The blog is active.
5/28/10
More to come.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Know When to Hold’Em
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.
***
They’re all here. Oedipus. Elektra. Freud. Jung. I walked in on a hand in progress, sat down, and played with marked cards. I never had a chance.
A fitting closing act for our blog: Smooth and I started out like a jet-afterburner—with a crack of thunder in a day-to-day that had been short on excitement since four-bottles of wine binge drinking sessions in the ex-Soviet bloc. Losing a friend over a previous blog-post foreshadowed what we knew was to come. Given enough time and the law of large numbers, we were doomed to meet girls who lured us in with a remarkable ability to play. We met two.
This is a tribute to just one. She pulled me in, again and again, when I knew I couldn’t win—doubling down, tripling my ante in the pot. She won a heart, and with a nonchalance that would make Bernie Madoff blush, she took her winnings and walked away.
Her German name complemented ponderous hazel eyes and proud Teutonic cheeks that met full lips in an oft-pursed smile. She said she thought her hair was like honey comb. It was, and it spilled down a perfect neck and, when she was naked, across her collar bone and softly over her perfect breasts. She was lithe—all captive appeal and inviting cunning—but later, when I held her, she felt compact and vulnerable. She was Dangerous, and to protect the innocent, that’s what I’ll call her.
Her eyes and full lips struck me first. Something in them belied their youth—a cold or sad look, I thought sometimes. When my head led my heart, I thought I knew it was simple seriousness. Her lips sealed some great secret—something dark and gorgeous. A mystery from everyone? A mystery to everyone? Forever? The key to her heart seemed to dance between that first, second, and third question.
That was the beauty of it. There are four main types of poker players—four species of the Hold’em Genus: those who bluff, those who can’t, those who play the odds, and those who dive somewhere between your eyes with their subtly sharp digs and swim around in your head until your confidence is shaken. Dangerous seemed to combine all four in one—an Icthyologist’s (look it up) very wet and very caged dream.
The game started just as it would end nearly two months later: with me chasing a bet in the wind. Her eyes may have got me to the table, but her ass teased me through the door. Quite literally, I wondered about her as I followed her butt in grey dungarees through the beat up door of a green, C line, 1987 Kinki Shayro trolley car in Washington Square. I was late to work.
The train car was nearly empty, and I settled in a handicapped-designated alcove just to the left of one of the center doors. In hindsight, fate had crippled me, but then I was the best dressed cripple ever to occupy the spot. I looked good that day, and I knew it. Allen-Edmonds warmly worn-in and a pressed slim-fit Brooks shirt to go with my devil-may-care attitude. Later, she’d tell me she first noticed my pants. “City pants” she called them. She got on the T wrapped up in conversation with a friend, a girl, I could tell by her tone.
“What is it with women talking with friends on the phone before noon? Does she enjoy her cappuccino après-dinner in Milano, with a conspicuous nip of J.D. on hand to mellow the espresso? It’s unnatural. When’s she going to hang-up and give me an ‘in’?” I stared alternately past her and, maybe, at my book as I waited for my turn.
My eyes glanced and split-second-wandered over her plaid (or was it stripped?) shirt, trying to figure out what had me so hooked. I’d later tell her it was her look of self-satisfaction that made me chase her off at Boylston—a stop early—and take a back way to work. I had to have her phone number. It was almost too easy.
When our first date, at the Publick House, rolled in, I thought that we had waited weeks to make it happen. I remember the first time Dangerous and I talked on the phone. Her playful voice hinted at things to come—my own Norwegian Wood, the last song we talked about on our last date. The jazz act in our little restaurant had left the stage, and the Beatles provided the encore. The lyrics hummed:
I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me...She showed me her room, isn't it good Norwegian wood?
***
They’re all here. Oedipus. Elektra. Freud. Jung. I walked in on a hand in progress, sat down, and played with marked cards. I never had a chance.
A fitting closing act for our blog: Smooth and I started out like a jet-afterburner—with a crack of thunder in a day-to-day that had been short on excitement since four-bottles of wine binge drinking sessions in the ex-Soviet bloc. Losing a friend over a previous blog-post foreshadowed what we knew was to come. Given enough time and the law of large numbers, we were doomed to meet girls who lured us in with a remarkable ability to play. We met two.
This is a tribute to just one. She pulled me in, again and again, when I knew I couldn’t win—doubling down, tripling my ante in the pot. She won a heart, and with a nonchalance that would make Bernie Madoff blush, she took her winnings and walked away.
Her German name complemented ponderous hazel eyes and proud Teutonic cheeks that met full lips in an oft-pursed smile. She said she thought her hair was like honey comb. It was, and it spilled down a perfect neck and, when she was naked, across her collar bone and softly over her perfect breasts. She was lithe—all captive appeal and inviting cunning—but later, when I held her, she felt compact and vulnerable. She was Dangerous, and to protect the innocent, that’s what I’ll call her.
Her eyes and full lips struck me first. Something in them belied their youth—a cold or sad look, I thought sometimes. When my head led my heart, I thought I knew it was simple seriousness. Her lips sealed some great secret—something dark and gorgeous. A mystery from everyone? A mystery to everyone? Forever? The key to her heart seemed to dance between that first, second, and third question.
That was the beauty of it. There are four main types of poker players—four species of the Hold’em Genus: those who bluff, those who can’t, those who play the odds, and those who dive somewhere between your eyes with their subtly sharp digs and swim around in your head until your confidence is shaken. Dangerous seemed to combine all four in one—an Icthyologist’s (look it up) very wet and very caged dream.
The game started just as it would end nearly two months later: with me chasing a bet in the wind. Her eyes may have got me to the table, but her ass teased me through the door. Quite literally, I wondered about her as I followed her butt in grey dungarees through the beat up door of a green, C line, 1987 Kinki Shayro trolley car in Washington Square. I was late to work.
The train car was nearly empty, and I settled in a handicapped-designated alcove just to the left of one of the center doors. In hindsight, fate had crippled me, but then I was the best dressed cripple ever to occupy the spot. I looked good that day, and I knew it. Allen-Edmonds warmly worn-in and a pressed slim-fit Brooks shirt to go with my devil-may-care attitude. Later, she’d tell me she first noticed my pants. “City pants” she called them. She got on the T wrapped up in conversation with a friend, a girl, I could tell by her tone.
“What is it with women talking with friends on the phone before noon? Does she enjoy her cappuccino après-dinner in Milano, with a conspicuous nip of J.D. on hand to mellow the espresso? It’s unnatural. When’s she going to hang-up and give me an ‘in’?” I stared alternately past her and, maybe, at my book as I waited for my turn.
My eyes glanced and split-second-wandered over her plaid (or was it stripped?) shirt, trying to figure out what had me so hooked. I’d later tell her it was her look of self-satisfaction that made me chase her off at Boylston—a stop early—and take a back way to work. I had to have her phone number. It was almost too easy.
When our first date, at the Publick House, rolled in, I thought that we had waited weeks to make it happen. I remember the first time Dangerous and I talked on the phone. Her playful voice hinted at things to come—my own Norwegian Wood, the last song we talked about on our last date. The jazz act in our little restaurant had left the stage, and the Beatles provided the encore. The lyrics hummed:
I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me...She showed me her room, isn't it good Norwegian wood?
She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere,So I looked around and I noticed there wasn't a chair.
I sat on a rug, biding my time, drinking her wine, We talked until two and then she said: "It's time for bed"
She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh.I told her I didn't, and crawled off to sleep in the bath
And when I awoke, I was alone, this bird had flownSo I lit a fire, isn't it good Norwegian wood.
On our last date, in the last hour, I’d happily recount what the Beatles intended when they crafted that clever sitar-backed sound: begrudging—if not bitter—admiration for a femme-fatale. I should have heeded Virgil (I’ll paraphrase) who warned “Fate is a devil with a wicked sense of humor”, taken the cue, and exited stage-right.
Instead, I told Dangerous what Paul McCartney said about the song. In 1966, he explained, “She led him on, then said, ‘You'd better sleep in the bath.’ In our world the guy had to have some sort of revenge ... so it meant I burned the fucking place down ....” Paul, I feel your pain, but she stole my matches. I’m stealing them back….
Perhaps I’m giving her too much (malicious) credit. Any experienced hold’em player will tell you that there’s only one thing worse than gambling with a pro, and that’s gambling with a novice. It’s easy to mistake a careless naïf with a master manipulator. Which was she? Was she Dangerous? Was I blind? Was my mistake playing too conservatively—keeping my guard up and keeping a side of myself under cover? In short: should I have shown a hand and taken the risk that she never bluffed…. That what I took to be great talent for the game was in fact beguiling naïveté? Be the judge.
Our first three dates: Dealer’s Choice
Date number one started my plunge. A man cannot resist a woman who knows as much about beer as he does He can’t resist her if she enjoys hanger steak with herb butter, but slips exquisitely into a tight knee-high grey skirt and white blouse. A man cannot resist a woman who will drink whisky (at Eastern Standard, second date). A man cannot resist her ambition, independence, and intellect. We had fun. She took me home.
She was the best kiss I’ve ever had. Better than Ash—my ex (go ahead, Google “Ashley Richardson” … see what you find)—and she could never be confused with an amateur. I thought I knew Dangerous in that kiss and each one after. When I told her, in bed, after a third night out, after a devastatingly good Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, that a kiss like hers is rare, she replied “Really? I’ve had lots of good kisses.” Devil may care….
There were worse omens. She was reading Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. David Foster Wallace killed himself after a lifetime bout with depression. He longed for earnest, unself-conscious experience. He was the master of irony.
I was hopelessly, utterly, infatuated with her, and hopelessly, utterly, fucked.
I waited a couple of days to call her. It was the best I could do. Like a gazelle, she wanted to be chased. I knew she wouldn’t chase me. She never called. She apologized for being poor at returning messages. When I called, it was a Tuesday. I left a voice mail. I had tickets to the Red Sox; would she like to visit Fenway before the season was out? She sent me a text; “I think we’ve seen a lot of each other in the past couple of weeks”. Later, she listened to my voice mail—I said I’d understand if she might be getting sick of me—and she called to apologize for being “a brat. And of course she was free Friday.” She could do no harm.
The Flop through The Turn
At work, I talked things over with Smooth. He listened and pondered over her mystery. “Here’s the thing you have to understand. She’s young. She’s just looking for fun. She’s like a rare bird that you’ve caught. Move very slowly, or she’ll fly away.” You have to hand it to the guy, he’s poetic.
The visit with her to Fenway ranked alongside the trip I made to the park to catch the Sox in the Series. For that, I’d slept outside the night before and thrown back Red Bulls, cigarettes, and Bud Lights with a good friend from noon until midnight. Dangerous had a different kind of fun in mind: she pressed her lips against mine and kept them there nearly the whole game, our backs to the field. Somewhere along the way though, she found time to flirt with a Bahston meathead while an usher distracted me. “Seems strange, but no big deal” I thought. I dismissed it. Ten minutes later the same guy showed up by her side again. He had bought her a slice of pizza. I wanted to deck him. To her credit, she wouldn’t touch it
Maybe I should have fled after that date. Or after the next day spent in bed with her. It felt intimate. It felt honest. She loves being naked. She kissed my neck. She told me no one had ever kissed her on her arm just … like … that. “She would never settle” she said. God, I loved the challenge. She was someone I could settle with. I told her I’d never settle, either. That’s the truth.
Then, she described her father who succumbed to vanity and lost touch with his family. She hadn’t talked to him in five years and recently reconnected with him. He had stumbled out of the dark, like a Chuck Palahniuk character from Fight Club, and he’s there for her now, and she’s there for him. She was proud of him. It was a redemption story, and it impressed me. She told me she had been “a princess” growing up. She told me about a boy in New York City that she wanted to visit. “His name is Luigi. Maybe tomorrow, and I’ll spend the night there” she said off-hand. She claimed to love men with sleeve tattoos (translation: boys, arteests, shallow romantics … guys who wouldn’t give a damn for her). The last guy she dated was an artist, she said. She showed me how he held his hands; “Like this.” And her fingers gently and beautifully curled in as if afflicted with an arthritis only she could cure. She told me she thought it was okay for a girl to sleep with her guy friends, if she had a boyfriend, so long as nothing passed between them. She told me about another guy she had coming into town in two weeks. “Just a friend” she said. I know something about boys. Few of them, ever, are just friends.
She was relentless, and I shrugged through it all. What else could I do? She seemed to be intent on breaking me down, exposing a weak point—probing for a rise. I stepped back out of my body. There, I watched as she figuratively rapid-kicked my sternum, like something out of the videogame Mortal Combat … I waited for the virtual announcer to yell “FINISH HIM!!!”. Then, the techno music would reach a crescendo as she ripped my head from my torso to hold it aloft in victory.
She came over for the first time and spent the night. We watched John Adams, the HBO mini-series. I wanted to tell her I could be the trouble she seemed to crave. I wanted to tell her how, just months earlier, as the late summer sun streaked over the cobble stones of Faneuil Hall, I’d been thrown to the pavement by Boston’s Finest in front of what-was-until-that-moment a cheering, enraptured crowd of fifty tourists, three quarters of the way through an impassioned recitation of Civil Disobedience (note: not something I recommend). How the crowd had turned on the police for cuffing me even as I calmly turned to walk away at their first request. If she wanted a performer, she could have one. I didn’t tell her. She wasn’t ready to know me. Not yet. If I anteed too much, I’d lose her. I gambled that she wanted smart, safe, “sane”, simple fun. In the back of my head I suspected she wanted broken, feral, vulnerable … a reformation project. She could have intelligent and wild, kind and passionate; she could have raw, too, but she’d have to wait. If she had a tell, I couldn’t read it. Her poker face was second-to-none. I’d wait.
Even then, as I held her that night in my bed, I didn’t know what she wanted. We hadn’t had sex. Did she liked it that way? Had I missed my cue? She had my favorite sweatshirt. In the morning, she left her earrings behind on a side table. “Did she want to see Grizzly Bear, the band, in a week?” She did. I bought tickets. She couldn’t make it after overdosing on her medication. “Shit happens,” I thought, “No worries.” Without a doubt I knew that she was telling the truth. She offered to cover me for the tickets, and I refused. “When I get back from Chicago, after this weekend, you can take me to see Where The Wild Things Are I said.” We had a date (she cried silently at the end of the movie, and I wish I’d seen her tears; I would have kissed them away) and I left for Chicago, her hometown. She said she’d call me while I was there, and I looked forward to hearing her somewhat dorky, smiling, soft mezzo-soprano on the other end of the line. I went all in.
The River
I’ve always bounced back quickly. There’s too much to see in this life to live any other way. It’s not in my nature to dwell. I spend a lot of time thinking about the way people are. Their motivations. Their desires. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I know best. I mentioned Carl Jung at the beginning of this story. He and I would have got along well … hell, I bet he was a riot to rip a joint with … putting up with Freud and his phallic obsessions for all of those years.
Jung made his life’s work the unconscious. I wonder what he’d say about what I’ve put down here. Dangerous is an ISTJ. A private person, so I’m told. I’m an ENFP. Polar opposites. She told me at the outset that “Polar opposites don’t attract.” That strikes me as a non sequitur[1]…. I have a magnet collection; I’m practically an expert in the field.
She stopped returning my calls the night after John Lennon burned down that poor girl’s imaginary house in the background at Les Zygomates while Dangerous made eyes at the jazz musicians who had retired to the bar for the night. As a final blow, she pulled out a book on the five senses—a fascination of hers. The guy in for the weekend before had given it to her. She loved it. I give my friends books that I love. I give my girlfriends books that they’ll love. She had kindled a jealousy in me that I’d never felt before. Was it all in my head? A massive miscommunication? Her signals were so blurred, I couldn’t read them. I wonder if I knew her at all.
Hopes for an unbridled Halloween on the town with her vanished quickly after that. I collected my sweat shirt this weekend and returned her earrings. She’d gone out as Max from Wild Things and worn a tee I had lent her, with him dancing the wild rumpus on the front. Another mystery; was this a final blow? Was she just that clueless? I let her keep it. She asked for a hug, and how could I say no? She already had my heart. She told me she’d had a fun time. Exhilarating? Yes. Unforgetable? Without a doubt. But fun? It stung.
In the end, she can keep the matches; burning down a house is just one thing I’ll never be able to pull off. I don’t think that’s what she is looking for. On the other hand, I wasn’t prepared to fold. I don't like walking away from the table not knowing how I was beat. My hand was forced. Dangerous, you could learn a thing or two from me, and I could learn a thing or two from you. But, I guess, sometimes you have to know when to fold’em.
On our last date, in the last hour, I’d happily recount what the Beatles intended when they crafted that clever sitar-backed sound: begrudging—if not bitter—admiration for a femme-fatale. I should have heeded Virgil (I’ll paraphrase) who warned “Fate is a devil with a wicked sense of humor”, taken the cue, and exited stage-right.
Instead, I told Dangerous what Paul McCartney said about the song. In 1966, he explained, “She led him on, then said, ‘You'd better sleep in the bath.’ In our world the guy had to have some sort of revenge ... so it meant I burned the fucking place down ....” Paul, I feel your pain, but she stole my matches. I’m stealing them back….
Perhaps I’m giving her too much (malicious) credit. Any experienced hold’em player will tell you that there’s only one thing worse than gambling with a pro, and that’s gambling with a novice. It’s easy to mistake a careless naïf with a master manipulator. Which was she? Was she Dangerous? Was I blind? Was my mistake playing too conservatively—keeping my guard up and keeping a side of myself under cover? In short: should I have shown a hand and taken the risk that she never bluffed…. That what I took to be great talent for the game was in fact beguiling naïveté? Be the judge.
Our first three dates: Dealer’s Choice
Date number one started my plunge. A man cannot resist a woman who knows as much about beer as he does He can’t resist her if she enjoys hanger steak with herb butter, but slips exquisitely into a tight knee-high grey skirt and white blouse. A man cannot resist a woman who will drink whisky (at Eastern Standard, second date). A man cannot resist her ambition, independence, and intellect. We had fun. She took me home.
She was the best kiss I’ve ever had. Better than Ash—my ex (go ahead, Google “Ashley Richardson” … see what you find)—and she could never be confused with an amateur. I thought I knew Dangerous in that kiss and each one after. When I told her, in bed, after a third night out, after a devastatingly good Yeah Yeah Yeahs show, that a kiss like hers is rare, she replied “Really? I’ve had lots of good kisses.” Devil may care….
There were worse omens. She was reading Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace. David Foster Wallace killed himself after a lifetime bout with depression. He longed for earnest, unself-conscious experience. He was the master of irony.
I was hopelessly, utterly, infatuated with her, and hopelessly, utterly, fucked.
I waited a couple of days to call her. It was the best I could do. Like a gazelle, she wanted to be chased. I knew she wouldn’t chase me. She never called. She apologized for being poor at returning messages. When I called, it was a Tuesday. I left a voice mail. I had tickets to the Red Sox; would she like to visit Fenway before the season was out? She sent me a text; “I think we’ve seen a lot of each other in the past couple of weeks”. Later, she listened to my voice mail—I said I’d understand if she might be getting sick of me—and she called to apologize for being “a brat. And of course she was free Friday.” She could do no harm.
The Flop through The Turn
At work, I talked things over with Smooth. He listened and pondered over her mystery. “Here’s the thing you have to understand. She’s young. She’s just looking for fun. She’s like a rare bird that you’ve caught. Move very slowly, or she’ll fly away.” You have to hand it to the guy, he’s poetic.
The visit with her to Fenway ranked alongside the trip I made to the park to catch the Sox in the Series. For that, I’d slept outside the night before and thrown back Red Bulls, cigarettes, and Bud Lights with a good friend from noon until midnight. Dangerous had a different kind of fun in mind: she pressed her lips against mine and kept them there nearly the whole game, our backs to the field. Somewhere along the way though, she found time to flirt with a Bahston meathead while an usher distracted me. “Seems strange, but no big deal” I thought. I dismissed it. Ten minutes later the same guy showed up by her side again. He had bought her a slice of pizza. I wanted to deck him. To her credit, she wouldn’t touch it
Maybe I should have fled after that date. Or after the next day spent in bed with her. It felt intimate. It felt honest. She loves being naked. She kissed my neck. She told me no one had ever kissed her on her arm just … like … that. “She would never settle” she said. God, I loved the challenge. She was someone I could settle with. I told her I’d never settle, either. That’s the truth.
Then, she described her father who succumbed to vanity and lost touch with his family. She hadn’t talked to him in five years and recently reconnected with him. He had stumbled out of the dark, like a Chuck Palahniuk character from Fight Club, and he’s there for her now, and she’s there for him. She was proud of him. It was a redemption story, and it impressed me. She told me she had been “a princess” growing up. She told me about a boy in New York City that she wanted to visit. “His name is Luigi. Maybe tomorrow, and I’ll spend the night there” she said off-hand. She claimed to love men with sleeve tattoos (translation: boys, arteests, shallow romantics … guys who wouldn’t give a damn for her). The last guy she dated was an artist, she said. She showed me how he held his hands; “Like this.” And her fingers gently and beautifully curled in as if afflicted with an arthritis only she could cure. She told me she thought it was okay for a girl to sleep with her guy friends, if she had a boyfriend, so long as nothing passed between them. She told me about another guy she had coming into town in two weeks. “Just a friend” she said. I know something about boys. Few of them, ever, are just friends.
She was relentless, and I shrugged through it all. What else could I do? She seemed to be intent on breaking me down, exposing a weak point—probing for a rise. I stepped back out of my body. There, I watched as she figuratively rapid-kicked my sternum, like something out of the videogame Mortal Combat … I waited for the virtual announcer to yell “FINISH HIM!!!”. Then, the techno music would reach a crescendo as she ripped my head from my torso to hold it aloft in victory.
She came over for the first time and spent the night. We watched John Adams, the HBO mini-series. I wanted to tell her I could be the trouble she seemed to crave. I wanted to tell her how, just months earlier, as the late summer sun streaked over the cobble stones of Faneuil Hall, I’d been thrown to the pavement by Boston’s Finest in front of what-was-until-that-moment a cheering, enraptured crowd of fifty tourists, three quarters of the way through an impassioned recitation of Civil Disobedience (note: not something I recommend). How the crowd had turned on the police for cuffing me even as I calmly turned to walk away at their first request. If she wanted a performer, she could have one. I didn’t tell her. She wasn’t ready to know me. Not yet. If I anteed too much, I’d lose her. I gambled that she wanted smart, safe, “sane”, simple fun. In the back of my head I suspected she wanted broken, feral, vulnerable … a reformation project. She could have intelligent and wild, kind and passionate; she could have raw, too, but she’d have to wait. If she had a tell, I couldn’t read it. Her poker face was second-to-none. I’d wait.
Even then, as I held her that night in my bed, I didn’t know what she wanted. We hadn’t had sex. Did she liked it that way? Had I missed my cue? She had my favorite sweatshirt. In the morning, she left her earrings behind on a side table. “Did she want to see Grizzly Bear, the band, in a week?” She did. I bought tickets. She couldn’t make it after overdosing on her medication. “Shit happens,” I thought, “No worries.” Without a doubt I knew that she was telling the truth. She offered to cover me for the tickets, and I refused. “When I get back from Chicago, after this weekend, you can take me to see Where The Wild Things Are I said.” We had a date (she cried silently at the end of the movie, and I wish I’d seen her tears; I would have kissed them away) and I left for Chicago, her hometown. She said she’d call me while I was there, and I looked forward to hearing her somewhat dorky, smiling, soft mezzo-soprano on the other end of the line. I went all in.
The River
I’ve always bounced back quickly. There’s too much to see in this life to live any other way. It’s not in my nature to dwell. I spend a lot of time thinking about the way people are. Their motivations. Their desires. It’s what I’m good at. It’s what I know best. I mentioned Carl Jung at the beginning of this story. He and I would have got along well … hell, I bet he was a riot to rip a joint with … putting up with Freud and his phallic obsessions for all of those years.
Jung made his life’s work the unconscious. I wonder what he’d say about what I’ve put down here. Dangerous is an ISTJ. A private person, so I’m told. I’m an ENFP. Polar opposites. She told me at the outset that “Polar opposites don’t attract.” That strikes me as a non sequitur[1]…. I have a magnet collection; I’m practically an expert in the field.
She stopped returning my calls the night after John Lennon burned down that poor girl’s imaginary house in the background at Les Zygomates while Dangerous made eyes at the jazz musicians who had retired to the bar for the night. As a final blow, she pulled out a book on the five senses—a fascination of hers. The guy in for the weekend before had given it to her. She loved it. I give my friends books that I love. I give my girlfriends books that they’ll love. She had kindled a jealousy in me that I’d never felt before. Was it all in my head? A massive miscommunication? Her signals were so blurred, I couldn’t read them. I wonder if I knew her at all.
Hopes for an unbridled Halloween on the town with her vanished quickly after that. I collected my sweat shirt this weekend and returned her earrings. She’d gone out as Max from Wild Things and worn a tee I had lent her, with him dancing the wild rumpus on the front. Another mystery; was this a final blow? Was she just that clueless? I let her keep it. She asked for a hug, and how could I say no? She already had my heart. She told me she’d had a fun time. Exhilarating? Yes. Unforgetable? Without a doubt. But fun? It stung.
In the end, she can keep the matches; burning down a house is just one thing I’ll never be able to pull off. I don’t think that’s what she is looking for. On the other hand, I wasn’t prepared to fold. I don't like walking away from the table not knowing how I was beat. My hand was forced. Dangerous, you could learn a thing or two from me, and I could learn a thing or two from you. But, I guess, sometimes you have to know when to fold’em.
[1] a comment which, due to its apparent lack of meaning relative to what it follows, seems absurd to the point of being humorous or confusing (Chew on that footnote, David Foster Wallace)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Gold-digging on Washington St.
I love Washington St. in downtown Boston. I walk past it every day and marvel at how the business crowd in suits passes by the gang-banging crowd from Roxbury without incident. They both ignore each other, which is probably for the best.Captain and I have window seats inside Boston Common Coffee Co. Perched in our chairs, we people watch the Washington St. crowd, attempting to tell passer-by's life stories from their attire and gait. Then she walks by: tan... black halter-top... black suit pants that her ass can barely squeeze into... shaking what she's got... dragging along a suitcase. Captain starts to drool. I tell him to snap out of it and he tells me to get up. Boy-cut, lesbian barista girl overhears us and laughs as we bolt out of the store and follow our target down the street.
She stops by Macy's and we catch up to her. She's obviously lost. Captain glides by her and turns to face her as though he just saw her for the first time through his peripheral vision. She has no idea we stalked her from the coffee shop down the street.
Captain: "Do you need help finding someplace?"
Her: "I'm looking for this restaurant that I'm applying for a waitressing position at." She motions at a menu/drink list she's carrying to some fancy (cheesy?) place located nearby.
I take a closer look at her. She is very tan, very Italian looking, with bright yellow pumps on her feet. Her overall outfit is certainly not classy but not toooo trashy either. I wonder what she wears on weekend nights.
Me: "Need help with your suitcase?"
Her: "Oh no thanks, I have three heads in here. I mean mannequin heads for practicing cutting hair. I go to Blaine for hairdressing, but I can also do nails and other things. You guys should come in; you both have nice hair -- I'll give you cuts for $5."
Oh boy, here we go.
Me: "That's awesome. Blaine is the best school in the country for hair. Good for you."
Captain: "Nice, we'll come in for cuts. Are you from around here?"
Her: "I'm from Weston. I grew up there and but went to Catholic school." [bullshit. She's from Revere or Everett or Medford. Winthrop at best. I suppose she's lying to appear upper-crust.]
The conversation deteriorates from here. Among other things, she tells us she's of Czech heritage (yeah, right). I give her my business card and tell her to call and we'll find a time to get haircuts. We walk off.
Captain: "Gold-digger, looking to pawn some sucker. That's not us."
Church -- Rewound
Captain and I are supposed to attend service at a small, non-denominational church in the Back Bay. How did we hear about this church, you ask? Long story, but the short answer is that we were accosted by a bachelorette party last weekend at Dillon's on Boylston St. Literally. I mean, we had seats at the bar, were hemmed in by 6 girls (3 hot, 3 not), and among other things received an invite to go to church with them. Of course we agreed.
I made an ass of myself the last time I tried to make a move at church so hopefully today goes more smoothly (no pun intended). It's an 11am service but looks like Captain has not slept in his place and cannot extricate himself from present company to join me, so I'm flying solo. The service is actually quite entertaining. Pastor X is young and has an alternative, revival spirit. I'm feeling the love. Two very attractive girls in sundresses walk in late and grab seats up front. Now I' m in love. Wow, that was fast. I have my mission.
The service ends and everyone's mingling. I head out and shake hands with Pastor X. He's a "cool and froody" kind of guy, to quote Zaphod from the Hitchhiker's Guide. I instinctively like him. I head back into the antechamber and find Sundress 1 and Sundress 2 walking by, laughing. As they pass me I make some sort of harmless, ridiculous comment. They laugh. I accompany them outside. 5 minutes later I have the email address of Sundress 1. I have redeemed myself. Halleluja!
I made an ass of myself the last time I tried to make a move at church so hopefully today goes more smoothly (no pun intended). It's an 11am service but looks like Captain has not slept in his place and cannot extricate himself from present company to join me, so I'm flying solo. The service is actually quite entertaining. Pastor X is young and has an alternative, revival spirit. I'm feeling the love. Two very attractive girls in sundresses walk in late and grab seats up front. Now I' m in love. Wow, that was fast. I have my mission.
The service ends and everyone's mingling. I head out and shake hands with Pastor X. He's a "cool and froody" kind of guy, to quote Zaphod from the Hitchhiker's Guide. I instinctively like him. I head back into the antechamber and find Sundress 1 and Sundress 2 walking by, laughing. As they pass me I make some sort of harmless, ridiculous comment. They laugh. I accompany them outside. 5 minutes later I have the email address of Sundress 1. I have redeemed myself. Halleluja!
I'll take a medium iced
These next two posts will be short as I am way behind on my blogging. Another Smooth and Captain expedition:
We enter the local indie coffee shop next to our office for a mid-afternoon jolt. I've spoken to a barista who sometimes works the afternoon shift (cute, but not hot) a couple of times now and notice she's here. The place is practically empty. We start talking to her. She's interested in chit-chatting with us. Captain gets his coffee. She keeps talking, talking, talking. She has an empty plastic cup in her hand for me but can't stop talking and get around to making my drink. Captain finishes his coffee and exits to make a phone call to a female friend. She finally makes my drink. Other customers enter and pause to reflect on the menu. I have my out, and she writes her number down for me on an order slip before I slip away.
Postscript: I've texted back and forth with her for the past 2 days. She is incredibly immature (but I suppose no more so than your average 21 year old female). I have yet to meet her but am less and less interested with each passing text.
We enter the local indie coffee shop next to our office for a mid-afternoon jolt. I've spoken to a barista who sometimes works the afternoon shift (cute, but not hot) a couple of times now and notice she's here. The place is practically empty. We start talking to her. She's interested in chit-chatting with us. Captain gets his coffee. She keeps talking, talking, talking. She has an empty plastic cup in her hand for me but can't stop talking and get around to making my drink. Captain finishes his coffee and exits to make a phone call to a female friend. She finally makes my drink. Other customers enter and pause to reflect on the menu. I have my out, and she writes her number down for me on an order slip before I slip away.
Postscript: I've texted back and forth with her for the past 2 days. She is incredibly immature (but I suppose no more so than your average 21 year old female). I have yet to meet her but am less and less interested with each passing text.
Friday, July 17, 2009
The Bottomless Money Pit is My New Best Friend
Quick recap of yesterday's success:
Girl on T. Me. On the T also. Reading a book. Snatching glances at girl. Girl rolls her eyes (At what? Unclear.) T stops. As usual. For 5 minutes outside of Park Street. I make remark, to girl, about the driver texting her dealer for a fresh crack rock. (Actually, this didn't happen; I said "It would be faster to walk to Park Street." True.) Girl and I got off the T and walk and talk most of the way to my office. I got girl's #. The end.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
The movies: Part II
This is quite funny (and 100% true for all you miserable haters out there). I just met a girl in the most Norman Rockwell (Read: Saturday Evening Post)/1950s Hollywood way possible: I helped her pick up a bunch of blueberries that she had spilt all over the ground outside of the supermarket. No joke. I mean seriously, if I were going to make up a post, I wouldn't pick something so cheesy....I'd rather tell a tale that involves a tuxedo, a high-speed chase, a gun, a cocktail dress, and venom (you know, the kind that some girls have in their bloodstream).
Back to tonight. I'm rounding the corner, leaving my local Whole Foods when I spot a petite girl, dressed in gym gear, kneeling over a broken grocery bag trying to pick up all of the blueberries that had fallen out of her bag.
What would you do if you came across this situation? I'll tell you what most guys in Boston would do...keep walking.
After helping her pick up the berries, I realized she was still overwhelmed with heavy bags, and helped her carry one of them home. Turns out she's your typical East Coast girl -- prep school, nice, private New England college, financial sector job, etc. I'll email her and invite her on a run this weekend.
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