I was riding the train with Len, Marla and Marla's friend Jeanette. We were leaving a Cub game in a good mood and traveling to a Greek restaurant where Marla knew the owner. The train was loaded with happy fans in various states of inebriation. In front of us, a girl was holding onto her man. He was crying, and apologizing.
"Don't worry," said Marla, "the Pirates might win tomorrow."
This brought a laugh from the girl and her claque, and a genuine smile from the guy who was crying. He looked like the macho type, the type not to cry publicly, and his girlfriend was asking him what was wrong. He kept shaking his head.
"If it will make you feel better, I'll dance," said Marla. More laughter, and another smile from the sad passenger.
Just then an overweight black woman who was sitting in front of the group turned around.
"Would you shut the fuck up and quit yelling in my ear?"
"Nobody's yelling in your ear. Why don't you shut up?"
"Disengage," I told Marla, "you can't win an argument with a nut."
A girl in front of us told the offended woman to chill out. She replied,
"You shut up, you honky bitch."
Well.
Marla was ready to say something, but I squeezed her hand.
"Disengage."
The four of us got off at our stop. The angry woman gave us a topic of conversation. Len said,
"Women can get away with more than men can."
I knew what he meant. If Marla had said something to the woman and things had gotten physical, or just short of physical, where would that have left me? One thing you learn as a guy is that you never, ever hit a woman. OK. What if your woman is being harassed by another woman? Or attacked? If you pull the lady off and she fights you and the cops show up, I guarantee that you, as the man, are more likely to be booked. A night in County is a real buzz kill. The only thing you can do is to try to get your woman to ignore the situation and walk away. It doesn't feel good but when it's a woman, what else can you do?
Right?
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
What Do You Do When It's A Girl?
Friday night was spent at Nick's---I arrived first, then Marla got off work. We were sharing drinks when this woman approached Marla and introduced herself. The woman had short black hair, thick glasses and.....a figure I could best describe as shapeless. Marla referred to her later as Buddy Hackett. Obviously a lesbian---OK, but if you want to hit on my girlfriend you have to show me a little respect. I could have been invisible and I probably was.
Buddy Hackett explained that it was her first time at Nick's and asked Marla if she could buy her a drink. Hello? I'm holding her hand....it's a little brazen, isn't it? Marla responded,
"Why don't you buy my boyfriend a drink, too?"
She did, I thanked her for her drink and Buddy Hackett left when she saw that Marla was no longer paying attention to her. I left after ten minutes to grab Mexican food for Marla, me and the bartender and when I returned Buddy was hanging all over Marla again. And she even took a sip from my beer.
"That's not your beer," said Marla. I sat down, Buddy got the message and left soon after.
Now, Marla handled the situation beautifully but I had no idea what to do. If a guy hits on my girlfriend, I know what to do. Every guy does. I'm totally comfortable and in my element, then. But what do you do when a girl hits on your girlfriend? You notice that your girlfriend is uncomfortable, but what's the appropriate response?
Because I don't feel right using the same alpha-male tactics I'd use on a guy with a woman. Any suggestions?
Buddy Hackett explained that it was her first time at Nick's and asked Marla if she could buy her a drink. Hello? I'm holding her hand....it's a little brazen, isn't it? Marla responded,
"Why don't you buy my boyfriend a drink, too?"
She did, I thanked her for her drink and Buddy Hackett left when she saw that Marla was no longer paying attention to her. I left after ten minutes to grab Mexican food for Marla, me and the bartender and when I returned Buddy was hanging all over Marla again. And she even took a sip from my beer.
"That's not your beer," said Marla. I sat down, Buddy got the message and left soon after.
Now, Marla handled the situation beautifully but I had no idea what to do. If a guy hits on my girlfriend, I know what to do. Every guy does. I'm totally comfortable and in my element, then. But what do you do when a girl hits on your girlfriend? You notice that your girlfriend is uncomfortable, but what's the appropriate response?
Because I don't feel right using the same alpha-male tactics I'd use on a guy with a woman. Any suggestions?
Thursday, March 20, 2008
A Brief Rant
I work in the financial industry, but I'm not rich. Truthfully, I'm not even sure I'm middle class anymore. I long ago realized that I don't have the ability to pick the next great thing in the stock market and I don't have the temperament to cold call all day and hard sell investors on the great idea my research department has come up with. Consequently, I work for an online discount brokerage.
I'm essentially a foot soldier on the front lines of the financial markets. And what I've seen has convinced me that this country is heading for a worse recession than I've ever seen in my lifetime. Consider: The Federal Reserve has bailed out a major brokerage firm and is allowing the nation's 20 largest securities dealers to borrow directly from its coffers. Not commercial banks, folks. Brokerage firms. Bear Stearns was only one of many.
Sadly, you have to be a major brokerage firm to merit a rescue. Our beleaguered commander-in-chief has announced no such plan to bail out the homeowners facing foreclosure. That would mean the government intervening in the economy and that's bad. The free market has to work these things out on its own.
Now, normally this would be a great year to be the democratic nominee for the presidency, especially running against a cranky septuagenarian like the presumed GOP choice. Sadly, however, the republican party has always been adept at using diversionary issues to persuade people to vote against their economic interests---who can forget George Bush sr. using Dukakis' objection to a constitutional amendment to ban flag burning against him in the rust belt or W. raising the specter of legalized gay marriages to scare up votes in impoverished areas in the south. All the while the corporations that donate to their campaigns have no compunction about moving their factories overseas to the third world where they don't have to worry about unions or paying decent wages to American workers. I guess patriotism is how you define it.
We've all seen the youtube video of Barack Obama's pastor, Jeremiah Wright. It's become a campaign issue that Obama had to address, and he did. It would have been simple to denounce Pastor Wright in a soundbite, but he didn't---instead, he delivered a nuanced speech about the nature of race relations that appealed to uncommon sense and intelligence. It's probably the greatest speech I've heard a presidential candidate deliver in my lifetime---and the riskiest. And it displayed something you almost never hear in a political speech: wisdom. It's a rare quality in our political leaders and Barack Obama has it. Wisdom.
However, it doesn't appear to be helping him in the polls right now. I'm afraid the Hillary faction will use the Pastor Wright connection to try to block Obama's path to the nomination. And if he prevails, I'm afraid that the republicans will use it in the fall and that it will be very effective.
It's funny---the republicans can openly court ministers who believe that AIDS is God's judgment against homosexuals, that women should stay at home, that the Islamic faith should be wiped off the face of the earth and that the universe was created six thousand years ago. I guess you can get away with it if you flatter your countrymen and tell them that they are the greatest, wisest, bravest people who ever walked the face of the earth.
No wonder they stoned the prophets in the old testament.
I sincerely hope that Barack Obama is our next president. Beware of those who preach sacrifice and patriotism while giving tax breaks to companies that move their operations off-shore and bail out the wealthy and powerful at the expense of the less fortunate.
And thank you so much for indulging my rant. It felt good to get this off my chest.
I'm essentially a foot soldier on the front lines of the financial markets. And what I've seen has convinced me that this country is heading for a worse recession than I've ever seen in my lifetime. Consider: The Federal Reserve has bailed out a major brokerage firm and is allowing the nation's 20 largest securities dealers to borrow directly from its coffers. Not commercial banks, folks. Brokerage firms. Bear Stearns was only one of many.
Sadly, you have to be a major brokerage firm to merit a rescue. Our beleaguered commander-in-chief has announced no such plan to bail out the homeowners facing foreclosure. That would mean the government intervening in the economy and that's bad. The free market has to work these things out on its own.
Now, normally this would be a great year to be the democratic nominee for the presidency, especially running against a cranky septuagenarian like the presumed GOP choice. Sadly, however, the republican party has always been adept at using diversionary issues to persuade people to vote against their economic interests---who can forget George Bush sr. using Dukakis' objection to a constitutional amendment to ban flag burning against him in the rust belt or W. raising the specter of legalized gay marriages to scare up votes in impoverished areas in the south. All the while the corporations that donate to their campaigns have no compunction about moving their factories overseas to the third world where they don't have to worry about unions or paying decent wages to American workers. I guess patriotism is how you define it.
We've all seen the youtube video of Barack Obama's pastor, Jeremiah Wright. It's become a campaign issue that Obama had to address, and he did. It would have been simple to denounce Pastor Wright in a soundbite, but he didn't---instead, he delivered a nuanced speech about the nature of race relations that appealed to uncommon sense and intelligence. It's probably the greatest speech I've heard a presidential candidate deliver in my lifetime---and the riskiest. And it displayed something you almost never hear in a political speech: wisdom. It's a rare quality in our political leaders and Barack Obama has it. Wisdom.
However, it doesn't appear to be helping him in the polls right now. I'm afraid the Hillary faction will use the Pastor Wright connection to try to block Obama's path to the nomination. And if he prevails, I'm afraid that the republicans will use it in the fall and that it will be very effective.
It's funny---the republicans can openly court ministers who believe that AIDS is God's judgment against homosexuals, that women should stay at home, that the Islamic faith should be wiped off the face of the earth and that the universe was created six thousand years ago. I guess you can get away with it if you flatter your countrymen and tell them that they are the greatest, wisest, bravest people who ever walked the face of the earth.
No wonder they stoned the prophets in the old testament.
I sincerely hope that Barack Obama is our next president. Beware of those who preach sacrifice and patriotism while giving tax breaks to companies that move their operations off-shore and bail out the wealthy and powerful at the expense of the less fortunate.
And thank you so much for indulging my rant. It felt good to get this off my chest.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Ginger No More
I formally ended things with Ginger this past weekend---we hadn't actually seen eachother for a couple of months but had had plans to get together six weeks ago. I waited until the day before she was to come into town to send her an email to the effect that I was getting serious with someone else.
I know, I know. I'm a coward when it comes to ending things. Especially with someone about whom I harbor suspicions of instability.
She has sent me several emails since then---conciliatory and understanding on the surface with a hint of resentment underneath. You know the type. I reminds me of the time I quit a job because I hated my boss. She arranged for me to give a cordial goodbye to the group so things looked normal, but reminded me that the company had spent a lot of money training me.
Well, tough shit.
Anyway, she can send her email fantasies to Len now, but he's already made it clear he's not going to live on my leftovers.
So, Len came in for St. Patrick's Day weekend. I'm not a fan of the day myself, but Marla is and at 10:00 a.m. she had already reserved seats for us in a Westtown Irish pub. We did several shots and spent the entire day drinking and Len appeared to be doing well conversing with Marla's female friends who had showed up, but....
This horrible smell, the most obnoxious fart, blanketed our section of the bar. Everyone near us winced, except Len, who rather unconvincingly denied that he was the source of the flatulence. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened and one of Marla's friends asked another if it was Len. It certainly did appear so. Well, at least he was doing well conversationally.
Anyway, Marla and I left with some friends of hers and continued drinking and eventually everything disappeared in a blur. We had brunch with Len the next morning and spent the rest of the day recovering. Monday, the world fell apart in the financial markets and for me this week will not end fast enough. I haven't even had time to write in my blog....
I know, I know. I'm a coward when it comes to ending things. Especially with someone about whom I harbor suspicions of instability.
She has sent me several emails since then---conciliatory and understanding on the surface with a hint of resentment underneath. You know the type. I reminds me of the time I quit a job because I hated my boss. She arranged for me to give a cordial goodbye to the group so things looked normal, but reminded me that the company had spent a lot of money training me.
Well, tough shit.
Anyway, she can send her email fantasies to Len now, but he's already made it clear he's not going to live on my leftovers.
So, Len came in for St. Patrick's Day weekend. I'm not a fan of the day myself, but Marla is and at 10:00 a.m. she had already reserved seats for us in a Westtown Irish pub. We did several shots and spent the entire day drinking and Len appeared to be doing well conversing with Marla's female friends who had showed up, but....
This horrible smell, the most obnoxious fart, blanketed our section of the bar. Everyone near us winced, except Len, who rather unconvincingly denied that he was the source of the flatulence. Twenty minutes later, the same thing happened and one of Marla's friends asked another if it was Len. It certainly did appear so. Well, at least he was doing well conversationally.
Anyway, Marla and I left with some friends of hers and continued drinking and eventually everything disappeared in a blur. We had brunch with Len the next morning and spent the rest of the day recovering. Monday, the world fell apart in the financial markets and for me this week will not end fast enough. I haven't even had time to write in my blog....
Monday, March 10, 2008
I Critique Len's Performance
Marla and I were at brunch on Saturday when my cell phone rang. It was Len.
"What's up Len?"
"Nothing. I'm bored. I think I should come up."
Len lives in a little town in Western Illinois where the real estate and cost of living are low but where there's nothing fun to do if you're under, say....80. This leaves him with money to spend but a boring social life. Consequently, he comes up to Chicago a lot of the time and sleeps on my couch.
Marla introduced him to a friend of hers a couple weeks ago, but no fireworks ensued. Len asked Marla to invite a friend and she invited two, among whom Len could have his choice: Pearl and The Troll.
For a guy, it's good to have a 3:2 female-to-male ratio. It gives you a chance to play to the crowd and by playing to the crowd, you increase your social value. Pearl is attractive---Asian, mid-to-late thirties but looks much younger and has that Bay Area California vibe, which is where she is from. If I'm any judge of women (on that the jury is out) she is also a potentially dangerous woman. Not that I have a lot to go on, but I sense a woman used to getting her way who could make things very difficult for a man careless enough to fall in love with her. Not that Len would give a damn.
The Troll, on the other hand, is not physically attractive---she is also Asian, overweight, slovenly in her personal appearance and careless with her clothes. If she were intelligent or said interesting things it wouldn't matter but, alas...I last met the troll after the marathon when she came to my apartment with Marla and would not shut up the entire time----Christ, the banal stuff that came out of her mouth embarrassed Marla too and I had not seen The Troll since that October afternoon.
So, The Troll, Marla, Pearl, Len and I gathered at my apartment and I ordered pizza. I was a little put off that Pearl and The Troll didn't offer to put up any money. Len and I always pay for each other and I knew he'd buy drinks or I'd buy brunch and it would work out and we just roll that way and always have and of course I'd pick up Marla's share being her boyfriend and I probably would have refused the money if Pearl and The Troll had offered to pay but it struck me at the time as presumptuous. Pearl, however, is probably used to having men pay for her and The Troll is not very socially adroit.
And so we were, drinking martinis and beer and eating pizza and The Troll picked up one of my coffee table toys and began playing with it. Pearl asked to see it and as The Troll handed it off I could see that it was broken. It was handed back to me. Now, accidents happen and it's the sort of museum gift shop piece that can easily be replaced so definitely no big deal but The Troll never apologized. She never said I'm sorry.....she just handed it back to me. And averted her eyes.
She was in a bad mood and Len was hanging all over Pearl. Were the two related? As a rule of thumb when you are interested in a girl and she's with a friend or friends, you should win the friends over to your side. Len made no attempt to do this---indeed, The Troll may as well have been invisible as far as he was concerned. I couldn't decide whether to sympathize with Len and say, Len, you've got a tough nut to crack trying to get that girl to be sociable-----or------say, Len, you're blowing it but not showing her any attention at all. It was a chicken-and-egg argument.
Anyway, we went to Nick's and Len continued to drink. And get loud. And hang on Pearl. And drink. And get loud. And hang on Pearl. And drink.....
And ignore The Troll. I decided the argument if favor of the chicken.
Marla and I kissed at some point and Pearl said,
"I wish I had somebody to kiss."
Marla replied,
"You can kiss Len."
Pearl laughed. And The Troll continued to stare into the distance. A few minutes later, it was The Troll who suggested to Pearl that they leave. And they left. And I walked Marla back to my place to get some sleep and went back to Nick's to drink with Len and Drinking Buddy. Len was the next one to go home and pass out.
The next morning Len's eyes were pasted shut and he was in no shape to join us for brunch. He's coming up this weekend and I may ask Marla if she'll introduce him to someone else.
And Len: go easy on the booze. And pay attention to her friend, if there's one there. Remember, it's the friend who suggests that it's time to go home.....
Marla introduced him to a friend of hers a couple weeks ago, but no fireworks ensued. Len asked Marla to invite a friend and she invited two, among whom Len could have his choice: Pearl and The Troll.
For a guy, it's good to have a 3:2 female-to-male ratio. It gives you a chance to play to the crowd and by playing to the crowd, you increase your social value. Pearl is attractive---Asian, mid-to-late thirties but looks much younger and has that Bay Area California vibe, which is where she is from. If I'm any judge of women (on that the jury is out) she is also a potentially dangerous woman. Not that I have a lot to go on, but I sense a woman used to getting her way who could make things very difficult for a man careless enough to fall in love with her. Not that Len would give a damn.
The Troll, on the other hand, is not physically attractive---she is also Asian, overweight, slovenly in her personal appearance and careless with her clothes. If she were intelligent or said interesting things it wouldn't matter but, alas...I last met the troll after the marathon when she came to my apartment with Marla and would not shut up the entire time----Christ, the banal stuff that came out of her mouth embarrassed Marla too and I had not seen The Troll since that October afternoon.
So, The Troll, Marla, Pearl, Len and I gathered at my apartment and I ordered pizza. I was a little put off that Pearl and The Troll didn't offer to put up any money. Len and I always pay for each other and I knew he'd buy drinks or I'd buy brunch and it would work out and we just roll that way and always have and of course I'd pick up Marla's share being her boyfriend and I probably would have refused the money if Pearl and The Troll had offered to pay but it struck me at the time as presumptuous. Pearl, however, is probably used to having men pay for her and The Troll is not very socially adroit.
And so we were, drinking martinis and beer and eating pizza and The Troll picked up one of my coffee table toys and began playing with it. Pearl asked to see it and as The Troll handed it off I could see that it was broken. It was handed back to me. Now, accidents happen and it's the sort of museum gift shop piece that can easily be replaced so definitely no big deal but The Troll never apologized. She never said I'm sorry.....she just handed it back to me. And averted her eyes.
She was in a bad mood and Len was hanging all over Pearl. Were the two related? As a rule of thumb when you are interested in a girl and she's with a friend or friends, you should win the friends over to your side. Len made no attempt to do this---indeed, The Troll may as well have been invisible as far as he was concerned. I couldn't decide whether to sympathize with Len and say, Len, you've got a tough nut to crack trying to get that girl to be sociable-----or------say, Len, you're blowing it but not showing her any attention at all. It was a chicken-and-egg argument.
Anyway, we went to Nick's and Len continued to drink. And get loud. And hang on Pearl. And drink. And get loud. And hang on Pearl. And drink.....
And ignore The Troll. I decided the argument if favor of the chicken.
Marla and I kissed at some point and Pearl said,
"I wish I had somebody to kiss."
Marla replied,
"You can kiss Len."
Pearl laughed. And The Troll continued to stare into the distance. A few minutes later, it was The Troll who suggested to Pearl that they leave. And they left. And I walked Marla back to my place to get some sleep and went back to Nick's to drink with Len and Drinking Buddy. Len was the next one to go home and pass out.
The next morning Len's eyes were pasted shut and he was in no shape to join us for brunch. He's coming up this weekend and I may ask Marla if she'll introduce him to someone else.
And Len: go easy on the booze. And pay attention to her friend, if there's one there. Remember, it's the friend who suggests that it's time to go home.....
Friday, March 7, 2008
This Girlfriend Thing
Some men are relationship guys. These are guys who fret if they don't have a girlfriend and their encounters with women, from flirting to dating to sex, are geared toward that end. They tend to be rather picky about the women they socialize with, but there's a pre-emptive quality about their pickiness----they tend to be very sensitive about being rejected.
Then, there are the men with the roving eyes.
Last weekend, I was at Nick's when the female companion of a friendly acquaintance caught my eye. I avoided looking at her out of respect for Marla but when I went to the bar for drinks she introduced herself and mentioned that she had seen me here before. We exchanged a couple pleasantries and she asked if I had come in with "the black girl." I said, yes, that's my girlfriend Marla and maybe you and your friend can come over and say hi to us.
I took our drinks back to the table and Marla said,
"That girl is interested in you."
The thing was, I was attracted to her, too. She had that early 30s ironical hipster art student look I find so attractive. But, of course, I told her that I have a girlfriend. And I kept my eyes away from her for the rest of the evening.
Two nights ago, my upstairs neighbor, a medical student, had a get-together with her friends and invited the building over. I found myself in a conversation with a cellist---the kind of conversation you have after several drinks and the rapport comes easily and you make eye contact and laugh and you both know the attraction is there. Our hostess walked by and my companion said,
"This guy is your neighbor? He's cool."
I extricated myself from the conversation a few minutes later.
The amazing thing about Marla is that she gives me no trouble at all. I'm used to the drama that comes with relationships and I expect a certain amount of nagging and unpleasantness recriminations and I'm not getting them. She's laid back as hell, socially great and all my friends love her. Unfortunately, I keep feeling this powerful attraction to other women.
Yes, there are relationship guys and then there are the rest of us.....
Then, there are the men with the roving eyes.
Last weekend, I was at Nick's when the female companion of a friendly acquaintance caught my eye. I avoided looking at her out of respect for Marla but when I went to the bar for drinks she introduced herself and mentioned that she had seen me here before. We exchanged a couple pleasantries and she asked if I had come in with "the black girl." I said, yes, that's my girlfriend Marla and maybe you and your friend can come over and say hi to us.
I took our drinks back to the table and Marla said,
"That girl is interested in you."
The thing was, I was attracted to her, too. She had that early 30s ironical hipster art student look I find so attractive. But, of course, I told her that I have a girlfriend. And I kept my eyes away from her for the rest of the evening.
Two nights ago, my upstairs neighbor, a medical student, had a get-together with her friends and invited the building over. I found myself in a conversation with a cellist---the kind of conversation you have after several drinks and the rapport comes easily and you make eye contact and laugh and you both know the attraction is there. Our hostess walked by and my companion said,
"This guy is your neighbor? He's cool."
I extricated myself from the conversation a few minutes later.
The amazing thing about Marla is that she gives me no trouble at all. I'm used to the drama that comes with relationships and I expect a certain amount of nagging and unpleasantness recriminations and I'm not getting them. She's laid back as hell, socially great and all my friends love her. Unfortunately, I keep feeling this powerful attraction to other women.
Yes, there are relationship guys and then there are the rest of us.....
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Sober Reflections
I woke up with such a huge hangover this morning that the only way to alleviate it was masturbation. For some odd, unknown reason, hangovers make me horny. I think part of it may stem from the need to feel something different, anything, really, from what I am feeling. And an orgasm is great for a headache. For masturbatory fodder I mined a hookup from my college days, a student leadership conference. I almost called work to tell them that I'd be late, but that would have been detrimental to my self-esteem. Especially in light of what Drinking Buddy said to me last night at Nick's.
We were watching the election returns come in and Drinking Buddy was getting depressed.
"Great! Obama loses the white vote in Ohio. Buncha fucking racists. I've been there. Racist state. Won't pull the lever for a black candidate. How can anyone prefer Hillary?"
I steered the subject in another direction, since I didn't want Drinking Buddy veering to the dark side. Suddenly he turned to me:
"You know, you're a bigger drinker than I am....."
I audibly gasped.
"It's true. You handle it well, but you ARE a bigger drinker than I am..."
He was right.
We had probably had four shots at this point. There would be more, but this was at number four. I spend a lot of time and money going out, but having Drinking Buddy comment on your consumption is rather sobering.
On the other hand, fuck it. If I wanted to stay in and play pinnacle I'd have moved to Naperville.
We were watching the election returns come in and Drinking Buddy was getting depressed.
"Great! Obama loses the white vote in Ohio. Buncha fucking racists. I've been there. Racist state. Won't pull the lever for a black candidate. How can anyone prefer Hillary?"
I steered the subject in another direction, since I didn't want Drinking Buddy veering to the dark side. Suddenly he turned to me:
"You know, you're a bigger drinker than I am....."
I audibly gasped.
"It's true. You handle it well, but you ARE a bigger drinker than I am..."
He was right.
We had probably had four shots at this point. There would be more, but this was at number four. I spend a lot of time and money going out, but having Drinking Buddy comment on your consumption is rather sobering.
On the other hand, fuck it. If I wanted to stay in and play pinnacle I'd have moved to Naperville.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
The Winter of my Discontent
Marla and I were walking through the neighborhood this weekend when a bunch of women pushing a shopping cart darted in front of us. You get used to seeing strange things in Wicker Park but what made us do a double-take was that the young ladies in question were wearing Mexican sombreros, had penciled-in thin mustaches above their lips and were screaming what sounded like a parody of a battle cry.
Now---the girls looked to be in their early twenties, on some sort of scavenger hunt or shopping cart race. Perhaps a pub crawl? Did no one among them say,
"Guys, this might be construed as offensive by some people. We're wearing sombreros and mustaches and going through Wicker Park, which still has a significant Latino population. Could we be perpetuating offensive stereotypes?"
Apparently not. They were enjoying themselves with the unselfconscious air of the truly ignorant.
That night at Nick's, the place was packed with drunk louts. The bartender rolled his eyes when he saw us sit down, and we knew it was only a matter of time before people started getting kicked out. I returned from the bathroom to see a fresh-faced kid hanging on Marla. She saw me, smiled, and said to the kid,
"No, I told you I'm not doing a shot with you. Maybe my boyfriend will...."
"Yes, thanks, I'd love a shot," I said, downing the Jaeger bomb. I smirked at the guy, wondering how Mar would have handled the situation. She probably would have accepted the shot.
And maneuvered us into an argument.
We stayed for a couple drinks, including a complimentary round of shots and drinks (gotta love a place that takes care of their regulars), watched a few people get kicked out, including one who shoved the bartender (very lucky not to have gotten his ass kicked) and left. The next night, Sunday, we returned to Nick's to wrap up the weekend. I mentioned to the bartender that the weekend crowd seemed to be changing from when I first moved in, two and a half years ago.
"More musicians and art students, then," he said, adding wistfully, "I miss the old Wicker Park."
I don't get much sympathy from my college friends when I complain about gentrification. One of them drew a chorus of laughter when he said,
"You're just pissed off that people like you are moving in..."
Fair enough. But, it's not just a yuppie vs. hipster issue. It's when the loud and un-curious change the character of my favorite haunts. Just a couple weeks ago I was leaving Nick's with Marla when I was spotted by a bloke I used to work with, who's now in pharmaceutical sales.
"Yo, wazzup, mo-fo?" he greeted me. Marla visibly winced. I should mention, the former co-worker is a fraternity-boy shade of white, right down to his baseball cap.
Yes, the neighborhood is changing. And it feels as if the winter will last forever.....
Now---the girls looked to be in their early twenties, on some sort of scavenger hunt or shopping cart race. Perhaps a pub crawl? Did no one among them say,
"Guys, this might be construed as offensive by some people. We're wearing sombreros and mustaches and going through Wicker Park, which still has a significant Latino population. Could we be perpetuating offensive stereotypes?"
Apparently not. They were enjoying themselves with the unselfconscious air of the truly ignorant.
That night at Nick's, the place was packed with drunk louts. The bartender rolled his eyes when he saw us sit down, and we knew it was only a matter of time before people started getting kicked out. I returned from the bathroom to see a fresh-faced kid hanging on Marla. She saw me, smiled, and said to the kid,
"No, I told you I'm not doing a shot with you. Maybe my boyfriend will...."
"Yes, thanks, I'd love a shot," I said, downing the Jaeger bomb. I smirked at the guy, wondering how Mar would have handled the situation. She probably would have accepted the shot.
And maneuvered us into an argument.
We stayed for a couple drinks, including a complimentary round of shots and drinks (gotta love a place that takes care of their regulars), watched a few people get kicked out, including one who shoved the bartender (very lucky not to have gotten his ass kicked) and left. The next night, Sunday, we returned to Nick's to wrap up the weekend. I mentioned to the bartender that the weekend crowd seemed to be changing from when I first moved in, two and a half years ago.
"More musicians and art students, then," he said, adding wistfully, "I miss the old Wicker Park."
I don't get much sympathy from my college friends when I complain about gentrification. One of them drew a chorus of laughter when he said,
"You're just pissed off that people like you are moving in..."
Fair enough. But, it's not just a yuppie vs. hipster issue. It's when the loud and un-curious change the character of my favorite haunts. Just a couple weeks ago I was leaving Nick's with Marla when I was spotted by a bloke I used to work with, who's now in pharmaceutical sales.
"Yo, wazzup, mo-fo?" he greeted me. Marla visibly winced. I should mention, the former co-worker is a fraternity-boy shade of white, right down to his baseball cap.
Yes, the neighborhood is changing. And it feels as if the winter will last forever.....
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Rut Identity
Temperatures dropped below zero again this weekend, limiting my will to move beyond a two-block radius. Fortunately, this radius contains my gym, several restaurants and stores and Nick's. You can't beat city living.
Friday I was doing shots with Marla. For a gold coast gal, she sure has adapted well to Wicker Park---I'd say she's more popular at Nick's than I am. Marla was laughing about the way she wakes me up for sex----often twice during the night if there's no school tomorrow. She'll place her hand on my hip and slide it down to my penis. Then, she just massages until I become aroused. Or takes me in her mouth---that usually does the trick.
"Sometimes, David, you roll over on your stomach and I know you're not ready and need more sleep. I'm like, dammit, I'll try again later."
I laughed. I've been in the dumps lately and my sex drive drive has fallen off a bit but I usually don't mind being woken up for sex. The payoff is usually better than anything I could dream.
Marla and I spent most of the weekend holed up in my apartment, drinking scotch, eating takeout Chinese and watching whatever movies were On Demand. The rut continues, but I am fighting the good fight. I continue to go to the gym and my apartment remains clean. As long as I can get out of be in the morning, things should be fine.
Friday I was doing shots with Marla. For a gold coast gal, she sure has adapted well to Wicker Park---I'd say she's more popular at Nick's than I am. Marla was laughing about the way she wakes me up for sex----often twice during the night if there's no school tomorrow. She'll place her hand on my hip and slide it down to my penis. Then, she just massages until I become aroused. Or takes me in her mouth---that usually does the trick.
"Sometimes, David, you roll over on your stomach and I know you're not ready and need more sleep. I'm like, dammit, I'll try again later."
I laughed. I've been in the dumps lately and my sex drive drive has fallen off a bit but I usually don't mind being woken up for sex. The payoff is usually better than anything I could dream.
Marla and I spent most of the weekend holed up in my apartment, drinking scotch, eating takeout Chinese and watching whatever movies were On Demand. The rut continues, but I am fighting the good fight. I continue to go to the gym and my apartment remains clean. As long as I can get out of be in the morning, things should be fine.
Dealing With Difficult Clients
Are you taking orders/Or are you taking over?
---The Clash
I guess I'm taking orders. Most adult men spend a large part of our day taking orders regardless of our stations in life. I'm fortunate in that my boss is humane and reasonable but unfortunate in that a sizable percentage of my clients are not. I'd estimate that 95% of our clients are reasonable and courteous while 5% are infantile, self-absorbed twits. Those are good odds, except that 80% of my time lately seems to be spent with the bottom 5%. Explaining that our platform can't perform a function that would violate the laws of physics would placate most reasonable people, you would think.
Dale Carnegie urges us to listen and empathize with outraged customers---easier said than done sometimes. Especially in this business where the customer is not always right. If I find myself agreeing with a customer over a technical issue and he's recording the conversation I could make my firm (and, by extension, me) liable for tens of thousands of dollars. So, no, the customer is not always right.
I enjoy watching one of my favorite bartenders at Nick's on Friday and Saturday night whenever a customer gets pushy. He ignores the guy (it's almost always a guy) while serving everyone else around him. The guy gets angry and throws his coaster and waves a $5 bill trying to get the bartender's attention. And he gets ignored, until he leaves.
In restaurants, it always pays to be polite. Ten years ago I had a former roommate from college move in with me while he tried to get his life in order. I lived near a Vietnamese neighborhood and my roommate was a connoissuer of Asian food, having lived in China for two years and spent time in many other Asian countries. An academically brilliant guy, but I had to explain to him why going to a restaurant wearing his Ho Chi Minh t-shirt would not be a good idea. Along the same lines, we all have "that friend" who audibly berates a waiter/ess over bad service.....
One of my favorite stories involved waiting in line at the airport. The guy in front of me was abusing the clerk in the most vile manner and the whole time the clerk just stood there, unruffled, calm, his expression never changing. When I got to the front of the line I complimented the clerk on dealing with the asshole.
"Well," said the clerk, "he's flying to Albany but I can't say for sure that that's where his luggage is going...."
---The Clash
I guess I'm taking orders. Most adult men spend a large part of our day taking orders regardless of our stations in life. I'm fortunate in that my boss is humane and reasonable but unfortunate in that a sizable percentage of my clients are not. I'd estimate that 95% of our clients are reasonable and courteous while 5% are infantile, self-absorbed twits. Those are good odds, except that 80% of my time lately seems to be spent with the bottom 5%. Explaining that our platform can't perform a function that would violate the laws of physics would placate most reasonable people, you would think.
Dale Carnegie urges us to listen and empathize with outraged customers---easier said than done sometimes. Especially in this business where the customer is not always right. If I find myself agreeing with a customer over a technical issue and he's recording the conversation I could make my firm (and, by extension, me) liable for tens of thousands of dollars. So, no, the customer is not always right.
I enjoy watching one of my favorite bartenders at Nick's on Friday and Saturday night whenever a customer gets pushy. He ignores the guy (it's almost always a guy) while serving everyone else around him. The guy gets angry and throws his coaster and waves a $5 bill trying to get the bartender's attention. And he gets ignored, until he leaves.
In restaurants, it always pays to be polite. Ten years ago I had a former roommate from college move in with me while he tried to get his life in order. I lived near a Vietnamese neighborhood and my roommate was a connoissuer of Asian food, having lived in China for two years and spent time in many other Asian countries. An academically brilliant guy, but I had to explain to him why going to a restaurant wearing his Ho Chi Minh t-shirt would not be a good idea. Along the same lines, we all have "that friend" who audibly berates a waiter/ess over bad service.....
One of my favorite stories involved waiting in line at the airport. The guy in front of me was abusing the clerk in the most vile manner and the whole time the clerk just stood there, unruffled, calm, his expression never changing. When I got to the front of the line I complimented the clerk on dealing with the asshole.
"Well," said the clerk, "he's flying to Albany but I can't say for sure that that's where his luggage is going...."
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
The Rut Supremacy
My apologies for not having written sooner, but I'm at the point right now where it seems like the winter will never end and the snow will continue to fall and I'll never see the light of day again. I've diverted my attentions with the Super Bowl, evenings at Nick's, mornings at the gym, movies with Marla and a sweet night of good-bye sex with Mar before she left for Colorado but in the end I always wind up with myself and the rut starts to take over and what Winston Churchill called his black dogs return to haunt their master.
Yesterday was Super Tuesday and Mardi Gras and when I mentioned via email that Barack Obama was holding a victory party Ted suggested that I try to attend and that it might be the perfect cure for the blahs. And, yes, several choruses of "Yes We Can!" would lift just about anybody's spirits.
Marla is an expert at getting into places that are hard to get into and she worked a connection of hers who was a reporter for Reuters but after making some calls he told her: no can do.
"This isn't a musical, Marla. This is History."
Not to mention that Secret Service were everywhere and the street was even closed off. We met after work at Redfish, a New Orleans themed restaurant and bar. Trouble is, once you've been in New Orleans, you've had the Real Deal and Chicago is just too far from the gulf to get the good shrimp and crawfish. Plus, if you accept and fully embrace Mardi Gras you have to accept Ash Wednesday, which I don't. Can't have one without the other.
So, I went outside to grab a cab and just by chance I grabbed Chicago's famous Singing Cabdriver. Sweet. I hadn't been in has cab in about ten years.
He began a very satirical song about generational gaps when Marla interrupted him with a question. I wished she wouldn't have done that, because he became taciturn and his song was a good one. But, I wasn't going to get upset about not hearing the Singing Cabdriver because I could always go to whatever piano bar he was singing at to hear him.
We got back to my apartment and watched the returns come in. A very politically astute friend of mine emailed me that he really didn't understand the whole Obamamania phenomenon. I knew where he was coming from---he's something of a policy wonk. I, on the other hand, often give free reign to my hunches about people, and to my feelings. I replied that there's always an element of kitsch in political rhetoric and you buy it or you don't. It fills a basic human need. However, true leadership is the ability to inspire people to their best and it's refreshing to hear a speech delivered with conviction, by someone who believes in what he's saying and is aware of its historic importance.
It's good to have faith in the possibility that the world can change. Because I'm struggling with a very cold Chicago winter and the easiest thing in the world would be to stay in bed one day and possibly all week especially when you realize how little control you have over your own life.....
Yesterday was Super Tuesday and Mardi Gras and when I mentioned via email that Barack Obama was holding a victory party Ted suggested that I try to attend and that it might be the perfect cure for the blahs. And, yes, several choruses of "Yes We Can!" would lift just about anybody's spirits.
Marla is an expert at getting into places that are hard to get into and she worked a connection of hers who was a reporter for Reuters but after making some calls he told her: no can do.
"This isn't a musical, Marla. This is History."
Not to mention that Secret Service were everywhere and the street was even closed off. We met after work at Redfish, a New Orleans themed restaurant and bar. Trouble is, once you've been in New Orleans, you've had the Real Deal and Chicago is just too far from the gulf to get the good shrimp and crawfish. Plus, if you accept and fully embrace Mardi Gras you have to accept Ash Wednesday, which I don't. Can't have one without the other.
So, I went outside to grab a cab and just by chance I grabbed Chicago's famous Singing Cabdriver. Sweet. I hadn't been in has cab in about ten years.
He began a very satirical song about generational gaps when Marla interrupted him with a question. I wished she wouldn't have done that, because he became taciturn and his song was a good one. But, I wasn't going to get upset about not hearing the Singing Cabdriver because I could always go to whatever piano bar he was singing at to hear him.
We got back to my apartment and watched the returns come in. A very politically astute friend of mine emailed me that he really didn't understand the whole Obamamania phenomenon. I knew where he was coming from---he's something of a policy wonk. I, on the other hand, often give free reign to my hunches about people, and to my feelings. I replied that there's always an element of kitsch in political rhetoric and you buy it or you don't. It fills a basic human need. However, true leadership is the ability to inspire people to their best and it's refreshing to hear a speech delivered with conviction, by someone who believes in what he's saying and is aware of its historic importance.
It's good to have faith in the possibility that the world can change. Because I'm struggling with a very cold Chicago winter and the easiest thing in the world would be to stay in bed one day and possibly all week especially when you realize how little control you have over your own life.....
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Being Nagged
My job is extremely stressful---my company got caught up in the subprime mortage scandal and as a result our stock plummeted 90% from its yearly high. Our CEO resigned in disgrace, but not before accepting a $10,000,000 golden parachute. Meanwhile, I discover that a significant portion of my bonus, which I had intended to use to pay off my credit card debt, will be paid in restricted company stock, meaning that it cannot be sold for three years. Add this to a highly volatile market which seems to collapse whenever Ben Bernanke sneezes and soar whenever he sports a hard-on beneath his tailored pants and a trading platform that goes down more than Monica Lewinsky and it's no wonder that several times a day everything disappears in a sea of red.
Yes, I deal with stress on the job. So, I really really hate to be nagged by the women in my life. And it seems that reproaches usually come from married women. Christy used to upbraid me for not calling her or emailing her:
"It would have been really nice if you had...."
"I don't understand why you have to be so busy for me....if you liked me, you'd...."
I got tired of it. An affair with a married woman can involve great sex---truthfully, there are few things hotter than violating societal norms. Safe, missionary position, government and church approved intercourse with the officially approved partner can get stale rather quickly. But so can being nagged.
Ginger was warned ahead of time by Len that I don't tolerate drama. If you would like a fun fling, I can provide you with a fun fling. When it stops being fun, there's really no point to it for either of us. Lately, when we trade emails, she writes things like:
"It would have been nice if you had...."
So, I'm debating ending things with her. We've arranged a rendez-vous for two weeks in the future which gives me two weeks to work up the courage for the Gracious Extrication. Or, on the other hand, I can go the passive-aggressive route. Case in point: Ginger has been emailing me a series of very hot and explicit sexual fantasies. She's been bugging me to send her one of mine. I could send her something like this:
"You enter my bedroom. I am standing by my bed. Beside me is a very large German Shepard. You notice that he is not neutered......"
Of course, that is not my better self speaking. I wouldn't do that. And, at the moment I'm only considering severing my ties with her. But her neediness is getting on my nerves....
Yes, I deal with stress on the job. So, I really really hate to be nagged by the women in my life. And it seems that reproaches usually come from married women. Christy used to upbraid me for not calling her or emailing her:
"It would have been really nice if you had...."
"I don't understand why you have to be so busy for me....if you liked me, you'd...."
I got tired of it. An affair with a married woman can involve great sex---truthfully, there are few things hotter than violating societal norms. Safe, missionary position, government and church approved intercourse with the officially approved partner can get stale rather quickly. But so can being nagged.
Ginger was warned ahead of time by Len that I don't tolerate drama. If you would like a fun fling, I can provide you with a fun fling. When it stops being fun, there's really no point to it for either of us. Lately, when we trade emails, she writes things like:
"It would have been nice if you had...."
So, I'm debating ending things with her. We've arranged a rendez-vous for two weeks in the future which gives me two weeks to work up the courage for the Gracious Extrication. Or, on the other hand, I can go the passive-aggressive route. Case in point: Ginger has been emailing me a series of very hot and explicit sexual fantasies. She's been bugging me to send her one of mine. I could send her something like this:
"You enter my bedroom. I am standing by my bed. Beside me is a very large German Shepard. You notice that he is not neutered......"
Of course, that is not my better self speaking. I wouldn't do that. And, at the moment I'm only considering severing my ties with her. But her neediness is getting on my nerves....
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
OK.....here it is
I just got back from Nick's and I'm drunk. I want to write this unedited and on the spur of the moment.
I'm talking to this attractive college student at the bar. Getting Indications of Interest. And thinking: shit. This could be another Mar situation.
The truth is, I really haven't met any chick in her 20s that I want to date. I don't want to have to deal with the bullshit insecurity of 20-something-girls. No offense to my 20-something readers. You're all great. All four of you.
But, I'm a guy at 39.
I had a good conversation with her, and I punted. I asked for a check.
Marla is cool. This girl I'm talking to is nice, but Marla is more......worldly. This girl is a college student, possibly here on a fake ID, looking for a job as a kitchen worker. And, just moved to Chicago. Nice, friendly but not someone good for my piece of mind.
Marla is waaaaay cooler.
I have had a few shots and this may not be coherent but I hope the meaning is clear.....
I'll write a coherent post when I'm sober. But, alcohol does make the truth come out...
I'm talking to this attractive college student at the bar. Getting Indications of Interest. And thinking: shit. This could be another Mar situation.
The truth is, I really haven't met any chick in her 20s that I want to date. I don't want to have to deal with the bullshit insecurity of 20-something-girls. No offense to my 20-something readers. You're all great. All four of you.
But, I'm a guy at 39.
I had a good conversation with her, and I punted. I asked for a check.
Marla is cool. This girl I'm talking to is nice, but Marla is more......worldly. This girl is a college student, possibly here on a fake ID, looking for a job as a kitchen worker. And, just moved to Chicago. Nice, friendly but not someone good for my piece of mind.
Marla is waaaaay cooler.
I have had a few shots and this may not be coherent but I hope the meaning is clear.....
I'll write a coherent post when I'm sober. But, alcohol does make the truth come out...
Thursday, January 17, 2008
But You Don't Know the Real Me.....
Zibi paid me a great compliment a weekend ago. We were drinking scotch at my apartment with Len and Marla and Zibi was reminding me once again how he tried to discourage me from getting married. Zibi is Polish, as was my wife.
"David, I never liked her to begin with. She had her nose in the air all the time, she was just too good for everyone and I couldn't stand her."
An interesting thing about my wife----my female American friends liked her, my male Polish friends did not and I think everyone else fell somewhere in between.
"Well, Zibi," I replied, "I'm not gonna trash her. She had her faults and I had mine but it really takes two people to fuck up a marriage and that was true in our case."
"No, Dave, you're the coolest person I know....."
Marla chimed in, "You are cool, David."
Len didn't say anything because he knows I'm not.
Athletic skill? Not me. I was skinny and awkward and uncoordinated as a kid and if I wasn't the last person chosen for teams I was usually in the bottom five. I've gotten better at hiding my lack-of-coordination---it usually only manifests itself in, say, an inability to handle a wallet, movie tickets and house keys at the same time.
Sartorial splendor? Ha. My mom worked at JC Penney and used to buy me the most heinous clothes imaginable. I don't think I owned a pair of jeans until I was 11 or 12 and then they were the kind of ridiculous bargain-bin rejects with zippers in the back and after three washings they shrank so much that my nickname for a time was "flood". Also, I had an elastic strap to keep my glasses in place....
Looks? Uh-uh. Puberty left me with pimples all over my face. Add braces and the afore-mentioned glasses and awkwardness and you've got the kind of seventh grader who will be picked on by the eighth and ninth graders. Len has known me my whole life and this is the DLS he remembers when he looks at me.
I got my first kiss at 15 because a friend of mine took pity on my chickless existence and told his sometime girlfriend to make out with me. We both made out with her for awhile, until my dad came downstairs and drove her home. After that confidence boost, high school got a little better and I started going on dates. I also got contact lenses and started buying my own clothes, with help from my cooler friends. I also sported a ridiculous Eurofag hairstyle that makes me wince when I look at prom pictures but it was the 80s---you were supposed to wear your hair like that.
However, I still feel like a fraud much of the time. I remind myself to sit up straight and to smile and make eye contact. I post rock climbing pictures on my Myspace profile. I buy clothes at Urban Outfitters and Express. And I work out nearly every day. And yet I never escape the haunting fear that I'm about to be found out.....
"David, I never liked her to begin with. She had her nose in the air all the time, she was just too good for everyone and I couldn't stand her."
An interesting thing about my wife----my female American friends liked her, my male Polish friends did not and I think everyone else fell somewhere in between.
"Well, Zibi," I replied, "I'm not gonna trash her. She had her faults and I had mine but it really takes two people to fuck up a marriage and that was true in our case."
"No, Dave, you're the coolest person I know....."
Marla chimed in, "You are cool, David."
Len didn't say anything because he knows I'm not.
Athletic skill? Not me. I was skinny and awkward and uncoordinated as a kid and if I wasn't the last person chosen for teams I was usually in the bottom five. I've gotten better at hiding my lack-of-coordination---it usually only manifests itself in, say, an inability to handle a wallet, movie tickets and house keys at the same time.
Sartorial splendor? Ha. My mom worked at JC Penney and used to buy me the most heinous clothes imaginable. I don't think I owned a pair of jeans until I was 11 or 12 and then they were the kind of ridiculous bargain-bin rejects with zippers in the back and after three washings they shrank so much that my nickname for a time was "flood". Also, I had an elastic strap to keep my glasses in place....
Looks? Uh-uh. Puberty left me with pimples all over my face. Add braces and the afore-mentioned glasses and awkwardness and you've got the kind of seventh grader who will be picked on by the eighth and ninth graders. Len has known me my whole life and this is the DLS he remembers when he looks at me.
I got my first kiss at 15 because a friend of mine took pity on my chickless existence and told his sometime girlfriend to make out with me. We both made out with her for awhile, until my dad came downstairs and drove her home. After that confidence boost, high school got a little better and I started going on dates. I also got contact lenses and started buying my own clothes, with help from my cooler friends. I also sported a ridiculous Eurofag hairstyle that makes me wince when I look at prom pictures but it was the 80s---you were supposed to wear your hair like that.
However, I still feel like a fraud much of the time. I remind myself to sit up straight and to smile and make eye contact. I post rock climbing pictures on my Myspace profile. I buy clothes at Urban Outfitters and Express. And I work out nearly every day. And yet I never escape the haunting fear that I'm about to be found out.....
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Surviving the Rut
The key to survival is attitude. As Hamlet said, there is nothing good or bad but thinking makes it so. So, learn to love the cold, wet days on which the sun sets before 5:00. There is something depressing about such days, yes, but....learn to SAVOR the cold and the darkness. Learn to savor the depression.
Masturbation is key. Masturbation is a great stress release. If we lived in an actually sensible culture, masturbation would be taught in school and pupils would compare their sexual fantasies during classtime with the teacher moderating the discussion. It would give gym teachers something to do besides pairing everyone up for teams. Last night, I had a MARVELOUS wank. I really did. I remembered about twelve women that I have had sex with, remembered what I really loved about being with them, every lurch and thrust and the grace or lack thereof and it was enough to keep me going for about twenty minutes. I felt so much better afterwards and enjoyed a good night sleep.
Next morning, I woke up at 5:00 for a trip to the gym: 38 minutes on a treadmill at 8 mph. The equivalent of 5 miles, my iPod blaring mindless 80s cock-rock the entire time. YEAH! Returned home for a hot shower and a pot of kick-ass coffee, courtesy of my grind-and-brew. And music---how could any of us live without music? I chose Dvorak's Carnival Overture to lift my spirits---I defy anyone to resist uplift during that piece. How can you not love Dvorak?
Ah, but when it's followed by Bach---Martha Argerich performing Bach's Partita no. 2 in C minor......a performer you'd more probably associate with Prokofiev or Bartok. But just fucking listen to it.....
Anyway, that was enough to get my day started. What would really, really pick me up would be to have sex with a woman I haven't slept with yet. Someone I don't even know. To meet someone in a bar and go home with her. Or on a train or just on the street (I have had very very very bad luck in that department. I still have stories I haven't written about.) I don't mind being rejected; I would rather be an ass than shy. Not that I want to be an ass, of course, but if I must fall slightly on one side or the other (and we all do fall on one side or the other) I would rather be on the side of the ass.
That reminds me of the night and the girl that really really turned me against Notre Dame. Not the cathedral---the cathedral is great. The school, and especially the football team.
In the mid-90s I used to go to parties in Lincoln Park. Lincoln Park is the yuppie, post-collegiate neighborhood and it's filled with exactly that sort of people. The parties were very collegiate---a party was either a Boston College party, or an Illinois party (those were awful) or a Michigan party and so on and so forth. Not that everyone present attended that school but the 80% rule that governs American wine labelling also governed twenty-something Lincoln Park parties.
One night, I went to a Notre Dame party. A girl I knew gathered some friends for a pre-party at her place and one of the other attendees was a nordic looking girl in ultra-preppy clothes. We struck up a conversation and traded barbs back and forth. Flirting with an edge. The party itself was, I thought, awful. Everyone looked unbelievable stuffy in a 50s, Catholic prep-school, Bill Buckley-National Review kind of way and there was a smugness that permeated the entire room.
I pride myself on being able to get along with a wide variety of people, but I couldn't stand the crowd. So I asked the Valkyrie if everyone at Notre Dame was a stuck up as this group. She gave me a look and said,
"You're an ass."
I responded,
"You're a bitch."
Her mouth fell open and I realized that I had just gone too far. Oh, well, blame it on the Jager. I left soon after that, but I felt better about having gotten something off my chest. Likewise with women---I would a thousand times rather be rejected than not make the pass. Even an awkward, alcohol-infused pass is better than the sting of regret that comes from walking away and thinking,
"Maybe if I put an ad in the Reader under Missed Connections......"
Thus, the key to surviving the rut: take chances and leave no regrets on the table. If you can fill the unforgiving minute/ With sixty seconds worth of distance run/ Yours is the earth and everything that's in it/ And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son.
Masturbation is key. Masturbation is a great stress release. If we lived in an actually sensible culture, masturbation would be taught in school and pupils would compare their sexual fantasies during classtime with the teacher moderating the discussion. It would give gym teachers something to do besides pairing everyone up for teams. Last night, I had a MARVELOUS wank. I really did. I remembered about twelve women that I have had sex with, remembered what I really loved about being with them, every lurch and thrust and the grace or lack thereof and it was enough to keep me going for about twenty minutes. I felt so much better afterwards and enjoyed a good night sleep.
Next morning, I woke up at 5:00 for a trip to the gym: 38 minutes on a treadmill at 8 mph. The equivalent of 5 miles, my iPod blaring mindless 80s cock-rock the entire time. YEAH! Returned home for a hot shower and a pot of kick-ass coffee, courtesy of my grind-and-brew. And music---how could any of us live without music? I chose Dvorak's Carnival Overture to lift my spirits---I defy anyone to resist uplift during that piece. How can you not love Dvorak?
Ah, but when it's followed by Bach---Martha Argerich performing Bach's Partita no. 2 in C minor......a performer you'd more probably associate with Prokofiev or Bartok. But just fucking listen to it.....
Anyway, that was enough to get my day started. What would really, really pick me up would be to have sex with a woman I haven't slept with yet. Someone I don't even know. To meet someone in a bar and go home with her. Or on a train or just on the street (I have had very very very bad luck in that department. I still have stories I haven't written about.) I don't mind being rejected; I would rather be an ass than shy. Not that I want to be an ass, of course, but if I must fall slightly on one side or the other (and we all do fall on one side or the other) I would rather be on the side of the ass.
That reminds me of the night and the girl that really really turned me against Notre Dame. Not the cathedral---the cathedral is great. The school, and especially the football team.
In the mid-90s I used to go to parties in Lincoln Park. Lincoln Park is the yuppie, post-collegiate neighborhood and it's filled with exactly that sort of people. The parties were very collegiate---a party was either a Boston College party, or an Illinois party (those were awful) or a Michigan party and so on and so forth. Not that everyone present attended that school but the 80% rule that governs American wine labelling also governed twenty-something Lincoln Park parties.
One night, I went to a Notre Dame party. A girl I knew gathered some friends for a pre-party at her place and one of the other attendees was a nordic looking girl in ultra-preppy clothes. We struck up a conversation and traded barbs back and forth. Flirting with an edge. The party itself was, I thought, awful. Everyone looked unbelievable stuffy in a 50s, Catholic prep-school, Bill Buckley-National Review kind of way and there was a smugness that permeated the entire room.
I pride myself on being able to get along with a wide variety of people, but I couldn't stand the crowd. So I asked the Valkyrie if everyone at Notre Dame was a stuck up as this group. She gave me a look and said,
"You're an ass."
I responded,
"You're a bitch."
Her mouth fell open and I realized that I had just gone too far. Oh, well, blame it on the Jager. I left soon after that, but I felt better about having gotten something off my chest. Likewise with women---I would a thousand times rather be rejected than not make the pass. Even an awkward, alcohol-infused pass is better than the sting of regret that comes from walking away and thinking,
"Maybe if I put an ad in the Reader under Missed Connections......"
Thus, the key to surviving the rut: take chances and leave no regrets on the table. If you can fill the unforgiving minute/ With sixty seconds worth of distance run/ Yours is the earth and everything that's in it/ And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Time in the Rut
I always feel run down after the holiday season is over and the last Christmas tree has been taken down. Then, it's hunker down for the long cold winter. It's my historical Time in the Rut.
Being in a rut is like having a powerful, invisible leech on your forhead sucking your energy away. I continue to go to the gym everyday, lifting the same weights and running the same miles, but I do so with less energy. My sex drive wanes. My appetite drops. I go to Nick's but since the smoking ban took hold it's not really the same---the bartenders give off that tense vibe of smokers who will have to wait two more hours to greedily inhale a drag in freezing weather. A vibe I understand and remember, from my smoking days. And am I the only non-smoker who thinks the current ban is unnecessarily draconian?
Contributing to my rut was the news that a significant portion of my bonus will be paid out in restricted stock. Nice. I was counting on paying off my credit cards. Well, since my company's stock is down 85% on the year there's nowhere to go but up, right? Right?
My lovelife continues----everybody digs Marla. J emailed me that she has that "French chic" about her. Even Len remarked that she was even cooler than I said she was. She never ever gets dramatic or clingy or embarrasses me in front of my friends, either. And she cooked me a great pasta dinner last weekend. It would be just perfect if I loved her, but I don't. Somewhere there's a girl on her therapist's couch trying to figure out why her life is so messed up. She's taking a cocktail of drugs since prozac no longer does much for her. She's very well educated but has trouble holding a simple retail job. She cries often. She writes poetry. I will meet her in a bar this year and fall head over heels for her.
One thing I am able to do in the rut, however, is read. Beside my bed is a copy of Conscience of a Liberal, by Paul Krugman. His thesis is that the rise of the middle class and the great prosperity America enjoyed from the fifties through the early seventies were not the result of impersonal market forces but the result of government actions like the new deal, the wage controls of the Second World War and the rise of the power of unions. An intriguing thesis and he defends it well. It keeps me turning the pages.
Will it get me out of the rut? I don't know. Right now, I want spring to come. I want the coming recession to be brief. I want business analysts to stop using the words "possible bankruptcy" when referring to my company. I want Barack Obama to win the Democratic nomination. I want to visit Turkey. And I want to meet a woman who sweeps me totally off my feet in such a way that when we fuck I forget my own name and afterwards I tremble as if I have just climbed a high cliff without a harness and am aware now of the danger and proximity to death and because of that I know that I am truly alive.
Being in a rut is like having a powerful, invisible leech on your forhead sucking your energy away. I continue to go to the gym everyday, lifting the same weights and running the same miles, but I do so with less energy. My sex drive wanes. My appetite drops. I go to Nick's but since the smoking ban took hold it's not really the same---the bartenders give off that tense vibe of smokers who will have to wait two more hours to greedily inhale a drag in freezing weather. A vibe I understand and remember, from my smoking days. And am I the only non-smoker who thinks the current ban is unnecessarily draconian?
Contributing to my rut was the news that a significant portion of my bonus will be paid out in restricted stock. Nice. I was counting on paying off my credit cards. Well, since my company's stock is down 85% on the year there's nowhere to go but up, right? Right?
My lovelife continues----everybody digs Marla. J emailed me that she has that "French chic" about her. Even Len remarked that she was even cooler than I said she was. She never ever gets dramatic or clingy or embarrasses me in front of my friends, either. And she cooked me a great pasta dinner last weekend. It would be just perfect if I loved her, but I don't. Somewhere there's a girl on her therapist's couch trying to figure out why her life is so messed up. She's taking a cocktail of drugs since prozac no longer does much for her. She's very well educated but has trouble holding a simple retail job. She cries often. She writes poetry. I will meet her in a bar this year and fall head over heels for her.
One thing I am able to do in the rut, however, is read. Beside my bed is a copy of Conscience of a Liberal, by Paul Krugman. His thesis is that the rise of the middle class and the great prosperity America enjoyed from the fifties through the early seventies were not the result of impersonal market forces but the result of government actions like the new deal, the wage controls of the Second World War and the rise of the power of unions. An intriguing thesis and he defends it well. It keeps me turning the pages.
Will it get me out of the rut? I don't know. Right now, I want spring to come. I want the coming recession to be brief. I want business analysts to stop using the words "possible bankruptcy" when referring to my company. I want Barack Obama to win the Democratic nomination. I want to visit Turkey. And I want to meet a woman who sweeps me totally off my feet in such a way that when we fuck I forget my own name and afterwards I tremble as if I have just climbed a high cliff without a harness and am aware now of the danger and proximity to death and because of that I know that I am truly alive.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Politics and Sex
I was very happy that Barack Obama won last night's Iowa caucus. You can call me an Obama boy---yes. I've got a man-crush on the senator. I was trading emails with Ginger and she asked me about some of his positions, and then wrote that she didn't like Hillary because a woman shouldn't be president---they're too emotional while men think much more logically.
Huh?
I blinked, but then sentence was still there. Wow.
OK. A little background here. I was very involved in politics while I was in college---student senate, United States Student Association, all that stuff. I was in charge of lobbying efforts for awhile, worked on campaigns, travelled to DC a few times and even got my ass whipped running for the state legislature. It seemed like a career in politics might be in front of me, if not as a candidate (I inhaled and did a lot more) then as an operative or PR flack or speechwriter. However, it became apparent that I really didn't have the "stuff" for serious politics. I acquired a reputation as a party boy---I spent a lot of time in Georgetown bars when I should have been going over presentations that I was to deliver the next morning and I found the allure of available sex with female political volunteers too tempting to pass up. Having my name and picture in the campus paper meant that I got laid on a pretty regular basis which ain't bad for someone who can't throw a football and that's really what I got out of my early political involvement. Many of my friends have risen highly in government, and I wish them all well.
Consequently, I tend toward political cynicism. The sort of speeches most candidates deliver on the trail are filled with the sort of cant that the average hack can whip up in ten minutes with a whiskey hangover. And the ambition of most candidates will usually exceed their intelligence.
However, I was left speechless by Ginger's political sexism. And I wondered---does she really believe the shit she just wrote? If I heard that opinion from a guy, I'd have a quip ready that would probably make him my lifelong enemy. But from a woman? I chose not to respond to the email. I didn't have time to get into a long email back-and-forth.
Just for the record, I'm also perplexed by those who support Hillary just because she is a woman. Bill ran on a fairly pro-feminist platform in 1992 and votes from women upset over the handling of the Clarence Thomas hearings played no small part in his electoral victory. Having a wife who was tight with the National Organization for Women didn't hurt either.
That Bill Clinton had a "woman" problem didn't bother me per se. Truthfully, if I had had access to the women he did I probably would have been just as bad. What did bother me was the use of private detectives to dig up dirt on the women he had had sex with. And what really really bothered me was when the Monica scandal broke and the first reaction out of the White House was to paint her as a deranged stalker.
Remember? Now, readers of this blog already know that I'm not a "nice" guy. I have juggled multiple girls and have had affairs with married women. I won't win any good citizenship awards in the near future. However, what the Clinton White House did was too much even for me.
I'm sorry. A girl is nice enough to give you a blowjob on request, you should at least be nice to her. Especially when there's an age difference and an imbalance of power like that. If you want to deny, then deny. You won't be the first to lie about an affair, nor the last. But to smear, to publicly smear the reputation of someone whose only sin was to blow you and tell a friend about it is beyond arrogant. It is sociopathic. And that detail tells me all I need to know about the power couple who are angling to get back into the White House.
Huh?
I blinked, but then sentence was still there. Wow.
OK. A little background here. I was very involved in politics while I was in college---student senate, United States Student Association, all that stuff. I was in charge of lobbying efforts for awhile, worked on campaigns, travelled to DC a few times and even got my ass whipped running for the state legislature. It seemed like a career in politics might be in front of me, if not as a candidate (I inhaled and did a lot more) then as an operative or PR flack or speechwriter. However, it became apparent that I really didn't have the "stuff" for serious politics. I acquired a reputation as a party boy---I spent a lot of time in Georgetown bars when I should have been going over presentations that I was to deliver the next morning and I found the allure of available sex with female political volunteers too tempting to pass up. Having my name and picture in the campus paper meant that I got laid on a pretty regular basis which ain't bad for someone who can't throw a football and that's really what I got out of my early political involvement. Many of my friends have risen highly in government, and I wish them all well.
Consequently, I tend toward political cynicism. The sort of speeches most candidates deliver on the trail are filled with the sort of cant that the average hack can whip up in ten minutes with a whiskey hangover. And the ambition of most candidates will usually exceed their intelligence.
However, I was left speechless by Ginger's political sexism. And I wondered---does she really believe the shit she just wrote? If I heard that opinion from a guy, I'd have a quip ready that would probably make him my lifelong enemy. But from a woman? I chose not to respond to the email. I didn't have time to get into a long email back-and-forth.
Just for the record, I'm also perplexed by those who support Hillary just because she is a woman. Bill ran on a fairly pro-feminist platform in 1992 and votes from women upset over the handling of the Clarence Thomas hearings played no small part in his electoral victory. Having a wife who was tight with the National Organization for Women didn't hurt either.
That Bill Clinton had a "woman" problem didn't bother me per se. Truthfully, if I had had access to the women he did I probably would have been just as bad. What did bother me was the use of private detectives to dig up dirt on the women he had had sex with. And what really really bothered me was when the Monica scandal broke and the first reaction out of the White House was to paint her as a deranged stalker.
Remember? Now, readers of this blog already know that I'm not a "nice" guy. I have juggled multiple girls and have had affairs with married women. I won't win any good citizenship awards in the near future. However, what the Clinton White House did was too much even for me.
I'm sorry. A girl is nice enough to give you a blowjob on request, you should at least be nice to her. Especially when there's an age difference and an imbalance of power like that. If you want to deny, then deny. You won't be the first to lie about an affair, nor the last. But to smear, to publicly smear the reputation of someone whose only sin was to blow you and tell a friend about it is beyond arrogant. It is sociopathic. And that detail tells me all I need to know about the power couple who are angling to get back into the White House.
Reunions, Part 2
I dated J during the summer before my senior year of high school, and slightly into the fall before we broke up. We met at a tennis tournament. She was two years behind me---one of those geeky, talkative high school girls who join the debate team and write poetry and whose lack of physical grace is endearing when remembered years later. I was living in a small town consisting of about 6000 people while J lived in a nearby university town and there wasn't anybody living in my town who was quite like her.
J was a virgin when I began dating her and she was a virgin when we broke up. I really wanted to be her first, and part of it was my competitive nature. I'd like to think I've overcome a good deal of that as I've gotten older, but any adolescent boy who says he doesn't care about being a girl's first is lying. Or gay.
We remained friendly post breakup and when she called me to tell me that she had lost her virginity to her new boyfriend I was devastated. She invited me to a party at her parents' place, and after arriving I scoured the faces of the guys present, trying to guess who it was. In between, I made small talk with a short, dweeby looking boy in thick glasses. J came over, gave me a hug and introduced me to the boy. He turned back to the food table and she said,
"Well....what do you think?"
"About?"
"...That's him."
My lips spread into a smile and I started laughing.
"Oh, David, please don't...."
She looked as disturbed as I have ever seen her.
"Please don't...oh, David...he's really nice.....please don't laugh..."
She ushered me into a private room and reassured me that he was a really nice guy. I spent the rest of the party flirting with one of her friends. I had a great time.
We stayed in touch until she left for a prestigious east coast women's college. I saw her when she came to Chicago in 1994 and we had lunch. She had come out of the closet during college and was living as a lesbian. She was also still writing poetry.
We got together four years ago when she was in Chicago for her book tour---a published volume of her poetry. She was living in Paris, teaching literature and writing courses and pursuing her doctorate from the Sorbonne. She was with her mother and a friend of hers and we grabbed dinner at a local Thai spot and caught up on our lives. Then it was off to the next city on her tour.
She decided to come to Chicago for New Year's this year so four of us got together: Her, a friend of hers she had previously dated and at whose house she was staying, me and Marla. It was New Year's Day and it was unbearably cold and it was snowing hard all day and because my favorite independent coffee house is now a bank and my backup was closed we met at Starbucks and drank coffee and talked for hours and the conversation flowed easily and freely.
We decided to catch Sweeney Todd and grabbed dinner and drinks afterward and J told us about her life in Paris. I thought, here is a genuine success story. She's not rich, but she's doing what she loves and living in what is arguably the most beautiful city in the world. I compared my reunion meeting with her to my meeting with M two days earlier---M had become very status conscious from her time in New York and it was odd, remembering how motivated she had been in college by her political ideals to see her so consumed by money as an adult. J had developed into a charming woman who seemed comfortable in her own skin----a woman with a variety of interests, a great conversationalist and someone who understood the genuine value of the finer things in life.
We parted company after a couple of hours in the restaurant (and when is the last time I spent hours in a restaurant?) and I hugged her good night. And thought to myself, I hope I'm lucky enough to see her again soon.
J was a virgin when I began dating her and she was a virgin when we broke up. I really wanted to be her first, and part of it was my competitive nature. I'd like to think I've overcome a good deal of that as I've gotten older, but any adolescent boy who says he doesn't care about being a girl's first is lying. Or gay.
We remained friendly post breakup and when she called me to tell me that she had lost her virginity to her new boyfriend I was devastated. She invited me to a party at her parents' place, and after arriving I scoured the faces of the guys present, trying to guess who it was. In between, I made small talk with a short, dweeby looking boy in thick glasses. J came over, gave me a hug and introduced me to the boy. He turned back to the food table and she said,
"Well....what do you think?"
"About?"
"...That's him."
My lips spread into a smile and I started laughing.
"Oh, David, please don't...."
She looked as disturbed as I have ever seen her.
"Please don't...oh, David...he's really nice.....please don't laugh..."
She ushered me into a private room and reassured me that he was a really nice guy. I spent the rest of the party flirting with one of her friends. I had a great time.
We stayed in touch until she left for a prestigious east coast women's college. I saw her when she came to Chicago in 1994 and we had lunch. She had come out of the closet during college and was living as a lesbian. She was also still writing poetry.
We got together four years ago when she was in Chicago for her book tour---a published volume of her poetry. She was living in Paris, teaching literature and writing courses and pursuing her doctorate from the Sorbonne. She was with her mother and a friend of hers and we grabbed dinner at a local Thai spot and caught up on our lives. Then it was off to the next city on her tour.
She decided to come to Chicago for New Year's this year so four of us got together: Her, a friend of hers she had previously dated and at whose house she was staying, me and Marla. It was New Year's Day and it was unbearably cold and it was snowing hard all day and because my favorite independent coffee house is now a bank and my backup was closed we met at Starbucks and drank coffee and talked for hours and the conversation flowed easily and freely.
We decided to catch Sweeney Todd and grabbed dinner and drinks afterward and J told us about her life in Paris. I thought, here is a genuine success story. She's not rich, but she's doing what she loves and living in what is arguably the most beautiful city in the world. I compared my reunion meeting with her to my meeting with M two days earlier---M had become very status conscious from her time in New York and it was odd, remembering how motivated she had been in college by her political ideals to see her so consumed by money as an adult. J had developed into a charming woman who seemed comfortable in her own skin----a woman with a variety of interests, a great conversationalist and someone who understood the genuine value of the finer things in life.
We parted company after a couple of hours in the restaurant (and when is the last time I spent hours in a restaurant?) and I hugged her good night. And thought to myself, I hope I'm lucky enough to see her again soon.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
New Year's Eve
Marla and I had just eaten dinner and were at Nick's. At midnight, the smoking ban would go into effect so the staff was still putting up no smoking signs. However, no one had taken the ash trays away and people continued to puff.
Nick, the owner and namesake of the bar, came over to say hi. Before he opened his bars, Nick taught high school english and coached football. He is in his late 60s, cultured, always impeccably dressed and has the ruddy good-guy look that you see on so many successful businessmen and politicians. He is one suave muthafucka.
I introduced him to Marla and he regaled us with his latest effort to comply with city regulators: taverns are now required to install security cameras over their doors, at their own expense. He called city hall to tell them that he had installed the camera and asked where they wanted him to point it. He was transferred three times and no one could give him an answer. Finally, he said,
"Look, I've got the camera. I'm required to have it and I got it. Do you want me to show the street, the door or the women's restroom?"
We laughed. Marla flirted with Nick and it is a testament to her social skills that she knows how to flirt without making me uncomfortable. They took a turn on the dance floor and when Nick returned he complimented me on my choice in women. He told us about his philisophy regarding bars---too many bars are opened, in his opinion, by financial traders who just want to get laid. Then they hire penthouse types to work behind the bar but, as he put it,
".....are you gonna educate them? Are they gonna be able to talk about the election, or anything else for that matter? What kind of clients are they gonna draw? Some guys who never date might hang around the bar and stare at them, but they're not going to draw a good client base. You gotta have bartenders who are smart. And like people. I can't teach that......you'd make a great bartender, David."
"No way. I'd give too many free drinks."
I thought: actually, if money and benefits were the same as in my current field, I'd love to tend bar. Unfortunately, they are not. But I'd love to work for Nick.
He bought us another round and told us a couple more stories gleaned from his years of tavern ownership. He knows some good ones. He offered me a cigarette, which I declined.
"It's sad," he said, "but in five years this will not be the same neighborhood. It's changing."
He excused himself and went back to the poolroom. Marla and I continued to drink and listen to the band. She was the first to notice the commotion in the back. And the ambulance out front. I thought it was just another bar fight until I saw the ambulance team carrying Nick, strapped to a gurney, through the front door.
He waved as he was carried out.
Nick, the owner and namesake of the bar, came over to say hi. Before he opened his bars, Nick taught high school english and coached football. He is in his late 60s, cultured, always impeccably dressed and has the ruddy good-guy look that you see on so many successful businessmen and politicians. He is one suave muthafucka.
I introduced him to Marla and he regaled us with his latest effort to comply with city regulators: taverns are now required to install security cameras over their doors, at their own expense. He called city hall to tell them that he had installed the camera and asked where they wanted him to point it. He was transferred three times and no one could give him an answer. Finally, he said,
"Look, I've got the camera. I'm required to have it and I got it. Do you want me to show the street, the door or the women's restroom?"
We laughed. Marla flirted with Nick and it is a testament to her social skills that she knows how to flirt without making me uncomfortable. They took a turn on the dance floor and when Nick returned he complimented me on my choice in women. He told us about his philisophy regarding bars---too many bars are opened, in his opinion, by financial traders who just want to get laid. Then they hire penthouse types to work behind the bar but, as he put it,
".....are you gonna educate them? Are they gonna be able to talk about the election, or anything else for that matter? What kind of clients are they gonna draw? Some guys who never date might hang around the bar and stare at them, but they're not going to draw a good client base. You gotta have bartenders who are smart. And like people. I can't teach that......you'd make a great bartender, David."
"No way. I'd give too many free drinks."
I thought: actually, if money and benefits were the same as in my current field, I'd love to tend bar. Unfortunately, they are not. But I'd love to work for Nick.
He bought us another round and told us a couple more stories gleaned from his years of tavern ownership. He knows some good ones. He offered me a cigarette, which I declined.
"It's sad," he said, "but in five years this will not be the same neighborhood. It's changing."
He excused himself and went back to the poolroom. Marla and I continued to drink and listen to the band. She was the first to notice the commotion in the back. And the ambulance out front. I thought it was just another bar fight until I saw the ambulance team carrying Nick, strapped to a gurney, through the front door.
He waved as he was carried out.
Reunions, part I
My old college girlfriend M recently moved back to Chicago from Manhattan, where she worked as a legal recruiter. For background, see:
http://thechastenedgentleman.blogspot.com/2007/05/are-men-naturally-snoopy.html
M is a few years younger than I am. She is a slender woman of Filipino descent. We met in college where we were both involved in student government. She has recently battled back from cancer, and has recovered. She looks as good as she used to.
It was the day before New Year's Eve. We met at Nick's and she mentioned her old boyfriend N's recent marriage.
"I was really surprised he married someone who's Jewish."
"Why?", I asked.
"Because Jewish women are.....not attractive."
"Excuse me?"
"Asian women are objectively more attractive than Jewish women. Jewish women tend to be overweight. Asian women are thin. Also, Jewish women are just not....pretty."
I should mention here that M dated N on and off throughout the years beginning when she was in high school and continuing through law school. I don't think she ever got over him. I looked at her to see if she was joking. She was not. I decided to feel her out about the types of guys she had been dating in New York.
"A lot of Ivy League athletes. I don't click with arty guys, but I like guys in finance."
"As long as they can keep up with you sexually?"
"Yes. You always could."
"So could you."
I showed her some recent pics from my rock climbing trip, and she told me that I had gotten better looking as I aged. I then moved in to kiss her. She moved away.
"Uh....no. Nice try, though."
"Thank you. I try."
"It's funny, though. Most of my male friends want to hook up with me."
I thought, well, you do send out a hook-up vibe, but I didn't say it. Instead I smiled and said,
"Well, you still look very good. That's probably why."
My ego didn't get crushed by the rejection and it was nice seeing her again so why not leave her feeling good about herself? We shared some good moments and some shitty moments in college, but there are no grudges or hard feelings on my part or on hers. She's an ineluctable part of my past.
I brought out some old pictures of us together and talked about my own dating experiences. Then she opened up about hers. From there, we talked about our careers. And our lives. We talked well into the evening.
After she had left, I found myself wondering how we had managed to date at all. I had always admired her academic drive and ambition, but I considered her one of the least introspective women I've ever dated. She enjoyed the fact that I was well-read and took her to concerts and plays, but was appalled by what she considered my lack of ambition academically. She thought my friends were coffee shop phonies and I thought hers were shallow prigs. Yet, when everything was said and done, our relationship was the one that defined my college years.
And I wouldn't trade a moment of it for anything.
http://thechastenedgentleman.blogspot.com/2007/05/are-men-naturally-snoopy.html
M is a few years younger than I am. She is a slender woman of Filipino descent. We met in college where we were both involved in student government. She has recently battled back from cancer, and has recovered. She looks as good as she used to.
It was the day before New Year's Eve. We met at Nick's and she mentioned her old boyfriend N's recent marriage.
"I was really surprised he married someone who's Jewish."
"Why?", I asked.
"Because Jewish women are.....not attractive."
"Excuse me?"
"Asian women are objectively more attractive than Jewish women. Jewish women tend to be overweight. Asian women are thin. Also, Jewish women are just not....pretty."
I should mention here that M dated N on and off throughout the years beginning when she was in high school and continuing through law school. I don't think she ever got over him. I looked at her to see if she was joking. She was not. I decided to feel her out about the types of guys she had been dating in New York.
"A lot of Ivy League athletes. I don't click with arty guys, but I like guys in finance."
"As long as they can keep up with you sexually?"
"Yes. You always could."
"So could you."
I showed her some recent pics from my rock climbing trip, and she told me that I had gotten better looking as I aged. I then moved in to kiss her. She moved away.
"Uh....no. Nice try, though."
"Thank you. I try."
"It's funny, though. Most of my male friends want to hook up with me."
I thought, well, you do send out a hook-up vibe, but I didn't say it. Instead I smiled and said,
"Well, you still look very good. That's probably why."
My ego didn't get crushed by the rejection and it was nice seeing her again so why not leave her feeling good about herself? We shared some good moments and some shitty moments in college, but there are no grudges or hard feelings on my part or on hers. She's an ineluctable part of my past.
I brought out some old pictures of us together and talked about my own dating experiences. Then she opened up about hers. From there, we talked about our careers. And our lives. We talked well into the evening.
After she had left, I found myself wondering how we had managed to date at all. I had always admired her academic drive and ambition, but I considered her one of the least introspective women I've ever dated. She enjoyed the fact that I was well-read and took her to concerts and plays, but was appalled by what she considered my lack of ambition academically. She thought my friends were coffee shop phonies and I thought hers were shallow prigs. Yet, when everything was said and done, our relationship was the one that defined my college years.
And I wouldn't trade a moment of it for anything.
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