Sight Unseen
I took a leap of faith. It was really a reconnaissance mission; to boldly go where most sane people stay far, far away. I went out, on a date (during the day, mind), with a man... sight unseen. No picture, just a resume. This is how it read:
"I'm a relaxed, friendly guy who enjoy sports, movies, and meeting new people. I have a great job and great friends.
a bit about me:
magazines: the economist, harpers, new yorker, wallpaper
books: the art of war, concrete
places: a cafe on college, a bar on queen, a dance floor on queen, an underground space on queen
pictures: Cindy Sherman, Jeff Wall
summer: rocks, trees, water, sand, sun
winter: fire
looks: the consensus is that I'm good-looking
vanity: none
a bit about you:
chow is not ciao
you get excited about the things that interest you, and when you talk, the excitement shows
you can wear two hundred dollars worth of clothes, the scarf cost one hundred, and you look good
vanity: none
My idea of a fun date: seeing a live band, wandering the city, a night of dancing
I like to talk about: anything but the meaning of life, my friends, movies
My friends would describe me as: down-to-earth, a good listener, independent
Personal Details
Gender: Male
Age: 43
Height: 5'10"
Body Type: fit
Ethnic Background: white
Smoking Habits: occasionally
Drinking Habits: socially"
The Meeting:
We were to meet on a picnic table across from that lovely Balzac cafe in The Distillery District. I was there on time, circling the area on my bicycle, ready at any moment to ride out of there like a bat out of hell. There was a man sitting on the assigned picnic table that looked 10 years older than the 43 year old assertion. Upon closer inspection, as he was not craning nor straining his neck looking for someone hot, or otherwise, he was casually chatting on his cell phone, I deduced it was not him. All those Nancy Drew books have paid for themselves.
There were good looking passersby with friendly smiles and cameras in hand. The area had become one of the photogenic destinations in Toronto. None of them were him.
Then a man came along...
He was wearing rectangular sunglasses. He had sandy blonde hair that looked like he himself had cut with a pair of gardening shears. The occasional smoker was smoking furiously. He had on a black T-shirt, a white, billowing, unbuttoned button-down shirt; an overcoat with smeared dust on its back, and a pair of once black denim jeans, washed in hot water a couple of times, with an unusual stain on the upper right thigh that resembled a cross between jis and glue. He had the gait of a high school goth; slow, long, spritely stride. He looked like an aged version of a southern U.S. state high school student, weapon concealed, just about to take out the entire lunchroom.
And he was wearing a silk scarf that was more than likely originally retailed at $100.
The "You" in this context was a projection of himself. He was his own dream girl.
I waved.
Late and unapologetic, he approached with a sly smile. With his ever nearing steps I muttered under my breath, trying not to make my lips move too much, "Oh... good... fucking... Lord!" But I am human and humans love the whole idea of a car crash scenario. He sat in the sun with all his glorious faded black and began baking and sweating profusely. I shook his hand and told him it was nice to meet him. Apparently he really needed a latte. I watched him walk away. He sensed me watching him watch him walk away. I was devising scenarios of how he might have gotten those dusty smears on his back when I believe he began to swagger.
When he came back he was still sashaying, black silk paisley print scarf every now and then flicking his face, tasting his coffee. He sat back down beside me, maybe 2' away. I had on my prescription sunglasses. All the better to see you, my pretty. When I talk to people I look directly into their eyes. When I have my sunglasses on, I feel I have free license to wander, to explore the entire face.
He had what looked like two thick paint brushes peering out of each nostril. And as he was recovering from a bout of the sniffles, he kept tugging at the end of his nose. Could he not feel the thatches? I had to move my eyes. Diversion! Diversion! I moved to his cheek, glistening in the sunlight. He had no sideburns! It looked alien. He seemed at that moment to be a worshipper of Veeger. Diversion! Diversion! I moved to his ear. Wisps of fine, blonde hair, spider-like in its delicacy protruding one inch.
"looks: the consensus is that I'm good-looking"
Mother's statements do not count.
I felt if I looked at him for too long I'd be cast in stone. Though I'd had nothing to eat yet I felt swoony. Information overload. So... many... bad... aesthetic... decisions!
Fight or flight?
I raised my fists, remembered the context, lowered them.
"I'm starving", I said and chose the restaurant.
Looking at him directly wasn't so bad, especially once I took my glasses off. He gained a certain Cybil Shepard Vaseline-lensed glow. Also, and this may explain why all things thatch-related went unnoticed, he had downcast nostrils. Pragmatically, this would be very convenient if there were heavy rains falling and he was without an umbrella. Thatcher would not drown.
I have a theory that if an initial date is going well, if all parties express interest, the parties choose light meal options. Salad, usually for girls. Butterflies in the tummy don't make for great appetite inducers. He ordered a Caesar salad. I ordered the seared calves liver smothered with onions and bacon. And 2 pints of Stella. If I was going to have lunch with Thatcher, I was going to keep myself properly sated and amusing to myself.
Had he been merely unattractive, excessively cranially hirsute, but interesting, that would have been one thing. Thatcher was a painful bore.
"you get excited about the things that interest you, and when you talk, the excitement shows"
Yes, of course he'd like that because in addition to his boring, he was also blessed with a voice that is not only monotone, but also sounds like he is gargling with a mouthful of marbles.
During the course of the meal, this man drank four lattes. Four. The excessive caffeine coursing through his body refused to raise his externalized output levels, though the pulling on the thatches became ever more vigorous and intense.
Throughout lunch I was talking about a young man, whom I'm still afraid to write about, but who is currently tugging at my heartstrings. Thatcher understood. I thanked him for a very nice lunch and for pulling me outdoors on such a lovely day. He, in turn, thanked me also. Wished me well. Shook my hand, the one he'd been yanking the thatches with...
After a moment, out of eyeshot, I promptly scrubbed.
"I'm a relaxed, friendly guy who enjoy sports, movies, and meeting new people. I have a great job and great friends.
a bit about me:
magazines: the economist, harpers, new yorker, wallpaper
books: the art of war, concrete
places: a cafe on college, a bar on queen, a dance floor on queen, an underground space on queen
pictures: Cindy Sherman, Jeff Wall
summer: rocks, trees, water, sand, sun
winter: fire
looks: the consensus is that I'm good-looking
vanity: none
a bit about you:
chow is not ciao
you get excited about the things that interest you, and when you talk, the excitement shows
you can wear two hundred dollars worth of clothes, the scarf cost one hundred, and you look good
vanity: none
My idea of a fun date: seeing a live band, wandering the city, a night of dancing
I like to talk about: anything but the meaning of life, my friends, movies
My friends would describe me as: down-to-earth, a good listener, independent
Personal Details
Gender: Male
Age: 43
Height: 5'10"
Body Type: fit
Ethnic Background: white
Smoking Habits: occasionally
Drinking Habits: socially"
The Meeting:
We were to meet on a picnic table across from that lovely Balzac cafe in The Distillery District. I was there on time, circling the area on my bicycle, ready at any moment to ride out of there like a bat out of hell. There was a man sitting on the assigned picnic table that looked 10 years older than the 43 year old assertion. Upon closer inspection, as he was not craning nor straining his neck looking for someone hot, or otherwise, he was casually chatting on his cell phone, I deduced it was not him. All those Nancy Drew books have paid for themselves.
There were good looking passersby with friendly smiles and cameras in hand. The area had become one of the photogenic destinations in Toronto. None of them were him.
Then a man came along...
He was wearing rectangular sunglasses. He had sandy blonde hair that looked like he himself had cut with a pair of gardening shears. The occasional smoker was smoking furiously. He had on a black T-shirt, a white, billowing, unbuttoned button-down shirt; an overcoat with smeared dust on its back, and a pair of once black denim jeans, washed in hot water a couple of times, with an unusual stain on the upper right thigh that resembled a cross between jis and glue. He had the gait of a high school goth; slow, long, spritely stride. He looked like an aged version of a southern U.S. state high school student, weapon concealed, just about to take out the entire lunchroom.
And he was wearing a silk scarf that was more than likely originally retailed at $100.
The "You" in this context was a projection of himself. He was his own dream girl.
I waved.
Late and unapologetic, he approached with a sly smile. With his ever nearing steps I muttered under my breath, trying not to make my lips move too much, "Oh... good... fucking... Lord!" But I am human and humans love the whole idea of a car crash scenario. He sat in the sun with all his glorious faded black and began baking and sweating profusely. I shook his hand and told him it was nice to meet him. Apparently he really needed a latte. I watched him walk away. He sensed me watching him watch him walk away. I was devising scenarios of how he might have gotten those dusty smears on his back when I believe he began to swagger.
When he came back he was still sashaying, black silk paisley print scarf every now and then flicking his face, tasting his coffee. He sat back down beside me, maybe 2' away. I had on my prescription sunglasses. All the better to see you, my pretty. When I talk to people I look directly into their eyes. When I have my sunglasses on, I feel I have free license to wander, to explore the entire face.
He had what looked like two thick paint brushes peering out of each nostril. And as he was recovering from a bout of the sniffles, he kept tugging at the end of his nose. Could he not feel the thatches? I had to move my eyes. Diversion! Diversion! I moved to his cheek, glistening in the sunlight. He had no sideburns! It looked alien. He seemed at that moment to be a worshipper of Veeger. Diversion! Diversion! I moved to his ear. Wisps of fine, blonde hair, spider-like in its delicacy protruding one inch.
"looks: the consensus is that I'm good-looking"
Mother's statements do not count.
I felt if I looked at him for too long I'd be cast in stone. Though I'd had nothing to eat yet I felt swoony. Information overload. So... many... bad... aesthetic... decisions!
Fight or flight?
I raised my fists, remembered the context, lowered them.
"I'm starving", I said and chose the restaurant.
Looking at him directly wasn't so bad, especially once I took my glasses off. He gained a certain Cybil Shepard Vaseline-lensed glow. Also, and this may explain why all things thatch-related went unnoticed, he had downcast nostrils. Pragmatically, this would be very convenient if there were heavy rains falling and he was without an umbrella. Thatcher would not drown.
I have a theory that if an initial date is going well, if all parties express interest, the parties choose light meal options. Salad, usually for girls. Butterflies in the tummy don't make for great appetite inducers. He ordered a Caesar salad. I ordered the seared calves liver smothered with onions and bacon. And 2 pints of Stella. If I was going to have lunch with Thatcher, I was going to keep myself properly sated and amusing to myself.
Had he been merely unattractive, excessively cranially hirsute, but interesting, that would have been one thing. Thatcher was a painful bore.
"you get excited about the things that interest you, and when you talk, the excitement shows"
Yes, of course he'd like that because in addition to his boring, he was also blessed with a voice that is not only monotone, but also sounds like he is gargling with a mouthful of marbles.
During the course of the meal, this man drank four lattes. Four. The excessive caffeine coursing through his body refused to raise his externalized output levels, though the pulling on the thatches became ever more vigorous and intense.
Throughout lunch I was talking about a young man, whom I'm still afraid to write about, but who is currently tugging at my heartstrings. Thatcher understood. I thanked him for a very nice lunch and for pulling me outdoors on such a lovely day. He, in turn, thanked me also. Wished me well. Shook my hand, the one he'd been yanking the thatches with...
After a moment, out of eyeshot, I promptly scrubbed.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
1:03 p.m.
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