I have always wanted to date a musician. I mean, who is cooler in this world than a musician? He would be soulful and somewhat sensitive, creative, melodic, cynical and borderline narcissistic. And lets be honest, musicians are dead sexy, even the ugly ones. I met Mike online through SSN, and he was a musician. A pianist, DJ and, out of more bizarre things, a member of a 12 piece saw orchestra (I’m still unclear if this is cool or weird), Mike was the musician I wanted to date. He lived in a great part of town, talked about playing in some really great clubs and in general seemed like a pretty swell guy. I mean, I’m supposed to be impressed by these things, right? It’s hard to know how to judge a person, and when you have not yet met a person face to face, it is really tough to be able to figure out which personality traits are the ones you should be paying attention to.
We met on a sunny summer evening on one of the best patios in Yorkville. Up walks a shaggy-haired, redheaded man, slightly portly, and it’s hard for me to tell if he’s attractive or not. I figure I can always reserve judgment for after I have had a couple of drinks. I mean, it’s always easier to tell if you are attracted to someone once you have a good beer buzz going. The first thing that I notice, though, after the boyish charm, is the nervous hand gesture. Everyone has a nervous tick, and if I can’t pick yours out it’s only because you are aware of it and work on covering it up. Mike had Monty Burns hands (you know, from the Simpsons). He would put his palms together and tap his fingers pinky to index, as though to say “eeexcellent” at any moment.
Conversation ensues. Dating a lot means answering the same types of questions over and over again, but in the interest of a potential second date, I usually try to take it all in stride. Where are we both from? Mike is originally from Ajax. (Never mind how much that instills fear in my heart). I grew up around Yonge and Eglinton—Uptown Toronto. And then it happens. He starts singing “Uptown Girl”. This could be cute. He is a musician. He can carry a tune, so it’s not offensively bad. But my life is not a Broadway Musical—people do not spontaneously break into song in my universe. School? I did badly in Organic Chemistry. Tried to pass it several times (I really wanted to be an Art Restorer). “She Blinded Me with Science”.
The evening progressed with intermittent serenades. Lulls in the conversation were filled with humming of random tunes. This was far from charming. It was just plain freakish. And daydreams of a musician one day writing a sexy song about me were dashed by the fact that he may sing it to me in public over Portabello Burgers, between conversations about vegetarianism and dental floss. I was mortified. People at other tables kept looking over at the crazy singing guy at my table, the one that I was sliding deeper and deeper into a pint of Guinness to pretend that I didn’t know.
Bumming my cigarettes all night I can deal with. Singing an enchanting ditty about cigarettes while doing it, I can’t. It’s that simple boys and girls, it’s that simple.
