Ranting and contemplating life with Boston girl

I am unhappy. My body is shot, suffused with a surfeit of alcohol and dying for a break. I think I will give it up for Lent, alcohol that is. Not that I believe in Lent or religion of any sort for that matter. As Sergdun once said, I don't even want to be called an atheist because that suggests I care about religion enough to define myself against it. Nevertheless, my body does need a rest and that will give me a natural resting point to pitch to fools who will not understand that a man does sicken of the boring rituals of urban life. I wonder what extreme lack of imagination drives us to perform these, over and over again, without pause for contemplation of what our participation in them says of us. Why are you at the same bars with the same people, hearing the same jokes and going home with the same person (you), every single week? You're a fucking dull twit you know. As am I, as we all are.

I was going to write a long and grand post about my sixty hour date of last week, but as you might have guessed already, I'm not in the most positive frame of mind right now. Thus rather than any attempt at lyricism and storytelling (at which I would have failed inevitably), I'll simply say in plain words what is going on. I saw a girl last week and it went well. Despite the fact that I have ended two potential relationships because I did not want to deal with distance, once again I find myself entertaining that exact same idea. She's in Boston though and I suppose that is the only reason it has any real chance. She will find friends among my friends if I do decide to let things play out naturally because if I have six close friends in the world, three of them live in Boston and complain that they do not see me enough. Add to that the fact that she loves NYC (as all reasonable people do) and would not mind being here twice a month, and you have the potential for a working long distance relationship. Forgive me, but there is nothing in Washington DC or Syracuse that suggests to me that I should spend much time, aside of the wonderful people I spurned along with those locations. Nevertheless, Boston girl is not quite in. We've got chemistry and that is great. It might even be enough. I have no way of telling. How do people decide to go into relationships? I said before that I would be in a relationship sometime very soon but never having established a proper relationship, I'm not sure of the criteria by which one starts one of these. How much do I have to give up when I find someone I've got a decent amount of chemistry with and who fulfills a few basic requirements? In most of the superficial categories, she fits the bill. Very pretty, intelligent, feisty (hi Alice), goofy and serious (I don't think I could ever date anyone slight). Yet I know our chemistry is mostly born out of my easygoing nature. It's what makes dating so fraught for me. I'm charming and non-confrontational by default. Unless moved to anger, I absorb and work around everyone's little foibles without comment or declaration of war. Like when the wing man ditched me this weekend, claiming fatigue, when I really needed a hand dealing with the complicated social situation of girl from last week, girl who is spending the weekend at my apartment this week (platonic but suspicious) and yet another girl wanting to go out all on the same night. I didn't go nuclear on him, or to be honest, even express my disappointment and irritation. His lame and repeated apology told me he understood what he was doing but would do the right thing unless I put him under duress. Fuck that. I think that people should be masters of their own actions. I'm willing not play puppeteer. If you know what you ought to do for friendship's sake, but decide not to do it, I won't pressure you or even deign to inform you of your obligations. It's only reason 196,785 for me to stop answering his calls and drop him like a worn and jamming Ruger. What all this kvetching means in the frame of potential relationship with Boston girl is that there are already things that displease me, which I have ignored and worked around because that is just my style. Like most women, she complains too much (about many things I've little interest in hearing about), her tastes may be too pedestrian (leaning towards the worst of those rituals I was denigrating above) and she has little prejudices and ignorances that I dislike (like the fact that she is an Asian girl who only dates black guys and insists on talking about it too much). Nevertheless she has many redeeming qualities and I did very much enjoy the weekend she spent here. It felt a lot like a rehearsal relationship, with domesticity of all sorts (she made Beef Wellington, I made soft boiled eggs), shopping (her trying things, while I sat outside and ignored the pretty girl attendant flirting with me) and unreasonable food demands (a twenty block hike in the freezing cold for cupcakes at Magnolia bakery). And I enjoyed it all. It was filled with the pleasures I've always imagined one derives from a good relationship; intimacy (for which I am a whore), sex (plain but good), companionship (a precious commodity indeed) and all that kind of stuff. So what then? What compromises are acceptable? I'm well aware that no one finds the ideal person, who for me is simply a hotter, smarter, better adjusted and female me (just call me Narcissus). Do I give up too much even before things get started? Will they be first fault lines as the relationship develops or will they lessen in importance as we adjust to each other? Hey, you guys have been in relationships. Help a brother out here.

Dude in class, mind elsewhere

I do so want to split that wandering part of my personality, that dreamer that so often intrudes on my attempts to engage with the world. I see a pretty girl and I go off into wondering about how it must be to be so pretty. I write this sitting in a class where it is whispered that the professor has pretty undergrads as his teaching assistants. Having identified the two said assistants, I find myself fascinated. One is obviously out of her league, her intelligence and/or education insufficient for the task of adapting to the other class. The other might be the same, but she wisely adopts the adage of the fool who appears wise with silence. She is also strikingly beautiful, in a way that sets me reminiscing. I’ve had girls like these in classes before and they’ve always been hazardous to my education. I’m easily distracted people, very easily distracted and she is very, very distracting. I’ll admit it. I very much admire women; Tall and short, dark and light, zaftig and lithe, whatever stereotype you’d like. I’ve been known to be enchanted with tall, pale, flat chested women; short and generously proportioned women, whether white, black or Asian; athletic redheads, silky haired Indonesians, froed and cornrowed Africans and African Americas, exotically dark skin and freckled paleness… Sue me, I like women, and in writing all that, I’ve paid scant attention to the description of ritual ecstasy being debated in class just now. Back to the girl who cause the first distraction (she’s of the tall, pale and flat persuasion by the way and she looks quite intelligent in the way we sometimes make judgment of that from superficial features), I wonder if she knows her presence in the class is attributed to her looks, how that makes her feel, if she resents it or appreciative of the opportunity to be in an advanced class that half the grad department couldn’t get into, - I interrupt this reminiscence to inform you all that, SHE SPEAKS! Her point is not unintelligent. I wonder if she is often obsessed about like this. Tell me reader, is this really, really creepy? Do you feel icky just reading this? You must be a pervert then. Note that there has been not one sexual reference anywhere in this piece. And while writing may be an act of possession (something we are actually discussing in class right now). I’ve indicated absolutely no desire for any other form of possession within that. Although you might reference one of my previous posts and comment that I never see beauty without trying to possess it. Touché. Now bugger off. I need to attempt a little learning now.

Vanilla, chocolate, rum and hell raisin

I want a sex crazed girlfriend with seven times the experience that I have. If I can't have a such a girlfriend, I'll take such a mistress or even a really quick fling with someone of that level of experience. This weekend, I had a long and involved conversation on the pleasures of vanilla ice cream vs. mint chocolate chip and other favorite flavors. Although there was no inuendo involved in that particular conversation, some of it does hold true when applied to the sex world. Vanilla might be the best form of ice cream, but it's really not worth having unless it's really, really, really good. Mint Chocolate Chip, Rum Raisin and all that other good stuff needs to be in the mix to spice things up. I've been having lots and lots of vanilla, from really, really good to really should have left that in the bargain freezer. I need more flavors in my life, as well as some really, really, really good vanilla. I'm willing to spend all day churning the milk (is that what one does to it?) and of course, I bring a wonderful chocolate flavor to these things. You know where the applications go, fredfflint@gmail.com. Next up, a report on my 60 hour date. Rockin'

Happy VD

Living in Harlem and seeing someone in the Upper East Side is amusing for me. I get onto the train at 125th, bumping old school Jay-Z and acting as grimy as my neighbourhood, and fifteen minutes later I step off at 77th street, a neighbourhood so genteel you can just stop by a bodega and pick up really nice orchids and a couple of roses, my one small concession to the commercial nightmare that is Valentine's day. I arrive a little before midnight (so technically it's not even Valentine's day yet), and depart a little before 9am. I doubt there are many Americans or any girls my age I could have so civilized a relationship with. It's like having an affair without a wife or girlfriend to cheat on. Probably as good a time as any to get that experience out of the way.

Anyway, Happy Valentines Day. I'm going to eat half a tub of this ridiculously good ice cream while I procastinate.

She wants revenge

I mean, why get into a relationship in the first instance? Why do we invest so much in searching and dating and longing and hoping, till we come to seem like deluded fools seeking the Maltese falcon. The idea of love or the ideal of a relationship for me rests ins imply finding someone to speak to. As Chelsea girl points out here, the real tragedy for most guys at the end of a relationship is the loss of the person they speak the most to. I pity the woman who agrees to get deeply involved with me. I've got 24 years worth of repressed conversations I'd like to get out pronto. My attempts at finding a confidante have often been the sort of farcical events that have one laughing to cover up the tears. I remember writing a letter to a girl I had the hugest crush on when I was 13. I figured that if she could only understand who I really was, she'd be able to overlook my pariah status at that point, and fall desperately and deeply in love with me. So I wrote this four page horror, like a map of my brain, filled with my fears and hopes, what made me happy, what made me sad, what I thought about her and what I thought about the other single cell organisms that comprised my classes. Yeah, you see where this is leading don't you? In a way, I chose pretty well the person to hand this Weapon of Intense Destruction to. She avoided me for a couple of days, and then after prep one night, she looked me straight in the eye and told me with as much venom as she contained never to write such a thing to her again and to generally avoid speaking to her in total. Why was this the ideal response? Well, it let me know just how unlikely it was that anyone needed to get that far into my psyche. And secondly, she probably tore my letter up after she read it, rather than show it around to her friends and quadruple my miseries in the world, a fate I would surely have suffered if I had picked anyone a tad more immature or crueler. I learnt my lesson too well and didn't date one person in that high school till I graduated, despite some half hearted passes at the same girl and a couple of others much later on.

One other thing that came out of that whole affair though was a sort of coping mechanism. Whether consciously or unconsciously, I've stuck to close female friends ever since. The idea being that if I can't find conversation within a romantic relationship, I might as well have the kinds of friends I'd be comfortable talking to. I've had perhaps two close male friends and probably twenty close female friends since then. And it's worked pretty well for the most part. Except that one time my best friend was a girl I was in love with. Not that I fell in love with my best friend. Rather the opposite: I met a girl and just about lost my head at the very first sight of her and then a week or so later she introduced me to her boyfriend, so there went romance. Still she liked me and somehow or the other we became fast friends, and despite being mad about her, I still gave her honest advise when her relationship went mad and generally played the good guy role. And then after a year and a half of moping about, and a full half year after her relationship reached it's long and tortuous end, I confessed all. At which point, she promptly stopped speaking to me and effectively pissed away a year and a half of friendship. Bitch.

Anyway, that explains why the majority of my friends are female. And serves as warning for all who might contemplate dating me: I've got lots of talking stored up in me and you will surely have to hear it all. Good night. Oh, the title of the post refers not to anything within this post but rather the excellent band I saw earlier on this evening. Check em out; they're quite fun.

I can't get no satisfaction

I need the company of new people. I'm bored by most of the people in my life currently, most importantly the best friend. It's a bit strange to grow bored of a friend, particularly one with whom you have had so many drunken adventures. It's not my fault he refuses to grow the fuck up though. New people, new people. You interesting? I'll hang out with you. My whole crew needs refreshing. I've got a fairly interesting group of people who come to my parties and who I can go to concerts with. Overall they're somewhat straightlaced though, leaving me with little outlet for the debauchery I ought to be engaging in when living in New York City in my 20's. Actually, this is what's funny. I get irritated, like steaming mad and ready to knock him out, at the best friend for tryinng to pressure me into having a drink when I don't want one, and then I look for people to engage in debauchery with me. Life's strange that way.

Anyway, like one of those fools who declare that they are going to be married within a year, I declared that I would be in a relationship before Summer rolls around. Here's my logic. I'm pretty much at the most attractive I will ever be in my life (independent of one day becoming Bill Gates wealthy). I did alright with women in college, but I still had to do all of the work. These days, I get asked out by more women than I asked out, pretty cool women too. There've been a couple lately that things could have worked out with but for a few small but crucial issues (distance, twice; differing life stages, things like that). So I figure I simply have to keep meeting people, not have any distracting women around (like say, the Brazilian, who leaves at the end of March) and try not to get afoul of Cupid. Haha, listen to me. Come Summer, I'll probably be awash in fuck buddies and random dates with people I'm only marginally interested in. Story of my life.

Thing is, I've always known exactly what I wanted. I suppose at some point, I may not have been the person I needed to be to get that, but it amazes how much that I don't want I've accepted for so long. Here it is pretty simply. I want someone smart, intense and interesting, and able to deal with and accept who I am. I can be scarily intense, both very introverted and a complete party monster. Point blank, I can't deal with weak women. We all have issues and the reason you put up with someone else's flaws is so they are supportive of you when you need to deal with yours, but I can't date anyone who isn't strong enough to take on the world on a daily basis. Superficially, I like tall and I like pretty. What can I say, I need someone pretty enough that I don't feel the need to look elsewhere. On a slightly related note, do you know who this really, really, ridiculously good looking woman is? I picture me and this person making beautiful, beautiful music (take that metaphor as you will) and taking moonlit walks on the beach and you know the rest of this spiel. If you do know this person, please make introductions. I promise I'm fairly sane in real life and if things worked out between us, I wouldn't have to write any more posts like this. Anyway, I was detailing what I'd like in a woman I'd date. Well, being a woman is key. If I was ever into it, I'm now done dating girls. Why don't I want to date girls? Well, let's see. I met two girls outside a bar the other evening. We spoke as we made our way in, and then broke apart while they went to dance on the stage. When the bar got closed down by the cops for overcrowding, we met outside again and walked and talked for a bit. At the end of it, I ask the one I'm obviously interested in if she'd like to get together sometime, careful to be polite to both but obvious as to where my interest lay. And she gave me a fake number. A fake number? What are we, three years old and playing in the sand box? Here are a few possible responses for people who ask for you number that you aren't interested in:
a. No, it's been fun, but no.
b. Sorry, I'm not interested.
c. Maybe we'll run into each other again.
d. No but I'm flattered you asked
e. No

Any of the above is a pretty damn adult way of dealing with a polite request. People who are unable to handle that should not be allowed to socialize with grownups. The only time giving out a fake number is acceptable is if you're dealing with an overly persistent asshole you need to get away from. Anyway, things like that are the reason I can't deal with girls anymore. And I think this post is rambly to the point of incoherence, so at this point, I will bring it to an end.

No, I'm not really here

I have many things to write but no time to write them, one of the disadvantages of being in school rather than under an employer on whose dime I might post with alarming frequency. Hope for me that some reading and riting gets done that I may return with more stories of debauchery. In the meantime, if colored girl is out there reading, would you let us know if the disappearance of stayblackstupid.com is temporary or permanent. I was quite enjoying your brand of ranting. Pretty please come back, t'would be too painful to lose two of my favorite blogs in the same week. What up, Angelina? Godspeed in your new endeavours and I will try to get out that NY article with great haste and a minimum of olde English.

The tune that Federline brought

The problem with posting nine trillion times in one weekend is that things get buried. I like this post. Read this post. Comment on this post.


I have this very perverse desire. I actually want the Federline album to be good. Granted, I hadn't given much thought or encouragement to the idea when it was first speculated that he might make a rap album, now I actually want it to rock. It's like having a side of you that wants to see the things you most love destroyed. And yes, I love hip hop and yes, I'd love to see it destroyed. I think. It's weird, bothers me even. To some extent, it's a reaction to the culture we have today. I'm so impressed by the way it's possible to totally create stars out of nothingness and I want to see that proved over and over in more and more perverse ways, and it really wouldn't get much more perverse than Kevin Federline producing the album of the year. I just read an interview where he calls himself the rookie of the year. See, homeboy already knows the lingo. Besides the idea for the first single just sounds so insane, it might be genius. Roll that ass or back that ass up or whatever it is in Portugese?! That's bloody awesome. Come on, those kids at Fader live for this. I mean, tell me MIA was saying anything more substantive in her garbled Sri Lankan, pikey English ramblings. And do you remember a certain R. Kelly track that ruled the airwaves, which you probably have somewhere on your hard drive that was driven by the premise of sticking his key in the ignition? I declare this a hit based on concept alone. Ok, let's have a listen. There is a really weird screech at the beginning of the track that is pretty damn scary, must turn down volume. I didn't realize up till this moment that I'd never heard Federline speak. Of course, not being the owner of a TV or spending as much time on gossip blogs these days, that's less than surprising. He's got white boy flow. That shit hasn't sold substantial records for anyone but the Beasties, Vanilla Ice and Mr. Shady himself. I don't know if it will for Mr. Spears. It's probably adequate I suppose. The beat is really weird, one of these new fangled beats that is obviously made by an interchangeable member of Gen Y, bred on Premier and well studied in the styles of Storch, Pharell and Blaze. It will probably sound really awesome in about a week and will have omnipresence in every nightclub. Needless to say, Federline is a really bad rapper and has absolutely nothing to say. Still, the track is weird enough and the beat new enough that this will play. Despite all the derision heaped on him now, in two weeks everyone will be dancing to this and unable to explain how and why that happened. The moment I realized there is no more irony was the day I was walking around Williamsburg and heard a kid, about ten years old and playing stickball with his friends, start to sing the then new McDonald's theme, "Parapapara, I'm loving it." A frigging New Yorker! If the most wired and media savvy kids from the most cynical sector of the planet cannot resist the onslaught of radio play, and TV play, and internet play, and shopping in the mall play of random McDonald's ditties, how are the hell are the rest of us going to do it? It took me less than a minute to find and download the Federline track, something which is not true of the new Cat Power record say. And Star all but pledges in this article to flood New York, and hence the world's, airwaves with this stuff. So don't resist, you will be assimilated anyway. You might as well relax, put on club shoes and yell Popozao, Popozao!

At 24, I

wore a pink shirt

danced a passable salsa (to the untrained eye)

towered above the huddle?

and had some very pretty friends, I must say.