The Brazilian and the freshman, again

I had intended to keep last night for myself, some time for the meditative act of cleaning and sorting out my apartment. Then the Brazilian sent me a text message saying she was back in town very briefly (two days) and would really like to see me. Sigh. One should not pass up opportunities to get laid, particularly when the next time such an opportunity would present itself is unknown. So I called and told her to come over and picked up some wine on my way home. As it turned out, she didn't arrive till almost 11 so I actually had plenty of time to myself. I love to clean. While I'm by no means anal, the process calms and focuses me. So by the time she came over, the place was not only spotless, I was super relaxed. {Switching to Montgomery Burns voice and tapping fingers together} Excellent.

Why excellent? Well, lets put it this way. The Brazilian was the third woman to sleep in my apartment since I moved in here in September. However, she's the first one to actually have sex with me. Phew. Was starting to think the apartment was cursed or something. This is what letting your exes crash at your apartment gets you. So I get laid. That was the point of those last two paragraphs. It made me happy.

In other news, the freshman has been informed that her services in the relationship capacity will not be required. I did it early enough it appears, as she took it with great aplomb. As to whether or not we will be friends, that is something that Mr. Wheaton would probably suggest I not hold my breath for. It'd be a pity if she never called again as she is quite interesting. But then, I did just effectively tell her she wasn't good enough to date. Why would she want to be friends after that? But women never cease to baffle me, so who knows?

How pretty am I?

They wanna know, how pretty I am,
feeling so fly and talking such jive,
I tell em, I'm pretty as a West African thunderstorm,
all brooding and dark,
hitting so hard and just so precise,
and still they say, how pretty am I?
I tell em, I'm like Winter in Colorado,
all hard and bold, all my lines so striking,
and my skin as black as that snow is white,
they say, how pretty am I?
I tell em, fresh, like Summer in the tropics,
smelling so sweet, like dew and fruit,
and a bit of salt, like I carry the ocean around with me,
they ask me, how pretty am I?
and I tell em, pretty as can be, pretty as you can imagine,
I'm the prettiest thing that ever lived

-This little piece inspired by the man who first called himself the prettiest thing that ever lived, Muhammad Ali, a man who knew a thing or three about the fine art of bragging right. In that vein too, I met yet another man who ain't got no qualms about how pretty he is. I told my barber this evening I'd bring him the picture of him I took when I came for my last cut. He asked how it came out and I gave him a positive "aight." He paused the cut he was doing, turned to me and said quick and sharp, "ain't no one ever take a picture of Bo Butta and have the picture just come out aight." I laughed, thought about it and told him, "yeah, it was fly, I can't front," which was partially true. Bo looked fly as fuck in his leather trench, shaved head and sunglasses, but the picture itself was rather "eh." I'm gonna have to do some cropping and make sure no one misses his flyness.

Out with the too old and too young, bring on the just right

As interesting as she is, I will not be dating the freshman. Two things make this certain for me. One, I have a sister who is exactly her age and that freaks me out. Two is the fact that I'm simply way past this stage. I've done college, done dorm rooms, done all of that drama and I've moved on to a different stage of my life. Dating someone going through all of that would simply be regression. This would seem to be sheer common sense but I did have a reason for actually contemplating dating her. Simply, I frequently date older, much older than the age divide between the freshman and I actually. The Brazilian is eleven years older than I am and I'm only five years older than the freshman. One of the things that drives me up the wall when I meet an older woman is the condescending attitude of "you're just a baby, you're too young for me." Condescension will get you killed. What has been brought forcefully to my attention in two dates with the freshman though is the fact that these women were in fact correct. The freshman comes off as ridiculously mature, both emotionally and rationally. She's smart, scarily ambitious and an overall superawesome person. And she's pretty damn cute. I wish I could say this of every other woman I've ever dated. Nevertheless, her concerns are not my concerns. She's still trying to wrap her mind around the fact that she is unlikely to get to straight As in college. Ha, hahaha. I gripped that reality a long time ago and graduated with impressive but far more realistic numbers a little while ago. In the same vein, the Brazilian was griping about her employees a little while ago and it occurred to me that my boss complained about the exact same thing I'd done sometime in January. The Brazilian runs a department, has an established reputation in her industry and calls CEOs by their first names. I'm still learning the ropes and trying to get my voice heard in meetings. It doesn't matter that we're intellectual equals or that the freshman uses "reification" in everyday conversation. It doesn't make any sense for me to be dating these women. The freshman is my first ever dating anyone younger than I am, but I've always dated older. I'm mature enough that older women have always been comfortable around me and I just like the lack of drama in those relationships. It seems to me though that it's time to give all that up. A girl I dated for 5 months ended things between us a little while ago, because even though she quite liked me, she was thinking about children and starting a family and it didn't make any sense spending time with me. Put that with the Brazilian and the freshman and that makes three times this year that the age shift thing has broken down on me. Obviously the universe is trying to send me a message. SO, if you know any wicked and edgy, feisty and charming, jazzy and hot, 20 and some odd year old hotties who might be looking for tall, dark and handsome (not to mention intelligent and talented, but not funny, I don't do funny), send em over here. Applications are now being accepted over at fredfflint@gmail.com.

Why I fail

It seems to me that one of the reasons I fail or continue to feel as I fail even before I begin is that I do not reach high enough. I keep striving to do thigns that have been done before, and better, by those to whom it came natural to and in so doing, I sabotage myself, preventing the best that lies within me from coming out, failing to emphasize my own strengths and instead attempting to magically recreate those of others. That is a recipe for failure. I must stop it. I not Diane Arbus, or Bazima or Bukowski or any of those other people whose moments I am so respectful or envious of. I am Flint and can be nothing but Flint. Sadly, Flint is not my name and even this post reads as if written by a stranger. Sigh...

The most interesting thing that happened to me today

A short black man, he chomped on his food with his mouth wide open, something I didn't think people did outside of seedy novels and B movies. He had laid his sandwich down as I walked into the drycleaners and approached the counter where a pair of jeans were laid out. I opened my plastic bag and showed him my pair of jeans. They needed, and still need, mending. My jeans frequently develop holes beneath the crotch area, a sign perhaps that my sitting is rather too manly and I ought to learn some modesty. He stared at the holes without saying a word and then looked up at me with a blank expression. I was impatient, saying to him, "I just need a patch on the inside and for you to sew it up please. Do you have some denim?" His expression didn't change much but he looked down at the jeans again. His response came slowly enough that I was all but stamping my feet, "I won't work on them unless you wash them." I was confused for a moment, thinking he meant to shank me for a drycleaning, but he rephrased when he saw my expression, "you gotta go wash them or I won't work on them. I don't do repairs if they're dirty." I got his meaning then, although I surveyed him skeptically. He didn't seem a creature of extreme hygienic prejudices. Nevertheless a man must set his own standards. I respected that. The dilemma lies in the fact that I usually feel the need to wash things when they come back from a tailor anyway. Washing my jeans before and after a repair seems unnecessary to me, not to mention it would reduce the alreaady short life span these new fangled denims have. I told him the man to have a nice day and as I left, he told me to bring them back clean on Friday. I glanced back at him, considering the likelihood that I even wanted him working on my pants. As I walked towards the laundromat where the lady would attempt to overcharge me for a load, I searched the neighbourhood for another drycleaner. Nada.

man in the dark

my name is Flint,
I live in a darkroom,
my air is stop, my meat is film,
I sip all day on developer,
if these pictures great fame don't bring,
I'll fix that fucking instructor

Saturday morning expedition

I love walking around my neighbourhood early in the morning. You can hear every sounds loud and clear. A car starts up just behind you, startling you cause you didn't even notice anyone in it; there's a rumble from the next street as construction workers fix roads and create huge messes, another car starts further down the road and then a sanitation truck roars by. Each sound is distinct, starting far, coming closer and tailing off depending on their movements and yours. All the spaces look bare and empty, unpopulated by people yet, made even more stark by the silence. The creak of a bicycle the only intrusion on the peace now. Big open lots with two men working in them. Even 20 feet away, the men loook like toy figures in the large expanse. I walk by a circus that's setting up and laugh with two passers-by at the horses making out. The camel is not friendly. It stares at me intensely before growing bored and then looks back sharply when I start to move. I let it be. I sneak into a fire station and take pictures of the uniforms hanging untended. "Cassare" one of them says. I'd never realized the firemen's names are written on their jackets. These are engraved in a harsh orange. I wonder how that, along with the bright blues which appear in the shades of grey my Black and White film transforms everything into. I take a picture of a pair of boots someone left by a truck tire. As the day progresses, people come out. My early morning film shoot is going well, so I extend it and keep shooting, meeting odder and odder characters. Amen for the fine folks of New York City. I'm hungry now though. I wonder if I have anything in my kitche.

Do I look like Jim Carrey to ya?

I don't identify with Igby. That spoiled prick is a junkie for pain in ways I can't even begin to compete with. His father on the hand; well that fella and I could definitely sit and have a drink together. I watched that movie hoping and praying and waiting for the moment he would pull himself out of that funk, tell em to fuck their pressure and do something for himself with his life. I hoped and hoped and hoped, but it really wasn't that kind of movie. I really enjoyed it, but it didn't do anything for my fears about my life. As the feisty one points out here, there are people with real problems in the world so my petty depressions (yours too probably) are really not that important in the grand scheme of things. But damn, aren't there moments you just want to stop and scream? Or pull a Bruce Wayne and just disappear from the world that knows you for a few years? It's amazing how even the most prosaic of events will trigger this set of fears. This afternoon, at the Chelsea Health Clinic, I assured the nice lady that I didn't sleep with men, exchange drugs or money for sex and use needles for anything they weren't intended for. She then oohed and aahed over my sneakers ((cause I'm fresh and clean that way) and while filling out details, asked me a bit about myself. I gave the answers dutifully, and waited for it. "Really? Oh great. Very impressive, You're a very bright young man, with a great future ahead of you." If I could get one the many that repeat these set of lines to live that future me, I'd be happy to just go take a long nap and watch on a TV screen. I've done fuck all with my life and even though things may look clean and crispy from where you're watching this Truman show, but I'm the one who has to live it and quite frankly ma'am, your observations piss me off. No disrespect intended of course. And this is what I'd like to tell every single person who ever decides what journey I ought to be on with no idea of what's in my head.

More dating questions

Here's another thing I don't understand. We're all reasonably attractive and intelligent people right? We've all got friends, and not just internet friends, real ones too. These friends find us funny, think us good looking, know all about our extensive experience with Marxist philosophy, Russian literature and the many other hallmarks of intelligence and learnedness. As for our style, well... Send Wintour over to take notes. Have her bring a photographer. So why exactly are we always single. Why does your blog chronicle such disparate yet crazy adventures in date land? Why do you swear after each and every date that you're never doing it again? These people you're dating, they've got friends right? Those friends know that the little aggressive thing your date does with the waiter is just a character quirk, not the sum total of his personality. How come you can't see that? I mean, anyone is as good as the others, right? Shouldn't we all be settling? In this vein, shouldn't I call that 5'1 18 year old I had a date with last night? I mean, she's legal. What more do I need?

the pretty one and the bastard

The French girl is either in an open relationship or dating a bastard. In a conspiratorial whisper out second time hanging out, he told me about girl he had "fucked at a party" the week before. The French lady was just outside the wine bar, smoking a cigarette. I laughed and took a gulp of my Vinho Verde. This is the thing. In the words of singular Andre 3000, I "could be an organ donor the way I give out my heart." And I've definitely given the French woman my heart. Not that I would let her hold it exclusively. Well, maybe if she insisted. She's gorgeous of course. She looks a little like this, only prettier and more elegant, more French. (Try not to think too hard on what I was doing with those pictures. It's unsavory... But back to the matter at hand.) She speaks with that lilting accent that lets you know she's only been in New York a few months. And she's sharp. Ooh, I wouldn't wanna cross that one. Everytime I see her and hear her laugh, my heart does a few stanzas of some marching band anthem. And because no amour of mine would be perfect without this, I can see nerves of steel and a righteous temper behind that laugh she deploys ever so ever so often.

Of course, there is the French bastard to deal with in all of this. That's right, he's French too. I met them both at one of those funky ol' parties in Brooklyn. And if not for the fact that he possesses what I desire, I might even like him. After all, he would be a perfect replacement for my current wingman. He's exotic, French, knows his women and obviously knows his way around women. We'd probably be good foils for each other too, his grace and light movement a contrast with my booming and boisterous presence when I've got my mojo going.

Anyway, my old wingman told me not to bother. He immediately thought they were together, while I took my time believing I could be so unlucky. And I've been flirting with her. In fact, I was at my flirtiest and best dressed when she met me. And she loves to dance. With me. Pah! Always the best man, never the groom. It is yet another indictment on my moral character that I'm not a man around whom one should leave their girlfriend. And though I've recently learned some hard lessons in regards to that mode of behavior, I can't help but try here. After all, he is having his fun. Why can't she and I have some? More to come, more to come...

Turning the tables

After seeing this post, I'm leary of posting about relationships. I was about to write that bloody post about four levels of dating and all that yada. I still might. However, this is important. This is a public service I'd like the lovely lady bloggers of the internet to peform for all mankind. And I know I'm tredding on these lovely folks territory here.

Women, why do you love assholes? I'd like a more substantial answer than that trite, appeal of the bad boy in the leather jacket that you always revert to. What I'd really like to know is why you insist on being belittled, having your self image bruised and generally being horribly abused rather than just dealing with normal, sane human beings. Please answer in the comments and I will transmit your answer to nice and normal guys the world over. Thank you.

Small smudges on my soul 2

That the incident in the post below bothered me so much is ironic, considering I'd just committed a much clearer moral transgression. I stole a scarf. I know, what a weekend. I was trying the scarf in the mirror when I realized it had no security tag. It was a chain store so when I checked other items, they all those big electronic tags that make it impossible to try on anything comfortably. I continued trying other things, contemplating taking the scarf. And I did. I wrapped the scarf around my neck, paid for two other items that I wanted and walked out of the store with a scarf I had not paid for. The items I bought included a tie and a more expensive scarf than the one I took.

I'm no moral relativist. I took something that did not belong to me. Had I been caught, I'd have deserved whatever iniquity the store felt fit to visit upon me.

_______________________________________________________________
Waiting for the train later that evening, I spied a girl twirling by me. That's right, twirling. She is probably about 5'7 and she was twirling very elegantly to something playing on her ipod. Her blonde hair was dyed blue at it's base and flipped outwards mid neck. She covered her head with a French beret, wore a long flowing turquoise skirt, a cream sweater and a black jacket. She was a gracious wood sprite misplaced in Manhattan's grimy subway. I leaned against the stairs and watched her, grinning openly. I wanted to speak to her, to hear what she was listening to and know how she could so brightly do those twirls over and over again even with people watching. I guess she may have become a bit self-conscious cause she twirled away. A guy she passed turned to me and grinned, "that was something." I wonder if it's a masculine thing to want to possess beauty. She really was entrancing and I'm smiling even as I write this and think of her. Yet, I wonder why I couldn't just enjoy it and be content with my memory, why I hope she'd read this and be flattered and gladdened to know someone thought her absolutely beautiful and delightful, why I however briefly considered ever posting my first ever missed connection in whatever magazine it is that wood sprites read.

_______________________________________________________________
Small smudges on my soul. Maybe not so small?

Small smudges on my soul 1

The mid-Manhattan branch of the New York Public Library closes at 6pm on Saturdays. So of course, I strode in at 10 of 6, with a book to return and book I needed. I dropped off the one to be returned, dashed to the information desk, got the call number for my book and then headed over to the elevator, where things proceeded to get complicated. The little lady at the elevator with the strident voice wouldn't let me up. "That floor is closed. You can't go up. I can't let you up there. You have to wait till Monday. That's not my problem. I can't let you up there. Who told you to sit around all day and not come earlier?" I tried pleading, tried reasoning and finally realized she was not going to let me up. I also got really tired of hearing her voice. I was about to give up and head out when it occured to me that no building was ever designed with only one way to access a floor. The stairs were right by the exit. I ran five floors, told the startled librarians (who really were closing down the floor) that I already had my call number and found the book in less than a minute. The librarian looked weary, explaining to her colleague that I had come up the stairs and asked me to please take the elevator down. I did that.

As I got to the ground floor, my friend of shrill voice pointed me towards the exit, before she realized who she was. Then her face contorted in fury and she went off, even as I went to stand in line to check out my book. "Who told you to go up the stairs? I told him he couldn't go up there and he went and took the stairs. Y'all don't listen. They never listen. You don't listen. I told you not to go up there. He pulled that shit too. I told you not to go up there.." And on and on and on and very, very loudly. I grimaced, made an apology and tried to explain that I intended no disrepect, only I really needed the book and the website said they closed at 6, so... She wasn't hearing it. Frankly, she couldn't have heard much with her voice booming all over the place like that. And as I checked out the book, other's drew themselves into it. An older gentleman who worked at the library walked with his cane up to me and joined in berating me in much the same tones. It didn't help that the two or three other customers who began to sympathize with the elevator lady, assuring her they knew how she felt, surely qualify for senior citizen discounts at retailers city wide. That simply set it up in my head as crabby ol' folks versus the young and striving go getter. I think it's rude to walk out on someone who's speaking to you, but those old voices definitely followed me to the exit.

I've been unable to let it go since it happened. I guess it disturbed my equilibrium. Even more than that though, I'm disturbed at how upset she got. I thought about the way I might feel in her position. I think I'd probably feel much the same, though a lot less personally disturbed by it and probably a bit amused at the ingenuousness of the kid. Still, I'd probably drop a "Do that again and I'll box your ears off." I guess not having that option made her feel helpless. Or something. The New York Times ran an article a little while ago about how we're becoming a culture that never accepts "No" for an answer. We've got to have it and have it now. I guess I'm a part of that. Still... The library website said they closed at 6. I cut it close, although not deliberately. I didn't want to have to repeat the trip all the way there. I had 10 minutes. You can reason anything away.

If I had it to do again, I don't know if I would have gone up the stairs. I wasn't necessarily in it to get one over the lady. I just wanted the book, and it seemed to me that it was possible to get the book. I still don't think of that impulse as wrong. Yet the amount of anguish (I think that is the right word) it caused her disturbs me. Should she not take things to much to heart? Would I still have gone up if she had been a bit more personable in her refusal? Like I said, I wasn't in it to get one over her. I didn't have that gloating feeling riding down in the elevator, just relief at getting my book. Nevertheless, I'd probably forgo the book if I had it to do again. We should not be causing each other pain, or grief and I don't like myself for having done that.

The wisdom

I came home sad and blue cause I didn't get laid or even get a cute girl to acknowledge my presence for more than a few minutes all night. On the other hand, I don't think the loving warmth and suffusing joy of our lord Jesus Christ would have made my evening that much better.

On other news, I spent a half hour helping some poor fucked up drunk bastard I found on the street. Me and this other kid did everything we could to prevent his drunk ass from getting arrested and get safely home to... Astoria! Poor bastard indeed.

I love my friends

girlrobotics (2:07:12 AM):: dear flint
flintinny (2:07:19 AM): ???
robotic (2:07:28 AM): I just got drunkered at a pirate themed bar.
robotic (2:07:47 AM): they had an amazing selection of rum
robotic (2:07:58 AM): and really good crawdad poppers and smores.
robotic (2:08:02 AM): that's smores.
robotic (2:08:32 AM): they brought graham crackers with marshmallows and chocolate bars on a platter with skewers and a flaming sterno can.
robotic (2:08:41 AM): it was amazing and you need to come out and enjoy it.
robotic (2:08:52 AM): I'm going to go get high with Jenn now.
robotic (2:08:54 AM): I love you.

New wingman wanted, old one broken

For the crimes of failing to update his skills, unsportsman like behavior and general suckiness at the picking up of women, I hereby consign my old wingman to the second place role of best friend and seek a new wingman. Only the qualified and very skilled need apply.

Ok, so that's kinda dramatic. But it is necessary. My wingman for almost four years has become incredibly sucky at the task at hand. How so, you ask? Well for one thing, of late he's taking to calling dibs on, "the pretty one." All the time. That's just rude. I mean, that's really unbecoming. What works best with wingmen is if you have slightly different tastes in women and thus you generally let the one whose type is most represented by the pretty one have a first go, or if that doesn't work, at least alternate. Well, my wingman no longer has a type. Long periods of unattachedness have left him without standards of any sort other than the generic, "prettier one." And that is almost a crime of nature.

Second, he's fighting me for girls. Really fucking unacceptable. You can't have your winngman making moves on girls you have a previous relationship with or he knows you're into. Unfortunately, not only has my wingman recently slept with an ex-girlfriend of mine (one of my most recent and disastrous too), he's muscled in on my booty call territory in hideous and unacceptable ways. Men have faced the garrote for lesser crimes.

And my third and not at all inconsequential complaint, he just sucks at the business! I mean, he's never been great at it, but even as I'm getting much better, he's getting worse. How's that possible? I've got beautiful women coming to my parties so he can set up dates with them that never go anywhere. He ain't pulling at clubs, ain't pulling at bars, ain't pulling on the job... And when the man talks about going to clubs so he can "hump," should I pimpslap him or have him delivered to a shrink? I mean, that mentality was barely acceptable in college. Three years on, that's just fucking unnecessary. He's never been able to dance, his dress game is slipping and if anything, he's getting less smooth. Gaddamit, we need an intervention.

The thing is, it's a delicate situation. I may have mentioned that he doubles as my best friend and one does not just dispose of those nilly willy. Besides, he is a good man in many ways, better than me in some. And when he's not being a sucky wingman or crossing boundaries with my women, he's pretty loyal. That counts for a lot. Nevertheless, this cannot conntinue. A change must come. Got any ideas for me?

suffer the children

I once sat in a bar in North Carolina and listened to a single mother talk about her son. She spoke of how she loved him to death and there was little he didn't get from her. And then there were the suitors, who bought him just about everything else. From the new Playstation to the Fubu gear, he probably dressed fresher and lived better than she did. And although it was part of a work interview, I felt a sadness grip me. It's the same kind of despair that grips me when I see a really pretty 12 year old girl dressed entirely inappropriately on the subway or around the city. I'm never having kids.* It really is unbelievably thoughtless of people to have children. Do you not see the world you live in? Do you not watch the news? Do you think your influence on another mind is so strong that they'll turn out in any way alright?

I'm hard on parents, even mine. To some extent, I've always resented being born. I'm hard charging aobut living and making the most of life. Most days though, it just seems like too much work. I've never objected to the idea of death. I'd probably be the kind of guy to tell a mugger exactly where he can put his grubby bullets. Maybe a vain glorious way to go, but at least I wouldn't have to go to work the next day. Or face the disappointment of yet another sandwich for lunch or any one of the millions of indignities that make up life.

The single mother in North Carolina was a fascinating one. She came for our session with a friend, her best friend. Together, they frequently dumped their kids on a neighbour and took impromptu vacations to exotic locations around the US. Sometimes they even took the kids. The last trip was to Disney in Orlando. I remember the best friend declaring herself a lesbian, whether part time or full time. There was no doubt there was something between the two women. Oh, they seemed a fun pair. Cute too. One black, one Latino. The black one had the kid I think.** There are no kids whose fates worry me as much as African American males. If you live in this country, you probably have reason to be worried about that kid too. After all, in a few years when he's a bit older and a lot omre rebellious, she'll wonder why it is she can't control him. And her job at Starbucks probably won't pay for the gear he's gonna want then. A little older, the suitors might also be calling less frequently. Then how is little precious going to feed that hunger? Sounds like the opening bars of every other hip hop album.

*However, I might consider adopting. That way, when the kid is all fucked up and wants to know why, I can just go, "don't look at me, that's the nature part causing your problems. I did ok with the nurturing."
**Upon further reflection, the Latina lady might have had the kid and the black one was the raging lesbian. However I've already written this one way and I have no intention of disturbing the poetry of my post with frivolous editing. Make the adjustments in your head.

Life sucks, need a girl who will

This template blows. Actually, with only eight possible choices, any template would blow. Blogger must be run by commies. A million choices at an everyday low price. That's the American way.

Anyway, I claim this little corner of cyberspace in the name of devilry, debauchery and despair. There may be whiskey drinking, skirt chasing, nakedness and bitching. If anything offends you, run to mummy and cry. This ain't NPR.