I really liked Dan. I mean, he was probably the funniest guy that I have dated in the past year. I also would never go out with him again, let alone talk to him again. The problem is, he wasn’t really funny in an outright humorous way, more so a ha-ha strange than a ha-ha funny. You see, Dan was the most bitter, hostile and angry man I have ever met. There is a serious chip on his shoulder. Maybe a boulder. At first I thought it was an act, sort of in the way that Janene Garofolo has that angry cynical thing going on. But it wasn’t an act. From the moment I walked through the door to the Green Room, to the moment he left me at the subway, our conversation was just one long rant about exactly how much he hates this messed up world and the moronic denizens of our society.
We met online, through a mutual extreme dislike for bad grammar. One Sunday night, a random and sudden MSN chat about how terrible Sunday nights are at home alone led to an impromptu meeting. He seemed like a pretty interesting guy. He had just returned from establishing some kind of IT infrastructure in Mongolia. I never knew they needed IT in Mongolia. Apparently, neither did the Mongolians, making our bitter protagonist just a little more bitter. Apparently, this also means that there is little else to do in Mongolia than drink overproofed vodka. This does not shock me.
So we meet on an early Sunday evening in a café in a back alley. If I didn’t know any better, I would think this has all the makings of some kind of strange and twisted Black Comedy. And lo and behold, it was not far off. Close to the door he sits, chain smoking and pint half empty. He has been there 10 minutes. He mutters an apology as he cannot be within 10 feet of beer or within 30 seconds of negativity without a drink in hand. I find this honesty somewhat charming. After all, he’s very cute in a Black Comedy kind of way— Dark hair, dark eyes, black framed glasses, the ubiquitous black trenchcoat. I grab a beer and sit down. I get few words in between rants. And I keep snickering, which he just scowls at. I am to feel his pain, not mock it, which I am not, but he is so bitter and negative it’s truly comical. The highlight story is while we talk about relationship baggage. The last blind date he had, he admits, he had reduced to tears within the first hour. It started with the baggage talk. He then pushed her off a park bench (the reason behind which is still unclear to me), causing a seizure. He left her there crying because she proceeded to berate him not only for being insensitive to her issues with her ex (why do people discuss exes on the first date anyways?) but also for pushing her off a park bench and causing a seizure (understandably, I would think). Charming.
After three hours of hearing about why people suck, bars suck, non-smokers suck, non-drinkers suck, the café we were in sucked and pretty much everything else sucked (in a nutshell—I mean, you get the picture), we parted ways. In the rain. The weather sucked.
I saw his online profile again a few weeks later. His original list of 10 random things about him had turned into the following, the most brilliant and truly witty thing uttered by him:
10 reasons why this doesn’t work for me:
1. I’ve started judging people by the horrible interior decorating displayed in the backgrounds of their pictures. You might think pastels look nice, but deep down you know they suck.
2. Too many people here clearly cannot spell, or have invented their own form of grammar. Word to the wise – if the comma confuses you, avoid the semicolon completely. Please.
3. I’ve become strangely fixated on people who write about their love of both laughter and fun. Bingo. Who the hell doesn’t like laughter or fun?
4. Endless correspondence. If you could have a pen pal from anywhere in the world, would you honestly choose your home town? Get out, meet people. If you’re somewhat worried about your personal safety, have your parents drive you.
5. Shopping lists. Originally designed for fruits and vegetables, but now apparently relevant to finding a “soul mate”. Ugh.
6. People referring to themselves as “intelligent” or “easygoing”. I’m now completely clear on how subjective and interpretive these two terms really are.
7. Yes, it’s almost a god-given right to be boring. Much love to those who’ve been practicing.
8. Baggage. Apparently there was a big sale somewhere and I missed it.
9. I used to think that a bar wasn’t the optimal place to meet that special someone. I take it back.
10. Answering the same questions over and over. Welcome to the online version of Groundhog Day.
Bingo.
Friend of a friend. Blind dinner date. One sentence sums it all up. One little sentence.
“Enough about me, let’s talk about Auto Racing”.
Let’s not. Can I gouge my eyes out with a spoon now?
He used to be affectionately referred to as The Most Boring Date in the World. Little did I know there would be many more even more dreadful than he.
So cute, so cute… oh so cute. My god, when he emailed me on SSN, I was sure I was in an alternate universe. The photos I saw were great. I never date guys that good looking. After one email, and one phone call, we were meeting for cocktails after work in the financial district. He was a financial writer for an international news agency. I find myself highly attracted to financial types. Type-A personalities really get me pumping. I was psyched.
When he walked in, he looked little like his pictures. It obviously was the same guy, but instead of the sexy, sultry casual guy in the photos walked in a shy, held back guy in a sport coat and thick glasses. He was still very cute, just not the sex god that I thought he would be. He kept laughing nervously, and seemed to have very few social skills at all. He was obsessed with all the Steel Towns I have lived in—Buffalo, Detroit, etc. He asked question after question, as though living in gritty burned out towns was the epitome of cool. It’s not. Buffalo is depressing. Believe me. Every time I tried to change the topic, asking him about himself, he promptly changed it back to Steel Towns. A true one track mind. I mean, I want a varied conversation, not one I think is repeating itself ad nauseum. Get over it and move on.
One dimensional is tedious and boring. Even if you’re a former sex god.
Jonah was the first and only guy that I have ever dated who is younger than me. I’ve typically always dated men on average 10 to 20 years older than me, but figured that maybe younger guys have something to offer. After all, there closer to their sexual prime than guys in their forties, have less emotional baggage and still have a somewhat naïve prospect for the future. They can’t yet be so bitter and jaded as those who have had a few more spins around the dating block. Nice idea in theory, but the practice was a little bit different.
Jonah was (or is, I guess, unless something happened since) a programmer for a funky national television station. A pop culture prince that could be a lot of fun to hang out with. We decide to go to the new Bambu on the Lake, both having truly enjoyed the now sadly missed Bamboo on Queen. He had strange facial hair, but I decided to let that slide. Creative expression and all, I guess.
Conversation was stilted, to say the least, and always elicited one of two responses. 1. Wow, you seem so mature. 2. Wow, you’re so interesting that you seem so much older than me. I was one whole year older than him. I don’t want to feel “so much older” or “so much more mature” than him. I want to be young and have fun. I am not growing old gracefully, I am fighting it every step of the way. Thanks for reminding me. And reminding me. And reminding me.
Feeling about 60, I went home and soaked my feet. After all, what else is an old broad to do?
I met Chris in a bar downtown. It was a busy night in a notorious College Street Pickup joint that I was honestly only at because it was a friend’s birthday. And it was a bad pickup, or at least I assume it was a pickup. He was convinced that I was an old friend named Deborah, which, obviously, I was not. As it turned out, however, we hit it off, and went out the following week. Chris was Irish, and believe me, I am a true sucker for an accent (except for Southern US, you can keep them). He was also a professional skateboarder (and unless you are Tony Hawk, I’m not sure how you can do that, especially here in Canada where, unlike California, Extreme Sports are not considered to be an economically viable profession). Tall and lanky, and everything you would expect from a professional skateboarder (c’mon—you were wondering if he was marginally literate, weren’t you), he was unlike anyone I had ever dated before in my life. We were complete and polar opposites.
Conversation was strained. No talk of politics, religion or any deep matters here. And what of his Irish childhood? Whatever. His rather perplexing choice of pursuing his profession in Canada? Whatever. His favourite pastimes? Whatever. Until the conversation touched onto music, a subject he was very passionate about. Actually, he was really only passionate about the perplexing fact of whether the White Stripes are prefabricated pop culture punk fluff, or legitimate self-created artistes.
In Sum:
The White Stripes are not prefab as they had a concept and a sound of their own creation before a major label signed them.
The White Stripes are prefab because we cannot legitimately say that they had that sound before they were signed.
The White Stripes are not prefab as they had a cool, even though gimicky , image of their own creation.
The White Stripes are prefab as the record industry took this image and grew it exponentially until it was nothing more than a gimmick.
The White Stripes are not prefab pop culture fluff as their ambiguous social relationship and rockstar lifestyles are of their own devise.
The White Stripes are prefab pop culture fluff as the label perpetuated this ambiguous social relationship and rockstar lifestyle in order to create media hype and sell albums.
Ad Nauseum.
The Episode of the White Stripes versus Pop Culture took almost an hour. I couldn’t follow it anymore. Every argument for was also an argument against. I was amazed that he had put this much thought and effort into the consideration of this band, who he wouldn’t commit to fully liking anyways (“I think they’re too mainstream”). It was the only topic of conversation that did not elicit a “Whatever”. And I was not interested in it in any way shape or form.
Whatever.
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