they're two ways this can go.

Waiting for a first date to show can be nerve-wracking.  Sometimes I feel like my heart is Shröedinger's cat, but I'm afraid to open the box and look.

At times I think that sitting home alone with a burrito is better than dating.

First of all: it is so much less painful than dating.

Bonus: it comes with a burrito.






See also: Food is not love. But it tastes like love.

bad things make good stories

I had a date last week. It was a first date, but sort of not. A 1.5st date. I asked him. And I had been a little giddy about it, then a little dashed, then cautiously optimistic. He's down in Mountain View, and as the gentleman caller I offered to drive down rather than ask that he drive up. He was in the mood for Italian, and suggested a place near where he is house-sitting. A local chain of some regional renown: Frankie, Johnnie & Luigi Too!

The restaurant was just awful. The service was friendly enough but the execution was so far beyond terrible that it made for a terrific date. There comes a point where one has to celebrate a fiasco. And if you are with the right person, and in the right frame of mind, you can have a good time anywhere. Even the band played as the Titanic sank.

Not only did I have a wonderful time for the charming company, but I got a good solid ten minutes of stand-up out of this. For this post, I am going to set aside the odd, tandem waitering of the tall lactose-intolerant skeleton and his diminutive mute shadow ("How do you know he was lactose intolerant?" you ask. Precisely. Why should I know this?), the 70s cliché iceberg salad, and the barely warm, flavorless calzone, and just talk about the cocktail experience (which after the following still took two more attempts to reach "acceptable.").

There was a menu of "specialty martinis" with no regard as to if the drinks there listed were actually martinis, and regardless all were given a -tini suffix. Just a note: a cosmopolitan may be considered by some to be a form of martini, but even then it is not called a "cosmopolitini."

Unable to bear the syrup and dessert concoctions which comprised the specialty menu (how many drinks can one make with chocolate liqueur?), I thought I would try one of their three specific house specials (also promoted as always happy-hour priced!), and while I knew it was a gamble at best I ordered the Manhattan and asked for it in a lowball on the rocks.

When it finally arrived, it was straight up in a martini glass, and it didn't have just one, but TWO BUGS in it. Seriously. To mix a bug in a drink is one thing; to not notice two bugs in such a small glass, with a nearly clear liquid and no ice is another. And the fact that there was more than one fly in the cocktail is just gross. In my head I could hear my mother adding jokes such as "Don't say anything or everyone will want one." or "Well, he won't drink much." Which is all fine and dandy for my mother, but when the sidekick waiter returned with a glass of ice for my cocktail (realizing their mistake) and I told him quite calmly and pleasantly (I am still on my best behavior on this first-point-five date here) that there were bugs in the drink, he actually said "Good thing they don't drink much." And that was it. No apology. No shame. No mea culpas.  No comps. No recognition of the issue that they just served me a glass of bugs as if their error was that I ordered them on the side.

I tried again.

When Icabod returned I asked if they had any orange vodkas (Clementine, Mandarin, L'Orange?).  "Yes," he said, "We have Citron."

Now I have always said that the first rule cocktails is that a lemon is not a lime, but I left that thought unvoiced and asked, "Do you have Mandarin?"
"Yes we do."
"Then I'll have a Mandarin and soda, no fruit. Please.  Thank you."

He returned again some time later to inform me that they had no Mandarin.
"But you have Citron? ...That will do."
"No. Actually, we only have one flavored vodka: PB&J"

Peanut Butter and Jelly flavored vodka. I'm going to let that one sink in a minute. Seriously. A full bar and bar room in the front of the restaurant, and the only infused vodka they have is flavored with peanut butter and jelly.

I was dumbstruck (rare for me I know). So many thoughts ran through my head: "PB&J? Is there a kid's drink menu? That can't be an 'infused vodka'—what would they 'infuse' it with? Is there a distillery somewhere with vats and vats of alcohol steeping with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? Is the vodka murky? Do they put in white bread too? Are the crusts cut off? What do they garnish it with? Is there a jelly rim? Is there going to be a wedge of a PB&J sandwich perched on the rim of the glass? Maybe a toast point.  Maybe there will be a peanut butter ball with a plastic sword speared through it. Should I expect a sandwich-based drink to have fewer bugs in it?..."

I looked at the waiter in stunned silence, then nonplussed across the table to my date. Our eyes met and GJ turned to look up at the waiter and asked, "What flavor is the jam?"

Best date ever.

Baby it's cold outside

I can't believe it's snowing in San Francisco!

Oh wait. My bad. I'm just surrounded by flakes.

Poly wolly doodle all day

Just a note:  If you are polyamorous, have a primary, two boyfriends, and lovers on the side—you are not "single."

So the answer to that question before you go on a first date is "no."

And the conversation on the first date should not then involve Visio flowchart software to map out the relationships.

crushed

So, I have a crush. I don't often. And I honestly have limited experience with relationships and even more limited success with relationships. But I have a crush, and it's sweet, and juvenile, and honest, and unabashed, and fairly ridiculous and makes me happy.

I got Chinese take-out over the weekend and they threw in a couple of fortune cookies.

I ate them tonight. My fortune:


Of goodie! Mustn't argue with dessert, that's what I always say.

Then I opened the other one.


Wait...what?! Curse you, broken cookie! You two work this out amongst yourselves and get back to me.

Damnit.




See also:

the two-faced coin and the wishing well

I'm finding it annoying that [what I think I really want] and [what scares the living shit out of me] are often the same thing.

love's labor, lost.

While my experience with love and relationships is meager at best, I do think it is better to have loved and lost than to have simply lost.

One of these days maybe I'll have a romantic relationship that lasts longer than milk.

good advice. good hot, sweaty advice.

Got a clarification pep talk e-mail today chock full of good dating advice (and recap of last evening). He ended the e-mail with this final episode/advisory:

Then Kelly and I walked the quarter of a block to her place and got naked. :)

Regular sex helps.

Yes it does. Or, you know, would.

Meh.

reality dating shows

In this case, "shows" is a verb. Shows what exactly I'm not yet sure.

It has been brought to my attention of late, repeatedly so, that I have not been "open" towards dating. I don't think that's entirely true, but there is some truth in the observation. One recurring criticism is that I do not keep my social calendar as much as it keeps me. This I have to admit has become true. And as I lead a full and exciting social life, with quality friends with whom I share my hopes and dreams and disappointments, I don't feel that my life is particularly lacking anything (other than a more fulfilling career and bank account).

I've gotten several "talking to's" recently, usually by coupled friends, that I should to be actively dating, with an underlying implication that by not doing so I have failed in some fashion. A recommendation to enroll in Match.com is typically included in this conversation. I think there is a fundamental false assumption on their part. That I should be or am anxious to be coupled right now. I see enrollment in online dating services as actively pursing a relationship, implying a certain desire or need for one. I don't share that drive. I am not object to it at all, just not driven to it.

I think that the reason I don't date is that I feel no particular need to. My life does not seem emotionally deficient in any particular way. I do not feel alone, much less lonely. And I have most of my time already accounted for with fun and exciting things that I value those rare days or nights I get to spend alone with the DVR, or get a good night's sleep, or finally find time for laundry and domestic chores. Others have, perhaps rightfully so, asserted that the reason I don't feel romantically deficient (hopeless hopeful romantic that I truly am) or inclined to date is that my time and my mind are too occupied for it to occur to me.

And so this year I have been trying to make myself more open to opportunity. I look for unique events or entertainment options that would make for a good first date experience, and invite the interesting men I meet. I've managed to shelve my fear of rejection and basically man up and just ask. Of course, now I have a new problem. They say no.

(I have tickets to James Judd's new one-man show Whoop Click! this Saturday. So far, no persons of interest have reciprocated interest in joining me. The last James Judd show I went to I took the Jimm-with-Two-Mm's, and as happy a date as that was, the dating experience ended badly. He was the last guy I really liked, and liking a guy enough to ask him out, and make time for him, is rare for me.)

From time to time I think I have a "type" but upon careful examination, beyond the physical characteristics that reflexively turn my head, I don't. Even some of the physical qualities I find visibly hot, I seem to enjoy only in theory and not in practice.

One benefit, so "they" say, to online match sites is that it forces you to consider honestly what you seek in a mate. (Again, there is the presumption that I am seeking a mate. If I come across/find/meet a potential mate, great. But I am not seeking. I am happy going about my life until the butterfly of happiness lights upon me.)

What I think I want in a boyfriend:

• Clever (most of all)
• Social, rather (has to keep up, and sometimes lead)
• Smart as well as educated (and understands the difference between the two)
• Pop and culture savvy
• Rhythm
• Gets the joke
• Has dealt
• Versatile from black tie to leather, whatever the invite inspires
• Mac, not PC
• Honestly, I have to feel confident taking him home to meet the family
• PLU
• Doesn't think of me as fat
• Can hold his liquor

Handsome doesn't hurt, but is not nearly as important as the above, even though I may involuntarily swoon at slender or growl at a jawline. Having a beard is not important either, but being able to grow one kinda is. (What is it about stubble?)

Peeves:
• BO
• More dim and less wit
• Poor grammar
• Luddites
• Can't man up to communicate honestly

I am not ready to self-identify as a bear. But bring me an otter if you can.

There are in fact several men I would marry in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, these men live in Boston, or West Chester, or Nashville, or Austin. We always want what we can't have. And typical human that I am, I usually don't want what wants me.

But I am now more open to opportunity than I have been. And I find myself playing Scotty Emerick's The Coast Is Clear a little more often.


And on the topic of the reality of dating—
Consistent with their gutter trash reality programming, Fox Television has a new reality dating show: More to Love featuring bachelorettes of shall we say fuller figures.

Shilpa and Pee Dee saw the horrifying promo the other night. Pee Dee may have coined the new national nickname for the show. While watching he said, "Oh my God. It's The Fatchelor."

Fab Feb continues with a superbly sinful Saturday

Saturday night I enjoyed an fun evening with Jimm with Two Ms (remember, it's the first that's silent). Jimm is one of the more interesting men I've met in a long while. Of course, I may be of that opinion because we share so many interests and perspectives. And we have a deep shared reference set (reminding me of and making me miss Ohio Ian and Seattle Bill). It was sort of uncanny. I might have a thought too esoteric to share, and he would voice it. Brilliant minds think alike and that sort of thing. It was almost like watching MST3k and getting all the jokes. Ironically, he had not heard of MST3k. Regardless of any romantic intention, Jimm's a keeper and I hope he becomes a recurring character at the least.

He had me at "How you durrin'?"

The Captain & Tenille references were just gravy.

For the entertainment portion of the evening, we took in James Judd's fringe favorite 7 Sins playing at The Exit theater.

I really can't say enough good things about this one-man show. Manic and hilarious. It's akin to getting quality time with the funniest guy at the cocktail party. It's only playing for two more weeks, so run don't walk to get tickets. The price is an exceptional entertainment value, and they announced at the show that a limited amount of discount tickets are also available via Goldstar.

I've been making reference to it all week, and James Judd has some clips on YouTube. Here is one of the opening bits (although it seems it used to be the closing bit when he ran the show through SF last time). It's not a long narrative, but it's split into seven one- to two-minute clips. Play them in order and they'll make a complete scene, and give you an idea of the show. Although oddly this seems like the gayest bit.

Clip 1


By the way, at the mention of "the very semi-finals" Jimm and I both mentally went to Auntie Mame.

Clip 2 won't embed so visit the link.

Clip 3


Clip 4


Clip 5


Clip 6


Clip 7


Afterward we both suggested Martuni's and wound down the night with cocktails and conversation, bouncing the ball between fantastic light fare and serious life fare.

A gaggle of girls celebrating a birthday ("How old are you?" "I'm 22! How old do I look?" "19." "Nuh Unh!! I look 17!" And on closer inspection possibly could have been.) asked us to take their picture, and after which took ours.


His drink of choice is also the Mandarin & Soda. Killing me.

Oh yeah, there was a transsexual convention in town.

Now, usually I'd just throw in the line that I loves me trannys, but there seems to be a bit of debate flaming about online about the perceived (or not) pejorative nature of the word tranny. Having spent enough time in SF an on Polk Street, I consider the word as I do "queer." The word as been pwnd by the marginalized and is not an insult to me.

Hot tranny messes notwithstanding.

But I digress.

There has been a steady rise in the tranny demographic at Martuni's. At first not that I'd notice (sort of like slowly boiling a frog I suppose). Saturday night was enough to turn my head. (On a side note, Shawn Ryan was in town and it was nice to share a moment with him before leaving.)

The banquette behind us was filled with one man his posse (what's the collective word for a crowd of trannys?). Another leaned over Jimm in order to talk to this group, and exhibited a rather loud potty mouth. She, delicate flower that she was, apologized in a voice ready for the radio adaptation of The Soprano's for her "toilet mouth."

I didn't hear exactly what she had just said, but merely demurred to her that it's okay to be a bit racy to add a little spice, as long as one doesn't drop to the level of Jersey.

"I am from New Jersey."
"Time to cross a bridge."

But she was nice, if not—you know what... I'm sticking with "delicate flower."


One of us needed to be the gentleman.

Jimm turned for home just about midnight (something about pumpkins) and we bid good night. He's an early riser and I'm a night owl, so I stopped by The Lookout on the way home for the last half hour of Kevin Goebel's birthday party with Wil, Georg, and Michael.

All around a good day.