Writin’ About This Love Thing

Maybe.

A couple nights ago I went on a date (ish) with a girl who writes a relationship blog.  That makes two girls with relationship blogs I’ve had dates with (that I know of).  Both are fairly disaster-oriented.  Both are blonde (!).  Both blogs have gotten quite a (relatively) large amount of attention (more than mine, of course).  And both dates got interrupted at a key point, ruining everything forever.

I’ve read their blogs.  I’m not sure if I should link to them…  wait, who am I kidding?  The first girl was a lovely, very sexy early side of mid-twenties with family ties to Manhattan and a nice cynical wit.  Her blog is called datemeintheface, which she shares with a friend.  They open it up to reader submissions and encourage people (like me, during our date) to send in dating horror stories which they’ll publish/post if they’re sufficiently good.  Let’s call her Face.  Face was my first back-in-the-saddle moment (discounting summer fling girl, please) after special lady friend left me for points north.  I say back in the saddle and you think we fucked.  Nope.  Not her.  That honor goes to… oh man am I a slut… it goes to a married girl who wanted to even the score on her cheating husband.  But that’s another story for another post.  Face was the first girl that I got up the balls to approach at a bar and ask for her number.  A seriously big deal for me as that’s definitely NOT my typical MO.  (like that link? good).

Over the course of my life, the vast majority of my hookups, romances, one night stands, long term stable rewarding relationships that should have ended in marriage and kids, dancefloor make-out sessions and bathroom blowjobs have been initiated by the girl.  I used to call my “style” the zen hookup.  Yeah I know that’s ridiculously cheesey, but we’re talking about freshman-sophomore college years.  Which is also before the intensely disgusting advent of the intensely disgusting line of books and seminars on how to trick girls into fucking you.  But it’s not totally wrong.  I basically just wait until the girl I’m interested in gets tired of waiting for me to make a move and does it herself.  Less work and anguish for me, and I’m not proud of that.  It also has meant that I end up dating a certain personality type, which isn’t actually all that bad as I’m discovering.  But at the time I was like, “HIE, get over there and get that girl with the incredible body’s number!  The only way to get a girl who isn’t a little batshit is to get one that waits for the fella to make the move!”

So that happened.  I must say I was about as smooth as month-old sour milk.  But I got her number, we had a date, we made out in a “speakeasy” and were asked to stop.  ASKED TO STOP.  Which was the bucket of ice water on that little fling.  I saw her again randomly at a boutique hotel bar, but she ran when I called out to her.  Probably because I mispronounced her name.  I am terrible with names.  I live the guilt to this day.

The second girl, let’s call her Reese because she looks like the Witherspoon, writes a blog called Moths to a Flame.  She’s the flame, guys are moths (to be fair, she calls herself a bugzapper).  I think the metaphor is meant to imply a destructive end caused by some flaw in her own personality, as in she burns the moths (dudes) when they get too close and ruins future chances of happiness.  But really it just sounds egotistical.  Which I personally am fine with.  It’s good to be honest about shit like that.  This girl is hot.  Like total package can I take you home to the family hot.  Tall, did I mention blonde, slim, smart as a whip, funny and cultured.  (aside: these are the only two blonde girls I have ever dated, they both have relationship blogs for telling horror stories, etc, etc, yadda yadda you get it. weird)

But of course as with every girl I’m attracted to, there’s a pretty sketch dark side.  Not all that surprising, but…  I’ll tell the story tomorrow later.  Pretty interesting.  I hope she doesn’t mind.  Fuck that, if I don’t rate a page on her blog, I’ll make my own here and be proud of it. Heh.

Not just a journey. An education.

So I’ve mentioned before about cab drivers, right? In fact it’s a category, so yeah I must have.  As in, usually conversation swings toward dealings with the fairer sex, and what are the best ways to deal with the dealings.

Not this time, my friend.  So I was headed up to dirty hip brooklyn (two blocks away from my last apartment in the hip universe, as a matter of fact), it was the weekend (last), and seriously sunshinetacular.  No way in hell was I going to head underground for an hour and a half just to get up there.  Sometimes it’s worth paying $30 to get some sun and some breeze.

Blah blah blah.  So this cab driver and I start talking about GPS technology.  He had had trouble getting his garmin to find the street name I was giving him… I ended up having to give him the zipcode (just typing Brooklyn isn’t good enough for hipsterville, apparently).   Blah blah, they can put a man on the moon but they can’t list all the streets in brooklyn, or something.  So he goes, “Well, now it’s all going to be internal.”

“How do you mean, like chips in your brain?”

“Yeah, something like that.  They have the cell phone implant already but noone wants to test it on themselves.  My wife told me.”

“Really? I can’t blame them, what with the radiation, etc.”

“Yeah! And who wants to be available 24/7!?”, cabbie says. “My wife worked high up in telecommunications so she knew all the advanced stuff.  She died three years ago.”

Me: “Whoa! I’m very sorry.  That must be tough.”

“I miss her very much.”

So we go on about tech stuff, he mentions his dead wife a few more times, and I make a joke about the military forcing soldiers to try out the implanted cell phones and he laughs and agrees, adding that they would probably make the minority soldiers try it first.   !! And I go, “HAHA, yeah, they actually do that shit, it’s pretty messed up.”

Cabbie, “yes, definitely, but I love this country.  I always used to tell people I was going to move here. When I was a kid.”

So I ask him where he is from originally.  Morocco. That was new to me. He told me a bunch of stuff about the royal family, it’s education and ties with US bigshots.  Interesting stuff.

 

So what about the wisdom?! Well, here it is.  He told me about a tourism business he had with his best friend in the 70s.  They were partners, ferrying tourists around the major sights and talking about the shit.  One day he’s got to go out of town, so he tells his partner to hold on to his half of the profits for a week while he’s away so that it doesn’t get left somewhere unsafe.  Maybe he can invest it, etc.

He comes back to discover (obviously) that this guy has taken all the business profits and bought a weekend in the mountains with a few hookers.  Gone. Done.  No apologies.  Decades later cabbie returned to Morocco to find this guy still hustling tourists with no net improvement in his life.  The lesson? Don’t trust friends? Noooo….  The lesson is, save your money.  Don’t blow it on hookers.  Save your money.  Sigh.

Holy snap am I eggcited!

Ok, I’ve had a bunch of little pieces of shit to talk about floating around for a while.  How about I randomly barf them up into this blog entry!?  OK!

 

First off, have any of you (new yorkers) ever had the turnstile do the old “swipe again, swipe again, swipe again, swipe again at this turnstile, swipe again, just used” bullshit dance?  That fucking shit right there is the one and only supreme argument for keeping manned booths in stations forever.  I don’t give a shit about the increased security, help for clueless tourists, help for blind or otherwise impaired people who want to buy metrocards, or whatever other incredibly reasonable reason you might have for wanting a live person down there at the entrance to the subway.  I have only ever used the services of a booth person for one thing: to let me the fuck in when the swiper steals my ride.  And it happens ALL THE TIME. Usually on my way to work or a job interview that I am exactly on time for until I have to climb out of the station, walk a few blocks over to the entrance with the poor bastard sitting in the booth.  Who am I kidding, I’ve got money… I just buy a new card with pay-per-ride action.  Walking outside is for losers.  Such a scam, MTA.

Cool info-graphic with per-station details on who uses unlimited cards vs other types.  I don’t actually care, but I’m testing out putting links and shiz into this new (to me) interface.

 

Second: I need a logo or banner or something to give this site some life-slash-identity.  Except I never will, so here’s proof I know I need it and will never act on it.

 

Third: After telling a bunch of colleagues I want to move on to something new, I’ve begun to get contact info and inquiries from people with jobs for me.  And now I’m all scared and hesitant to pull the trigger.  I’m getting comfortable (finally) with the way shit “works” at work and now my prime motivation to leave the place (constant rage) is completely gone.

 

Fourth: I drink coffee that’s been sitting on my counter for days.  And I hate myself for it.

 

Fifth: I reactivated my okcupid account in honor of Spring.  The thinking is that the power of pollen, warm air, sunshine, and all the little animals rutting around us will do what it always does every year in NY, namely make every single chick in the city come out of hibernation ready to have fun and stop being so effing lame.  I mean seriously.

 

Today was my ‘hood’s official St. Patrick’s Day parade.  I know.  A little late, right?  I’m thinking their thinking was maxing out their opportunities to drink during the day, all day.  This makes 2 weekends in a row for the bastards.  So jealous.  Maybe I should stop hating and start joining? Yes. (no)