I woke up in a cold-sweat. The same kind of cold-sweat I had after watching The Omen the first time and saw the part where the photographer realized that Damien was “special.” In the moment of the photographer’s realization, he was beheaded in the tragic sliding glass incident. So, onto the dream: I should start dating. But how? It may be like riding a bike, but there is a reason my $800.00 Bianchi Hybrid is covered in cobwebs somewhere in my dark recesses of the shed. My one fabulous on-line experience had nothing to do with personal ads, just a random meeting of two more than slightly demented minds at the right time and in the right place, albeit a temporal and temporary space. I’m certainly not going to start hitting the local pub trolling for a little lovin’.
What would I want in a date? Where to find a date? Would a date require me to stay up past 10 pm? Would a date expect me to go see “Mission Impossible 3?” Would I have to care about Bennifer and Brangelina? Would their definition of great food be, “lots of food, real cheap?” Would a date insist on showing me their distance record for toenail clippings? Is there any possibility that a date would involve a visit to the local bait shop?
There was an episode of Six Feet Under a couple of years ago and the opening death scene that jump-started every episode, had a man sitting at the breakfast table talking, “blah, blah, blah,” on-and-on. The wife was carefully frying his eggs and bacon, undistracted by his endless musings. She placed the eggs and bacon on his plate, then calmly slams the cast iron frying pan onto his head, killing him not-so-softly, and proceeds to eat his breakfast. Her reply to the detective as to why she’d killed him was, “Because he was boring.” That is a fate I fear as much as being coerced into watching golf for three hours every Sunday.
I have looked at personal ads and have found a plethora of people pontificating their love of the really important things, such as walking on the beach at sunset, sitting in front of the fire with a fine wine, and romantic Sundays reading the paper and poetry to each other in bed. Do these people not have to live an actual life? Because, while that terribly overly-romantic fantasy will get you through, oh, say the first 90 days, who’s going to be there for you when you are nursing cramps and just need someone to bring you a little chicken soup and a heating pad?
Here is a reply provided in response to a very charming ad placed by a young woman in Texas. You can read more about her personal ad experiences at Lizard Kingdom She is still clueless as to what this response was about, and frankly, it has put the fear of a much Higher Power into me:
ive been going to random meetings recently sometimes there ok sometimes not. The last one i went to some lady kept telling us she was fighting capitalism in her mind. I dont think anyone knew what she was talking about. I hope she wins though. i miss new york i really do i never meant to live in texas. i was just down on sixth street to see some band and this girl started talking to me and i was thinking you are not terribly bright no no you are not and then i thought of the last girl i met at i show that I ended up dating now given the only girl i met on a computer stalked me so maybe ads and whatnot are bad but at least she was interesting i dont think the girl on 6th had the forethought to engage in stalking
And, they all sound like such fabulous, interesting people in their ads. They seem to have no baggage, are artistic, well employed, intelligent, really, really funny, and don’t have any issues with their former victims flames. So, I think I’ll report back from time to time on my findings regarding my own on-line dating research in the coming days/weeks. But, first, I’ve got to go pack up my baggage, finish my museum quality painting, work out, make that fabulous gourmet dinner while listening to the Learn Advanced Latin in 10 Days tapes, and still make my 8:00 performance at the Comedy Store, because that’s just who I am.
You meet someone and you're sure you were lovers in a past life.
After two weeks with them, you realize why you haven't kept
in touch for the last two thousand years. ~ Al Cleathen
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