Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
oh honey
I just wanted that one more moment.
It seemed like we were always an airport off
a missed phone call away
there you were on a map
a city of history and I never made it there.
A polaroid of memories can not do you justice
your perfect body and a smile that swooned
there was a moment with you where the world stood still
and no one noticed except us.
I have never touched anyone the same
I probably never will.
I kept thinking, I should go visit.
I never did.
Every now and then a tug at my heart and I would call
an email of pictures and promises
in the end, everyone is busy with a life worth leading.
You had a house on Lookout Mountain
I had a big boat in the harbor
Between us we shared a fat cat named Permer
And one time, a sports car with the top down,
Permer asleep on the back seat and a cold beer in my hand,
I was sure life would never get any better
Perfectly imperfect and drop dead beautiful
I keep thinking I should call
You would answer and have secrets to tell.
I emailed a stranger, asking for your latest address
and I got back your obituary.
How did that happen
you were younger than me
and healthier
strong, smarter, sexier
the notice said you died of heart disease.
need I say more?
It's been a long time since I kissed you
walked on a beach with you
held your hand and smiled with you
Something so bright can only burn so long
it was an honor to be loved and to love
if I never find that again
what we shared was enough
It seemed like we were always an airport off
a missed phone call away
there you were on a map
a city of history and I never made it there.
A polaroid of memories can not do you justice
your perfect body and a smile that swooned
there was a moment with you where the world stood still
and no one noticed except us.
I have never touched anyone the same
I probably never will.
I kept thinking, I should go visit.
I never did.
Every now and then a tug at my heart and I would call
an email of pictures and promises
in the end, everyone is busy with a life worth leading.
You had a house on Lookout Mountain
I had a big boat in the harbor
Between us we shared a fat cat named Permer
And one time, a sports car with the top down,
Permer asleep on the back seat and a cold beer in my hand,
I was sure life would never get any better
Perfectly imperfect and drop dead beautiful
I keep thinking I should call
You would answer and have secrets to tell.
I emailed a stranger, asking for your latest address
and I got back your obituary.
How did that happen
you were younger than me
and healthier
strong, smarter, sexier
the notice said you died of heart disease.
need I say more?
It's been a long time since I kissed you
walked on a beach with you
held your hand and smiled with you
Something so bright can only burn so long
it was an honor to be loved and to love
if I never find that again
what we shared was enough
Jupiter rising
In a dream I met Issabella. I was in South Texas on an extended vacation. I spent most of my days at the beach and some nights just walking around the small oil town of Lorenzo. Issabella was a waitress at the only decent Italian restaurant in the town. When business was slow she would bring a bottle of wine and sit with me. I considered these dates, I believe she once told me they were awkward attempts at seduction.
One night I asked if she wanted to walk with me to the ice cream shop, a couple of blocks from the restaurant. She walked over and said something to the only other diners, removed her apron and we walked in the hot summer night, holding hands and smiling at the timing.
That was as close as we would get. Her husband returned from the war in Pascovillia, a bitter and tormented man, although, when Issabella was a little drunk, she would admit that when he left for the war he was already quite bitter and tormented. If anything, the war had brought him calm.
For a few more weeks I would frequent the best Italian restaurant and Issabella would bring me a glass of red wine and a perfectly cooked chicken breast and we would smile at one another. When I moved on we exchanged email address and I left her my cell number. Strangely, we have stayed in touch and I think we are much closer now than ever.
At 1:20 this morning, while I was dancing in my bedroom in boxers and a wife beater t-shirt, my cell phone buzzed.
Issabella; Is that you? I am sorry to be calling so soon.
Me; Early. You are calling early. It is 1 in the morning.
Issabella; Were you awake.
Me; Yes I was dancing.
Issabella; Yes of course.
She went on to tell me a gruesome story involving raccoons, an elderly walnut salesman and the complete destruction of a pumpkin field. I was tired and needed rest, so I laid back in bed, the phone cradled to my ear. She told me of her son, Dante, now a chemist with Exxon, but he hates the work, he hates that he helps create the biggest profits in the history of the world while damaging the soul of our very society. That weights heavy on him, she said. I never met Dante and I was starting to drift.
Issabella; I was reading the story about poo on the internet.
Me; I have no idea what you are talking about.
Issabella; If I could, I would link to it right here.
Me; Get your own blog. Is there a point to this call?
Issabella; No. I am just a prop for you to test fun new devices.
Me; Thought so.
Then I fell asleep. Only to wake again at 4:15, dreaming of a large bumble bee hovering over my bed, trying to decide if it should sting me or find a path out of my bedroom.
One night I asked if she wanted to walk with me to the ice cream shop, a couple of blocks from the restaurant. She walked over and said something to the only other diners, removed her apron and we walked in the hot summer night, holding hands and smiling at the timing.
That was as close as we would get. Her husband returned from the war in Pascovillia, a bitter and tormented man, although, when Issabella was a little drunk, she would admit that when he left for the war he was already quite bitter and tormented. If anything, the war had brought him calm.
For a few more weeks I would frequent the best Italian restaurant and Issabella would bring me a glass of red wine and a perfectly cooked chicken breast and we would smile at one another. When I moved on we exchanged email address and I left her my cell number. Strangely, we have stayed in touch and I think we are much closer now than ever.
At 1:20 this morning, while I was dancing in my bedroom in boxers and a wife beater t-shirt, my cell phone buzzed.
Issabella; Is that you? I am sorry to be calling so soon.
Me; Early. You are calling early. It is 1 in the morning.
Issabella; Were you awake.
Me; Yes I was dancing.
Issabella; Yes of course.
She went on to tell me a gruesome story involving raccoons, an elderly walnut salesman and the complete destruction of a pumpkin field. I was tired and needed rest, so I laid back in bed, the phone cradled to my ear. She told me of her son, Dante, now a chemist with Exxon, but he hates the work, he hates that he helps create the biggest profits in the history of the world while damaging the soul of our very society. That weights heavy on him, she said. I never met Dante and I was starting to drift.
Issabella; I was reading the story about poo on the internet.
Me; I have no idea what you are talking about.
Issabella; If I could, I would link to it right here.
Me; Get your own blog. Is there a point to this call?
Issabella; No. I am just a prop for you to test fun new devices.
Me; Thought so.
Then I fell asleep. Only to wake again at 4:15, dreaming of a large bumble bee hovering over my bed, trying to decide if it should sting me or find a path out of my bedroom.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
The ghost from mothers day past
I grew up the son of a poor dirt farmer, which meant that we had to learn a variety of survival techniques from a very early age. On of which was cashing in on the imperialist American holiday complete and total fuckery.
My father was a brilliant illegal immigrant. While unable to hold down a job or get a proper education, he quickly managed to understand the shallowness of the American culture he was so readily mocking and emulating on a daily basis. His favorite new American holidays were Valentines Day and Mothers day. He explained to us that these were days where guilt was the over riding link, not love, honor or respect.
His plan, on a yearly basis, was spend most of Saturday before, say Mothers day, cruising local funeral homes and other places of worship. Find flowers is what he would say. As his scheme grew over the years, when he had literally hundreds of people working for him, he would tell people, the best way to profit is by not spending money.
Words of wisdom to lead your life by.
Anyway, he would bring all the stolen or otherwise free flowers back to his leased warehouse, where he would hire his family and later his children and then much later hoards of other illegals to pick through the flowers and create new and beautiful bouquets. On the sunday of Mothers Day, or any Valentines Day, my father would hire homeless people and other "down and outers" to stand on street corners and sell the flowers.
The brilliance of this plan was quite simple, free flowers sold by lowly paid people to guilt ridden idiots, equals big profits. Enough, in the later years, to afford a mansion in the south of France and a private jet. All true.
If my father taught me nothing, he taught me that a way to a womans heart is a cherry covered in chocolate. It was his romantic gesture that he portrayed on a yearly basis to my often overly medicated mother. In my business minded fathers world view, if things were going well in the relationship, you could pick up any package of chocolate covered cherries. When things were bad in his relationship with my violent and quite possibly insane mother, you had to find the very best chocolates. A wise lesson would be a month outside of major holidays, he would clean up his act and begin seducing her with charm, that way, when the holiday arrived, she was again back in love with lowered expectations. Sometimes I think my father only treated my mother nice a month before romantic holidays solely to save 10 dollars on chocolates.
Which brings me to the latest mothers day. I found myself alone on a saturday night, dancing to the music blaring over the loud speakers at the new Trashy Crap You Don't Need store. TCYDN has been opening warehouse style stores all over the country and all you have to do to become one of the super special members is show an ID and pay 50 dollars. For that, you get an array of tasty free samples of processed chicken parts and stale tortilla chips. One time a man died in the mens room and was not found for 3 days, even though someone kept signing the form that showed the bathroom had been reviewed and inspected on an hourly basis. Heads would roll. None ever did.
My point is that if you love someone enough, you should get out on a night before any type of holiday, and do something, well, special.
The point is, on Mother's Day I make a point to go to a store, find the Fiddle Faddle section of purchase a box for my mother.
My father was a brilliant illegal immigrant. While unable to hold down a job or get a proper education, he quickly managed to understand the shallowness of the American culture he was so readily mocking and emulating on a daily basis. His favorite new American holidays were Valentines Day and Mothers day. He explained to us that these were days where guilt was the over riding link, not love, honor or respect.
His plan, on a yearly basis, was spend most of Saturday before, say Mothers day, cruising local funeral homes and other places of worship. Find flowers is what he would say. As his scheme grew over the years, when he had literally hundreds of people working for him, he would tell people, the best way to profit is by not spending money.
Words of wisdom to lead your life by.
Anyway, he would bring all the stolen or otherwise free flowers back to his leased warehouse, where he would hire his family and later his children and then much later hoards of other illegals to pick through the flowers and create new and beautiful bouquets. On the sunday of Mothers Day, or any Valentines Day, my father would hire homeless people and other "down and outers" to stand on street corners and sell the flowers.
The brilliance of this plan was quite simple, free flowers sold by lowly paid people to guilt ridden idiots, equals big profits. Enough, in the later years, to afford a mansion in the south of France and a private jet. All true.
If my father taught me nothing, he taught me that a way to a womans heart is a cherry covered in chocolate. It was his romantic gesture that he portrayed on a yearly basis to my often overly medicated mother. In my business minded fathers world view, if things were going well in the relationship, you could pick up any package of chocolate covered cherries. When things were bad in his relationship with my violent and quite possibly insane mother, you had to find the very best chocolates. A wise lesson would be a month outside of major holidays, he would clean up his act and begin seducing her with charm, that way, when the holiday arrived, she was again back in love with lowered expectations. Sometimes I think my father only treated my mother nice a month before romantic holidays solely to save 10 dollars on chocolates.
Which brings me to the latest mothers day. I found myself alone on a saturday night, dancing to the music blaring over the loud speakers at the new Trashy Crap You Don't Need store. TCYDN has been opening warehouse style stores all over the country and all you have to do to become one of the super special members is show an ID and pay 50 dollars. For that, you get an array of tasty free samples of processed chicken parts and stale tortilla chips. One time a man died in the mens room and was not found for 3 days, even though someone kept signing the form that showed the bathroom had been reviewed and inspected on an hourly basis. Heads would roll. None ever did.
My point is that if you love someone enough, you should get out on a night before any type of holiday, and do something, well, special.
The point is, on Mother's Day I make a point to go to a store, find the Fiddle Faddle section of purchase a box for my mother.
Friday, May 6, 2011
The homo texts
About a year ago I had to tell a friend that his behavior was kind of scary and that I thought he should maybe find another family to adopt.
This friend, who I will call my Homo Friend, took it well.
A little history, Homo Friend presented himself as a nice enough guy, and as we got to know one another, I would get these super friendly texts, asking how my day was, or how the dog was or something like that. Homo Friend is incapable of depth, so everything always centered around something simple, new cartoon shows, how anything "was" and asking if I had a date or something. Simple stuff.
As our friendship seemed to grow, the texts grew in volume. I would wake to 2 or 3 texts describing a movie Homo Friend had seen, or a party Homo Friend had attended. As we became closer, I would get descriptions of dates that Homo Friend had been on, at first in only general terms, "had a wonderful date tonight" and then, over the months, "hot sex with a twink" or something like that.
For whatever reason, possibly because Homo Friend does not have a blog, the texts were Homo Friends way of keeping me posted on daily life. The problem was and remains, I am not interested in the vast majority of Homo Friends daily life.
Once I started to get the gay sex updates I realized that I could not continue with the constant texts. At first I told Homo Friend that his texts would come at all hours of the day and my phone would buzz or beep, waking me at 3 AM to learn that Homo Friend had again met some amazing man who was probably the one. Of course, with Homo Friend, at 3 PM the amazing man was history, a stained t-shirt and a distant memory.
I did learn a lot about the transient and shallow nature of Homo Friends lifestyle. Now, do not get me wrong or begin right now composing emails telling me I am both homophobic and hateful to the gay lifestyle and all sorts of other silliness. I am Homo Friend phobic and I am not impressed with his transient/hookup at any cost lifestyle, but that is his choice in life, not all gays, not healthy gays anyway.
Anyway, around this time last year I texted Homo Friend, because that really is the only way to communicate with him, and I said the constant texting needed to stop. Of course, he misread this, thinking the late night-early morning texting needed to stop. So midafternoon airport bathroom hookups could still be documented, as would his photos taken on his phone and shared with his contact list, those too kept being shared.
It took another month or two before I again confronted Homo Friend and said, please I can not stand the constant texts with the shallow updates. This one sank in, because if there is one thing Homo Friend feared more than late night rejections, it was being called on his shallowness. Quickly I was removed from the barrage of texts and text photos. Soon, my phone was silent and I began to love the peace. Homo Friend had long ceased to be interesting and once the daily updates disappeared so did my interest in all things Homo Friend.
Our friendship fizzled and as is the plight of a Homo Friend, he moved on to other people with smart phones and a need to hear about online hookups, airport hookups, late night club hookups and college dorm hookups. I was out of the loop and could not have been happier.
I have not heard in any form from Homo Friend for over 10 months and I have to say, until I started writing this post, I had not thought much about him.
Recently I was interviewed for a study on brain damage and the doctor who spoke to me happened to be gay. We had a nice talk and he mentioned something about an extra ticket for a show that was produced in a downtown theater. Of course I could go, I said. I gave the good Gay Doctor my cell and told him to call or text and I would meet at the theater the next day.
As I was walking to my car I got a text, telling me how nice it was to meet. Over the next few hours I got many texts, looking forward to the show, a link to the productions website, a question about whether I could meet earlier for a drink, possibly dinner. The texts came at a furious pace. For the most part my response was no, no drinking, no meeting, no website, no no no no.
Into the night the texts kept coming.
After the play the texts kept coming. Gay Doctor had one thing in common with Homo Friend, an almost addictive need to continually update and text for no reason other than the ability to text.
This went on until last night. I was preparing to pass out and my phone, sound turned off, kept buzzing. It was Gay Doctor, texting away with concepts and plans, news and events, scores and show openings. Would I be interested in this, that, something else.
Finally I got up, grabbed my phone, and wrote a simple text, please stop, I am ill and your constant texting is making me poop.
Not a response. Nothing this morning, maybe nothing ever again.
Which would be fine with me. As much as Gay Doctor is much more interesting that Homo Friend, the need to update me with almost hourly reports on rather uninteresting lives is problematic, to say the least. Now, I am not so sure this is a gay thing, because quite honestly, I am often walking around downtown and people on a daily basis walk into me because their heads are down, focused on their screens, texting important messages to people who can not wait to read that their friend is walking to lunch.
I know, this is the world we live in. I accept that. But, like the loud outdoor cellphone speakers who either think their conversations are worthy of everyone's attention, or they are deaf and yelling into their phone is the only conversation they are capable of, but for the life of me, our society is moving quickly into insane times solely based on over communication of the most inane details. Homo Friend was a banal and shallow sex addict, which meant that his texts were at least salacious. Gay Doctor was just lonely, which meant that in his willingness to befriend, he became obnoxious. I miss the days prior to cell phones, where when you saw your friend you could sit and have a drink and get caught up. Now, I get constant updates on aspects of lives I have no interest in.
There is a solution to this. If more people just led more interesting lives, I would welcome the text updates. But once you have read about the latest traveling Broadway production coming to town, or the super hot guy someone has just met, it all becomes a blur of too much information. I have an idea, do something fascinating and then text me a sentence about the shuttle flight, or the cure for cancer or something of substance, because your personal life should remain just that, personal.
This friend, who I will call my Homo Friend, took it well.
A little history, Homo Friend presented himself as a nice enough guy, and as we got to know one another, I would get these super friendly texts, asking how my day was, or how the dog was or something like that. Homo Friend is incapable of depth, so everything always centered around something simple, new cartoon shows, how anything "was" and asking if I had a date or something. Simple stuff.
As our friendship seemed to grow, the texts grew in volume. I would wake to 2 or 3 texts describing a movie Homo Friend had seen, or a party Homo Friend had attended. As we became closer, I would get descriptions of dates that Homo Friend had been on, at first in only general terms, "had a wonderful date tonight" and then, over the months, "hot sex with a twink" or something like that.
For whatever reason, possibly because Homo Friend does not have a blog, the texts were Homo Friends way of keeping me posted on daily life. The problem was and remains, I am not interested in the vast majority of Homo Friends daily life.
Once I started to get the gay sex updates I realized that I could not continue with the constant texts. At first I told Homo Friend that his texts would come at all hours of the day and my phone would buzz or beep, waking me at 3 AM to learn that Homo Friend had again met some amazing man who was probably the one. Of course, with Homo Friend, at 3 PM the amazing man was history, a stained t-shirt and a distant memory.
I did learn a lot about the transient and shallow nature of Homo Friends lifestyle. Now, do not get me wrong or begin right now composing emails telling me I am both homophobic and hateful to the gay lifestyle and all sorts of other silliness. I am Homo Friend phobic and I am not impressed with his transient/hookup at any cost lifestyle, but that is his choice in life, not all gays, not healthy gays anyway.
Anyway, around this time last year I texted Homo Friend, because that really is the only way to communicate with him, and I said the constant texting needed to stop. Of course, he misread this, thinking the late night-early morning texting needed to stop. So midafternoon airport bathroom hookups could still be documented, as would his photos taken on his phone and shared with his contact list, those too kept being shared.
It took another month or two before I again confronted Homo Friend and said, please I can not stand the constant texts with the shallow updates. This one sank in, because if there is one thing Homo Friend feared more than late night rejections, it was being called on his shallowness. Quickly I was removed from the barrage of texts and text photos. Soon, my phone was silent and I began to love the peace. Homo Friend had long ceased to be interesting and once the daily updates disappeared so did my interest in all things Homo Friend.
Our friendship fizzled and as is the plight of a Homo Friend, he moved on to other people with smart phones and a need to hear about online hookups, airport hookups, late night club hookups and college dorm hookups. I was out of the loop and could not have been happier.
I have not heard in any form from Homo Friend for over 10 months and I have to say, until I started writing this post, I had not thought much about him.
Recently I was interviewed for a study on brain damage and the doctor who spoke to me happened to be gay. We had a nice talk and he mentioned something about an extra ticket for a show that was produced in a downtown theater. Of course I could go, I said. I gave the good Gay Doctor my cell and told him to call or text and I would meet at the theater the next day.
As I was walking to my car I got a text, telling me how nice it was to meet. Over the next few hours I got many texts, looking forward to the show, a link to the productions website, a question about whether I could meet earlier for a drink, possibly dinner. The texts came at a furious pace. For the most part my response was no, no drinking, no meeting, no website, no no no no.
Into the night the texts kept coming.
After the play the texts kept coming. Gay Doctor had one thing in common with Homo Friend, an almost addictive need to continually update and text for no reason other than the ability to text.
This went on until last night. I was preparing to pass out and my phone, sound turned off, kept buzzing. It was Gay Doctor, texting away with concepts and plans, news and events, scores and show openings. Would I be interested in this, that, something else.
Finally I got up, grabbed my phone, and wrote a simple text, please stop, I am ill and your constant texting is making me poop.
Not a response. Nothing this morning, maybe nothing ever again.
Which would be fine with me. As much as Gay Doctor is much more interesting that Homo Friend, the need to update me with almost hourly reports on rather uninteresting lives is problematic, to say the least. Now, I am not so sure this is a gay thing, because quite honestly, I am often walking around downtown and people on a daily basis walk into me because their heads are down, focused on their screens, texting important messages to people who can not wait to read that their friend is walking to lunch.
I know, this is the world we live in. I accept that. But, like the loud outdoor cellphone speakers who either think their conversations are worthy of everyone's attention, or they are deaf and yelling into their phone is the only conversation they are capable of, but for the life of me, our society is moving quickly into insane times solely based on over communication of the most inane details. Homo Friend was a banal and shallow sex addict, which meant that his texts were at least salacious. Gay Doctor was just lonely, which meant that in his willingness to befriend, he became obnoxious. I miss the days prior to cell phones, where when you saw your friend you could sit and have a drink and get caught up. Now, I get constant updates on aspects of lives I have no interest in.
There is a solution to this. If more people just led more interesting lives, I would welcome the text updates. But once you have read about the latest traveling Broadway production coming to town, or the super hot guy someone has just met, it all becomes a blur of too much information. I have an idea, do something fascinating and then text me a sentence about the shuttle flight, or the cure for cancer or something of substance, because your personal life should remain just that, personal.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Love at last
My fiance and I went dancing last night and did not return until early this morning. Why is this a big deal? Well, if this was my first attempt at chicken farming I would say it was a big deal, but this would be my fifth fiance, that's right, 5 count them.
First though, a little information on my latest fiance. We met online a couple of weeks ago, which is, according to Oprah and other desperate women, exactly how everyone meets anyone now days. So there I was, clicking away on this really great single Jewish dating website and all of a sudden a little "chattah" window opened up. The Jews can not just go with the flow on anything, and when it comes to online dating, not only do you have to pay prior to establishing an account, but they have cute Jewish names for everything.
So I was Chattahing with this complete stranger, let's call her "Linda" because that is what I call almost all the women in my life. It really streamlines the conversations, because they almost always go something like this:
Me; Hi Linda.
Linda: My name is not Linda.
Me; Then what is your name?
Linda; Becky.
Me; Well, I will call you Linda.
See how easy that is? Try it yourself sometime.
So I was Chattahing with Linda on the Jew date site and all of a sudden, we were sharing incredibly personal information with one another. I'd say we chatted for well over half an hour and in that time, I learned that she had been engaged once before, she had an abortion in college, she has a tattoo of an Irish shamrock in a sexy part of her body, she has a cat named Felix, has been working downtown for the last 7 years at a job that is both rewarding and frustrating and she has just recently rejoined the dating ranks after a year of therapy and spending time really getting to know herself. In that same time chatting with me she learned that I had banana and granola for breakfast.
So, even electronically I could tell there was something special about Linda, so I asked her out. We met in my neighborhood, between the prostitute and the crack dealer and strangely, she knew where that was. We spent that entire night chatting, talking and communicating. It was sublime and almost immediately I knew this was the woman for me. Around 7 AM I asked her to marry me and she said yes. Thus, fiance number 5 was developed.
Since I have had at least four previous finances, the concept of fiance 5 was not a big deal to me, but the fact that I broke all my own rules is something to crow about, or write home about, or scream from the mountain tops about. Either way, what I decided after breaking it off with fiance 4 (psycho fiance 4 for those keeping score) I knew I had to change the way I went about these things.
In the past I took a "get to know the person" philosophy about both dating and long term commitments. My entire life of fiances has brought me to the realization that getting to know someone is damn near impossible, and by the time you actually really do know someone, chances are you are close to 70 and probably impotent. What I realized after dropping fiance 4 off at the local mental institution was this, I need to spend less time actually getting to know a fiance and more time playing crossword puzzles online.
Linda met all the really important qualities I like in a fiance. She spoke english, which is nice. After that, for me, everything is gravy. What I really like about Linda is that she actually brought gravy to that first meeting, winner.
A lot of you are probably scratching your heads or possibly the head of the person in the cubicle next to you, which might be awkward, but to each his own. You may wonder, how did an obese leprechaun like me ever manage to get 5 fiances. Well, the vast majority of the people who frequent this blog are actually too stoned to remember how this post started, much less have the brain capacity to think about how anyone actually meets anyone else.
The point is this, I have had way more than my fair share of fiances, but the real question is, why have I never married? That would be a good question to answer, but instead, let's look over some of the fiances who came close to the alter, but for whatever reason, in some cases restraining orders, why did we not tie the knot? Or, if we did tie the knot, why did it not stay tied? Or even, if it was tied in such a way as to remain tied, why is there now a Linda who is officially fiance numero Cinco?
First things first. My very first fiance was my high school sweetheart, whom I shall call inflatable doll Becky, only to protect her and her pending patent. She deflated after a year of strenuous usage, and once all the air was out of her, the relationship itself fizzled.
Fiance 2 was actually a living breathing human. We met in college, fell head over heals in love with me, because that's how these things work, and at some point, while she was in bed with another man, I asked her to marry me, and we all laughed a long time. It ended up that the other man thought I was asking him to marry me, and keep in mind, this is long before there were gays or gay marriage or anything else gay.
Fiance two ran off with a woman.
Fiance 3.
What can I say about the love of my life. A classical musician, she was trained at both Julliard and the Barneby Slauson School of Classic Music and Cotton Candy Institute. To say that 3 stole my heart would be an understatement. She did steal my heart, but also my favorite jeans, a tube of toothpaste and 3 coupons for reduced fat potato chips. She also died on 9-11, so for that I try and show respect. Of course, it was September 11, 2003, but still.
Fiance four was kind of like spitting into the wind. Mostly because that was her only talent, spitting, windy or not. She was a backwoods babe, equally comfortable in overalls as she was nude. This was a fiance who did not know the word no. Which is sad because no is a two letter word and everyone knows it. She did not know the word no, yes, deposit, skill, brain or abbreviation.
Dumb as a sack of rocks, fiance two also died tragically in a farming accident, which was a bit ironic since, A - she did not live on a farm and 3- she was attracted to the tractor that ended up running her over because "it's all green and stuff."
What I did learn from all of these fiances is that you can spend days or weeks or even in some cases, years, getting to know someone, only to have the hand of god reach down and pluck them from you like a perfectly formed peach. It was with that knowledge that I agreed to meet Linda, and within 6 hours I was engaged and we plan to actually get married this weekend.
It is all very romantic. I am head over heals in love and the world is a better place. It is amazing what profound love can do to ones soul.
Oh dear. I just got a text. It seems as though "Linda" has read this blog and does not see a future in someone so "shallow, self centered and grammatically challenged."
I do like the sound of fiance 6.
First though, a little information on my latest fiance. We met online a couple of weeks ago, which is, according to Oprah and other desperate women, exactly how everyone meets anyone now days. So there I was, clicking away on this really great single Jewish dating website and all of a sudden a little "chattah" window opened up. The Jews can not just go with the flow on anything, and when it comes to online dating, not only do you have to pay prior to establishing an account, but they have cute Jewish names for everything.
So I was Chattahing with this complete stranger, let's call her "Linda" because that is what I call almost all the women in my life. It really streamlines the conversations, because they almost always go something like this:
Me; Hi Linda.
Linda: My name is not Linda.
Me; Then what is your name?
Linda; Becky.
Me; Well, I will call you Linda.
See how easy that is? Try it yourself sometime.
So I was Chattahing with Linda on the Jew date site and all of a sudden, we were sharing incredibly personal information with one another. I'd say we chatted for well over half an hour and in that time, I learned that she had been engaged once before, she had an abortion in college, she has a tattoo of an Irish shamrock in a sexy part of her body, she has a cat named Felix, has been working downtown for the last 7 years at a job that is both rewarding and frustrating and she has just recently rejoined the dating ranks after a year of therapy and spending time really getting to know herself. In that same time chatting with me she learned that I had banana and granola for breakfast.
So, even electronically I could tell there was something special about Linda, so I asked her out. We met in my neighborhood, between the prostitute and the crack dealer and strangely, she knew where that was. We spent that entire night chatting, talking and communicating. It was sublime and almost immediately I knew this was the woman for me. Around 7 AM I asked her to marry me and she said yes. Thus, fiance number 5 was developed.
Since I have had at least four previous finances, the concept of fiance 5 was not a big deal to me, but the fact that I broke all my own rules is something to crow about, or write home about, or scream from the mountain tops about. Either way, what I decided after breaking it off with fiance 4 (psycho fiance 4 for those keeping score) I knew I had to change the way I went about these things.
In the past I took a "get to know the person" philosophy about both dating and long term commitments. My entire life of fiances has brought me to the realization that getting to know someone is damn near impossible, and by the time you actually really do know someone, chances are you are close to 70 and probably impotent. What I realized after dropping fiance 4 off at the local mental institution was this, I need to spend less time actually getting to know a fiance and more time playing crossword puzzles online.
Linda met all the really important qualities I like in a fiance. She spoke english, which is nice. After that, for me, everything is gravy. What I really like about Linda is that she actually brought gravy to that first meeting, winner.
A lot of you are probably scratching your heads or possibly the head of the person in the cubicle next to you, which might be awkward, but to each his own. You may wonder, how did an obese leprechaun like me ever manage to get 5 fiances. Well, the vast majority of the people who frequent this blog are actually too stoned to remember how this post started, much less have the brain capacity to think about how anyone actually meets anyone else.
The point is this, I have had way more than my fair share of fiances, but the real question is, why have I never married? That would be a good question to answer, but instead, let's look over some of the fiances who came close to the alter, but for whatever reason, in some cases restraining orders, why did we not tie the knot? Or, if we did tie the knot, why did it not stay tied? Or even, if it was tied in such a way as to remain tied, why is there now a Linda who is officially fiance numero Cinco?
First things first. My very first fiance was my high school sweetheart, whom I shall call inflatable doll Becky, only to protect her and her pending patent. She deflated after a year of strenuous usage, and once all the air was out of her, the relationship itself fizzled.
Fiance 2 was actually a living breathing human. We met in college, fell head over heals in love with me, because that's how these things work, and at some point, while she was in bed with another man, I asked her to marry me, and we all laughed a long time. It ended up that the other man thought I was asking him to marry me, and keep in mind, this is long before there were gays or gay marriage or anything else gay.
Fiance two ran off with a woman.
Fiance 3.
What can I say about the love of my life. A classical musician, she was trained at both Julliard and the Barneby Slauson School of Classic Music and Cotton Candy Institute. To say that 3 stole my heart would be an understatement. She did steal my heart, but also my favorite jeans, a tube of toothpaste and 3 coupons for reduced fat potato chips. She also died on 9-11, so for that I try and show respect. Of course, it was September 11, 2003, but still.
Fiance four was kind of like spitting into the wind. Mostly because that was her only talent, spitting, windy or not. She was a backwoods babe, equally comfortable in overalls as she was nude. This was a fiance who did not know the word no. Which is sad because no is a two letter word and everyone knows it. She did not know the word no, yes, deposit, skill, brain or abbreviation.
Dumb as a sack of rocks, fiance two also died tragically in a farming accident, which was a bit ironic since, A - she did not live on a farm and 3- she was attracted to the tractor that ended up running her over because "it's all green and stuff."
What I did learn from all of these fiances is that you can spend days or weeks or even in some cases, years, getting to know someone, only to have the hand of god reach down and pluck them from you like a perfectly formed peach. It was with that knowledge that I agreed to meet Linda, and within 6 hours I was engaged and we plan to actually get married this weekend.
It is all very romantic. I am head over heals in love and the world is a better place. It is amazing what profound love can do to ones soul.
Oh dear. I just got a text. It seems as though "Linda" has read this blog and does not see a future in someone so "shallow, self centered and grammatically challenged."
I do like the sound of fiance 6.
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