The Turnstile

Now I'm thinking this Lava thing is like a constantly revolving turnstile. Obviously Enrico-Not-So-Suave didn't work out. Not that either of us stood a chance with each other anyway. I was too free-spirited and he was, well... too much.

Toulouse and I broke up the other day. He was back on Messenger, full Euro-style, no foreplay, just launched directly into, "Do you want to watch me masturbate?" I said, "No, not really." And that pretty much cemented it... the relationship, not a sculptural representation of his phallus. P.J. suggested he go into a dark corner, away from the general populace, to do his business. Ah, the cultural differences between Europe and North America, the Great Divide. I only entertained this one time notion of Toulouse because he was hot, bringing back a saying I once heard: Sexual harrassment is only sexual harrassment IF one of the parties is unattractive. Truer words have rarely been spoke.

I had to cut Ghana off at the knees the other day. It was in response to his telling me how excited he was to have found me. Joy! He prepared me in advance with the placement of everyone in his family tree, how I should best address them and how he was slowly building that nest egg (for us?). He was a very nice fellow and I really loved the idea of having a penpal so far away, but I keep forgetting that people aren't 9 years old anymore and penpals seem like a waste of time to most people. Sigh.

The Dark Russian speaking Ukrainian is slowing proving himself to be bi-polar. He likes it best when I show absolutely no interest in him, but when I do he completely severs contact, or makes contact brief enough to sustain belief of viability, but Jesus, I'm not 18 anymore and I can't play "Fuck me, you're asshole. No, fuck me, you're a bitch" games with anyone. If it had been a relationship built on the solid foundation of sex, sex, lurid sex, where I could teach this young man all the intricacies of carnal love, that would have been one thing, but I don't think I could. This Eastern European mentality of "what's the point of living" wears a bit thin after a while. Still, Dark is hot.

Just so you know, whoever you are, there are a few different scenarios that typically play themselves out in my foray of all things Lava related. They are thusly, in no particular order, they just particularly happen to me:

1) Some guy shows interest via IM. I launch his picture, slowly breathe in and out to push bile back to its place of origin. He writes something poetic in my little IM window like, "hi". This has happened constantly with some young fellow, who shall remain nameless to protect not him, but me if he ever finds this fucking blog. Let me paint a visual: black and white photo; location: bathroom; his *best* sweatsuit on; both hands behind his back. A friend asked what he was hiding back there and I said, "Obviously a butcher's knife in one hand and his father's freshly decapitated head in the other. Mom was there taking a trophy shot." I close said window and get the hell off of Explorer vowing never to go on Lava again.

2) Some guy shows interest with the Lava Interest Indicator - a smiley face. His user profile is hot linked, which I launch, eyes bugged, still trying to push bile back down convinced I'll now get gallstones from all of this billic yo-yo-ing. The mean age of interested folk has been 57. There are jowl removal procedures, follic treatments that include run of the mill hair transplants and poor comb-overs with a strange auburn veering on fire engine red colouring. This colour is found nowhere in nature. Their greatest asset? Their Miata. I close said window and get the hell off of Explorer vowing never to go on Lava again.

3) I'm sitting around, late at night, drinking too much beer... alone... and I go into the kiddie section of the site. 18-24 are my parameters. I spray estrogen all over the swing sets, close said window and get the hell off of Explorer, knowing I'll peek at the home page the next day. Like a fisherman, lines cast and slack, waiting patiently for her prey, knowing full well I am a dirty old girl.

4) I'm minding my own business, and the business of hot, young, sinewy flesh and some guy writes singing the praises of my (pick one) fine qualities, ability to express myself, my "wacky sense of humour", blah, blah, blah and of course I'm flattered. This is the worst because I end of chatting with them. BIG MISTAKE. Once you chat they, all of a sudden, think you're interested in them. Then you have to find some way to backpeddle out of going for the seemingly innocuous coffee date. I'm convinced now that the suggestion of a date over coffee = the guy is cheap and doesn't want to spring for cocktails, which loosens a person up, or worse, dinner, which is too much of a financial and time commitment.

5) Some young herring has taken a nibble on my line! Ah. The moment of truth. I find out I'm horrible at online sex. I get way too embarrassed and end up closing the window and getting the hell of Explorer, not before giving sweet pilchard my hotmail address, just in case I find myself a little more brazen the next time.

So out with the old and in with the new. New, in this case, doesn't really encapsulate improved. But there is still room in my little Lavaic turnstile.

Twice yesterday I found myself in the grips of #4. Some comedian by the name of Simon and some lawyer by the name of Rick. Understand I hate actors and I hate lawyers. I think both are dancing in the 6th ring of hell, according to Dante or someone else wise enough to know they are self-serving assholes. But, strangely, they're nice enough. AND they think I'm *awesome*, so they can't be too bad.

Rick has difficulty on Lava's engine. Rick is a luddite. Rick is probably 92. I had to explain to him what a scroll key was. ! He also didn't know what directional arrows were. ! He gave me his phone number thrice, which freaked me out, but he was having so much difficulty that I felt I had to call, just to bail him out. Great. Now he has my phone number. Stupid, fucking call display!

Simon is a stand-up comedian. Apparently he's been doing it for 25 years. I've never heard of him. I've never seen him before. I don't think he's that funny. He thinks I'm hilarious. Great. We'll switch off for a while. Maybe he'd like to be a waitress instead.

So, my little weekend is over. Back to work tonight. Back among the peops. Just in time. I was starting to get sucked into this strange vortex of 1's and 0's. I do blame the Matrix for the conceptual proliferation of The One.

Still looking for Neo...

Yo, Adrian!!!!!!

I was out on a "date" last night with a cross between Sylvester Stallone and Lou Ferrigno. His name was Enrico... Suave? Ever since Rocky I I'd had a thing for that type character: sweet, simple, loving. I'd carried an aching need to be someone's Adrian, a fantasy kept since I was 8 years old, when Rocky came out on the big screen. Still considered by me one of the greatest love stories ever told.

Enrico-not-so-Suave was not Rocky.

We were to meet at Il Gatto Nero, a lovely little pizza/coffee bar on the corner of College and Crawford Sts. He was late. And unapologetic. He had left a message on my machine, but I didn't retrieve it until I got home. There was an excuse (fell asleep), but still no apology.

Telling.

Sitting on that patio on a summer-warm late September evening, people laughing, concert go-ers smoking between sets across the street, slow but smiling waitresses passing, rarely stopping unless flagged, wafts of both cigarette smoke and delightful snippets of conversation, made me feel like I was on a trip somewhere in Europe. It was completely refreshing for the spirit. I wasn't at all mad that he was late. I was strangely grateful to not have to share this moment, nor dissect it by explaining how happy I felt.

The funny thing about meeting someone online is one receives this 2D image of this potential suitor/stalker/ friend and sometimes a person is less than properly represented. Sometimes the picture does justice, sometimes the light flatters too much, sometimes the camera hates the subject, rendering him unphotogenic. Reject. I hate saying this, but I was meeting him in Little Italy where there are an inordinate amount of swarthy European men who didn't look dissimilar to him. I liken it to him meeting me in Chinatown for the first time. There were physical qualities that needed close scrutiny prior to meeting. So there I was, prior to said date, launching Explorer, typing in my password in Lava, going over his profile picture with a finetoothed comb so I wouldn't embarrass myself by going up to just any buffed Ital Fagioli on the block.

[Short, dark, wavy hair, greenish eyes (fuck, I can't see that from a distance!), small forehead (good, not everyone has that), 5'8", buffed, wifebeater shirt (what if he doesn't wear that?)]

I spotted him first. He was walking through the restaurant as I was taking a long chug off my beer, smoking a Dunhill and watching a game of Cowboys and Indians. True. Dallas and Washington were playing.

So he comes out to the patio with an exaggerated exasperated look on his face, like he had to move Heaven and Earth to get to me. He's from one of those "M" places. Milton. Malton. Minden? I stand up to greet him. And maybe this is just me, but whenever I've had a few conversations via email or IM, I figure we're friends. I hug my friends. So I go to hug him and the first thing he says is, "Wow, you're tall!" Yes, I suppose I am tall. According to our profiles there should have been a 1" difference between us. There were 3 full inches between us. The midget fibbed.

We sit and I flatter him about his shirt selection, which he just runs with. He's thrilled I noticed, but then went spiralling into self-flagellation over spending too much money one day on clothes ($300). So then conversation goes like this: Blah, blah, blah, clothes; blah, blah, blah, hair. Finally I ended it by saying, "Okay, let's talk about something else. Hair is where I draw the line."

This is what I learned:
He's a serial dater. Speed dater, in essence. He's heavily implicated in this new phenomena of being jaded because he is anxiously and feverishly looking for The One. He's been on scores of dates with dozens of women who sometimes come alone, sometimes come in packs. In the beginning he was patient, just like anyone would be. He took time to get to know someone. There was room for play maybe. He would gingerly find out about her. Time was on his side. But then things stopped working out for him this way. He discovered an incidious side to this Brave New World of Dating. People lied.

He'd dated women who didn't disclose their 3 children; a stripper; women who promoted, not starred in, porn; ladies, while in their previous marriage, were asked, and complied, to take on new lovers while having their husbands watch; there were gang-bangers; there was once a woman, and when he told me the story I thought she was just being friendly, he was convinced was bisexual, that was hitting on their waitress. To him all of them lied because they didn't fully disclose their entire past to him prior to meeting. He was upfront. He never lied. He was an honourable fellow.

5'8" and fully 3" shorter than I.

I asked him if he'd had conversations with them. Correspondence. You glean a lot about a person through words they choose, the speed of IM interaction, the timber and inflective lilts and regional accents when you are lucky enough to finally hear their voice. He said he had. He really wanted to find that nice girl, but he seemed to hook up with hot sluts. Present company excluded, of course. I'm a whore, not a slut.

He figures that every new girlfriend he has has to usurp the last one. Upgrades. This I understood. I likened it to living quarters: As we get older, move, change houses or living spaces, every new place we move into should be a slight improvement over the last place. Makes sense. What I think he was looking for was this perfect creature that essentially has to have the best qualities of every woman he's ever met... combined. This guy has a (Lava) life sentence.

The interesting thing about it was he was now trying to speed the process. There was less time spent unearthing slowly, gently dusting off the bones with a special acid-free brush. Instead it was commando-style bulldozing. Nothing subtle, just cutting to the chase. The interview. We'll see if the applicant is qualified. Now, I'm really no better. Lava is a dating site. I had no romantic intention nor inclination towards this young man. This wasn't even a reconnaissance mission. I wasn't sniffing anyone's butt. I was just there because we had a nice dialogue and my intentions were very friendly, never amorous. At one point I'd said I would only be relegated to friend status. Boy, did he ever turn on the "wouldn't it be great if we had sex" eyes at that point. I think I ended up blowing smoke into one of them. Non-smokers love that.

I wasn't budging, and he hates awkward silences, so he tells me about this one girl he was dating. Super hot. Dazzled by her appearance. It was their second interaction. She had invited him to a houseparty, replete with posse, but had little foresight into her filthy booze-imbibing appetite for the evening. She had called Dial-a-Bottle and coquettishly asked if he would pay for the 40 oz of 180 proof, as she'd left her fictious money in her fictious bank account in sunny Switzerland, I guess. He didn't want to, but did anyway. On their subsequent date she, again, came with posse in tow. They were at a roadhouse style pub. He excused himself, like a gentleman, to go off to the loo, minutes after the bill had been dropped. And just like the fella who leaves his trailer park home for a pack of smokes, he never came back.

But he's an honourable fella.

I think the best thing that came out of this was, just as I've marvelled at that point in a relationship where one party is mirror to the other, I felt a real mirroring last night. He was uptight, cheap, vain, living some code of ethics that was incredibly warped, seriously un-fun, ambitious in a gross way and made some interesting choices in dating material. The mirror held to me was someone vivacious, fun-loving, less than serious, thoughtful, caring of the earth and of its inhabitants. And mostly, and this was the most important, I was someone who was not jaded.

Still enjoying the chasing... of my own tail.

Welcome to Your Dirty Years

I think I've always been a sexually inquistive person. When I was eight years old I would play porno Barbies with my best friend Heathie in her bedroom, stopping momentarily whenever her Dad George would come in passing a vacuum over her crumby carpet.

Before chatlines and onlines, there was just the phone, plain and simple. No number to call, really, just the random act of dialing. I had received several phone calls of an explict nature before the age of 10. I remember being upset when all the other kids on the street saw a pervvy streaker driving around with an open raincoat and no pants on, inviting kids to come and have a wee peak at the wee package. I'd never seen a penis before. My background was Chinese and if there is anything definite about being Chinese is there is a serious sexual repression/shame of nudity from birth.

When I was 2 years old, and I remember this, I was hanging out with my good friend Kelly, who has since moved to Australia. She came from one of those lovely hippie families where nudity or partial nudity was completely accepted and encouraged. The ultimate freedom. She, also 2 years old, and I were running around with just our diapers/underwear on (I graduated quickly from diapers to undies, convinced now, to save money for the old man). My mother took one look at me from the top of the front porch steps and said, "Aiiiyaaah! Get back inside and put some clothes on!" This was my first experience of shame.

But sex was so titilating! I felt so alive when engaged in it or thinking about it. Heathie and I would share any sort of tidbit we could get our hot little pervvy hands on. George had a stack of Penthouses, Playboys and Hustlers down in the basement rec room, hidden under towels used to dry the dog on a wet day (but not too wet to damage any of the reading material). He'd fix himself his usual G&T whilst perusing new tantric positions and Jugs, Jugs, Jugs, sandwiched between current events and political rants. George was *awesome*.

One day we were sitting around reading passages of advice given by Ms. Xavier Hollander, Penthouse's sexual advice columnist. The image of her mouth is still burned on my brain: glossy with freshly applied red lipstick. The lipstick was in the shape of a dick. Nice. Heathie read a reader's question aloud, whose answer will always stay with me to the day I die. The question was ostensibly like this: "It takes me a long time to come manually and I don't have a lot of time. Is there a quicker way to come?" The answer: slide the snatch under the bathtub's faucet. It shouldn't take too long.

Well... everyday, and I was 12 at this point, I'd dilligently go home, and "bathe". Mom thought I was growing up and getting into my "clean" years. What she didn't know was I was just starting to get dirty.

Last week I went for a lovely visit to my new friend PJ's house. As he is older than me by 17 years, I asked him what he thought about how the world was working these days. He's seen a bit more than I have. He was really excited mostly about this internet connectivity. He was thrilled about Lava being an engine that could conceivably bring all kinds of people from different demographics, social structures, certainly areas, race, creed, age. All of it. He phrased it beautifully, "It's the ultimate idea of democracy." And he's right.

I decided to go on Friendster about a month ago. Friendster's really a great idea because you can input all the things you're interested in, or are important to you and they all become a hot link. If, for example, under the favourite music category, you, as I, inputted Interpol, the engine would automatically link you to everyone else on the site whose interest also veered Interpol way. You can do this with life philosophy, literature, movies, etc.

I've met a few people on the site. The first guy, his name was Mike, sent me some innocuous standard form letter wanting to "get to know" me more. Another nice feature about Friendster is you're able to "make friends" and store them on the bottom of your profile. So if some guy, say like Mike, tries to contact you, you can also see who he considers friend. So I check them out. They all have their pictures up and they all look remarkably like people in my extended family. All olived skinned, almond eyed Asian girls. Hmmm. I wrote back to him saying, "If you've got something you wish to discuss with me, say interest in music or literature or something, that would be one thing. It seems, young Mike, you have a bit of a case of Yellow Fever. I'm afraid I don't go out like that." THEN he writes back saying something like I should look in the mirror before making a statement like that. Then accused me of posting a picture that wasn't actually a picture of myself. Apparently I'm too hot to be myself. That was awesome! Then I enlisted one of the nicest features Friendster offers: User Block. I'll never hear from that Mike again.

Then I get this email from Inkoom. He's originally from Ghana, West Africa, now living/working in Hong Kong as a contractor. He was so lovely and sweet. So I wrote him back, trying to match his lovely and sweet. English is his second or maybe 14th language, for all I know. Writing is basic and not great fun. But I love the idea of having a penpal so far away.

Checking my inbox I discover there is someone else vying for my attention. Arnault from Toulouse, France. Hello. Or rather, bonjour. 26 years old. Hot. Fun. Loves my taste in music and offers that we "have sex right now". I countered with, "GET ON A PLANE AND COME TO ME". I SO wanted him to be my new boyfriend. However he does this to a great deal of women. I think he has a harem the size of the average population of the playfield during a World Cup tournament, including the benchwarming fallbacks. He suggested I get a computer cam, but I'm more into flesh and blood and a little more flesh, if you know what I mean.

So then I get this IM from Dark, this 22 year old Russian speaking Ukrainian tamale whom I end up getting rather wet over. At first I wasn't interested; he was pissing me off. I realised later it wasn't really him, my blood sugar had dropped and I just needed something to eat. After a healthy dose of Bolognese I was back in the saddle. Slippery!

This boy kept me up for 1 1/2 hours; just pure... sexual... fantasy... fodder. It wasn't an especially provocative conversation. I don't really need much to go on though. A picture's nice. It's helpful. But it's the IDEA of being with him that was totally hot.

22. And apparently a FUCKING VIRGIN!

I have a coffee date tonight with my new friend Enrico. Italian. Met him on Lava. He's not for me, but he's really sweet and nice and BUFFED. God, my friend Josh is right: I am like an 18 year old boy! Pervert.

So who knows what will happen next? I really like how things are going. It's swell to have boys in ones life. It's even better to have a muse... or an amusing gaggle.

Happy Birthday To You!!!!

I was working the other night and on one end of the restaurant I was serving this couple who were Freshly in Love. It was grand! The best thing about them was I got a precursor into their love affair when I was out back having a smoke and I was watching them, pre dinner, momentarily sating themselves on themselves. Appetizers, if you will. He was leaning against a concrete post, she was leaning on him, their bikes were straddled beneath each of them, wheels turned to suggest maybe the Gary Fischers found a spark too. They were not lookers, in a conventional sense. He looked like he did late night audio post production on the CBC. She looked like she may have worked at Noah's, the health food store on Bloor. I've always marvelled at how people in health food stores are the most unhealthy looking humans around. I guess because they need it?

Eventually they moved inside. They were sitting, enjoying each other's company, glowing, smiling in the most contented way. When it came time to ordering food they ordered enough not just for them, but for about 2 more. I started laughing, in a nice way. With them, not at them. I understood.

There is this amazing thing that happens when you're truly enthralled with another person. Your life takes on new meaning. All of your senses are not just engaged, but everything is heightened and life seems so much... more. More delicious, more intoxicating, light is dazzling and everything has a clearer, more pronounced magical quality to it. And all you want to do is bask in the glory of this love you have, fuck like mad and eat like crazy. They were on the eating like crazy portion of the evening.

On the other end of the restaurant I was serving this other couple. They were attractive in a North American sense. They looked fine together. Both had dark hair, dark eyes, good complexions, both tall, slim, but, it was a Passion-Free Zone. Allow me to preface this by saying I am a very unusual server. I'm really a bartender posing as a waitress. I ask leading questions and I suggest things. I listen to problems, always offer solutions, or at least my 2 cents worth. I've broken up couples and I've been invited to weddings afterwards by the ones who've heeded my advice and found new love, the love they wanted.

So back to the Passion-Free Zone. I took one look at them and said, "You're newly dating aren't you?" At first they felt a compulsion to lie, saying, "No... we've been together for 2 years." The truth won out when they admitted to only having been out together 2 or 3 times. I said, "No sex yet, though." Apparently this was under discussion. The guy was very interested in knowing how I determined they were new. The way they interacted was as if they were conducting an interview. You knew immediately they had found each other on one of those dating sites. What they knew about each other was the unimportant stuff: work; whether they wanted kids or not; truth or fiction about how much the other made; how far they lived from one another, hence the convenience of love; and of course what they looked like in advance. I was telling them about the Freshly in Love, on the other end of the restaurant. I said to the Passion-Free Zone, "They're at that delicious moment in their relationship where they exist purely on each other, hot sex and eating like pigs. Remember that?" Neither of them knew what I was talking about. All I could do was shake my head and say, "I feel sorry for you."

In my life, my little lovely life, I've fallen in love. One of the things I've relished is the first moment you set eyes on someone. Someone special, that is. You see them. They see you. You imagine kissing them, maybe. Maybe you imagine them naked. One of the luckier hazards of having worked behind the bar for as many years as I have, one tends to develop a lack of shyness. A certain brazen attitude takes over with the safety of having 2' of wood between "us" and "them". So, in walks this guy.

He's hot, in a very dark way. I didn't realise how much I liked dark. Moody, without petulance. Kind of Russian Lit, if we can use that sort of comparison in a human. I was trying to change the music. There was this incredibly vain singer on, Joss Stone. Gah! I hate her. Well, hate is a very strong word. I just don't think a 16 year old girl can have that much to sing the blues about. Just as I don't think 8 year old hip hop kids can sing about sex. The only "babies" they know are their kid sisters. Anyway, I'm waxing unpoetic about Miss Stone and he says, "I'm singing the blues." I ask for a definition. "Did your dog die?" He said no. "Did your woman leave you?" He said no again. He wouldn't tell me. But there was something there, both in what he wasn't telling me and what was between us. Energy. Friction. Something fucking delicious.

Because I tend to use music as a balm, thank you Mogwai, thank you Interpol, many thanks to The Polyphonic Spree, I decided to dedicate a song to lift the spirits of this nameless, very interesting fellow. The selection of discs remaining in the place was sparse, but I do believe that music can move mountains and even more than drink or other substances, can change minds and make us forget the shit that exists momentarily in our lives. I put on the Scissor Sisters. Not the best choice, but still I had only a limited selection.

I went back on the floor to do the mundane tasks in which I'm expected. Apparently it's part of the work. While on the floor I said to Nameless and Hot, "This next song will hopefully make you feel better. It always does me." He motioned to me and yet came over, very close, and said softly in my ear, "I think the only thing that would make me feel better... is you."

YEAH!

One should be lucky to have interactions like that. He made me, admittedly, a bit wet.

I'm looking at being on Lavalife as more of a social experiment. I know in my heart of hearts I'll never find The One or The One Right Now on it. It's become too disgusting, really. A "here are my lists of requirements" sort of interaction. The Human Shopping Network. I never know what my requirements are, really. They change so often. What I needed yesterday is not what I need today. Who knows what I'll need tomorrow? Never been one to plan too much. Love living in the moment. You never know when a seriously sexy moment will happen in your life, and that's the best thing about life, the not knowing. It catches you completely by surprise. Birthdays should be like that. That way there are no expectations. Someone should just announce, and this could come at many points of the year, Hey, it's so and so's birthday! I've just decided! Bring cake! Bring presents... or not. Doesn't matter. Ah, to celebrate for no apparent reason. Just for the sake of celebrating!

If We're Talking Fruits Here, Why Wasn't Dating Called Pruning Instead?

So I'm back on the ridiculous online dating engine. I'm torn between this is *awesome* and this *sucks*. My experience varies between meeting perfectly lovely creatures with whom I enjoy their conversations, but am coupled with the dire fact that I would never touch them with a 10' pole, and perfectly gorgeous creatures that I keep telling to shut the hell up.

What gives?

Yesterday was a really interesting day online. I'd received emails from people that wanted nothing more than to tell me I had a lovely written profile on the site. No strings attached; I was "too young" for one of them. They just wanted to tell me. There was also this guy who was a complete dick. His dickness permeated his timbre of speech as well. Arrogant, plastic, kept asking me my vitals and what I did for living. The most interesting thing about this guy was the fantasy of fucking the sense *into* him. Apparently he was "looking for someone to 'keep up' with" him. So, in essence, he was looking for another asshole. I told him he wasn't lovely enough. That of all the marvellous questions to ask in all the world, he had to ask the most base, unimportant questions of all. Still, and this is how shallow I can be at times, I was talking to him only because he was hot. Boo for me.

Good news, though: I finally downloaded Instant Messenger. I *love* Instant Messenger. It's an adorable interface AND you can attach emoticons! I didn't attach one, but I received a few from my friend Trevor. They cracked me up. It even lets you know when you have mail on your hotmail account. It's awesome. I don't know why I waited so long. Maybe it's because I'm on a Mac and fucking Bill didn't authorize a Mac version that was beyond beta until fairly recently. Fucking Bill.

I still haven't met anyone worthwhile. I don't think I'm all that picky, really, in the grand scheme of things. I don't have a list of requirements a man needs to be in order for me to spend time with him. Yes, I want the elusive "connection", but I've been having a worthwhile time on the dating site because I'm finding ultimate humanity. This is something I've sought throughout my life. I want the soft underbelly of people. I want, even for a glimmer of a moment, to be able to see the real person. I think you can if you're paying attention.

Last night I made a new friend via IM. Oliver. Historically, if I didn't like the way a person looked I'd close the IM browser when they tried to make contact. Oliver was not physically my type. Apparently I was his. He'd been married for 7 years, now separated, with an 8 year old girl whom he shares custody. He and his ex-wife get along really well, but the reason they split up was because he didn't love her and he really didn't understand what vows were at the time. He was great; when he typed "vows" he did so with a capital V. I guess we all have to learn that lesson. I did. Vows should be capitalized. They are that important. Oliver confessed he got married just so he could have a big party. He never did answer me when I asked if it was a good one.

I met PJ yesterday as well. He's 53 years old, awesome, super fantastic human being, whom anyone would be lucky to be with. The only problem, and this is the only problem: he's 53. I have been unable to conceive of being close enough to a person, close meaning making out, who is creased and excessively bagged around the eyes and dramatically thinning in hairline. I just can't do it. It physically repulses me at this stage of my life. Back at work now I had made the unfortunate mistake of telling my fellow cohort that I thought his friend was cute. The friend in question was 22 years old. I was told I was "perving" on him. Fuck, I'm now a pervert. Well, whatever. At least I recognise that this is only a phase. I've gone through phases where I was severely attracted to men of 50, mostly because I enjoyed their outlook on life. It's pure acceptance of everything. Things bother them less. Sure they get upset over injustice, but mainly it's a blip and they can comfortably go back to peaceful times, fully accepting people, congenial and full of comraderie. They are a very special sect of men. Many of them have been relegated to the realm of "Daddy" for me.

This online potential dating thing is also good in the respect of weeding out potential losers. Sure there are great generalisations involved, but I wouldn't be me if I didn't do that. It's making me get closer to what I want and need. I don't care what a person looks like. I do care what a person smells like. I don't care what a person does for a living, but I do care if he's just doing it for the love of not the work, but of the money. I do want someone taller than me. I do want someone chivalrous. Someone kind. Someone considerate. I do want someone who can write beautifully. And mostly I want someone brave. I want someone who believes in me but also believes in himself. Someone not afraid of leaping off metaphoric cliffs. It's exhilerating.

I think I was in the car when I had this thought: We're all searching for The One. I said in my bold typed faced opening line, on the aforementioned dating site, that "I blame The Matrix for the conceptual proliferation of The One". And it's true. No truer than at this moment in time. We currently live in a society where there is so much choice. We are bombarded by images, products and propaganda spewing things are "New and Improved", "Now with 50% more _____", "Because you're worth it". There are 100's if not thousands of channels to choose from. Historically I've made not the greatest decisions on partners in crime. Some were great. Some were caustic. All were necessary. All of them were the right choices at the time. Were any of them what I thought was "The One"? Not sure. At the time it didn't matter. At the time it was the only decision to make. They were the Ones Right Now. You never can tell, I don't think, if you've got the One. Not right away, certainly. You can tell if you've got something. Something special or unique right away. If, of course, everyone's being honest. But in this era of more is better and The One does exist, people are so retiscent about being with anyone unless they are perfect. Now I'm not one about settling. You should never settle. But what I think is if two souls are compatible, where love and laughter prevail, where both find the other devastatingly beautiful, where trust and honour are key then, really, that's all there needs to be. Who the fuck cares about the rest? It's all changing anyway.

Live Forever? In My Mind They Do

Just finished watching John Dower's Live Forever: The Rise and Fall of Britpop, a really great documentary on the British pop/ rock phenomena in the 90's. The movie featured interviews with music critic John Savage, Pulp's Jarvis Cocker, Blur's Damon Albarn, Liam and Noel Gallagher and others in affiliated artistic roles. Very interesting take on the pop music scene in correlation to the political environment around the turning of the tides from Thatcher's conservative rule to the working class Tony Blair. The dissolution of ideals in both realms, musically and politically, was a very interesting watch. I'd really considered the 60's to be the last of the political revolution within a musical context especially in Britain.

I had no idea the huge battle between Blur and Oasis was not about who was the better band, who made the best music, it was a rich vs. the poor battle. Blur, though not by our standards, were considered the "haves" and Oasis the "have nots". Liam prattled on about working in construction and having a milk run while Damon did not have to. During Thatcher's rule she maintained a class structure inherently British. When Blair stepped in the whole point was to even it out. The underdog, just like in America, would come up on top. Instinctively I've always loved the underdog, but when the politicians and the record companies vie to manipulate us by marketing music this way, it just makes me feel used and gross. I just want to listen to the music and get a little moved. Maybe forget how insignificant I feel at one moment, or if I don't feel 100%.

I've loved musicians and, truthfully, male musicians because I've felt they've taken greater risks, on a whole. Not all the time, of course, or this wouldn't be a grand generalisation, of which I'm prone. I've loved Mogwai because they've honed their instruments so well that I liken the range of their play as levelling a tree to the ground with a chainsaw and the next moment being able to make origami tenderly, lovingly, every note the breath of life. *Music*.

Oasis has had catchy tunes. I've never really considered them fine musicians or anything remotely high brow. They've never felt they were either. I've felt the same about Blur. I've liked both bands, but neither had ever touched my soul. Well, maybe Oasis did a little bit. Neither band did what Pulp did for me. Or Radiohead for that matter.

I did develop a bit of a crush on Damon Albarn from Blur. I liked his actions and movements. There were things he didn't want to talk about, but he said them without saying anything at all. I'll always listen to what comes out of people's mouths, but I always compare it to their very unique physicalities that accompany the words. I tend to know when someone really doesn't know what he's talking about. I tend to know if a person is ashamed of an action he did in the past. I'll know if he was hurt by an incident, trying to cover it up or pretending it didn't mean anything. I'll just inherently know. It's in their eyes. In the sheepish ways they smile. It's in their fingers that they have to keep busy to take their minds away from a painful place. John Dower did a very good job at being able to decipher the truth from the fiction, even though everyone in the movie spoke what they thought was their own personal truth at that particular time. It doesn't matter whether it is the absolute truth, because that is completely subjective, what matters is what one thinks is the truth.

And I think that's it. I've been searching for truth my whole life. Truth and authenticity, both within myself and the people I surround myself with. After seeing this movie I ended up having the most respect for the ones that weren't so nice. I loved the nice ones, but there is something to be said about the ones that stick to their convictions. Sometimes they offend, often they make people gasp with horror, but sometimes they say something within all their contradictions and elevated narcissism that makes people reconsider something; makes them a little more human, a little more real and vulnerable. It's hard though. There are so many pulls and distractions and unhealthy options. That's the price that comes with fame, I guess. There's this mandate to keep pleasing, to keep churning out brilliance, to be more genius than the last time 'round and to keep reinventing oneself. In the end, often, they have no clue who they are, or worse, they have this completely distorted view of who they are. (Apparently Liam Gallagher thinks he's a reincarnation of John Lennon.)

I am so dazzled by a person who can just act and do and speak whatever is on his mind. I love that. I'm not sure whether it's simply because I operate in the same manner, but it's the only way I want to live and it's the only kind of person I'd like to have in my life.

Crazy Wisdom...

So I'm sitting here in my glorious apartment, sun streaming in multiple windows of generous size, drenching my feet, thinking, "I think people are working pretty hard today." Everyone I've emailed has really wanted to write back, but alas, they are stuck in the mire of the workaday day. Doing it for the Man. Doing it doggie-style.

Out with old friends the other night I was recounting a couple of disgusting jokes/scenarios ie. The Cleaveland Steamer, not to be confused with the Cincinnati Steamer and the good old fashioned Harry Houdini. I shall not bore with the descriptions of any or all of these. If at all curious, all definitions can be found @ www.urbandictionary.com. Anyway, I was struck, after telling these stories to these kind and sweet people that I will probably never find love again. Why? Because I'm too disgusting.

I'm not a bad looking package; some have accused me of being a rather long drink of water. I think I take care of myself. I don't dress to impress anybody, though sometimes I, admittedly, impress myself. I do have an inherent sense of not wearing anything that will make my stick out like a sore thumb, this includes, but is not limited to plunging necklines and barely snatch covering skirts, or worse, skorts (skirt in the front, shorts in the rear). Good God! I think I don't wear or display peacockity because I have a higher than average set of lungs, and this is not metaphor to alluding to massive jugs. Not huge in that department, though my mother is Head of Faculty in the Department of Mammorial Glands. 4'11" with a DD cup, she resembles the Asian version of the Chicken Lady. I *love* her. What I am talking about is I actually have a decent lung capacity, a strengthened diaphragm (let's keep it clean, for fuck's sake), and a rather large, resonating cranium. What this causes is 160 decibels of sound. 130 is the pain threshold. Yeah. So when you couple the above, with an inherent ability for comedy, often finding myself the center of attention, not needing it, just happening to be there, well... then... suffice it to say necks crane, disapproving looks ensue and often people change seats with a look of disgust on their faces. The reason I have a lot of guy friends is because they actually like this side of me. Of course I wouldn't touch them with a 10' pole, and who knows if they'd want me anyway. My whole point here is maybe I'm too disgusting to be with.

Last night I ran into my good friend Tyrone, who was out with his friend Chris. Chris is 26, with a girlfriend, but he looks. Not buying anything, just window shopping. Anyway, I was talking about the potential of not ever finding anyone again and he says, "Well, if you took that energy you have towards groups of people and just channel that towards the guy and only the guy, not directing it to the entire room, you'd be fine. Also, you shouldn't tell those jokes."
So I said, "Really? Chris, you can go fuck yourself."

I'm 36 today. I'm 36 and I'm not going to moderate my behaviour just so I *might* find love again. That's fucking bullshit. One day there will be an extraordinary creature, whom I'm absolutely thrilled and proud to be with and in turn he will be thrilled and proud to be with me, but until that day I am NOT ever going to be anything that I am not. This includes "toning it down". Fuck that and fuck him for even suggesting it. Who knows what his girlfriend's tempering right now.

While talking to my mother the other day, she asked if I was eating. I told I was. There is this quaint Chinese expression of "Food has no taste when eaten alone". Often true, but yesterday I made myself a grilled cheese sandwich and Lipton's Chicken Noodle Soup. That was pretty tasty. I'd taken to reading nothing while I'd eat a meal, thinking the meal might taste better if I didn't have one of my senses distracted. I don't have cable and my television isn't hooked up properly unless it's moved into the living room for "Special Movie Night". But then I decided there are so many sweet, "little", totally digestible snippets/segments in Harper's magazine and, hell, I've got so many magazines that are vying for my attention right now and so little attention span for any of them during downtime. So, yesterday I found myself kind of looking forward to a little snippet.

Tom Robbins, who brought us Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, wrote a piece in September 2004's issue of said Harper's, called In Defiance of Gravity. At the start he was prepared to do a header and end his life, his very good life, because of something he read. It was an excerpt from Robert Stone's ironically named, "Fun With Problems". Pretty dire stuff. Nice writing. Really takes the reader through some harrowing hoops of emblazened morose suffering. Addiction is the worst for me. It is reason #1 why I can't sit through Requiem for a Dream. Too hard, too taxing for my little self. I want to save people and I can't save them. The story can be found @
http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/content/?020715fi_fiction

Robbins had written about choosing myrth over the shit that can occupy our general existence. There are some people that are just gifted in that realm. Apparently the Tibetans call it "crazy wisdom". Yes, we can continue on and on and just get wrapped up in the masterbatory reflex of martyrdom, claiming "nothing's wrong" and passive/aggressively taking it out on our best friends, or we can just choose the path of knowing, truly knowing, and this is even if we don't believe it at all, that the circumstances we find ourselves in now are not going to be the circumstances we will find ourselves in tomorrow. Things will alter slightly. Things change constantly. If we allow the crap of our lives that sometimes permeates to control us, that's when we have the problem. Choose to make light of it. I know I've written about the fucking sad clown episode before, but I think there's merit here.

Ack took me out for the old girl's birthday dinner tonight. Though it was my birthday he was upset because things didn't go his way. The place was too "fancy" (which it wasn't), the service was poor (which it was), it was too expensive, blah, blah, blah. In short, he had a very bad time. In the end I had to force myself not to get sucked into his petulant and moody behaviour, a quality that always drove me mad during our marriage, but something I just learned to accept about him.

We have choices every moment of every day. We could choose to be upset over something, or we could choose to find some merit in that same thing. When we fuck up we've just been taught a lesson, so if that same or similar situation comes at us again, we'll be a little more prepared for it the next time. That's wisdom. Wisdom comes from experience. Nothing but shit comes from expectations. Expect nothing. My boss and I were having a discussion on this topic, well, a similar topic about whether two people were meant to be together forever. He told me I should learn to lower my expectations. I told him, "Dude, the last person I had sex with looked like E.T. naked. Consider my expectations lowered."

I don't know. I will eventually find love again. In the interim I will be grateful to have the generous love of my 15-year-old cat that offers his face, his ears, his paws, his chest, the top of his head for smooching and occasionally (oh, joy!) his ass to me. I will continue to be delighted in the marriage proposals I get from unsuitable characters (Yes, this happens often). I will keep my candlelight vigil, on the lookout for Him, but secretly know he'll come when I've completely abandoned hope for anyone to ever love me again... properly. In the meantime I will continue to have ruckus good times with the good people that find their way along my path, continue to love and nurture the creatures I call friends and, mostly, do the job I was meant to do down here:
Just love 'em all.