of performance enhancing drugs in his pursuit of Hank Aaron's home run record, how can I justify using a sexual stimulant?
Is this considered cheating? Should my marathon bedroom performances be erased from the record book?
My rationalization is this: Barry Bonds used drugs. I used an herbal, over-the-counter stimulant, not much different from the legal body-building powders available at GNC. If any of my loyal readers has a different opinion, I will be happy to entertain it.
Anyway, I don't wish to give the impression that the entire weekend was spent in bed. It was also spent on the desk, the floor, the chair, the shower.......
OK, OK...
Saturday afternoon after our second tryst we went shopping on Michigan Avenue and Christy suggested several items of clothing that she thought would look good on me. I bought them all. Like most men I will employ almost any strategem to avoid shopping for clothes with a significant other, but Christy made it fun. Somehow. She has very good taste and she didn't ask the sort of inane questions that men hate to hear their girlfriends ask during shopping trips.
This was followed by a romantic walk on the beach, drinks with her girlfriends and finally dinner. Which was followed by a trip home for more coupling. Which was followed by a trip to a bar with her girlfriends so that they could meet some eligible Chicago men. Which was followed by a trip home for more coupling and finally sleep.
I'm not much for morning sex. Yes, like most men I usually wake up with a hard-on but my first inclinations are as likely to be of a digestive as of a sexual nature. After our early morning tryst, I found myself consumed by a desire to be alone. I was starting to feel......smothered. Christy was telling me what a wonderful time she had had and how much she liked me and kept stroking my hair and my face and I was thinking ahead to how I would spend the afternoon and evening. Hmmmm......Cubs on tv, a play with some friends, drinks, laundry....hmmmmm....Cubs on tv, a play with some friends......
Christy is nice. She is pretty. She has poise. We share chemistry. What she lacks, however, are "interests". I divide the world in two: people who take an interest and people who don't. And by "interest", I don't mean an interest in baseball or American Idol. I mean an interest in what's happening in the world. A curiosity about people, about other countries and cultures. A desire to travel. A passion for ideas.
I want my next girlfriend to be the kind of woman who always keeps a book by her nightstand. Who's not afraid of movies with subtitles. Who is open to different musical experiences. I like Christy, but, the travelling distance between us aside, dating her regularly would only lead to more mornings like Sunday.
We'll see what happens tomorrow.
Friday, June 1, 2007
A Short Rant
I feel like an NPR guy in a Fox News world. The guy next to me wants to nuke the middle east. Seriously.
The God of the Old Testament was willing to spare Sodom and Gomorrah for the sake of ten righteous. The barstool diplomat sitting at the desk to my left would destroy millions of innocents for the sake of the wicked.
I am sick of this administration. I am sick of jingoistic flag-waving. I am sick of this nation's provincial insularity. And I am sick and tired of bumper sticker patriots who have never seen more action than a barroom brawl glorifying the kind of proactive warfare that is robbing this nation of its soul.
And I am sick of the simple minded frat-boy in the oval office who has done more to damage America's reputation than any president in my lifetime.
This is self-indulgent, but I am at work without anyone to complain to. Thank you for your patience.
The God of the Old Testament was willing to spare Sodom and Gomorrah for the sake of ten righteous. The barstool diplomat sitting at the desk to my left would destroy millions of innocents for the sake of the wicked.
I am sick of this administration. I am sick of jingoistic flag-waving. I am sick of this nation's provincial insularity. And I am sick and tired of bumper sticker patriots who have never seen more action than a barroom brawl glorifying the kind of proactive warfare that is robbing this nation of its soul.
And I am sick of the simple minded frat-boy in the oval office who has done more to damage America's reputation than any president in my lifetime.
This is self-indulgent, but I am at work without anyone to complain to. Thank you for your patience.
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