Hero Seeking Vigilante

This blog now serves as a historical log of my quest for love. A collection of stories and articles more than blog posts, I hope that it can continue to amuse and entertain beyond it's active lifespan.

An adventurous young computer nerd/ gaming geek travels into the world looking for love in all the wrong places. And posts the terrible terrible consequences right here.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

All of this

I suppose this grand experiment deserves a grand ending.
Six months in the field, doing weekly research, weekly battle with the women of Los Angeles.

Fireworks perhaps, or an execution of traitors.
But I've learned too much by now, to end this with a bang.

I'm not going to describe our first kiss, or tell you what she's scared of. I'm not going to tell you what our obstacles are, because every relationship has them, and it's personal. It's no longer my business to share with the world.

I haven't said much about her, because I knew after our first date that she was special. I knew after our first date, that I'd be writing this post.

I can tell you that she's a planner, and a thinker. She's afraid of spiders, but brave enough to face them. She knows enough to say what's on her mind. She dresses herself with a perfect compromise of function and form. She doesn't have a dog, but I know she wants one. She goes to sleep, and she's dreaming of what we might be. We. One day. Us. Together.
Which is nice, because I don't have to pretend that I'm not doing the same thing (See December 20th).

I don't need to pretend anything around her.

I'm still insecure, and I'm still cynical, but I know better than to talk about it. The dank recesses of my mind are puddling with brain juice and unfounded worries. Immense squishy walls of grey fat conceal my problems within a labrynth of curves, and that's just where they belong. These really aren't our problems anyway, just constructs of angst and worry, based on little more than the difference of two numbers.

I guess what still suprises me is that I'm not pretending anything. I'm not holding anything back. I am spam, and I am sometimes paranoid. I am spam, and I am sometimes obsessive. I am spam, and I have the answer to every question, whether I know anything about the subject or not, and she can see everything I am, and she's not scared.

I'm still worried she will be, that all in all I may be a little too cynical, or a little too jaded, but right now I'm not afraid to trust her with my heart.

Right now, she is taking a final.
Right now, she is thinking of me.
I have lodged myself into her brain, she says. Sometimes, she says, she must try very hard to think about something that isn't me. Which is nice.
Because sometimes I'm afraid to say that I feel that way about her.

Right now, I am missing her. And I am thinking about how her hair smells, and how her back feels. I am thinking about her voice, and how it's different when she's nervous or comfortable. I am thinking about how she looks with her eyes closed.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

The Zombie Question

Overnight, the world has ended in a quiet apocalypse as an unknown disease turns friends and neighbors into shambling corpses, hungering for the flesh of the living. You are mysteriously unaffected. What would you do?

When put up to the question, Blandine (archangel of dreams) answered without hesitation. I think you will all be pleased to know that she is a woman with a disaster plan. I am developing a strong infatuation.

"Find loved ones and see if they're affected or not (if I'm not
affected, there might be something in my genes that lets me remain
immune). Get myself some shotguns and ammunition. Raid the
supermarkets and find some food that would last a long time. Find a
secure room to hide in somewhere, maybe a bank vault.
I'm not sure how long I'd last."

When pressed for details, she did in fact put out.

Waking up from her sleep of dreams, Blandine finds her older brother awake, and guarding the pantry door with a golf club.
"Sis... Mom is... Sick." he says. The muffled scream of a diminutive woman is heard, and there is a pounding on the locked door behind him.
Reports of a global pandemic sweep through the radio broadcasts. "The dead are rising from the grave, and the living are falling ill. All citizens are requested to stay in doors. Scientists are investigating, and we will stay on the air..."
The TV channels have already lost their broadcast.
"We've got to get out of here." She says. "I know what is happening, and there are more coming. We need food, and we need guns. Wal*Mart."

I imagine that they keep copies to all of their keys on a set of hooks near the door.
Her family has what I believe is a Navigator, equipped with what she believes is a "goat killer grate." It's big enough to hold a month's worth of food, and powerful enough to crawl over a steadily growing mound of human corpses. All the while keeping her and her brother safe and comfortable with individual passenger climate control, in-dash DVD player, and heated seats.

Since they live in a modern, planned community, Wal*Mart is near by. And the upper middle class population density is low. Unfortunately, the short bus carrying Wal*Mart greeters has already arrived, and crashed through the front door.
Broken glass, and a destroyed security grate means they won't have any trouble getting in, but it means they cannot stay.

Death being the great equalizer, the Greeters find that they are no longer at a handicap, as their ferocious hunger, mangled limbs, and poor mental capacity are now traits shared by all their peers. Complete Equality. Harrison Bergeron style.

They have a specific shopping list: Guns. Ammo.
Canned Soup. Frozen Veggies. Chocolate.
Unsalted Nuts. Granola bars.
Lots of Water.
A portable Generator.
A hot plate.
Several coolers.

This will not be easy, and they will need to engage the bulk of the Greeters by hand. Percy Prickard, 34, who has long since lost the use of his legs, finds a new pleasure in running with his arms, still firm with muscle that has yet to rot. Rushing, galomping towards Blandine, his ferocious charge will be cut short by her aluminum baseball bat. Lots of Head trauma, and very little blood.

They load their equipment into the back of their navigator, and head off towards their grave. I mean The Bank.

The idea is that it is a secure facility. The idea, is that once they kill everything inside, they can recover the keys from the manager, if she is there, and lock the place down. The idea is that if worse comes to worse, if they can get in, they can be safe in the vault.

Worse will come to worse, because it always does. Their ammunition will run out. Their food will spoil or become contaminated. Day after day, Blandine's brother will go out, looking for rescue. Looking for supplies. Sometimes he will come back with groceries. Sometimes he will come back with a story. "I saw a family die today." He will say. "I couldn't help them. I couldn't get them onto the roof."
But one day he won't come back.

On that day, where will she go?

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

When Our Paths Cross

Dear Woman in Red.
It was really nice going out with you, and I think you're an absolutely wonderful person, but I think we're just missing that intangible chemistry that makes things spark.
Maybe it's sort of obvious with a week or more between our messages, but things between us never really got going. I want to be clear and open about my feelings because you're such a great person, you really deserve that respect.

I really enjoyed going out with you, and I hope that we can still dance when our paths cross.

Take Care,

Monday, March 13, 2006

The Dorkiest Way Possible

"Blandine, archangel of dreams, has requested to add you as her girlfriend, but before we can do that, you must confirm that you are actually in a relationship with
Blandine, archangel of dreams.

To confirm this request, go to: ..."

Imagine my suprise to find this message waiting for me from facebook.

She asked me to be her girlfriend. In the Dorkiest way possible. She's a winner.

The boyfriend/girlfriend agreement is always vague. What are your obligations? What are your responsibilities? Every person has their own expectations, and I thought it would be important to have this understanding before we stepped into a commitment. After all, if I expect her to dress up like a teddy bear and wear a leash on special occasions, I would hate for that to be a suprise, right?
what follows are some of my expectations out of her, as a girlfriend.

I expect communication. And I expect her to initiate it sometimes. I hate being the one who makes all the phone calls.

I expect physical contact. I need her hand like I need gravity.

I expect her to work.
This one is tricky to explain, but basically I need her to put into the relationship too. I need her time, her energy and her love. I have a lot to give, and I want to give everything I have. But if I give my time and energy without getting time, energy, or affection back, it really dampens me.

I need spoken affirmation.
Speech is my primary love language. I prefer to express and receive love, in words. The idea is that non spoken communication must be interpreted, and anything that must be interpreted can be misinterpreted. Spoken word can be misinterpreted as well, but to a smaller degree than non-spoken language. Contact is my second love language, as I'd established previously.

We talked about our needs and our expectations, at least as far as we understood them.

"So you're requesting exclusive dating privilges, as well as exclusive access to kisses and lovins?" I asked.
"Yes!" she said.

"And in exchange, I can stop lamenting my own day to day existence, and finally go back to living a happy and normal life?"
"Umm.... sure?"

"Sounds like a deal." I said.

So now I'm her girlfriend.
I imagine we'll work out the semantics of this situation at a later date.

I think it's a little unusual to do this after two dates. After two weeks. But if you met her, you'd know.

Blandine is the vigilante I've been looking for. She's the artist, she's the adventurer. She's a learner and a doer. She's a playmate. She's a thinker and a cynic. She is a person I feel I have known forever.

So now we're an item. Plodding off into the great purple future, to kick some ass, and take some names.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Ba-donk-a-donk is a Euphamism

"Are you cold?" She asked.
"Yes. My pecker is about to fall off, slink down my pant leg, and get lost in the road," I said with a set of much classier words. And she moved close to me. And she held my arm.

My set of classier words didn't in fact contain an allusion to my penis. While, in general, the terms "Little Bishop," "Ba-donk-a-donk," and "One-eyed Cowboy," appear in my list of "classy" words, I had decided to forgo my own shrunken penis as a topic of thought. A piece of advice that, despite my own inclination, I tend to heed.

Because she was touching me. Because I could feel her through my arm. Because her weight, and her warmth, moved along at my side, and I knew at that moment that no matter what my insecure, panickey, little mind told me, she wanted to be there.

You see, forever and a day, I have had a crippling logic error, causing the occasional infinite loop in my dating algorithm. I believe that physical contact has a meaning beyond "I am touching you." But it is a meaning that needs to be interpreted. Anything that must be interpreted can be misinterpreted. And through all the things my insecure, panickey little brain obsesses over, presenting myself, my thoughts, and my actions honestly, clearly, and concisely takes up the bulk of my processing power.
In other words, I try my best do do without ambiguous communication. And while this means that you won't often here a "maybe," an "I don't know," or even silence out of me, it also means that I very seldom initiate touch.
Much to the detriment of my dates.
Because, as I am learning, touch is *very* nice.

For dinner, we had italian. It was... okay. The company was better than the food.
For entertainment, we saw Ultraviolet.
A post apocalyptic dystopian action flick that was everything the preview said it would be. And nothing more. That being said, we both had a wonderful time. I laughed at children being shot, and she laughed at special effects that looked like fat cartoons. The film had enough plot holes and continuity errors to give us plenty to talk about afterwards.

Blandine, the archangel of dreams, is a university student I was introduced through a mutual friend. And that mutual friend's little sister. She's a bit younger than me, but the courts won't have anything to say about it. As integers go, she is closer to my age than The Woman in Red. The difference here is that I find her profoundly attractive, and she says things like "you're wonderful," instead of "stop talking."

We had our date, our time together, and it was wonderful. Holding her hand was enough to help me push behind the refuse of my own broken heart, and to make me feel like maybe I could trust her. That maybe, this time, I didn't need to be afraid.


I had a wonderful date this weekend.
I am morally split with my desire to tell the world about it, and my desire not to betray her trust and affection.

I will write something reasonably telling later.
In the mean time, I have put this into it's place.

RE: Zombies

Monday, February 27, 2006

Crepes and Carnage

"You realize she's just using you like a hot piece of ass," said Adam.
I find this statement asinsulting as I do plausible.
If it is true, then surely it is an exercise in Patience and Frustration for my dear Woman in Red, who has found me to be a little less than physically affectionate.

I had a date with the Woman in Red on Saturday. Our third date. Meeting her after work, we met at a Santa Monica creperie, where we ate delicious foods, and talked about friends and relatives.

On this particular date, like dates in the past, I springboarded off of my good friend Geoff. A man posessed of a fine sense of comedic timing and surplus wit, such that he is where the party is at. But he is also a man posessed of a gruesome loneliness, that when combined with my own, makes us weep together over the sorrow that is life.
Rather than share my own stories with her, I gave her his. I told her about his sister's Vegas trip, and her hijinks therein. And she laughed. I told her about how their Pomeranian, Jezebel, painfully injured the penis of the Shitzhu she was trying to sex up. And she made faces. We exchanged tales of coworkers and office drudgery. We were mutually receptive. As relatively unfamiliar conversation goes, it was pretty good.

I'd made a mention earlier, she is a little bit older than I. 29.2% older. Actually a significant fraction of life experience. But it doesn't seem to bother her, and it doesn't seem to bother me, so I suppose it's not an issue. What is an issue, is that there is distinctly something missing.

We are sitting in a small booth, of her choosing. Of the booths available, she chose the booth where we would sit next to each other in a tiny nook. "Since you two really like each other, this won't be a problem," said the waitress, failing to be cute. What this actually meant was that after two hours of conversation, my neck hurt.
I thought about holding her hand, or putting my arm over her shoulder... but I didn't want to misrepresent myself, and the attraction I didn't feel.
Likely intimidated by her calm demeanor, her naturally intense organizational skills, and her beauty, Spam is pretty calm around her. Subdued. He is not crazy or excited. Wary of broken hearts, he is not fluttery. He is just interested.

Maybe I am waiting for some sense of security, some evidence that I would be safe to give my heart away? Maybe she's waiting for the same thing? How do you get over that?

But more likely the chemistry just isn't there.

Scared of possibly hurting her feelings, and not ruling out the possibility of an emotional turn around, I am just going to play it as it comes. I'll continue to exchange the friendly emails, and I will go out again if she asks me.

But I'm thinking that this just isn't going to turn into something bigger.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

Closed Contact: SBFSM

This past week I was contacted for the FIRST time by a woman on Plenty of Fish.

I hadn't really used plenty of fish for much, but my profile was bitter and short, so I kept it up. It's the sort of web community that is largely peopled with fake models looking to give fake blowjobs to men who *may* click on a banner ad, and give the site owner a penny.
With a readership "Larger than all other Dating Services Combined," the site seems to be a haven for sex mongers, teenage single mothers, and obscene obesity.

For example, one of the charming women looking for a long term relationship within my strict search parameters has this to say:
I think this speaks for itself.

So this week I was contacted by an attractive Single Mother, looking for a nice guy. It is flattering that my bitter profile would still give her the impression that I am a nice guy, but The Zombie Question tells all.

In my dating adventures, I have stumbled upon THE QUESTION that can determine if a woman is worth dating. It tests her ability to respond to the unusual (something prominent in my life). It tests her creativity, her common sense, and her familiarity with the undead.

SBFSM has a long list of things in her profile that she will not tolerate. There is more text telling us that she won't do booty calls, or photo exchanges, or married men, than there is telling us what she is like. A woman with standards is always a plus.
But, as I said, it all comes down to the Zombie Question.

Overnight, the world has ended in a quiet apocalypse as an unknown disease turns friends and neighbors into shambling corpses, hungering for the flesh of the living. You are mysteriously unaffected. What would you do?

I would first have to say a little prayer and thank god that I am ok and another for my son who would be affected. Then I would try to stay low key and live my life the best I can.

While I appreciate a woman's willingness to tackle this question (as opposed to blocking me, which happens a lot), the fact of the matter is that you need to draw the line somewhere.

And trying to live the life you had before is on the wrong side of that line.

Though she does get a bonus point for casually accepting the death of her son. Though she doesn't specify if she would just shoot him in the head, or chain him up to the waterheater and feed him human brains for the forseeable future.

The magic is in the details, ladies.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Re: Surviving a Zombie Attack

Remembering that I had previously decided to use the telephone for communication, I telephoned the Woman in Red, and found her Surprisingly Receptive.
I failed at my negotiations for a sunday date to go ice skating, but never teh less, we were actively engaged in conversation for an hour and forty minutes. I can barely wrap my mind around that. That was ACTIVE communication. She held me away from my computer for 9% of the day.
Forty minutes in, I gave her the opportunity to back out from what must surely be an obligatory phone call. "It's getting late, I'm sure you have a lot to do."
"A lot I should do yes, but very little that I actually WILL do."
So we kept talking. I like listening to her, she likes telling stories.

Regarding Zombies. The Woman in Red doesn't actually like Horror movies. Apparently they scare her. She was familar with the basics of the living dead, but was vague on the finer points of her preparedness and response plan. What follows is an overview of her response plan, inundated with unwelcome personal commentary.

With less than half a tank of Gas available at any time, her first goal is to save her loved ones. A sentimental move that will most likely get her killed, but understandable when the alternative is loneliness.
I don't actually handle loneliness very well, and I imagine if the certainty of a lifetime alone were left for me to face, I would seriously consider dropping myself 40 feet out of a tree, and onto a spear. But that's just me.
I Imagine that she could save two friends. No more. The rest of her loved ones have long since turned, and have only phantom memories of the love and humanity they once posessed. Imagine the Woman in Red, splattered of blood across her face (sexy!), needing to drive over the spine of her College Study buddy Samantha, as she pulls her broken body across the street. Samantha's legs had been crushed forty minutes prior, when she was tried to pull a truck driver from the cab of his rig, and eat him.
Her next stop would be a drive through the county library for an informative book on Sailing. Suprise suprise, there is no one at the library. I guess all the peopel who want to know things have the INTERNET. Tension would rise between The Woman in Red and her friends when their escape options are discussed. "We are going to sail away. In a boat. No, I don't have a boat. No, I don't know how to sail. But we'll deal with that when we come to it." Perhaps a bitter dispute will ensue, and just as her friends are about to mutiny against her rule, the zombies show up, and remind us all what it really is to love.
The trio will run back into the car, and in their panic, no better ideas will arise. They will drive straight on to the Harbor of Marina Del Rey.
Therein, she and her friends would beat a hasty flight. Out of the car, and into the harbor. Across the dock, and into a sail boat. One of them would die horribly, I'm sure. I won't tell you how, but there will be a lot of screams, and maybe squirting blood. It won't be pretty.
Maybe one of her friends survived. Maybe they are injured, and given enough time, may even turn. They sit in the corner, saying "Leave me on the dock. Please, leave me here." But she, (splattered with blood), will hoist the sail, (splattered with blood), and escape out to sea. Her friend will die before they reach the island, but won't turn. They will just sit in the corner of the boat, rockign with the waves, serving as a constant reminder that there is a lifetime of relationships that all ended overnight.
Her goal is one of California's Channel Islands, 70 miles due west. Largely unpopulated, and home to about a hundred square miles of natural growth, where she may be able to survive on her own for some time.
But probably not.

But as I was saying, 9% of my day on the phone with her. It may seem obvious, but I'm just going to say it because it's amazing to me. She had to Want to talk to me to do something like that.

It's pathetic that I spend so much time with my computer, but if you saw her... all her bright monitors. Her enormous speakers and her tiny fragile shell. She works so hard, she gets so hot. I take good care of her because she takes care of me. And all my precious, precious digital media.

But I digress.
I asked the woman in red if she'd seen my blog post. The one I put on my space. It was Ice Cream Has No Bones. I'd pasted it over there so she could read it. I thought it was funny. I thought it was worth sharing.
Apparently she, just like every other woman, is uncomfortable with the idea of people reading about her. Even if she isn't identified by name or picture, or description.

In difficult times, a man has to make difficult choices. He will write when he can, without too much concern for the subject of his attention. But when he knows a little more about a situation or a person, he has a choice.

I'm going to try to write less about the Woman in Red. She would want it that way.

She would want me to not have written anything about her to begin with, but it's a little late for that.

Sunday, February 05, 2006

Controlled illcommunication

I suppose it bothers me, this convention of communication abortion.

The idea that the woman doesn't need to go out of her way, respectfully or otherwise, to tell you what the fuck is going on. If a woman doesn't want to date you any more, she just stops talking to you. This works if you don't have any social intersect, or care what she thinks. But if you like her, or if you know the same people, or if you dance at the same places, then it really just doesn't.

The communication abortion method is simple, and non-confrontational (read as: cowardly, disrespectful), and it gives plenty of time for both parties come to their own conclusions (which may, or may not be the same). When I next run into the Woman in Red, what will we do?
I guess I will do what I always do. I will ask her to dance.

It will have to be a slow song, because I have developed a very smooth gait for the slow waltzes. I will lead her in circles across the floor, and heads will turn. She is, after all, The Woman in Red. During the dance, I will make polite eye contact, and she will look at me through her dark brown curls. She will look at me as though she is having a good time, as if she is wondering what it might be like to be kissed. But only because that is her job. The song will end, and I will thank her for the dance, and she will be beautiful. Then I will disappear into the crowd, and leave her be.

Or, before another six days pass, she may respond to my email. My last attempt at communication was four days ago. Until I hear from her, I am just sitting on a wire, wondering if it's already over. Every time I sit down, I look for the answer. I check my email, and I hope that at the top of my screen will be a bolded title:
"Re: So You survived a Zombie Attack... "

It occurs to me, that I have no idea what normal people do on dates, or why they go out. I understand that at the conclusion, the boy is supposed to try to kiss the girl, and she will commonly go along with it, then worry (silently) about leading him on (because she doesn't really like him anyway).

I don't feel right, I don't feel clean initiating physical affection if there is no established emotional bond. What this convention does, is it makes it very difficult for me to build an emotional bond. It makes it Dangerous to build an emotional bond. So I can't. Every night I check my email, and wonder "Has she already started ignoring me?" But I can not know. When will I? There is no fine line, no moment where it's clear that she is ignoring me, rather than busy. But I'm afraid I've already given up on her. I'm tired. All of this worrying and waiting is taking it's toll me.

I don't know who I'm looking for, but when we find each other, I won't need to wait four days to find what she would do if Zombies Ate Her Neighbors.

Monday, January 30, 2006

Ice Cream Has No Bones

Oh my god. My mouth is full of bones.

Don't Panic. "A quail is a lot like a chicken, but with a cute plume," I said. I thought. I was wrong. A quail is full of bones. Tiny bones. Secret bones.

The beautiful woman across from me speaks, and I watch her attentively, doing my best to disguise the fact that my attention was suddenly elsewhere. *CRUNCH* My Mouth, is full of Bones.
Okay. Options.
I can swallow these bones.
I can spit these bones out.
That's it. That's all I can do, my mouth is full of bones.

She's clever and intelligent, and I act entertained as I pretend to listen to her.
She watches me as she speaks. Oh god, my mouth is full of bones. Pretend that nothing is wrong. Go ahead and chew. *CRUNCH* Oh god, it tastes like bones.
Yes, you enjoy both listening and eating your food. Smile. Nod a little. Good boy.

Oh god.
I remember distinctly that it is bad for dogs to swallow bones. It's probably a bad idea for me to swallow these. The last thing I want is to end up in the ER with a punctured esophagus while on this date. *CRUNCH* mmmm, Bones.

I should spit them out. Politely. Yes, Politely regurgitate a small mouthful of bones. Like an Owl.
When you find a way to do this, please let me know.

A distraction is what I needed. She had to turn not just her eyes, but her attention away from me. What can I do?
Remember TV. This thing happens all the time. What would Jesse Do?

Perhaps I need to remind my audience that while I learned everything I know about women, from the TV, I learned it in the mid 90's; before I gave up the Boob Tube as a form of entertainment. That means that my primary resource for on the spot etiquette comes from none other than Full House.

A Distraction.
I could kick her under the table.
That could work.

I play the scenario through. I kick her. My polished steel toed boots collide with her pale shin, protected only by the thin fabric of a beautiful dress. Maybe she will get a bruise. Maybe I will hit the bone right on, and just cause severe pain. Either way, she looks at me like I am an asshole, with eyes that say "why did you just kick me?" "Why did you just kick me?" she may ask. And then where would I be?
Right here, needing to speak, with a mouth full of bones.
No good. That is something Dave would do if he were on a date. Be like Jesse, not like Dave.

As I considered feigning a sneeze, She turned her attention to her ravioli. Victory. Thank you, food! I quickly raised my napkin to my mouth, and regurgitated my foul load. She looks up, and I smile. Think polite and you will be polite.

Once again, I delicately take a cut of my side of quail. I am a gentleman. I try to behave as though this is not the first time I've paid $23 for half a pigeon. I successfully transfer meat to my mouth.

"This came as quite a surprise to me a moment ago, but this bird is full of bones!" I say. I mentally kick myself in the head. I just can't help it. Spam is not a suave person. I say what is on my mind, and terrible things come of it. This is how I go from day to day. At least I am not putting up veil of lies by pretending eloquence and etiquette.

I cut a green bean in half. Polite eaters eat their veggies with forks, I assume.
"I'm not actually very good at eating," I admit, and take a bite of my green bean.

My mouth is empty. The green bean was gone. It had fallen off my fork. She saw the whole thing happen.

She laughed.

After dinner, we split chocolate cake and icecream.
Chocolate is always a good idea, and Icecream has no bones.

All in all, the evening went well.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Tick Tock

27 minutes.

Tonight I have my date with the Woman in Red.

I believe that I have everything ready.

Our reservations are set for Firefly Bistro, and for the Ice House.

I made myself pretty. I showered, I shaved. I put on deodorant.

The wrinkles in my tie are hidden.

My car is clean.

All I need to do is wait until she gets here.

I'm not nervous, I'm excited.

21 minutes left.

Monday, January 23, 2006

What's Good for the Goose...

According to the Classic Text "How to Catch a Husband," a girl should never call a boy. Now, normally I'm a fearless rebel who never plays by the rules, not even my own, but this time, I feel like playing things by the book. Sure It's written for women, and sure it's a little dated... But what's good for the Goose is good for the Gander, right? Since I have faced nothing but sharp criticism and neglect from the women of my past, I think this time I'm going to handle these fragile social interactions more directly. With phone calls. Does it cheapen the whole thing to have it posted on the internet like an exotic reptile behind glass? Yes. Yes it does.

With the burden of contact as solely my responsibility (thank you (read as: fuck you) Ms. Manners), the question arises: When should I call her? When is it appropriate? If I call her too soon, it will suggest that perhaps I have too little to do. Also it will suggest that I am desperate. I am not desperate. If I call too late, she may lose interest, or think that I am not interested. I am, in fact, interested. (But not desperate). Ms. Manners would say that I should wait 4 days, and make arrangements for a Friday Night no later than Tuesday.
But that Bitch would also suggest that females turn down the first 3 date requests from any male, so as to weed out the weak.

So I asked a few people for their input on this situation.

The sample pool was 14 individuals chosen at random due to IM availability. There is a fairly even representation of girls and boys, and all persons interviewed are from the pertinent age group.

As you can see, the majority of persons interviewed suggested that I wait two days. One suggested that I bring Flowers, another suggested that I Not write about it Online, so as to avoid almost certain disaster. Both are excellent pieces of advice.
Since I didn't even ask the question until day two, I suppose I'm in pretty good shape. (Not Desperate.) Since I'd like to ask her out for Friday, I think a Monday or Tuesday night call is appropriate.

I still have some comedy club tickets in my wallet, so I think this would be a great opportunity to get them some use.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

How the Walrus got it's Groove

"Would you like to go out for coffee sometime?" I looked at something else so I wouldn't need to see the truth in her eyes.
She answered immediately, without terror or awkwardness. "Yeah, but I'd take a Tea or something. I don't really like coffee."
That was a yes. Don't act suprised. You're cool. You expected a yes. That's right. Cool guys Expect a yes.
"Me neither, actually. I'm more partial to cocoa. But coffee is the convention, so I stuck with that."
"Want to go some place now?" she asked. She was serious. "Do you know any places that are open besides Conrads?"
Oh my god. What is happening?

My mind cruised the streets of pasadena. All of them at once. I started On Orange grove, then immediately split down Walnut, Colorado, Del Mar, and California. There has got to be an all-night Diner. Dear GOD, there has to be an all-night Diner.
What's on Fair Oaks? Why don't I know every little place on Fair Oaks? It's North South. I don't know North South streets. DAMN IT. Then my little mental voyage ended. As soon as it begain, I was finished. At the end of Pasadena, on Coloado just across from The Guitar Center, is a Denny's.
"It's on par with Conrad's, but there's a Denny's near by." Since it was the only place that came to mind, it was what I had all my chips (see also: hopes and dreams) riding on.
"I can work with Denny's." She said.

And that's how I got a date with The Woman in Red.

When I dance with her, I feel like I'm the only guy in the room. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I'm doing something wonderful. Technically, part of your job as a social dancer is to make your partner feel like they are doing well, so my demons tell me that she is just humoring me. But sometimes she is. And sometimes she isn't. I don't think you can fake a look like that.
We danced a lot last night. Pressed close against my body we moved as if we were one unit. The balance between us formed one center of gravity that moved across the room. She dances very well.

But I don't. She wouldn't dance twice in a row with me, almost certainly because I have a relatively small library of moves. I just think that I cannot keep a dancer like her entertained for very long. I must learn to be better.
I have a strong lead, good fundamentals, and the remnant of a once prominant personal style. That helps break the monotony of my dance, but What I need to do is practice. If I dance every week, in a few months time, I will be one slick Walrus.

At Denny's, we shared an apple cobbler and talked about College, work and Earthquakes. Shr was raised in Los Gatos, and went occasionally to Santa Cruz as a child. She did marching band and color guard. It was simple small talk that just went back and forth. It was nice. After dinner, I walked her to her car and said, "Thanks for coming out with me. If you'd like to do it again sometime, give me a call." I wrote my phone number in poor handwriting on the back of my business card. This was a planned maneuver, because I didn't want to seem too prepared, if you know what I mean. Earlier that evening, I already written my phone number on a business card in my pocket, because I knew I was going to ask her out.
The feigned impulsiveness of "let me write my number down with this pen I jut happen to have," was a good call. It turns out the business card I had for her in my pocket got crushed in 4 separate ways from a night of dancing.

She gave me Her card, and we parted ways.

Monday, January 16, 2006

The Non-Threatening Male

For my entire life, I have been surrounded by beautiful and intelligent women. It's a curse.

That's a lie. I really enjoy it. "How is it, Spam, that women become so comfortable, as to be able to pass gas in your presence?" men frequently ask me. Let me address a unique phenomenon of our modern age: the non-threatening male.

This weekend I was treated to the exclusive pleasure of bearing witness to one of the last unknown domains of Man: Girls' Night Out. I earned this by being the "non-threatening male," as they called me.
What does it mean to be a non-threatening male?
While I cannot settle on a solid definition of the word, I can describe his traits, in the context of a Girls' Night Out.

The non-threatening male isn't necessarily unattractive, but it means that for one reason or another, all the women have agreed that he is undatable. Score one for Me.
This is important though. The function of a Girls' Night Out is to relax, and act however you really are, without the pretext of being attractive or demure. I don't even know what demure is, but I can guarantee that if a woman is trying to act demure, she won't tell you how proud of her poops she really is. And just FYI, some of them are really proud.

The non-threatening male isn't creepy. He may be undatable, but this is due to secondary characteristics. Perhaps he has a girlfriend in a coma. Perhaps he's gay. Perhaps he answers to "Spam." But he must be otherwise attractive. He is a person that women want to be around. They just don't want to date him.

At the Girls' Night Out, we had Tea and Scones. Tea (aka. dirt water), as previously mentioned, is not something I really like. Apparently it's an acquired taste, and like Rock Heroine, something to work towards slowly. There are "beginner" teas, I was told. Light, Fruity ones. I enjoyed a Mint Tea, and a Berry Tea. They were both brown, believe it or not. I also had a jellied scone. And for the record, I ate more chocolate than any of the ladies.

A non-threatening male is able to listen, and contribute to a conversation about non-manly activities. Perhaps he will talk about feelings. Perhaps not. That's always personal, and many women themselves choose not to discuss it openly. During our Girls Night Out, I was able to lend my wisdom on such popular topics as "morning wood," "Swing Dance Theory," and "Why all my Romances end in Tears."

In our Time together, I felt like we connected. We just sat around an attractive coffee table covered in snacks and teas, and talked. I heard a lot of new stories. I had a great time.

Maybe it's because, as they talk about uncomfortable positions and cold tools at the OBGYN, I am able to chime in with my own story about the proctologist and her plastic cone. Funny story.
I purposefully picked a female procologist. I thought "If someone's going to stick a transparent cone into my anus, it might as well be a brilliant woman." Well, the fact of the matter is that when there's a greasy cone in your anus, it doesn't so much matter who put it there, because THERE'S A GREASY CONE IN YOUR ANUS.
They shared their own proctology adventures.

I have always been the non threatening male. In highschool I cavorted with all the drama chicks, and none of teh drama dudes. I never dated any of them, but it's not for lack of trying. I frequently become infatuated with female friends. In middle school, I just remained silent, and when I got home, I would cry. In college I'd always had a girlfriend. But that didn't mean I didn't recognize the beauty of the people around me.

I find myself today, single, surrounded by beautiful women, and invited to their teas and dances. They always give me hugs, and sometimes they rub my shoulders. By any stretch of the imagination, I am popular with "the Ladies."
But it's hard to be proud of my popularity, because I know exactly why.

I am the non-threatening male.

Monday, January 09, 2006

The Woman in Red

Everyone knows the Woman in Red. She's the beautiful woman with the dark curls. She's dancing with a handsome and confident man. Someone much larger than you. Someone better than you. Every step she takes is sexy, and every thing she does looks practiced. She's on the floor, dancing perfectly.

Last Night, she was dancing with Me.

Here's a quick look into the past. in 1998, I was an avid Swing Dancer. I went out every weekend, often twice. I was a leading member of my campus' Swing Club. And I was really good. I had a steady dance partner, and I've never been the sort of person to brag, but we were good. I was in love with her. She knew, and I knew that I could never have her, but we still danced. Then she left. Then I stopped Dancing. For three minutes at a time, I had the only thing I'd ever known that was worth having. And after that, dancing never meant as much to me as it did. So I stopped.
Sure, I danced every now and then. Last Week at my reunion. A couple times at a Campus event. But all I've done for five years is forgotten how to swing.

But I guess I remember enough. Making my way around the room, dancing with all the women I'd met in the lesson beforehand, I slowly recovered my skill. I taught them how to follow (stiff arms), and I practiced my basic moves. I made some friends, and I got a little attention. "You've done this before, haven't you?" They would always say. "A Long Time Ago," was my sheepish response.

I'm walking an old woman back to her seat, when I turn around to find The Woman in Red looking up at me. "Want to Dance?" She asked.

She has been dancing for six months, and she's excellent. She has her own personal style, and dances with a confidence that makes me cower. On the inside.

I remember three dances with her that night, but there were many more.
Our first dance went alright. She had a diverse vocabulary of turns and tricks, and was able to keep up with me, but I fell out of time a couple times. She was a little bored with my limited library, and a little frustrated by my errors. There is nothing worse then looking over at your partner, and seeing in her eyes that she isn't completely involved in the dance.

"Can I use you for a terrible experiment?" I asked her before our second dance. "What?" She was clearly alarmed, but I already held her by the hand. There was no escape. "I'd like to try Lindy again," I said. We danced, and we spun, and we danced some more. My Lindy skill was always pale in comparison to my East Coast Skillz, but after so much time, they are equivocable. I danced with confidence and flair, and never fell off beat. I must have impressed her, and I certainly showed her a good time, because afterwards, she smiled looking at me and said "You should experiment more often."

With a broad smile, she took my hand for the last dance. I started off with a clockwise lindy turn, then threw her out into a clockwise doubleturn, and with all of the momentum, she laughed. We danced a combination of lindy and East Coast, which is the best I can do, but I was spot on, and she was perfect, and for those three minutes we were the only two people in the room. I danced with her, and she looked at me. She looked at me through her dark curls, and smiled in such a way. She smiled at me and told me with her eyes that she was really, honestly having a good time.

I've been living on that look ever since.

I never asked out Star Gazer. It seemed like a bad idea at the time. I've forced myself into too many holes by sticking to bad decisions. By "Putting my balls on the table, infront of the man with the Hammer," as I frequently say. On the night in question, I went to the game store, and we talked. Star Gazer, myself, and an acquaintance/ customer of hers. We talked for no less then an hour about 80's Sci-fi, and I demonstrated that I am clearly deficient in my knowledge of Star Trek. AND Star Wars, which blew my mind. I wanted to wait until we were alone, then I thought, screw it, this is good enough, then I thought "this isn't a good idea." I wasn't feeling suave, I wasn't feeling attractive, and I really wasn't feeling like having my balls smashed with a metaphorical hammer. So I wrote a compliment on her new store layout, said good night, and went to the dance.

Saturday, January 07, 2006


I think it's safe to say that I have an inexhaustible supply of tiny microwave pizzas. Like my love, these pizzas are available at fifty cents apiece to anyone who walks into Ralphs. However, unlike my love, these pizzas are tastey and desirable. I bought sixteen.
Tonight, I am going to hit the town. Paint it red. With blood. Probably my own. My agenda tonight consists of a trip to the Game Store in Pasadena, where I will pick up a copy of the Paranoia MANDATORY BONUS FUN card game, and ask out Star Gazer. "Want to go out for cocoa when your shift ends?" I will ask. After she turns me down in one of many humorous ways, I am off to the Pasadena Ballroom Dance Association Saturday Night Swing Dance. Where I will recover my confidence by dancing with ladies. After the dance, when her shift ends at 10pm, perhaps Star Gazer will meet me in old Town.
Star Gazer is the woman who works at the Game Store on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I first ran into her with Geoff and Emily, and have talked with her three times since. She is an avid gamer, with what I can only infer to be a passion for old school Werewolf roleplay. She is in the market for a $400, 3D modeled Settlers of Catan set, which is a bit extravagant, but just about the best boardgame I've ever played.
In preparation for this evening, I have shaved my beard.

When you have a beard, you are a part of a special club. A man (or woman, god willing) can walk down the street, make eye contact with another person, also with beard, and share something. "Yes, shit grows out of my face too." They seem to communicate. It is indeed a magical bond. A man with a beard is a Man of Action. But, it's action tembered with responsibility. Like a Fireman, or someone's dad. I am no longer a member of this community, but on account of the itching, maybe I never really belonged.
I only grew the thing because I had enough time away from work to get it growing, and I thought Someone else might like it. Someone else never saw it, so I'm tired of the itching, not to mention my unfamiliar reflection. My beard is gone.
I thought it would help my confidence if I felt pretty again. It didn't. Today is one of those days where I feel fat. And Geoff says I am getting a bald spot where I cannot see.

Wednesday, December 28, 2005

My final eHarmony Adventure

My lastest personal failure doesn't even deserve a name.
On the final day of my eHarmony account, I was contacted by a 22 year old middle school science teacher. She enjoys Sports, Bars, and "Partying" whatever that means. Not really my scene, but she was a science teacher, so she had to be a nerd right? Apparently not.

We raced through eHarmony's the controlled communication phases, well aware that at any time eHarmony could give me the axe. I asked her some open ended questions, very simple ones. I didn't ask the zombie question, I was in a hurry. What a shame. Her answers were unremarkable.

This morning she asked me some questions. The highlight is as follows:

"ok, so you have to explain about your photos.... goggles, zombie, and rave lights? :)"

I have a unique personal style. Like everything in my life, it's pulled together from bits and pieces of other things. I like to personalize everything around me. My clothing is certainly no exception. I wear a tie to work on most days, but on evenings and weekends I like to dress up. Men don't have many options as far as accessorizing goes, and to me, goggles say "post nuclear badass" which is a look I frequently strive for. Subtley. The leather jacket with the rave lights is one of my best Mad Max style jackets. I directed a Zombie Film for UCI's 24 hour film festival last year. It was absolutely beautiful. I had a team of 5 students, and we had next to no filmmaking experience between us. Part of the 24 hours included running tutorials on our editing software :^). The photo with the rave lights is from a series of me and some friend at the beach playing with extended shutter time. I've never been to a rave, but I do love techno.

After I responded to her question, she closed contact.
Reason: Other

This concludes my adventures with eHarmony.
Now I'll have to find dates the old fashioned way. at gunpoint.

Tuesday, December 27, 2005

Gentlemen don't dry hump

I love to dance. I could be called a "dancin' fool," but no one has thus far taken the opportunity.

Last night was my 5 year highschool reunion, and after my only friend left the bar, I took an empty table and decided to relive my highschool days, by sitting alone. This didn't actually last. Two women, whom I'd alwasy thoguht were too cool for me, and who had alwasy thought of themselvesas big dorks, took to the dance floor and beckoned me to follow. It would put me behind in my brooding, but it could be fun. I'll just make sure I brood twice as hard later.

To my great fortune, the next song to play was swing. My style of choice. My only style, if you want to get picky. I took Pigeon by the hands, and we danced. I believe that during a dance, it is the responsibility of the man to make the woman look good. In the case of swing, the male is the lead. I'm afraid to say that Pigeon was hammered, and nothing was going to make her look good. But I could show her a good time.

The first thing is to make her feel like she's dancing well. Her timing was off, she was dancing 4 beats per measure instead of the classic 6 of East Coast Swing. I pulled my timing off too, and we danced together. The next thing is to let her know that you are having a great time. Eye contact, and smiles. If your partner is having a good time, then you must be doing things right. After that is the trivial step of dancing. Consulting your library of swing turns and dips, and patching them all together to the beat of a familar song.
Pigeon had a great time. So good, she completely forgot that she had to pee. As I said, she was hammered. And as unexpectedly as it started, the music stopped, and was replaced with a song about "My Goodies."

I do not dance like "the kids" dance. This imaginary copulation exercise that "the kids" are all crazy about. The grinding, the freaking, it's not my scene. I can not turn off my mind. Everything I do is tightly considered, and for me, physical contact always has meaning. I will not dry hump a stranger. I think it's rude, and a little obscene.

But Pigeon clearly wanted to dance in this fashion, and the dance floor was otherwise unoccupied. I had to be the hero. I buckled my lip, and decided to take one for the team. And we dry humped. Rhythmically.

Even after seven drinks, I was focusing on what this action would mean to the people around me. I knew exactly what it meant. Nothing. It was how people dance. Pigeon's hands running up my sides like she was my lover. Her thigh pressed up against my nethers. Who is she? I don't even know if she has parents, or if she grew her self out of a pod. This was an insignificant act for everyone else, but for me, it was a sacrifice.

I think odds are good I take myself too seriously, but a man is defined by his actions, and a gentleman doesn't dry hump in public.

On the other hand, it was really nice to feel appreciated, even if it was only because I gave off warmth and occupied space.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005


"Don't say that," he said.
"They Talk." He said.
"You think it, I think it, we all think it. Just don't tell them. It scares them. And they have a wide spread communication network." He said.

I am of course referring to the International Female Conspiracy.

I, like most of my generation, learned everything I know about women by watching sitcoms in the 80's and 90's. Some of the important lessons I've learned include: "While hiding the truth from your beau may result in a hilarious and ultimately forgivable circumstance, it's not really worth the trouble," and "Miscommunication is the comedic root of most problems." While these values not entirely outdated, perhaps my teachings have lead me astray with the belief that women enjoy stability and commitment.

I'm not saying YOU, attractive female reader (mailto:dhoffmann@gmail.com) are afraid of commitment, but a great many of your number are. Your similarly attractive sister, perhaps. How does this effect Spam? Why is he afraid of a lack of committment? I don't really know.

But in a mostly unrelated note, I had a truly excellent time with Octave and her friends last night at her party.

"This could become something really special," I thought.

That right there is my problem, and the problem of many of my ilk. "Could become." "Will be." "One day." With an eye to the future, I and so many others fail to appreciate what is around us right now. Right now, down the road, there is a girl who put her nose in my ear. I wonder what she's doing, or if she's wondering what I'm doing.
And on top of that, I'm thinking and plotting. Right now. When can I next see her? When can we next talk, and share something? I never stop. I live in the future. I live within plots and plans. One eye on the future, one eye on the past. Watch where I'm going, remember where I've been. I'm doing pretty well for myself, but I don't stop long enough to appreciate what is going on now.

I drove home at 80 miles an hour, and discovered that some of the songs on my depressing playlist weren't actually depressing at all.
When can I see her next?

And this is where tact comes in. This is where I hold my tongue.
"Don't tell her." He said. "It will scare her. They do not like plans and plots." I considered.
"Of course, you cannot stop planning. You cannot stop thinking. We are the brown haired boys. We are the ones who stay up late, worrying about the daylight. Between the hours, between blinks, we are thinking. Of course you cannot turn it off, but you must keep it to yourself." He didn't actually say that in those words, but it's my story, so I say he did.

If a kiss is just a kiss, and an earsniff is just an earsniff, then I'd better just keep on improvising. No expectations. No reasons to be disappointed, and no way to be let down. I need to focus on the present. On enjoying what is going on, without setting goals.

The International Female Conspiracy sends out monthly newsletters with recipes, videogame cheats, and the potential plots of would be suiters. If I made front page, I'm concerned that I'd get a short email stating that we have different priorities right now.

So I'm keeping quiet. I can't actually stop plotting. I can't have no plans, none of us can. But I can shut up. I can fail to mention fantasies of our first kiss. I can withold my enthusiasm for the curves of her body and the smell of her hair. These are things that a romantic heart would dream about. These things do not concern me. I can keep silent on all this mess.

Of course, she reads this blog, so I guess I fucked that up.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

Not actually as stupid as I look.

I have a personal problem.
I try to act like a gentleman at all times. However, somewhere I picked up the idea that gentlemen do not discuss sex or sexuality openly. On top of that, is a layer of feigned ignorance. When the topic of sex comes up, my halo turns on. *boop!* I don't share stories, commonly. I don't look on knowingly. I am an innocent lamb.

I am not actually a lamb. I'm not a goat either, but I'm definitely not a lamb. However, my calculated demeanor gives to those around me the impression of ignorance on all topics reproductive. Incidentally, through normal conversation, I gave all participants the impression that I did not understand how the Female Systems worked. With my personal habits, it's no suprise.
This is not the case, I insisted. However, my eyes got shifty, and it appeared as if this was just a cleaver ruse to cover up the ignorance I surely posess.

The female body is a complicated system of glands and ductwork that can only be described as a "wonderland," (don't blame me for that, this was a preferred adjective by an ex girlfriend of mine). That is stupid, and incidentally, she is stupid. Branching away from her preferences, I would describe it as "complicated." Certainly more complicated that its counterpart.
This system is composed of various internal and external components, which need to be operated in the right order and combination to produce a desired effect. There is no manual, and the combination changes every day.
::sigh:: Observe my charming, matter of fact approach to the subject. I don't think I've ever actually had a sensual talk on this subject. This contributes to my awkwardness.

Just so we're clear, there are 58,266 files, stored in 13.8 gigabytes on my computer that demonstrate a decade's worth of intensive "study" on this subject. I have personal experience on the subject as well, but this is hardly the place to discuss others. That would be rude.
And apparently, today, I care.

The fault lies in my personal belief that I am more approachable as an innocent. A friend suggested that perhaps I should be like James Bond. James Bond is unquestionably a gentleman. And unquestionably a gentleman of the world. Also an assasin. Through cleaver use of innuendo he appears both polite and sexy. Through accurate use of firearms, he is also deadly. This is a new goal of mine.

Thursday, December 15, 2005

Still not a Date

Today is the close of the worst week of my life. It's not like I got pubic sores, or I accidentally decapitated a friend, I was just completely unable to relax. On tuesday morning, I thought about car crashes all the way to work. On coming traffic. Bridge pillars. Canyon cliffs. I'm in my mom's station wagon. The thing is so big, I would kill whomever I struck, and survive to continue my lamentations.

It was a bad week.
One thing about me, is that when I am depressed, I am DEPRESSED.
It passes, mostly after liberal application of sleep, but it happens sometimes.

All week, I was looking forward to thursday night gaming. Octave was getting a small group of friends together, and I would meet them. It's not an interview, or a judgement. I'm just meeting them. And if they don't assimilate me into the friendhood, she can't date me. no pressure.
Octave wasn't able to get enough of her friends for thursday, so she rescheduled it for monday.
It sort of hurt my feelings, and suddenly I lost it.

I don't really want to defend my behavior, I was emotional. That's either enough of an excuse or no excuse at all. Depends on who you are.
With Princess in a separate IM Window telling me that I should say what is on my mind, I told her that it hurt me that she rescheduled it again.
I have an eager heart, and I have been trying so hard to keep my hands on it, but it leaks. And spurts. I got some of my heart juice on Octave.

With an additional 4 day delay proposed without even my consideration, it seemed that Octave was not in fact counting down the hours until our next encounter. She may not even be looking forward to seeing me. I lost my perspective, and I told her how I felt.
A little too much about how I felt.
That went about as well as you can imagine.

I am not happy without something to worry about, and at this point, it's perfectly reasonable for me to start sabotaging my own love life.
I think you don't have interest in me, I said in different, possibly more insulting words.
Hah hah! take that ME! Take that Previous Post where she said she was Interested in me. Take that LOGIC! Do you like these Apples? Yes I do.

She was insulted, and possibly considered me too demanding or needy.
Uh oh. I thought. I explained myself, and speedily brought the situation from "too demanding," to "too messed up." not necessarily a step up.

But she seem to forgive my transgressions. I told her that it would mean a lot to see her thursday night, no matter what we did. So she agreed it it.

It's not even a question of whether it's a date or not. It's not. Not because I upset her, but we aren't dating. We're friends who happen to flirt and go out a bit.

It was the epitome of a laid back evening.
I must of course leave out the sultry details. Of which there are none.
But there was pie involved. Any evening with pie is a good evening.

If you read this blog weekly, then I have no doubt accidentally seduced you. That tends to happen to the women who are near me (that never happens). Sorry, but the feeling isn't mutual. I LIKE you, and I like the time we spend together (mostly at MY request, so why don't you finally bookmark this site?) but really, I need to be in a committed relationship before things get physical. Sorry Ladies.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

It was a Statutory Evening

Tonight I was rescued from my misery by Octave, and her cadre.

It began with a long sought after conversation between us, where we sort of laid down our hands, and said everything on our minds. While it was clear to both of us that the other was attracted, complicated circumstances continue to hinder a clear understanding between us.
I won't really get into detail, that part's not funny.

Afterwards, we picked up a cadre of her friends: Dave, a Fiery Scotsman (an ex of hers), and a Trio of Teens. Together, we wen't to Carrows and sat loudly while ordering mostly drinks. It's okay, it was late, and we weren't too disruptive. I care about these things, and after expressing that, Someone called me an old man.
Her friends were delightful. Yound and crazy, I took my turns at sugarshots with the rest of them, while sharing a dessert with Octave. Actually, I was too full to even eat it. Cursed milkshakes and their delicious goodness! Her friends liked me quite a bit, seemed relieved by my gentlemanly aires, and caught many of my obscure pop culture references. One girl even caught my crossover Winnie the Pooh/ Harry Potter comment "Hufflepuffs and Woozles."
"I love you." She said. A Geek always appreciates it when people recognize his bizarre references.

It was a wonderful night, as as we took them home, Octave and I offered relationship advice to a young friend considering starting her first relationship. Together we agreed that she should do all the communication with him directly, not outsource it to friends. Then I went on a brief tirade about the importance of communication, and practicing it. She said I sounded 25 years older than I looked.

It's not the age, it's the mileage.

Friday, December 09, 2005

I have an Eager Heart

Every now and again, it's important to take some time for personal reflection.
The first thing I need to do is start listening to my intuition. I have spent the past 8 years ignoring that fucker, and instead, going to friends for advice. I think it's time I put a little faith in myself.

Second, I have a very eager heart. This is decidedly a flaw. I get too excited too quickly, and then I get hurt. I need to be more cautious about who I give my heart to. I guess it had just been a while since someone was receptive.

Apparently Sakura has a chain of broken hearts in her wake, and lamentous souls stuffed in her pockets. Allegedly there was concern for my well being when we started going out, since everyone else knew what was going to happen. I'm not going to focus on how silly I sounded in that post, or how offensive it is that I was right. I think she just has some stuff to work through, and I wish her the best.

It has been brought to my attention that "my type" of girl, is... messed up. My past two relationships (3 years, 2 years) were both with women who thought of themselves as unlovable. In the confidence pool, they were sitting on the steps in the shallow end. These are traits that despite my own best interest, I am drawn to. Hence Sakura. I need to knock that shit off. I need to find someone who is stable and confident.

And to reiterate, despite the continuation of this blog, I'm am not on a quest anymore.
I'm not looking anymore. I said it, and I meant it. I'm just playing it as it comes. It's just that despite the constant, painful, and seldom creative rejection, I keep meeting new people.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Date Review: Sakura Round 2

A Reasonable Man would get a little sleep before putting his thoughts in print. I am not a reasonable man. As previously stated, I am a funny man. Comedy At the expense of women and their trust.
So if you have a problem with that, you'd better not be laughing. Also, a man walks into a Bar. "Ouch," he says. You'd better not laugh at that either.

Our date did not go well. Sakura had planned this one, and it was to be Italian food, followed by Pride and Prejudice. I didn't really want to see P&P, but I knew it was a sappy lovey film, and that I'd probably like it, despite my own pride and prejudice. It was the film she recommended, and when you're going out on a second date, you don't say "Romance is for Fags. Let's see Jarhead." You say " That sounds great. I'll pick you up after work." After work came pretty quickly. I pulled through the LA traffic in record time, and was at her door by 5:30.
My mind wandered from place to place, to the kiss we'd shared, to her calves, back to the kiss, and then to the not so subtle remark she'd made about finding time for making out. I was seventeen again. I was very excited about the making out. That didn't end up happening.
I met her at the door, and pulled her in for a hug, followed with a smooth transition into a kiss. This was how we ended the last date, and it was very important for me to reestablish our comfort and attraction. The kiss didn't work out for some reason. It was stopped by something. I'd assumed that maybe she needed alcohol before she could kiss me. I decided not to press the issue, afterall, I had just gotten there, and I had a present for her.
We popped into her apartment, talked with her charming roommate, and I gave her a small wrapped parcel. A Serenity comicbook, #2 of 3. It had Kaylee on the cover, and I wrote her a note.

"When you can't run anymore, you crawl. And when you can't do that any more... well you know the rest." For those of you who aren't cool enough to know the rest, it goes like this: "And when you can't do that anymore, you get someone to carry you." I thought it was a nice quote from the series, and I thought it carried my hopes of a strengthening relationship. Her roommate assured us that she wouldn't be in the apartment when we got back. *wink* *wink*

Since I got there so early, I was hoping for some makeouts, but Sakura was sort of in a hurry to get out. If we were able to get our dinner, we could concievably catch the 8:20 showing, instead of the 10:30 one. She said she'd rather not be out late.
The awkwardness continues.
We walk to the car, and I put my hand over her shoulder. This is friendly cuddling. This is a level of contact that we have established as acceptable. This is something we have shared in the past. More than once. But she was cold. Not physically, just emotionally. She had no response to my touch. Didn't move closer, didn't touch me back, didn't look at me, just kept walking. So I kept that attempt up for all of four seconds. She didn't say anything.
I didn't say anything, and I should have. Instead, I got into her car (she wanted to drive) and we went to the restaurant. We were at a light for about 3 minutes. I tried to lean and kiss her on the cheek. As I said before, it was important to me to reestablish our connection. She ignored me, and I couldn't reach. She always drives with 2 hands, so I could not try to hold her hand. It was awkward. She didn't say anything.
Sakura and I have a history of physical contact. Not a lot of it. Just simple cuddling and flirting. She's rested her head in my lap. I've put my hands on her face. I've held her around the waist. We kissed once. But today, she didn't want me touching her. It bothered me a lot.
At the Restaurant, the adorable Maitre'D gave us a four person table so we could "sit next to each other." Sakura decided it would be best to sit across from each other. I was starting to get frustrated, as you can imagine. As she perused the wine list, and told mer her favorite types, I said I wasn't interested in wine. I don't really like wine, but I would have tried it for her. NOPE. Not Tonight. It's about time we had some sober time together anyway. Over dinner (it was delicious) we talked. The conversation wasn't bad. She told me about her dad's mid-life crisis. She didn't really ask me about myself, so I just let her talk.

Over Dinner, Sakura was fixated on her phone. Tonight, during our date, she would be receiving a phone call giving her a position in an upperdivision film production.

The rest of the date went this way. She was tied to her phone, and I was an arms length away. We're in a romantic movie, with no arm rest between us, and I'm wondering "am I just not trying hard enough? She SHOULD be wanting me to at least hold her goddamned hand." I touch her thigh with one finger, and then go back to minding my own business. If she is interested in contact, she'll grab my hand. She wasn't interested in contact. I thought about leaving, but I realized that she'd driven, so I'd be stuck there. Also my hat was in her car.

I spent the rest of the movie wondering why she'd agreed to this date. She didn't seem interested in me. She was behaving... inconsistently. I imagined that maybe she decided I wasn't attractive anymore. Maybe without alcohol, she just wasn't interested. It sort of made me upset. I watched the movie. the main character cried when she learned her sister ran away with a soldier. I laughed. Somewhat bitterly.

The evening moves on, and we end up at her gate. "I'm so tired," she says as a way to be perfectly clear that there are no makings out waiting for me back at her place. So I hug her and say good night. We broke apart, but I held onto her hand.
"What's going on? Things were... weird tonight." I said.
"Yeah." she said, lookign down. Then she explained it. She was afraid things had been moving too fast.

I can see where she's coming from, and I can see how her behavior came about. But I am too frustrated to sympathize.
She should have fucking told me at the beginning of the goddamned date, when I tried to kiss her. That would have saved me an entire evening of heartache.

"You're only the fifth girl I've ever kissed." I said, to exeplify the fact that fast or not, my attraction is significant. "You're the first guy I've gone out with." She says, with what could have only been an intention to shatter my hope in the relationship. "So you can see why I'm a little awkward."

If I'm her first relationship, and this is our second date, then I really think this is going to have problems. I am tired of being training wheels. I'm tired of women who have no idea how, when, or why to share themselves in a relationship. We're already working on a critical communications failure. But I'm a nice guy. I know what she needs to hear.

"I like you. I'm willing to take things slowly." I held her hand, and looked at her. "I'll see you later." And I left.

But now that I'm home, I have all these sugar plumbs dancing in my head. It just doesn't seem worth it. That may not sound like a sugar plumb to you, but I've always been afraid of those things.

What I think is really going on is this: Sakura has a history of painful flings. Perhaps they developed much like this. Meet someone, like them. Kiss them, then Insert Penis. Perhaps she really likes me, and she doesn't want this to go the same way as other relationships. She's being cautious.

I can understand that. I don't think it's a good reason. ButI can understand.
She should know that I'm not like that. She's been talking to emily, she's been talking to me. She should have an idea of the strength of amy character. But it isn't this decision that bothers me. I'd never kissed so quickly either. In my past relationships, it was literally weeks before saliva was shared. If she hadn't made the move, this would have been a normal date. What bothers me is that she made this ground breaking, date altering decision, and didn't tell me.
What also bothers me, perhaps more than anything, when is holding hands moving too fast? If she didn't want to kiss me, that's one thing. And it's decidedly less awkward. But she wouldn't touch me. Despite all the stories, despite conjecture and rumor, the fact of the matter was that she wanted the date to go short from the beginning, and she didn't want to touch me.

I feel like she doesn't have any interest in me, and her past enamourations were just an inebriated desire for comfort. I feel used.

Goodnight Bowl and Goodnight Brush.
Goodnight, Goodnight Bowl of Mush.

Saturday, December 03, 2005

Date Review: Sakura

Tonight, I had the first successful date in the history of this blog. *throws some confetti*
There was Danger, Laughter, Tears, Adventure, and even some Loose Lovins. Read on.

It started in the way all good dates start: with my keys locked in my mom's station wagon. That always impresses "The Ladies." One word: Classy.
So she had to drive. Then I found out that her car is awesome. Awesome in the way that my old car was awesome. She has an aftermarket GPS system installed. The screen is attached snuggly beneath the radio, and it is operated by a hand joystick. The annoying voice can not be turned off, and has no name. She has an XM radio reciever mounted to her dash as well. And all these things have wires. Lots of wires. I have a thing for wires. I likes me the wires.

We went to a play. A carefully selected play. A date play. It was called "Hello, Hello" and it was a series of 7 short plays all about the difficulties of modern relationships. We laughed. She Cried. I Laughed some more. Apparently Geoff had warned her that I laugh at "unusual" times. If Suicidal depression isn't funny, then what is?
I got the impression that she was a very passionate and emotional person. I imagined us, far in the future, watching a lifetime movie, and crying out eyes out as we pass a box of Kleenex back and forth. I have never been with an openly emotional woman. It will be an entirely new dynamic for me.

But I am getting ahead of myself. We arrived at the theater quite early, and Sakura was noticable tense. So I decided to get her liquored up. If there is one thing this woman likes, it's the sauce. We walked two blocks at a mexican dive bar, and she ordeed a Lemon Drop Martini, and I, a Vodka Tonic. Recently I have become aware of my iron consitution. I can drink quite a lot before it gets to me. Sakura can't. She loosened up a lot after she got some booze in her.

The play took us through seven different relationships, and it took us straight into our own lives. Let me first tell you that Chewbacca is dead. If this comes as a suprise, then you have never read the Star Wars Novels. I haven't either. But this topic has come up 3 times, in 3 different companies since I met Sakura. In this play, two socially inept adults bond in their sorrow over Chewbacca's fate, as they decide that despite their differences, the challenge of being together is better than facing another day alone. That's not the part that strikes close to home. Just the part abotu Chewbacca. We are not socially inept, but we are nerds. And mightily so. And if we haven't read the books, our friends have. As we've previouse established, and thoroughly believe, I am not a lonely person. Who said I was?!? I'll cut them. Sakura, on the other hand...
She has a door in her living room. It was a film prop, and has been attacked thoroughly by sharpies. and a Sledge Hammer. On it are written all the things that she hates. Amongst these things is "always being at fault," "being lied to," "bad sex," and just to the left of a sledge hole: "All men. Every one. Ever." I can't help but feel included in that last one. Maybe the last two.
But regardless of my physical prowess, which is as of yet untested, the evidence says she may be lonely.

But everyone is lonely. So that doesn't really mean much. Give me a few weeks, and even I, Spam, beloved by all, could become lonely. Most likely at night. Mostly when I'm cold. Mostly.

So the play went well, and after we retired to her place for tea. This is significant, because I have a food phobia. However, nothing is as strong as a man's will to impress a woman. While I admitted that I had never had earl grey, I failed to mention that I had previously referred to all tea as "dirt water." I happily drank it. And don't you go ahead telling her I said that. You'll just cause trouble. Then I'll cut you.

More Time passed. As much as I would love to forget that I was locked out of MY MOM'S STATION WAGON, this was sort of something we had to face. Triple A was putting me on hold for 30 minutes, so she decided it would be better jsut to go get the keys. We spent some time in her car talking. I learned about her family, and her film projects. She learned about my friends. It was a truly excellent piece of sharing. Then we arrived back at her house, with my spare keys. And it was time to go.

She stood close to me, and I put my hand around her waist and gave her a good hug. Maybe I sniffed her hair. Her hair smelled very good. I leaned back to look at her. And she looked backat me. Without speaking, she told me to kiss her. "What if I'm still contagious?" I blurted out. "Then that will be my problem." I kissed her. And I saw spots. And a little tongue.

The interesting thing about a first kiss with a woman: the only think I can think about is what the inside of her mouth must look like. Like my tongue is a camera, I imagine her mouth as I do battle with her tongue. This is how I remember each and every one of my first kisses. Sakura has a very firm kiss. she was strong and skilled, but not overly excited. She was very controlled. She is an excellent kisser, and it warranted additional combat.

We're planning a date for the very next available evening, Monday.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

And she kissed me.

That wasn't quite what I had expected going into this evening.

Octave and I have a long history. She was my first kiss. She was the girl I almost dated two years ago. We have stayed in contact since, and are very good friends. I once wrote her a very slick song, but never sang it to her, because she told me she was seeing someone. It was complicated.

After I broke up with my ex, I made a promise to myself to remain unattached for at least 3 months. No matter what goodness came my way, I would have to be perfectly honest with her, and keep my heart open to others as well. Turns out I'm not very good at keeping my heart open. It likes to sink it's little hearty teeth in, and make a decision.
I have a crush on Octave, but it isn't actually going too well. She is very hard to get a hold of, and as of late, has been a slow and sporadic communicator. She has a lot going on.

What I am most concerned about is that if Octave and I go on a few dates, and I choose to boyfriend Sakura, Octave may feel like she was runner up. Or best candidate, when no others are available. The truth of the matter is that I am very strongly attracted to her, but I have a very difficult time reading her.

I cannot begin to understand if she is flirting or not.

Octave is a flirt. She flirts with everyone. This is, overall a good thing. It's nice to be flirted with. She does the world a favor. But I find it difficult to determine if her flirting with me has any special merit. She certainly does, but I don't know if it is her expressing affection or behaving normal.

I feel like I need her. I need Octave in my life. She is a great woman to talk to, and she always helps me out of a jam. I have bungled so much during this dating spree, that I'm afraid of damaging existing systems.

She is in a unique time in her life right now, and isn't in a hurry to tie herself down again. I can respect that mightily. She broke up with her ex (ex fiancee) just before I broke up with mine (never fianceed). I want to give her time to work through things.

Friday, November 25, 2005

I am the Worst Wingman Ever

The Sexy, Voice Actor, Dancer, Martial Artist, Film Student Mac Expert was pretty into me. And Geoff was pretty into her. I tried to turn her his way, but I really don't think I tried hard enough.

I was really rooting for him. He was spot on at that party. His wit was operating at +1, he was funny and charming, and she wasn't really having him at all. She was all about the Spaminator.
That was actually sort of awkward. I'm single right now, but I'm sort of taking this time for me right now, hence the Hiatus. I spent much of the time wishing she was massaging Geoff. Not while she was rubbing me though. Don't get me wrong. She was hot. She was interesting. She was trained by her grandmother in the ancient japanese arts of pressure point massage. But I think Geoff deserves her attention more. At this point, I was concerned taht IW as infringing on his "game," as it were.

Geoff and I are at Emily's party, which is populated exclusively by attractive single women. Princess is there, and things went well between us, demonstrating (I hope) that I am interested and capable of maintainging a platonic relationship. There were also two of Emily's friends from USC. The sexiest whom shall be named Sakura, after my favorite DDR song. I like the song because it offers many different, challenging step patterns, all of which are awesome, accompanied with music that is among the best in the entire game.

After the consultation of a "playa," it appears that technically Geoff was infringing on my "game." My staus as wingman (inherited by recognizing geoff's admiration fo Sakura), changed after I iced her foot. Her roommate had crushed her little toe (her dancing toe) beneath her chair. I came to the rescue with Red Cross cold compression and Spam Stylt distracting banter. I told her about the time my dog Moose gave my Horse a blowjob. That will keep your mind off of toes for a few seconds, I guarantee. However, there was excessive icing of the toe, and excessive exclusive banter. I couldn't really help it, she was attractive. And I think she has a thing for toes. A sexy thing for toes.

After the icing, she paid quite a bit of attention to me, and at this point Geoff's flirting was infringing on my game. Technically. Geoff is one of my best friends, and I could do nothing less than wish upon him the affections of every Sexy, Voice Actor, Dancer, Martial Artist, Film Student Mac Expert, Star Wars Fan ever. And I do. but it seems that THIS one likes me.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

On Hiatus

Of course it makes you sad to be told that so and so doesn't think you're as great as you think you are, but so what? I created this blog to tell a true story. I am in a unique part of my life, and I wanted to offer a unique narrative tone to tell my friends the story of my exciting adventures in the land of people with breasts.

Part of this is my passion for language. I love to see my words in print. Cast in electrons, unalterable (for you!). I feel like a creator. Taking words, and combining them into tangible feelings. This is the pleasure I get from this blog.
Someone has a high opinion of himself. I won't tell you who, but I think you know him.

However, I'm looking to slow things down. For years I have praised the saturation technique of modern dating. Go out with anyone. Ask out everyone who looks even remotely interesting. You will get turned down. The vast majority of the time. But eventually, you will get a date. This works. This isn't quite what I'm looking for.

Despite her last printed sentence being "Well i hope to hear from you soon bye." Rock Dove hasn't responded to me. Perhaps she was murdered by the commas she'd failed to put in her writings? Commas are vindictive. If you neglect them, they'll kick your ass. If this is the case, she brought it upon herself, and she has my pity. I sent her an email declaring myself "On Hiatus," and we're leaving that at that.

I've decided to stop being lonely, and to stop appearing desperate. I am going to see my friends, and I am going to go out on weekends. I'm still open to meet new people, and I may even write about it.

But I'm not going to look for a date.

It totally wasn't a date.

Octave is an old friend of mine, and we went out on friday night.

It totally wasn't a date.
I had an absolutely great time. I can say with absolute certainty that it was the best time I'd had in 6 months, but I can't actually recall anything more than 6 months ago, so it's possible that it was the most fun I've had ever.
We drove into the heart of LA for Peach Cobbler and Grilled Cheese, all the while singing songs we knew from her iPod. The device was powered by a plastic arm, plugged into her car's cigarette lighter, and it used an FM modulator to broadcast to her stereo. It worked suprisingly well. Unless the car turned. under these specific circumstances, the arm tipped and unplugged. Power was replaced with not-power, and and then Simon and Garfunkle were replaced with horror.

Let me reiterate, it was not a date.
We played a few games of Carcassonne, which she learned very fast, all the while enjoying various culinary artifacts from Swingers, the hippest diner on the Central West Side.

We left at 10, but Octave still had some fight in her, so we decided to watch a sing-a-long movie. Oh Brother, Where art Thou. George Clooney's finest role. It was excellent. Better than excellent. A damn near perfect cap for a damn good evening.
At opposite ends of my full length couch, we sang wholeheartedly to the words we could remember, while making up words to the parts we forgot. The entire evening failed to be even the slightest bit awkward, as the geographical distance between us stood as a banner to remind all who might be near, "This is totally not a date." At some point in the movie, we popped each other's toes. Still, It totally wasn't a date.

Friday night reminded me that maybe I'm taking this whole dating thing too seriously. Not like it was a date. Dating is not a job interview. Maybe just because a girl doesn't understand how dangerous the living dead are... maybe she can be pleasant company besides.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

God has a femme Cannon

The powers that be, are rapidly providing me with additional females to disappoint.
For a man with such unbridled failure in the realm of dating, I sure am seeing a lot of action.

It isn't that my heart is broken. I haven't been particularly taken with any of these women. It isn't that I'm lonely. I am surrounded by friends and family who all love me. I guess I always figured that I was so awesome, when the time came, I would be beating the women off with a stick no larger than my thumb. Well, the time has come, and there is a veritable hoard of available femme, but they keep hitting me first.
See, I'm not very good at the violence.

After the Incident with Princess, I had 3 pretty bad days. In between feeling sorry for myself, I felt like I'd lost a friend, and that I had no idea what I was doing with this dating thing. A lot of self doubt in there. Altogether not so good.
But I can always fall back on my friends. I sent out word that there was pie, and a few people came over to my house tonight, and incidentally cheered me up.

I feel like my confidence is wounded. Every time a woman says "I definitely I think I can do better than you," in that way or otherwise, it pokes me. Then I sleep on it, and I get a scab. A brain scab. When it happens again, the scab flakes off, and my confidence hole grows a little deeper. What I need is some time off from rejection. I need a little space to restore my self worth before I can continue my whole hearted quest, with a whole heart. Because right now, I'm just waiting for the next disappointment.

And her name is Rock Dove. That's not really her name. None of these girls have real names, and it's the least I can do, since I'm an asshole to publish their stories without consent.
Rock Dove is a 25 year old Geologist living in metropolitan Los Angeles. She of course, has a passion for nature, education, technology, and sex.
Sex is mentioned no less than three times in her profile.

I'll just leave out the details, because I think she may resent both talking about her, *and* sharing of personal information online. I like to pretend that sharing just one of those is alright though.

You are all perhaps wondering what it is that I am walking into. Those who know me will not be surprised to hear that I need to develop a considerable comfort bubble before I am comfortable with physical contact, let alone, physical contact plus. This was the subject of the third open question I asked. She appears to be looking to establish love before she claims a Penis. That is an important point for me.

What was her Answer to the Zombie Question?
That's the funny part. I have been in partial communication with her for over a month. I get a response about once a week, and since we're all paying buy the month for these accounts, I get the feeling that I'm getting second or third billing here. But hey, looks like it's my show now. One step at a time, I cross a quaking bog on the corpses of those that have fallen before me.

There are positive things we have going on here:
She's a geologist. The Sexiest of all sciences. The earth science closest to my own cold stone heart.
She's experienced. I don't mean sexually. I mean, I'm sure she is, but all in all, that's just intimidating. But she gives me the impression of a woman who knows how to handle her self in a relationship.
Her number two passion is conversation. Conversation is oral communication, a strong point of mine.
We share a lot of Cooking, Technology, and Theater. Cooking is Creativity, and Technology and Theater are Geeky. And being a Geologist makes her Geeky. Technology + Theater+ Geology combines to make her a potential double plus geek. A real prize.
She loves woodworking. More creativity. I think I feed off creativity like the Pootworm feeds off the brains of the slow moving Gafkabeast.

"I enjoyed reading your response to my questions. So sound like a very sweet and generous guy," she says. Her answers are full of typos. For a person who takes a week to generate a 3 sentence response, she's not a terribly good typist.

I will tread carefully. My heart isn't so much into it, but I'll give it the old college try.
After all, what do I have to lose except my sanity? And Sanity is really just a one trick Pony. All you get is one trick: Rational Thought. But if you're Crazy, then the Sky's the limit.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

She wasn't my type first!

We spent the day looking at old crime scene photos. Men arrested for dressing like women 70 years ago. Men shot in the chest for selling alcohol. A beautiful woman, who took an axe to two friends, and packed them into trunks. Then tried to take them with her cross country.
Crimes of passion caught on film, and preserved for a generation so I can see plainly and literally, the timeless effects of a reckless heart.

"She totally digs you," they said.
Princess is a New England Native, transplanted to Los Angeles in order to become LAPD, with her sights set on becoming the first woman in SWAT.
I have been in electronic contact with her since I first joined eHarmony, but I thought she wasn't my type. Actually I thought I wasn't her type, but I shut up about that, because she's the only one who can make that sort of a decision. She's just moved to LA, and I invited her over to meet some people, and sing Karaoke. That's when I learned that, my type or not, she was a knockout. We had a good time, she adored my friends, but I spent the night singing poorly, rather than checking her out. This would certainly account for my not noticing that "she totally digs me."

Or so they said. But she was hot. And they said it again. And again.
So I asked her out.

Today wasn't a date. the date was for next week, just to be clear. I carefully engineered today's activity such that we'd hop from friend to friend, only seldom alone together. But we got along so well. She is a roman catholic, intent on several children, with a strong sense of civic duty. Perhaps a little conservative, but she went all day without pushing any of my buttons. She's read the Hitch Hiker's guide, has a powerful love of penguins, and she gets along with my friends adeptly. She wants to be a cop. Not quite a Vigilante, but as for as Police Districts go, LAPD is pretty close. And if she was totally into me, then there's no harm in trying, right?

70 years ago, a young Photographer made a name for himself by being in the right place at the right time. By knowing people. By reading people. By waiting, patiently, for that one moment when the woman realized that her husband had just died. And putting that look, forever, on film. That is what I am doing here.

Princess just moved to Los Angeles. She has no exposure to mankind outside of internet dating sites, and until today, I was differentiated from the masses as being the one person who wasn't after her to date her. She's a person who needs people. I have a unique opportunity to get her involved with my friends and my active social life. So I feel like it's my duty to do so. She is a cool person, and god knows we can use some new blood in our circle. But if she totally digs me, then maybe I can have the best of both worlds? A new friend to share a new point of view, and to make things a little different. A companion who can appreciate my unique take on masculinity and humor.

I brought home a book of the photographs. When a man is shot in the chest, he will fall on his face and break his nose. Two pools of blood pour from these men, one from the head, and the other from the heart. At first glance, you think the wounds are related. But it was only the pierced heart that killed him. These men were shot by desperate people. People who needed quick money. People who were enraged. People who, across the span of of two minutes, had lost their footing. People who lost control of their hearts.

Today, again, despite the cries of my fragile mind, I lost control of my heart.

Princess told me, quickly and honestly, that she doesn't think that the dating thing would work out.

What have I done?
I neglected my intuition, and got carried away with the confidence and joy that comes with being wanted. Have I sabotaged a unique opportunity to help a wonderful person grow some social roots in this frightening city? Have I burned down my chance at making a unique new friend?
I have no idea. All I can do is put my faith in communication. Present myself honestly, and believe that it will all work out for the best.

My heart is a murder/suicide. A Police detective smiles next to my remains. "Another night on the Job." By asking one question, I simultaneously took a bit out of my confidence, and may have lost a growing friendship. If I knew this was the way it would play out, why did I put our relationship at risk? We certainly haven't known each other long enough for me to think we have a stable or secure understanding of each other.

In between the bodies and the transvestites, throughout the book, and on the cover, are photos of lovers kissing. The photographer admits that sometimes he had to use a special mirrored lens to take these photos around corners. Because love doesn't like to be captured.
But love is out there. He stole it from shadows, from around corners, and sometimes just by turning backwards in a movie theater. As often as he shows us tragedy, he shows us that a passionate heart doesn't always lead to disaster.

He reminds me to keep going. Not to bitch so much. I can be melodramatic tonight, but in the morning, after sleep, I will be fine. I have a warm heart, and a unique personality. There is someone out there looking for someone like me.

Today, a very simple communication took place. It wasn't unexpected, and it didn't hurt. It's just the thought of being unwanted, again, that gets me. But, every week I consider myself 1/6,446,131,400 closer to finding someone.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Her Mind was a Death Maze.

It was hot, and I had to take off my shirt.

Apparently I botched my wits roll.
It wasn't charisma, because that counts for the intangible that mostly comes into play in person.
Via internet, it's all about wits. I will keep that piece of nerd knowledge in mind.

After spending the morning in idle, meaningless chatter with Aowynn, I was getting the strong impression that she had no interest in me. A position that hardly seemed fair since she didn't know me. She was slow to speak, and always answered questions with the precision of an algebraic physics equation.
Just FYI, that's not very much precision at all.

The one question I wanted to ask was "Do I have a chance here?"

I didn't ask that. I asked what I thought was a simple question, that would lead into what was possibly an awkward question.
I asked "What are your short term goals? What are you looking for in a partner." A Question I have personally been asked, via internet. This was my undoing. It actually launched her into a tirade. Perhaps it should have been obvious? If she was previously uncomfortable telling me what her job is, why would she tell me something personal about herself? She lectured me about how to talk to women, and then told me that she wasn't interested in me "because of the questions."

It all happened so fast, I didn't really have time to do anything but listen to her.
"Is that a question you would ask a girl you just met in a bar?" she asked.
I had no response at the time, but yes it is. I got her contact info from a dating page, and she sent me her Live Journal, so I know she's dating. Yes, It is something I would ask. I have many close friends, and more than enough acquaintances. I don't really want any more shallow friends. But I came across too strong. I think what she wanted was a considerable amount of idle chatter. But I had no clue what the subject had to be. There was some secret passcode of interest.

I was in a death maze. There was infinite possiblity, and a very finite set of simple questions that would get her talking to me. I asked about her job. "I'm a personal assistant." Dead end.
I proceeded playfully and cleaverly, pawing for additional information. My goal was to get to know her. What would this girl Choose to do with her life?
"Do you work for an assasin? Polishing weapons and stiletto heels?" I asked.
She chuckled, and said "something like that." I hadn't known at the time, but it was Strike 1.
There were many things I could ask about, but I had a funny feeling. I was frustrated by her vague answers, but even that contained it's own information. Don't pry too deep. I knew better than to ask about why she dropped out of college. Or why she began to lose faith in catholicism. These are interesting aspects of her personality and past that she has flashed onto the internet. And she doesn't want to talk about it. I'm in a death maze. The lights have gone. And there's a leopard.
By the way, asking what she thinks an appropriate start of a conversation is wasn't the right door.
Strike 2. So I asked her to ask me something about myself. She can ask me something, and we can go from there. Strike 3.
She's not interested in getting to know me. Beyond anything but friends. "It was the Questions," she said.

We learn from our mistakes, But I don't know what to learn from today. It was such a small instance. It seemed unprecedented and felt unreasonable. She was quick to "dole out the harshness," as they say. But I can come across a little strong. That's what I need to keep in mind. I can be intimidating.
I guess I'm trying to convince myself that I didn't make a mistake, and that my situation is better now that it was an hour ago. That I didn't lose an opportunity, so much as scratch off another person who isn't right for me.
That is what I do with every closed message, with every day that goes past.
Do what comes naturally, present myself honestly, and my interpersonal affairs will work out for the best.
But today I don't think that's the case. I'm think that if we met, and she didn't loathe me for one of the many reasons women do (see previous posts), then maybe she could have opened up to me. Maybe we could have talked, and maybe something could have come of it.
I'm so stranger to failure, but this feels premature.