There are some activities that you only participate in with certain people. If Len is in town, we might catch a game at Wrigley or go to Milwaukee for a game at Miller Park. If Ted and Barry are in town, we might check out one of the art museums and if we go to Milwaukee it will be to see the Santiago Calatrava-designed Museum of Modern Art there (which I've been dying to do). I enjoy going to baseball games and I enjoy going to art museums, but I wouldn't suggest a trip to the Art Institute to Len or tell Barry and Ted that's it's a beautiful afternoon to catch a game at Wrigley or the Cell.
Next Saturday Christy is coming to visit. For her, Chicago means good restaurants and bars filled with funky people, people that you actually don't know. Walks in Millennium Park. Shopping. However, checking the upcoming films at the Siskel Film Center, I noticed that Andrei Rublev is playing. And the only possible time I'll be able to see it is next Saturday at 7:30.
For those not familiar with the title, Andrei Rublev is a three-and-a-half hour masterpiece directed by the late, great Soviet director Andrei Tarkovsky. Ostensibly about the life of the great icon painter, it is a powerful rumination on cruelty, redemption and the crisis of faith, using Russia in the Middle Ages as the canvas.
That's right. I'm taking Christy to a three-and-a-half hour movie about life in the middle ages. A brooding movie. With really long takes. And subtitles.
Won't she be surprised.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Is She or Isn't She?
I met Marla after work last night for drinks, a bite to eat and a sleepover. We were having drinks outside a gold coast establishment and discussing the latest Chicago Bears scandal, this one involving Lance Briggs. It seems that Mr. Briggs' Ferrari was discovered at 3:30 a.m. in a ditch, having crashed into a road sign. Mr. Briggs was nowhere to be found. He was charged with abandoning the scene of an accident, a misdemeanor. Had he been charged with DUI, he would be in much more trouble.
Marla pointed to a club around the corner and said,
"He was at that club the night of the accident."
Interesting, I thought, if true. This wasn't in any of the local papers.
Later, we were watching television and a former major league manager was being interviewed on the nightly news.
"I actually saw his penis," said Marla.
Huh?
"It was at a local club, on a dare. He was bragging about how large he was so we dared him to whip it out. He did. No one was particularly impressed."
The manager in question is well into his fifties. Hmmmm....immature college boys might get a pass for that, but that's debatable as well.
Marla started talking about various local sports celebrities, their drinking habits, their taste in women, their hangouts, and I thought....hmmmm......
She could be a groupie.
It was pretty easy to figure out that Marla is well connected with the club scene. I'm more of a dive bar patron myself. She lives in the Gold Coast, I live in Wicker Park.
I wonder is she's a groupie.....
I went back to her place. She had telephoned me at work for a get-together so there was no time to run back home for protection. Fortunately, she uses the same brand as I do. That's always a good sign.
We're going for tapas Friday night. This weekend is the jazz festival, which I'm attending with some friends, including UMB. Drinking Buddy would be a good addition here. Sunday I have a 20-mile run, my longest run in preparation for the marathon.
And next weekend, Christy comes to visit. She's been more relaxed lately, less clingy. That's a very good thing. I don't feel like getting serious with any of the women in my life right now, but I don't feel like permanently ending things with any of them either. I'll take the status quo for now and see where it leads.
Marla pointed to a club around the corner and said,
"He was at that club the night of the accident."
Interesting, I thought, if true. This wasn't in any of the local papers.
Later, we were watching television and a former major league manager was being interviewed on the nightly news.
"I actually saw his penis," said Marla.
Huh?
"It was at a local club, on a dare. He was bragging about how large he was so we dared him to whip it out. He did. No one was particularly impressed."
The manager in question is well into his fifties. Hmmmm....immature college boys might get a pass for that, but that's debatable as well.
Marla started talking about various local sports celebrities, their drinking habits, their taste in women, their hangouts, and I thought....hmmmm......
She could be a groupie.
It was pretty easy to figure out that Marla is well connected with the club scene. I'm more of a dive bar patron myself. She lives in the Gold Coast, I live in Wicker Park.
I wonder is she's a groupie.....
I went back to her place. She had telephoned me at work for a get-together so there was no time to run back home for protection. Fortunately, she uses the same brand as I do. That's always a good sign.
We're going for tapas Friday night. This weekend is the jazz festival, which I'm attending with some friends, including UMB. Drinking Buddy would be a good addition here. Sunday I have a 20-mile run, my longest run in preparation for the marathon.
And next weekend, Christy comes to visit. She's been more relaxed lately, less clingy. That's a very good thing. I don't feel like getting serious with any of the women in my life right now, but I don't feel like permanently ending things with any of them either. I'll take the status quo for now and see where it leads.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
More Embarrassment and Degradation
When I was 25, I worked as a wine broker in an office staffed by the kinds of hip 20-something Chicagoans I had been hoping to meet. It was my first full summer in Chicago, and I started sleeping with a red-headed co-worker named Liz. Liz was 30 going on 20---her taste in music and clothes was much hipper than mine. Two things about her that stand out in my mind are:
1. She was as expert a fellatrix as I have ever been fortunate to experience, and
2. She was the most sexually adventurous girl I had known up to that point. She was bisexual, of course, and enjoyed giving and receiving the kind of pain that, at 25, I was still too inexperienced to bring to my sexual repertoire.
She smoked as much or more than I did, and was a tough-talking Detroit chick who displayed a cockring on the stickshift of her Honda. The cockring intimidated me until I realized that it circled the entire contraption (penis and testicles) instead of just the shaft.
She also had a medicine cabinet full of drugs---many prescribed to her, many obtained through other sources.
After a couple weeks of sleeping together, a new girl joined the company---a pert, upbeat blonde named Kristen, endowed with a generously ample bosom, a taste for hallucinogens and a cocky persona that caught the attention of everyone in the office. It was hard to believe she was only 22.
And she was quite a flirt.
A bunch of us decided to get together at Liz's apartment for a barbecue on Friday afternoon. I had been a little stressed so Liz offered me one of her valiums, which I took before everyone arrived. After half an hour I complained that nothing was happening. She looked me over, shrugged and gave me a second. Almost immediately I felt the first one kicking in.
Now the guests were arriving, and I joined everybody in the courtyard for rum and cokes. Keep in mind that, aside from prescribed codeine, I had never taken valium. And the thought that it might interfere with my drinking was the furthest thing from my mind.
Suddenly, I entered The Zone---that mystical dimension in which I can do no wrong, in which everything I say is clever and all my inclinations are bound to be rewarded and applauded. It's hard to describe, except to say that it was as if I were watching my performance from above, like a god watching the actions of his favorite son and being pleased.
"Kristen," I said, "Liz, come over here."
They came over.
"We have a lot in common, y'know? We should all.....take a shower! We need to take a shower!"
A look of embarrassment and uncertainty came over Kristen's face. A look I had never seen on her before. Liz looked amused.
"Let's all take a shower!"
Kristen wavered, and looked into her drink. She went over to the kitchen for a refill.
"In fact, we should ALL get into the shower together!"
Fortunately, my moment of ignorant bliss was shortlived. I managed to crawl into Liz's bed and slept deeply and comfortably until morning. Liz thought the entire episode was hilarious, and Kristen never mentioned it again. We did, however, become good work-buddies---she was in a relationship at the time, as well.
What I was most grateful for, however, was that nobody treated me any differently at work. We went on the same as before. You know you're in a good environment when the people around you don't hold your fuckups against you and you can continue to show your face without feeling humiliated.
Y'know, sometimes I do miss being 25....
1. She was as expert a fellatrix as I have ever been fortunate to experience, and
2. She was the most sexually adventurous girl I had known up to that point. She was bisexual, of course, and enjoyed giving and receiving the kind of pain that, at 25, I was still too inexperienced to bring to my sexual repertoire.
She smoked as much or more than I did, and was a tough-talking Detroit chick who displayed a cockring on the stickshift of her Honda. The cockring intimidated me until I realized that it circled the entire contraption (penis and testicles) instead of just the shaft.
She also had a medicine cabinet full of drugs---many prescribed to her, many obtained through other sources.
After a couple weeks of sleeping together, a new girl joined the company---a pert, upbeat blonde named Kristen, endowed with a generously ample bosom, a taste for hallucinogens and a cocky persona that caught the attention of everyone in the office. It was hard to believe she was only 22.
And she was quite a flirt.
A bunch of us decided to get together at Liz's apartment for a barbecue on Friday afternoon. I had been a little stressed so Liz offered me one of her valiums, which I took before everyone arrived. After half an hour I complained that nothing was happening. She looked me over, shrugged and gave me a second. Almost immediately I felt the first one kicking in.
Now the guests were arriving, and I joined everybody in the courtyard for rum and cokes. Keep in mind that, aside from prescribed codeine, I had never taken valium. And the thought that it might interfere with my drinking was the furthest thing from my mind.
Suddenly, I entered The Zone---that mystical dimension in which I can do no wrong, in which everything I say is clever and all my inclinations are bound to be rewarded and applauded. It's hard to describe, except to say that it was as if I were watching my performance from above, like a god watching the actions of his favorite son and being pleased.
"Kristen," I said, "Liz, come over here."
They came over.
"We have a lot in common, y'know? We should all.....take a shower! We need to take a shower!"
A look of embarrassment and uncertainty came over Kristen's face. A look I had never seen on her before. Liz looked amused.
"Let's all take a shower!"
Kristen wavered, and looked into her drink. She went over to the kitchen for a refill.
"In fact, we should ALL get into the shower together!"
Fortunately, my moment of ignorant bliss was shortlived. I managed to crawl into Liz's bed and slept deeply and comfortably until morning. Liz thought the entire episode was hilarious, and Kristen never mentioned it again. We did, however, become good work-buddies---she was in a relationship at the time, as well.
What I was most grateful for, however, was that nobody treated me any differently at work. We went on the same as before. You know you're in a good environment when the people around you don't hold your fuckups against you and you can continue to show your face without feeling humiliated.
Y'know, sometimes I do miss being 25....
Monday, August 27, 2007
How Much is Too Much?
I saw Marla again this weekend. We went to Greekfest and met up with two of her friends. My buddy ZB showed up with an attractive blonde on his arm and we ended up on the roof of a restaurant, consuming massive quantities of Greek wine while the sounds of music of revelry drifted up from the street below.
Marla is going to Greece in two weeks and, as ancient Greece is a subject near and dear to my heart, I kept her entertained with tidbits from Thucydides and Herodotus. Was I showing off? I was. Was she entertained? She was.
Unfortunately, part of me, perhaps the unreasonable, anal-retentive part, had to cringe. I applaud people who travel overseas and I cherish the memories of my own European trips but it was readily apparent that Marla has no knowledge of Greek history or culture---I'm not just referring to 5th century BC Athens but to its 19th century struggles as an occupied territory of the Ottoman empire and its role in modern europe, its political climate, industries, traditions, etc.
ZB had some pics on his camera from his own recent trip to Greece and showed her a photo of a column on which Byron had carved his name when he was fighting for Greek independence. She didn't know who Byron was, either.
When I visit a foreign country, I brush up on the history and cultural life. I want to understand the significance of the builings, churches and monuments I'm about to see. Otherwise, the trip can turn into just another club outing, albeit to one where everyone speaks a foreign language. It reminds me of the time Shaquille O'Neal visited Athens and a reporter asked him if he'd been to the Parthenon. He responded:
"I can't remember the names of the clubs we went to."
Marla is smart and clever, but I'm getting the impression that she doesn't really read. I didn't see any books in her apartment, either.
At any rate, we wound up at Nick's and continued drinking well into the evening. And, while this is embarrassing to write about, I owe it to my loyal readers not to hold back.
I passed out during sex.
The last words I remember hearing, as she attempted to revive my flagging interest, were:
"Aren't you attracted to me?"
At about five in the morning, I woke up and redeemed myself. We were both drunk the night before, and I don't think there were any lasting bad feelings. We're going to a tapas restaurant on Friday night.
However, my morning run (13 miles) was pure hell until mile 7. Every pounding of my feet was pure agony. And I deserved every bit of it.
As far as passing out mid-coitus, Mar did that once. She had a presciption for a powerful sleeping pill. I tried one once and it left me exhausted and lethargic the entire next day. She took two before bed and fell asleep during sex. The experience made me wonder about people who would drug a woman for the purpose of sex. You've got to have some serious control issues to get off on that. Not a fun thing to have your partner pass out. But I understood and didn't think to hold it against her.
Speaking of Mar, she came over yesterday and we watched Super Troopers together. I had already made plans to see Superbad with Urban Melissa, UMB and Guatemala so our time together was effectively limited. And Mar may be moving to Colorado to live with her brother which would remove one troubling situation from my life. I'll keep y'all posted as the situation develops on all fronts.
Marla is going to Greece in two weeks and, as ancient Greece is a subject near and dear to my heart, I kept her entertained with tidbits from Thucydides and Herodotus. Was I showing off? I was. Was she entertained? She was.
Unfortunately, part of me, perhaps the unreasonable, anal-retentive part, had to cringe. I applaud people who travel overseas and I cherish the memories of my own European trips but it was readily apparent that Marla has no knowledge of Greek history or culture---I'm not just referring to 5th century BC Athens but to its 19th century struggles as an occupied territory of the Ottoman empire and its role in modern europe, its political climate, industries, traditions, etc.
ZB had some pics on his camera from his own recent trip to Greece and showed her a photo of a column on which Byron had carved his name when he was fighting for Greek independence. She didn't know who Byron was, either.
When I visit a foreign country, I brush up on the history and cultural life. I want to understand the significance of the builings, churches and monuments I'm about to see. Otherwise, the trip can turn into just another club outing, albeit to one where everyone speaks a foreign language. It reminds me of the time Shaquille O'Neal visited Athens and a reporter asked him if he'd been to the Parthenon. He responded:
"I can't remember the names of the clubs we went to."
Marla is smart and clever, but I'm getting the impression that she doesn't really read. I didn't see any books in her apartment, either.
At any rate, we wound up at Nick's and continued drinking well into the evening. And, while this is embarrassing to write about, I owe it to my loyal readers not to hold back.
I passed out during sex.
The last words I remember hearing, as she attempted to revive my flagging interest, were:
"Aren't you attracted to me?"
At about five in the morning, I woke up and redeemed myself. We were both drunk the night before, and I don't think there were any lasting bad feelings. We're going to a tapas restaurant on Friday night.
However, my morning run (13 miles) was pure hell until mile 7. Every pounding of my feet was pure agony. And I deserved every bit of it.
As far as passing out mid-coitus, Mar did that once. She had a presciption for a powerful sleeping pill. I tried one once and it left me exhausted and lethargic the entire next day. She took two before bed and fell asleep during sex. The experience made me wonder about people who would drug a woman for the purpose of sex. You've got to have some serious control issues to get off on that. Not a fun thing to have your partner pass out. But I understood and didn't think to hold it against her.
Speaking of Mar, she came over yesterday and we watched Super Troopers together. I had already made plans to see Superbad with Urban Melissa, UMB and Guatemala so our time together was effectively limited. And Mar may be moving to Colorado to live with her brother which would remove one troubling situation from my life. I'll keep y'all posted as the situation develops on all fronts.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
A Funny Break Up
My friend Katie has departed the shores of Lake Michigan for the sun and fun of law school in Florida, and I wish her well. Before she left, we were talking about the hazards of dating people who live in our own building and she shared a hilarious story with me.
Katie lived on a floor with two immigrants from Algeria. She started seeing one of them but was a bit put off by his inexperience with women and what she took to be a very sexist attitude. Eventually, however, they did end up having sex---she swears he lasted all of five seconds. After he had finished, he asked,
"Was I pleasing for you?"
She had to get away from him, but he lived on her floor and he struck her as the type of chauvinistic, macho guy who wouldn't take "no" for an answer. She considered his background, and sat him down for a talk:
"I....can't see you anymore.....I'm so ashamed....I have...shamed my family....I don't know if I can face my father....my brothers....please...we must never see or speak to eachother after the horrible sin I have committed."
He understood immediately and left her alone.
Katie lived on a floor with two immigrants from Algeria. She started seeing one of them but was a bit put off by his inexperience with women and what she took to be a very sexist attitude. Eventually, however, they did end up having sex---she swears he lasted all of five seconds. After he had finished, he asked,
"Was I pleasing for you?"
She had to get away from him, but he lived on her floor and he struck her as the type of chauvinistic, macho guy who wouldn't take "no" for an answer. She considered his background, and sat him down for a talk:
"I....can't see you anymore.....I'm so ashamed....I have...shamed my family....I don't know if I can face my father....my brothers....please...we must never see or speak to eachother after the horrible sin I have committed."
He understood immediately and left her alone.
Working the Pipeline
Two nights ago, I was at Nick's with drinking buddy and Submissive Liz for an end-of-the-weekend nightcap. Having run 18 miles earlier in the day, I was exhausted and looking forward to some sleep before I had to be at work. Submissive Liz texted me after I left asking if I was in the mood to see my slave. Mar texted me an hour later, asking if I was free. Alas, I saw neither of these texts until the next morning---the sound of the train outside my building did not have the power to wake me. Sometimes the need for a good night's sleep trumps all other desires.
Lest anyone think that I'm stuck in the past and not meeting new women, I'm getting together with Marla tomorrow night for drinks. This is also a good time to talk about Casperina, my myspace friend.
Casperina lives just outside the ring that forms Chicago's exurbs. She and her husband are in the process of separating and she's rediscovering the dating world. She's left several comments on my myspace blog and at one point I gave her a choice: I could give her the URL to my "real" blog but she and I would never be able to meet, or I could withhold it from her and we might meet at some point in the near future. She chose the latter.
Casperina is an exhibitionist of the Victoria's Secret variety---she has already sent me several photos of herself, nude and in various stages of undress. She also has a playful, light quality that I appreciate and the cyber-sex sessions we've had have been hot and erotic in a way that they really haven't been with Christy. There really is an art to talking dirty and women who master it will have a much, much easier time keeping the attention of their men.
Anyway, last night I reciprocated---I took a nude photo of myself with my cellphone camera and sent it to her. I don't think there's any danger of me becoming the male Libby Hoeller---it was pretty innocent and in good fun. We did, however, have a raunchy IM session that left me drained and ready for sleep.
I don't know where this will lead---I may see Casperina within a couple weeks. I may decide I want to spend more time with Marla. Christy is coming to visit in a couple weeks---I haven't ended things with her. If you have someone on the line who knows you see other women and lives in another state, do you need to end things? I may, at any time.....but I might also give her another chance. For those grammatical purists out there, yes, I'm aware of the difference between "might" and "may".
But what I like about Casperina is, after months of emails and sexy IM's, she strikes me as a stable, well-adjusted chick. I can usually spot the psychos, I just ignore my instincts. She may be worth a visit at some point in the near future.
Lest anyone think that I'm stuck in the past and not meeting new women, I'm getting together with Marla tomorrow night for drinks. This is also a good time to talk about Casperina, my myspace friend.
Casperina lives just outside the ring that forms Chicago's exurbs. She and her husband are in the process of separating and she's rediscovering the dating world. She's left several comments on my myspace blog and at one point I gave her a choice: I could give her the URL to my "real" blog but she and I would never be able to meet, or I could withhold it from her and we might meet at some point in the near future. She chose the latter.
Casperina is an exhibitionist of the Victoria's Secret variety---she has already sent me several photos of herself, nude and in various stages of undress. She also has a playful, light quality that I appreciate and the cyber-sex sessions we've had have been hot and erotic in a way that they really haven't been with Christy. There really is an art to talking dirty and women who master it will have a much, much easier time keeping the attention of their men.
Anyway, last night I reciprocated---I took a nude photo of myself with my cellphone camera and sent it to her. I don't think there's any danger of me becoming the male Libby Hoeller---it was pretty innocent and in good fun. We did, however, have a raunchy IM session that left me drained and ready for sleep.
I don't know where this will lead---I may see Casperina within a couple weeks. I may decide I want to spend more time with Marla. Christy is coming to visit in a couple weeks---I haven't ended things with her. If you have someone on the line who knows you see other women and lives in another state, do you need to end things? I may, at any time.....but I might also give her another chance. For those grammatical purists out there, yes, I'm aware of the difference between "might" and "may".
But what I like about Casperina is, after months of emails and sexy IM's, she strikes me as a stable, well-adjusted chick. I can usually spot the psychos, I just ignore my instincts. She may be worth a visit at some point in the near future.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Drinks With Marla
The week at work was absolute hell---long hours beginning before 6:00, every minute consumed with unpleasant telephone calls with unpleasant people, watching hundreds of thousands of dollars disappear from a computer screen and thinking, wow, it doesn't seem real. I was so ready for after work drinks on Friday with Marla.
We met at a downtown bar---I should mention that neither of us spends a lot of time drinking downtown. Downtown Chicago is for business only---not for play. It was the kind of bar that tries to affect a hip image but doesn't pull it off---filled with the people who in Manhattan are known as the bridge and tunnel crowd.
Marla showed up about ten minutes late (she was decent enough to text ahead of time) and we each ordered a very stiff drink. She glanced at the crowd and said,
"...At least the place is near the station so these people won't miss their trains back to the suburbs."
We headed to her neighborhood for food and drinks at an Irish place. Irish pubs are ubiquitous in Chicago---much like Italian restaurants. There are some good ones and some bad ones but most are very, very mediocre. I ordered fish and chips with my vodka tonic and Marla asked for the shepard's pie and a bottle of tabasco sauce.
"Are you serious? Tobasco on a shepard's pie?"
"Tobasco goes great with everything!"
And I watched her smother her food with tobasco.
We went to another place in Old Town for another stiff drink, and at this point I ordered a hot tea. At 39, with years of drinking under my belt, I've learned to pace myself---I'm training for a marathon, not a sprint. Marla is the same age as I am, but I was getting the impression that her tolerance for alcohol is stronger than mine. That's unusual with girls that I date. I have a few Polish friends who can drink me under the table if push comes to shove, but for an American born guy I hold my liquor pretty well.
Marla smiled and kidded me about being a lightweight, but I reminded her that it would be a damper on the evening if she had to throw me into a cab in about half an hour. She agreed and we headed for Nick's, my regular stomping grounds.
Bethany was working, and came over to introduce herself. Marla said,
"Watch to make sure she doesn't spit in my drink. She was all over you."
"You're off there. She's got a boyfriend in a band. We've been pals for two years."
"Honey, women know. She's got a crush on you."
That was the same thing Mar had said---women know. Well, no, not in this case. Women project---if they're attracted to a man they tend to imagine other women being attracted to him as well. A broad generalization, I know, and I am certainly prepared to take heat for it and admit that it doesn't hold true in numerous cases but it does show how girls who are upbeat and friendly, like Bethany, can easily be misunderstood.
On the other hand, I realized that it does add to my value to be seen as a guy who other women are attracted to so I changed the subject. The drinks came and Marla and I started dancing at our table to the blues band that had started playing---or, rather, Marla started dancing and I sort of swayed back and forth, depending on which way the room was spinning.
Shit. I was drunk. And so was Marla. She spilled her drink, sending Bethany over with a towel. We realized it was time to leave.
Back at my place, Marla looked over the detritus on my dresser.
"Are these your tanning goggles, David?"
"No...they're.......yes...yes, they are."
She laughed.
We landed on the bed together and started making out. I was licking her left nipple when she said,
"I can hardly feel it. Bit it hard."
I did. And I made sure she felt it. My mouth worked its way south, and I went down on her for a looong time. She was delicious, in the way that some women are.
"Do you have a condom?" she asked
"I do, but the question is, do you want to see me again? When I sleep with a girl on the first date, it's usually the end. Not planned, that's just the way it works out. ..."
"Well, this is kind of our second date. We had dinner together last weekend."
She had a very good point.
We slept together twice that night. It was nice, and it was nice also to be able to sleep off my hangover. And not go into work to face a crisis. The hot weather had broken---it was cool outside and I ran eight miles with ease. Marla and I will be getting together sometime during the week.
By way of background, Marla is about my age. She grew up in southern New Jersey, but her parents moved to Chicago right before her senior year of high school. She was a cheerleader in high school, and I can picture her as a cheerleader. She's the type. She loves to travel---goes to europe every summer and has several friends on the continent with whom she stays. She has beautiful eyes and knows how to flirt. She is a very sexy woman.
And, I suppose I'll have to deal with the race issue here: Marla is black, I'm white. In terms of dating, I'm ecumenical. However, it takes some maturity to breach the black-white thing. My first college girlfriend was African American and we kind of dived naively into it without realizing just what we were getting into---there were the frat-guy types on my dorm floor their brown sugar jokes, and black guys who didn't think a sister should be dating a white boy. My black roommate went through a bit of a time with his white girlfriend, too---if he took her to a campus event for African American students, she always had to absorb snide comments from black girls. And I got the impression that her parents weren't exactly thrilled with her choice of a boyfriend.
That's the reality and anybody who says otherwise isn't really paying attention. However, the nice thing about being 39 is that I can draw on 24 years of dating experience. And there are also a lot of things that I don't really give a damn about anymore, too.
We met at a downtown bar---I should mention that neither of us spends a lot of time drinking downtown. Downtown Chicago is for business only---not for play. It was the kind of bar that tries to affect a hip image but doesn't pull it off---filled with the people who in Manhattan are known as the bridge and tunnel crowd.
Marla showed up about ten minutes late (she was decent enough to text ahead of time) and we each ordered a very stiff drink. She glanced at the crowd and said,
"...At least the place is near the station so these people won't miss their trains back to the suburbs."
We headed to her neighborhood for food and drinks at an Irish place. Irish pubs are ubiquitous in Chicago---much like Italian restaurants. There are some good ones and some bad ones but most are very, very mediocre. I ordered fish and chips with my vodka tonic and Marla asked for the shepard's pie and a bottle of tabasco sauce.
"Are you serious? Tobasco on a shepard's pie?"
"Tobasco goes great with everything!"
And I watched her smother her food with tobasco.
We went to another place in Old Town for another stiff drink, and at this point I ordered a hot tea. At 39, with years of drinking under my belt, I've learned to pace myself---I'm training for a marathon, not a sprint. Marla is the same age as I am, but I was getting the impression that her tolerance for alcohol is stronger than mine. That's unusual with girls that I date. I have a few Polish friends who can drink me under the table if push comes to shove, but for an American born guy I hold my liquor pretty well.
Marla smiled and kidded me about being a lightweight, but I reminded her that it would be a damper on the evening if she had to throw me into a cab in about half an hour. She agreed and we headed for Nick's, my regular stomping grounds.
Bethany was working, and came over to introduce herself. Marla said,
"Watch to make sure she doesn't spit in my drink. She was all over you."
"You're off there. She's got a boyfriend in a band. We've been pals for two years."
"Honey, women know. She's got a crush on you."
That was the same thing Mar had said---women know. Well, no, not in this case. Women project---if they're attracted to a man they tend to imagine other women being attracted to him as well. A broad generalization, I know, and I am certainly prepared to take heat for it and admit that it doesn't hold true in numerous cases but it does show how girls who are upbeat and friendly, like Bethany, can easily be misunderstood.
On the other hand, I realized that it does add to my value to be seen as a guy who other women are attracted to so I changed the subject. The drinks came and Marla and I started dancing at our table to the blues band that had started playing---or, rather, Marla started dancing and I sort of swayed back and forth, depending on which way the room was spinning.
Shit. I was drunk. And so was Marla. She spilled her drink, sending Bethany over with a towel. We realized it was time to leave.
Back at my place, Marla looked over the detritus on my dresser.
"Are these your tanning goggles, David?"
"No...they're.......yes...yes, they are."
She laughed.
We landed on the bed together and started making out. I was licking her left nipple when she said,
"I can hardly feel it. Bit it hard."
I did. And I made sure she felt it. My mouth worked its way south, and I went down on her for a looong time. She was delicious, in the way that some women are.
"Do you have a condom?" she asked
"I do, but the question is, do you want to see me again? When I sleep with a girl on the first date, it's usually the end. Not planned, that's just the way it works out. ..."
"Well, this is kind of our second date. We had dinner together last weekend."
She had a very good point.
We slept together twice that night. It was nice, and it was nice also to be able to sleep off my hangover. And not go into work to face a crisis. The hot weather had broken---it was cool outside and I ran eight miles with ease. Marla and I will be getting together sometime during the week.
By way of background, Marla is about my age. She grew up in southern New Jersey, but her parents moved to Chicago right before her senior year of high school. She was a cheerleader in high school, and I can picture her as a cheerleader. She's the type. She loves to travel---goes to europe every summer and has several friends on the continent with whom she stays. She has beautiful eyes and knows how to flirt. She is a very sexy woman.
And, I suppose I'll have to deal with the race issue here: Marla is black, I'm white. In terms of dating, I'm ecumenical. However, it takes some maturity to breach the black-white thing. My first college girlfriend was African American and we kind of dived naively into it without realizing just what we were getting into---there were the frat-guy types on my dorm floor their brown sugar jokes, and black guys who didn't think a sister should be dating a white boy. My black roommate went through a bit of a time with his white girlfriend, too---if he took her to a campus event for African American students, she always had to absorb snide comments from black girls. And I got the impression that her parents weren't exactly thrilled with her choice of a boyfriend.
That's the reality and anybody who says otherwise isn't really paying attention. However, the nice thing about being 39 is that I can draw on 24 years of dating experience. And there are also a lot of things that I don't really give a damn about anymore, too.
Monday, August 13, 2007
DLS and the Terrible, Horrible No-Good Very Bad Day
With apologies to Judith Viorst and Ray Cruz.
It started when I had to come in early to work. I've been working later in the day, 10:30 to 7:00, which suits both my marathon training and my night-owl ways. This week, our department is short handed meaning I was at work at 7:00 today and will be in at 6:00 tomorrow.
My friend Len and his brother Jason spent the weekend at my place. This morning, I plugged in the iron. I probably should have turned off the air conditioner first. This meant that Len and Jason were unable to check in for their flights online. And I had to shave by candlelight.
Yes, there was a time when men knew how to change fuses. Some still do. Unfortunately, it's a moot point when your particular fuse box is located behind a locked gate and a padlocked door accessible only through the alley. Drinking Buddy very generously offered to help, but it was no use. He did give me a candle. Len and Jason suggested that I get Bethany to teach me to change a fuse.
Assholes.
Then, at work, half the department was missing. And one of the biggest jerks we deal with happened to call in complaining that he was not receiving his statements. I offered to email his daily statement to him. He gave me his email address, spelled it, and I spelled it back to him.
Fifteen minutes later, he called in to say that it was not received. I repeated the email back to him. No, he said, not S. X!
Sure sounded like S when I spoke to him.
He asked to speak to my manager.
Sending someone's daily statement to someone else is a serious offense. It was an accident, but I spent the day with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. And there was no time for reflection---it was probably the busiest day of the year.
My boss sent me an IM saying, essentially, don't worry. You'll most likely get a verbal reprimand---don't panic. It's not that bad. Happens. We'll just take you to the woodshed and move on. It's going to be OK. And he put a smiley emoticon at the end.
I was reminded of an anecdote I heard about Joseph Stalin: when he blew up at someone that person was safe, but when he reassured the man that everything would be all right it always meant that he would be arrested the next day. Fortunately, I have a very good boss. It hasn't always been the case.
It also made me reflect on the nature of risk---when I say I'm in financial services, some people imagine me driving a BMW and that's not the case. I make an "adult" income and can afford to travel and do other adult activities, but I'm not rich. I live in a one-bedroom apartment by the L tracks. Hell, I don't even own a car (by choice). However, if I make a mistake, click buy instead of sell, add an extra zero, or forget one, I can find myself liable for thousands and thousands of dollars. Essentially, I'm one mouse click away from working in a mailroom somewhere.
Because it's been such a shitty day, I'm putting off a conversation with Christy. She's been communicating with Len and Jason via myspace and has complained that I'm not showing her enough attention.
Christy: complain about me to your friends all you want. Don't complain about me to my friends. I've known these guys all my life and I'm afraid all you've done is lower your status in their eyes. The blade is being sharpened, but it will half to wait for another day. I just want a nice drink and a good night's sleep.
Oh well. Other people have bad days, too. Even in Australia.
It started when I had to come in early to work. I've been working later in the day, 10:30 to 7:00, which suits both my marathon training and my night-owl ways. This week, our department is short handed meaning I was at work at 7:00 today and will be in at 6:00 tomorrow.
My friend Len and his brother Jason spent the weekend at my place. This morning, I plugged in the iron. I probably should have turned off the air conditioner first. This meant that Len and Jason were unable to check in for their flights online. And I had to shave by candlelight.
Yes, there was a time when men knew how to change fuses. Some still do. Unfortunately, it's a moot point when your particular fuse box is located behind a locked gate and a padlocked door accessible only through the alley. Drinking Buddy very generously offered to help, but it was no use. He did give me a candle. Len and Jason suggested that I get Bethany to teach me to change a fuse.
Assholes.
Then, at work, half the department was missing. And one of the biggest jerks we deal with happened to call in complaining that he was not receiving his statements. I offered to email his daily statement to him. He gave me his email address, spelled it, and I spelled it back to him.
Fifteen minutes later, he called in to say that it was not received. I repeated the email back to him. No, he said, not S. X!
Sure sounded like S when I spoke to him.
He asked to speak to my manager.
Sending someone's daily statement to someone else is a serious offense. It was an accident, but I spent the day with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. And there was no time for reflection---it was probably the busiest day of the year.
My boss sent me an IM saying, essentially, don't worry. You'll most likely get a verbal reprimand---don't panic. It's not that bad. Happens. We'll just take you to the woodshed and move on. It's going to be OK. And he put a smiley emoticon at the end.
I was reminded of an anecdote I heard about Joseph Stalin: when he blew up at someone that person was safe, but when he reassured the man that everything would be all right it always meant that he would be arrested the next day. Fortunately, I have a very good boss. It hasn't always been the case.
It also made me reflect on the nature of risk---when I say I'm in financial services, some people imagine me driving a BMW and that's not the case. I make an "adult" income and can afford to travel and do other adult activities, but I'm not rich. I live in a one-bedroom apartment by the L tracks. Hell, I don't even own a car (by choice). However, if I make a mistake, click buy instead of sell, add an extra zero, or forget one, I can find myself liable for thousands and thousands of dollars. Essentially, I'm one mouse click away from working in a mailroom somewhere.
Because it's been such a shitty day, I'm putting off a conversation with Christy. She's been communicating with Len and Jason via myspace and has complained that I'm not showing her enough attention.
Christy: complain about me to your friends all you want. Don't complain about me to my friends. I've known these guys all my life and I'm afraid all you've done is lower your status in their eyes. The blade is being sharpened, but it will half to wait for another day. I just want a nice drink and a good night's sleep.
Oh well. Other people have bad days, too. Even in Australia.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Random Thoughts
*The mass of men not only lead lives of quiet desperation, they also become very frumpy around middle age. Men and women. I walk through the loop in Chicago on my way to work and see everywhere overweight bodies, ill-fitting khakis, unhappy faces and the kind of anonymously cut suits favored by rotarians everywhere. Style is missing. And I truly believe a sense of style is more important for capturing the attention of the opposite sex than are "conventional" good lucks. Study Jackie Onassis' face if you don't believe me.
*I just read about a Nigerian convert to Islam living in Saudi Arabia. He was checking up on his elderly upstairs neighbor, a woman, and seeing that she was ill he drove her to the hospital. His reward was to be arrested by the mutaween for being alone with a woman to whom he was not related. He remains in a Saudi prison. I'm sorry, this is where I get off the "relativity" bandwagon. Any society that gives so much power to the kind of sexually repressed, sub-intelligent freaks who make up the ranks of the mutaween, or that forces women to cover their bodies and forbids them free and unfettered travel and employment opportunities, or that executes homosexuals, is the last dying remnant of a barbaric civilization.
*It's good for a man to have some interests besides sports. Sports fills an important role in male discourse: it may be the one topic of conversation which cuts across lines of race, class and age. However, when the dust settles, it's really a bunch of adults playing a game designed for children. Bill Walsh, former coach of the San Francisco 49ers, and Ingrid Bergman died within a day of each other. Someone in my office said something along the lines of, "who cares about Bergman." I told him that 100 years from now, nobody will know who Bill Walsh is but people will still watch the films of Ingmar Bergman.
*I really need to watch more television. I just finished a fascinating article in The Atlantic Monthly on the aesthetics of quirk. It was filled with references to TV shows I've never seen. Except for a few shows here and there, MST3K and The Simpsons, for instance, I really tuned out in college. However, being well-rounded and maintaining a familiarity with American culture means having a knowledge of certain TV shows. Otherwise, you can turn into a disconnected weirdo like Senator Robert Byrd. Look up one of his speeches sometime---the bombast and classical references serve to obscure a paucity of true intelligence. At least that's my read on the man.
*I'm agnostic, but the popularity of anti-religious books on the market today troubles me. I think Christopher Hitchens is an excellent writer, but he too glibly dismisses the importance of religion in holding communities and peoples together. I'm sorry to see religious discourse hijacked by the religious right and if the democrats are going to reclaim the white house, they'll have to reach out to religious voters in the manner that Barack Obama has been doing. In the final analysis, man makes a very poor god.
*In the word of Kurt Vonnegut, make love when you can. It's good for you.
*I just read about a Nigerian convert to Islam living in Saudi Arabia. He was checking up on his elderly upstairs neighbor, a woman, and seeing that she was ill he drove her to the hospital. His reward was to be arrested by the mutaween for being alone with a woman to whom he was not related. He remains in a Saudi prison. I'm sorry, this is where I get off the "relativity" bandwagon. Any society that gives so much power to the kind of sexually repressed, sub-intelligent freaks who make up the ranks of the mutaween, or that forces women to cover their bodies and forbids them free and unfettered travel and employment opportunities, or that executes homosexuals, is the last dying remnant of a barbaric civilization.
*It's good for a man to have some interests besides sports. Sports fills an important role in male discourse: it may be the one topic of conversation which cuts across lines of race, class and age. However, when the dust settles, it's really a bunch of adults playing a game designed for children. Bill Walsh, former coach of the San Francisco 49ers, and Ingrid Bergman died within a day of each other. Someone in my office said something along the lines of, "who cares about Bergman." I told him that 100 years from now, nobody will know who Bill Walsh is but people will still watch the films of Ingmar Bergman.
*I really need to watch more television. I just finished a fascinating article in The Atlantic Monthly on the aesthetics of quirk. It was filled with references to TV shows I've never seen. Except for a few shows here and there, MST3K and The Simpsons, for instance, I really tuned out in college. However, being well-rounded and maintaining a familiarity with American culture means having a knowledge of certain TV shows. Otherwise, you can turn into a disconnected weirdo like Senator Robert Byrd. Look up one of his speeches sometime---the bombast and classical references serve to obscure a paucity of true intelligence. At least that's my read on the man.
*I'm agnostic, but the popularity of anti-religious books on the market today troubles me. I think Christopher Hitchens is an excellent writer, but he too glibly dismisses the importance of religion in holding communities and peoples together. I'm sorry to see religious discourse hijacked by the religious right and if the democrats are going to reclaim the white house, they'll have to reach out to religious voters in the manner that Barack Obama has been doing. In the final analysis, man makes a very poor god.
*In the word of Kurt Vonnegut, make love when you can. It's good for you.
Pertaining to the Post Below
Excuse the sloppiness as I am hung over and my memories are just coming back to me, but when Marla and I were discussing fashion at the bar, she said,
"I like your jeans. They highlight your package."
That's a nice compliment from a lass, huh? I just remembered it....
"I like your jeans. They highlight your package."
That's a nice compliment from a lass, huh? I just remembered it....
The Best Intentions
As I write this, the sun is rising and the air outside my apartment is getting hotter. I have a 17-mile run which I must complete per my marathon training course. I will, but at the moment I am hung-over. I am drinking water, preparing for my battle with the Chicago humidity. Well......how did I get here?
I truly had the best intentions. My plan was to go home, lift weights and go to bed at around 10:00, at the latest. Maybe a post-work beer or two. I had also promised Christy that I'd call her around 8:00.
Princess Xena, one of my co-workers (so named because whenever she gets drunk, and it apparently doesn't take much, she emits a screeching "Princess Xena" yell. Fun.) finished her graduate degree requirements and asked us to join her for drinks at a downtown dive. It's good form to make a showing in a situation like that, if only for a beer or two.
Whose idea was it to buy the first round of shots??? To this, Dear Reader, I plead guilty as charged.
Except for me and Skippy, a guy in the computers side, our group was entirely composed of women. Some from work, but many outsiders. Skippy was taking some ribbing from the girls:
"Skippy, if you're going to wear a shirt like that, you better go the gym and work out."
Skippy was wearing a polo shirt, complete with horse and rider.
"Skippy, you need to get a shirt like David wears. This guy knows how to dress."
Fashion validation!! At last!!
Since there were so many women, I decided to try some of the conversational routines I've been testing, to see which ones held the attention of the group and which did not. I talked about astrology, relationship issues, dating ethics and was soon the center of attention.
I was apparently the center of Princess Xena's attention, as well.
I felt her arm around my shoulder, her breasts against my chest and her hot breath on my neck.
"You're really cool, David. We've never talked before, but you're really cool." She planted a kiss that landed just west of my mouth.
It was not my intention to make out with Princess Xena. For one thing, she's a co-worker. Most important, however, she's really not my type. I didn't move away, of course---I just acted cool. A few more drinks and she would probably be flirting with the guy who buses tables.
On my right was a woman of Filipino descent, Carla. On my left was an African American woman, Marla. They were both attractive and fun. I looked at my watch---it looked as if Christy was not going to get her call. C'est dommage. I felt hands running along my back. It was Princess Xena again. Then, I heard the Princes Xena yell......
"Woowoowoowoowooowoowoowoo!!!"
Everyone turned in our direction.
I turned my attention to Marla, the woman on my left. She was from southern New Jersey originally with time spent in California. She was getting ready for a trip to Greece, she goes to Europe every year and has several friends on the continent, and our conversation turned to travel. She gave me some gum and asked if I had had onions for lunch.
She negged me!
I admitted that, yes, I had eaten Lebanese.
I should add that Marla is one of the women who "gets" men.
We made plans to get together for one of Chicago's many festivals---I gave her my number and she texted me right away, so that tricky part was over. It was, however, getting late and, as we were all drinking on empty stomachs, it was decided that we should get some food. Everyone remaining piled into one cab, Princess Xena and her court, while Marla and I hailed another. We, gave the group the slip and went somewhere else.
"Looks like Princess Xena was hitting on you."
Nothing raises your male value quite like being desired by someone else in the gourp.
We went to a pub/restaurant in Old Town and I began to feel the effects of the alcohol. I can handle my liquor pretty well, but my coordination was lacking. Marla commented on this after I got back from the bathroom. We were laughing and the mood was light.
After we finished, I explained that I had to get up for a run tomorrow and I hailed a cab. We kissed goodnight and I barely got my clothes off before collapsing on the bed.
Which brings me to the present. I have 17 miles ahead of me. My head is not throbbing so much now. I must get going.....
I truly had the best intentions. My plan was to go home, lift weights and go to bed at around 10:00, at the latest. Maybe a post-work beer or two. I had also promised Christy that I'd call her around 8:00.
Princess Xena, one of my co-workers (so named because whenever she gets drunk, and it apparently doesn't take much, she emits a screeching "Princess Xena" yell. Fun.) finished her graduate degree requirements and asked us to join her for drinks at a downtown dive. It's good form to make a showing in a situation like that, if only for a beer or two.
Whose idea was it to buy the first round of shots??? To this, Dear Reader, I plead guilty as charged.
Except for me and Skippy, a guy in the computers side, our group was entirely composed of women. Some from work, but many outsiders. Skippy was taking some ribbing from the girls:
"Skippy, if you're going to wear a shirt like that, you better go the gym and work out."
Skippy was wearing a polo shirt, complete with horse and rider.
"Skippy, you need to get a shirt like David wears. This guy knows how to dress."
Fashion validation!! At last!!
Since there were so many women, I decided to try some of the conversational routines I've been testing, to see which ones held the attention of the group and which did not. I talked about astrology, relationship issues, dating ethics and was soon the center of attention.
I was apparently the center of Princess Xena's attention, as well.
I felt her arm around my shoulder, her breasts against my chest and her hot breath on my neck.
"You're really cool, David. We've never talked before, but you're really cool." She planted a kiss that landed just west of my mouth.
It was not my intention to make out with Princess Xena. For one thing, she's a co-worker. Most important, however, she's really not my type. I didn't move away, of course---I just acted cool. A few more drinks and she would probably be flirting with the guy who buses tables.
On my right was a woman of Filipino descent, Carla. On my left was an African American woman, Marla. They were both attractive and fun. I looked at my watch---it looked as if Christy was not going to get her call. C'est dommage. I felt hands running along my back. It was Princess Xena again. Then, I heard the Princes Xena yell......
"Woowoowoowoowooowoowoowoo!!!"
Everyone turned in our direction.
I turned my attention to Marla, the woman on my left. She was from southern New Jersey originally with time spent in California. She was getting ready for a trip to Greece, she goes to Europe every year and has several friends on the continent, and our conversation turned to travel. She gave me some gum and asked if I had had onions for lunch.
She negged me!
I admitted that, yes, I had eaten Lebanese.
I should add that Marla is one of the women who "gets" men.
We made plans to get together for one of Chicago's many festivals---I gave her my number and she texted me right away, so that tricky part was over. It was, however, getting late and, as we were all drinking on empty stomachs, it was decided that we should get some food. Everyone remaining piled into one cab, Princess Xena and her court, while Marla and I hailed another. We, gave the group the slip and went somewhere else.
"Looks like Princess Xena was hitting on you."
Nothing raises your male value quite like being desired by someone else in the gourp.
We went to a pub/restaurant in Old Town and I began to feel the effects of the alcohol. I can handle my liquor pretty well, but my coordination was lacking. Marla commented on this after I got back from the bathroom. We were laughing and the mood was light.
After we finished, I explained that I had to get up for a run tomorrow and I hailed a cab. We kissed goodnight and I barely got my clothes off before collapsing on the bed.
Which brings me to the present. I have 17 miles ahead of me. My head is not throbbing so much now. I must get going.....
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Musical Girls
When I was in college, about 22 years old, I had a fling with a local high school girl. She knew that I loved music and, as her parents were well connected with the University arts scene, she procured us excellent seats to see a German chamber ensemble. The evening was magical---they performed first rate renditions of baroque classics (and some more obscure pieces) and, for an encore, offered up Bach's Air for the G String more beautifully than I have ever heard it played. A tear formed in one of my eyes and my date squeezed my hand. She had been watching my reaction to the music throughout the concert, she told me later.
After the concert we went back to my place where she gushed about how wonderful it was to date someone who loved music. She apologized for having her period---she said she wanted to give me a "perfect night"---and gave me wonderful, heartfelt head.
I was reminded of that this past weekend---The Musician's band was playing in a club in my neighborhood, so I stopped in to see them. I paid my respects to The Musician and spent some time talking to her friend, who was at the bar on the night I met her. Her friend is a cellist who plays in a local band---we exchanged myspace info and are now on eachother's friends lists, and I will catch her next show. I left early, as there was somewhere else I had to be.
Musical ability and appreciation has always been a very, very powerful aphrodisiac for me. And by musical, I don't mean an encyclopaedic knowledge of indie-rock, however impressive that may be. I mean a knowledge and love of the Western Canon, Bach to Messaien. An appreciation of jazz, Armstrong to Ornette Coleman. A familiarity with Indian music and non-Western scales. And an ability to see popular music through that prism.
I was something of an orchestra groupie in college. A girl had only to mention that she played the violin, or the flute, or the oboe, or had some musical talent and my interest level would jump. Ditto for singers. I once became involved in an extremely off-beat relationship with a violin prodigy that took me into sexual situations at which I probably would have balked had the girl not been blessed with top-tier musical talent.
Despite my bohemian sensibilities, my world is the world of business. I don't meet as many musicians as I did in college. My new plan is to cultivate a friendship with The Musician and hopefully expand my own circle of friends into a more musical crowd. Out of which there will undoubtedly be several prospects.
After the concert we went back to my place where she gushed about how wonderful it was to date someone who loved music. She apologized for having her period---she said she wanted to give me a "perfect night"---and gave me wonderful, heartfelt head.
I was reminded of that this past weekend---The Musician's band was playing in a club in my neighborhood, so I stopped in to see them. I paid my respects to The Musician and spent some time talking to her friend, who was at the bar on the night I met her. Her friend is a cellist who plays in a local band---we exchanged myspace info and are now on eachother's friends lists, and I will catch her next show. I left early, as there was somewhere else I had to be.
Musical ability and appreciation has always been a very, very powerful aphrodisiac for me. And by musical, I don't mean an encyclopaedic knowledge of indie-rock, however impressive that may be. I mean a knowledge and love of the Western Canon, Bach to Messaien. An appreciation of jazz, Armstrong to Ornette Coleman. A familiarity with Indian music and non-Western scales. And an ability to see popular music through that prism.
I was something of an orchestra groupie in college. A girl had only to mention that she played the violin, or the flute, or the oboe, or had some musical talent and my interest level would jump. Ditto for singers. I once became involved in an extremely off-beat relationship with a violin prodigy that took me into sexual situations at which I probably would have balked had the girl not been blessed with top-tier musical talent.
Despite my bohemian sensibilities, my world is the world of business. I don't meet as many musicians as I did in college. My new plan is to cultivate a friendship with The Musician and hopefully expand my own circle of friends into a more musical crowd. Out of which there will undoubtedly be several prospects.
Monday, August 6, 2007
The End is Near?
I have got to do something about Christy.
On my birthday, I received a flood of congratulatory comments on my Myspace profile. I returned the favor, thanking everybody in the same manner. About an hour after the comments had been sent, I received an email from Christy.
She was upset because I had commented in everyone's profile but hers. I sent her a response: hit the "refresh" button.
She called me two minutes later, asking about a friend on my myspace profile. The friend in question had left me a comment about meeting for drinks.
"David, her profile says she's in a relationship. Is that with you?"
"Jesus, Christy, she has a boyfriend. She's a friend. What's gotten into you?"
"Well, you never leave me comments on myspace. You never left me a comment on my birthday."
"I was WITH you on your birthday. Comments are for people I don't usually see or talk to. I've known Len for 34 years. I never leave him comments. You take Myspace waaaay to seriously."
I've told Christy that I see other people. Now she's putting me in a position of having to justify myself. I don't like it. Not only that, but I feel a little......stalked. It's harmless, everyone does it, it's like googling someone, I know, but I just don't like the direction in which her jealousy is heading. It may be time to end things with Christy.
On my birthday, I received a flood of congratulatory comments on my Myspace profile. I returned the favor, thanking everybody in the same manner. About an hour after the comments had been sent, I received an email from Christy.
She was upset because I had commented in everyone's profile but hers. I sent her a response: hit the "refresh" button.
She called me two minutes later, asking about a friend on my myspace profile. The friend in question had left me a comment about meeting for drinks.
"David, her profile says she's in a relationship. Is that with you?"
"Jesus, Christy, she has a boyfriend. She's a friend. What's gotten into you?"
"Well, you never leave me comments on myspace. You never left me a comment on my birthday."
"I was WITH you on your birthday. Comments are for people I don't usually see or talk to. I've known Len for 34 years. I never leave him comments. You take Myspace waaaay to seriously."
I've told Christy that I see other people. Now she's putting me in a position of having to justify myself. I don't like it. Not only that, but I feel a little......stalked. It's harmless, everyone does it, it's like googling someone, I know, but I just don't like the direction in which her jealousy is heading. It may be time to end things with Christy.
Sour Grapes
I was in no shape for any challenge on Sunday. I spent my birthday on Friday with Urban Melissa and her friend Guatemala (a very pleasant, funny, loud and large woman about whom I will write in the near future) and Saturday attended a party at my friend Z.B.'s. Z.B. is Polish, as were most of the guests, and eastern Europeans can drink like nobody I've ever seen.
Hence, I spent most of Sunday on my bed trying to stop the room from spinning. When watching a baseball game presents too much of an intellectual challenge, you know you're not going to be good for much.
So, I stayed inside until evening, at which time I headed to Nick's.
I took my seat between Drinking Buddy and two twenty-somethings. Drinking Buddy was arguing the merits of Chicago vs. New York. He had already had a few.
"Why do people say LIKE all the time?" he asked me, an obvious reference to the girls sitting on my immediate left. "That's so, like, fucking stupid."
He said this loud enough for them to hear. They apparently didn't, or were unaware that they were the reference. I was getting uncomfortable.
"Listen to that shit. Fucking cunts. They're so stupid."
D.B. had definitely had a few. And was veering toward the Dark Side.
He turned his attention to the patron on his right and I started chatting up the two girls. They were dancers. One was from Iowa.
"Why do we care about them?" DB turned to me, "...it's because of what's between their legs. I'm not jealous of you, David, what bothers me doesn't bother you. Stupid bitches. Like, like like. Shut up, shut up, shut up. I'll help you, David, here, I'll help you."
He turned to the girls and offered to buy them shots. The bartender poured a round and we drank up. D.B. introduced himself and asked their names. His tone was supercilious and slightly mocking. Eventally, he turned away, leaving me to chat with one of the girls.
After about 20 minutes a guy showed up and joined them, at which point the girl I was conversing with excused herself and left. D.B. shot me a knowing glance. We did another shot.
After I left, I wondered about the source of D.B.'s resentment toward the fairer sex. There are guys who, when a date is not going well and her interest is flagging, will preemptively sabotage the situation. They will make a crude sexual joke or do something otherwise offensive as a way of protecting their egos from the sting of an impending rejection. D.B. takes it one step further---his pre-emptive offensive is unleashed prior to the first meeting.
Yes, women seem wicked when you're unwanted but, you know what? It's his own damn fault. You can dismiss the flirtatious banter of barroom courtship as phony, vapid, glib and insincere and you wouldn't always be wrong but don't be surprised if you find that nobody lets you join in any of their reindeer games.
Hence, I spent most of Sunday on my bed trying to stop the room from spinning. When watching a baseball game presents too much of an intellectual challenge, you know you're not going to be good for much.
So, I stayed inside until evening, at which time I headed to Nick's.
I took my seat between Drinking Buddy and two twenty-somethings. Drinking Buddy was arguing the merits of Chicago vs. New York. He had already had a few.
"Why do people say LIKE all the time?" he asked me, an obvious reference to the girls sitting on my immediate left. "That's so, like, fucking stupid."
He said this loud enough for them to hear. They apparently didn't, or were unaware that they were the reference. I was getting uncomfortable.
"Listen to that shit. Fucking cunts. They're so stupid."
D.B. had definitely had a few. And was veering toward the Dark Side.
He turned his attention to the patron on his right and I started chatting up the two girls. They were dancers. One was from Iowa.
"Why do we care about them?" DB turned to me, "...it's because of what's between their legs. I'm not jealous of you, David, what bothers me doesn't bother you. Stupid bitches. Like, like like. Shut up, shut up, shut up. I'll help you, David, here, I'll help you."
He turned to the girls and offered to buy them shots. The bartender poured a round and we drank up. D.B. introduced himself and asked their names. His tone was supercilious and slightly mocking. Eventally, he turned away, leaving me to chat with one of the girls.
After about 20 minutes a guy showed up and joined them, at which point the girl I was conversing with excused herself and left. D.B. shot me a knowing glance. We did another shot.
After I left, I wondered about the source of D.B.'s resentment toward the fairer sex. There are guys who, when a date is not going well and her interest is flagging, will preemptively sabotage the situation. They will make a crude sexual joke or do something otherwise offensive as a way of protecting their egos from the sting of an impending rejection. D.B. takes it one step further---his pre-emptive offensive is unleashed prior to the first meeting.
Yes, women seem wicked when you're unwanted but, you know what? It's his own damn fault. You can dismiss the flirtatious banter of barroom courtship as phony, vapid, glib and insincere and you wouldn't always be wrong but don't be surprised if you find that nobody lets you join in any of their reindeer games.
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