May 27, 2004
I feel like I'm neglecting you lately, but I want you to know that I think about you all the time. There's no one else. Really.
I got some computer worm -- two, if you want the gory details -- and it wouldn't let me online anymore. After half a dozen tearful calls to Dell and so many broken rules at Kinko's that I basically owe the late-night guy there at least three sexual favors, I am back. Yay!
May 23, 2004
I've been looking for single women so I can find out some of the reasons they're not voting, but everywhere I turn, it's seven-eighths men.
Frustrated eligible women often ask where all the men are. I think a better question is: Where aren't they? They're at the coffee shop drinking yogurt smoothies, they're at Barnes and Noble reading Vogue magazine. This morning a guy with tattoos and blue eye shadow dusted powder on my face at the Prescriptives counter at Nordstrom. He said to come back when I have more time to "hang out" and then batted his false eyelashes at me.
The weird thing is, they all seem to have girlfriends.
I don't think it's so much that men aren't around, it's that they're blending in with women.
To prevent complete social hermaphroditism, I think it's important for each gender to take some time to hang out with their same-sex peeps.
For instance, in my own relationships, I'm very patient about the thoughtless -- not to mention sexist -- act of stumbling in from a strip club at 2 a.m. without even so much as a phone call. Although, jeez, why not just tag my leg like I'm a criminal on parole and be done with it if you're so upset?
My girlfriend's boyfriend Dean agrees: "Sometimes I just need to spend time with the guys...
shoe shopping...
in my Miata."
May 14, 2004
Last night I was at the kind of crowded party that is conducive to singed hair from errant cigarettes and instant intimacy with whomever is trapped next to you during the 35-minute wait at the bar.
"I tell ya, Annie -- was it Annie? -- these passive Seattle men don't ask women out. It's enough to turn me into a lesbian," a redheaded woman said to me. I thought how lucky I am that I consistently have men ask for my phone number. Two hours, two cocktails and one big struggle to get my credit card back from the bartender later, I hadn't met anyone. Was that woman right? Maybe Seattle men are passive and hard to date. Apparently I was just one comment-from-a-potential-lesbian away from losing my faith.
When I got home I did what I'm sure many people do after striking out at a party: I watched porn.
I knew I had soft-core porn with my HBO, because sometimes I'll doze off while watching something like Six Feet Under and when I open my eyes I think: "Wow. Those two bereaved people are really comforting each other. That is one wild funeral home, but I guess it makes sense since it's supposed to be in L.A."
So last night when I got home from the party, I flipped on the TV looking for a Seinfeld rerun and saw the opening credits of a film called Lord of the G-Strings. I was glad I caught the very beginning so I wouldn't lose the thread of what I was sure would be a complex plot.
I was surprised at how well-done it was, though. The actors were likable and some of the lines were really witty. Even as I realized where some men get the idea to use way too much tongue and spend way too much time with breast fondling, I found myself really rooting for the often-topless heroine Dildo Saggins. We aren't so different, she and I. Bad animation segues, a horny, drunken wizard named Smirnoff, voyeuristic bands of men ripping off Monty Python... who hasn't been there? Sure, she was looking for a magic black-lace-and-pearl G-string and I am searching for more intangible things like love and artistic satisfaction, but we are each on a personal quest and encountering lesbians along the way.
An hour later I had lost the thread of what turned out to be a very complex plot. I turned off the TV.
As I got ready for bed, I felt a renewed sense of faith. I, like Dildo, would continue on my journey and would someday find my own equivalent of a magic G-string.
When I do, I will cherish it.
And keep it tightly clenched between my buttocks.
May 12, 2004
I realized a couple of things last night while I was at the Seattle Music Awards thingy. 1) It's not a great idea to go out when you're sick, although it's cheaper than staying at home because the bartender will give you all the free OJ you want and 2) it's boring to have a dating web site and then announce a dating hiatus, so starting this week any date moratorium is no longer self-imposed, but is rather just that I can't get a date.
Oh, and none of the bands I voted for won. No one I've voted for has ever won anything, except for Bill Clinton.
May 6, 2004
When I woke up the other morning I saw one of the most disheartening things one can see before coffee… no coffee. I dragged myself to my most usual java haunt, inspired by the promise of caffeine and nice big slice of eavesdropping. As I settled in with my cup, I noticed most of the action was happening outside. They say communication is mostly non-verbal, so I gazed out the window and filled in the conversational blanks according to body language.
A woman with pretty eyes was sitting at one of the little ice cream tables on the sidewalk. A man with a carefully measured quantity of face stubble stopped to talk to her as he was leaving with his coffee. I am already good at this, because I could tell by the way she neither turned toward him nor smiled that they didn't know each other. And still he persisted. I'm always impressed that anyone, anywhere can be looking to get laid before 8 in the morning, so I continued to watch, fascinated.
"I'm not so much into Don Johnson without the roguishness… or the context of the '80s," her crossed arms said.
"I will pee on this table anyway so as to mark my territory," he said by setting down his paper cup.
And still no visual warmth from Pretty Eyes.
Seattle is succinctly divided into neighborhoods, each with its own character. It is so divided in fact, that when you work at a store or restaurant in a particular neighborhood, it's like being a minor celebrity. For instance, I once told a checker at the grocery store that he reminded me of someone. When I was just about to say "Keanu Reeves," he blushed, "People say I look like Darren from the Blockbuster on 5th, but I dunno… I think my nose is too long."
Pretty Eyes saw her escape when a guy famous for working at the copy place on 1st took the table next to her. "Oh Dudley Do-Right Copy Place Guy, you have rescued me from the awkward conversation with the evil Studiously Scruffy Man!" her shoulders said as they turned toward him and she smiled for the first time that morning.
"Fie on thee, then, cruel spider! Woman who entices falsely outside coffee shops!" said the casual wave of Not Quite Don Johnson as he walked away, defeated.
May 3, 2004
As many of you know, I used to be a music journalist.
The term music journalist is an oxymoron if I've ever heard one. I mean really, it's not like partying with a band and then writing about it is on a par with risking your life to deliver a vivid account from the frontlines in Iraq or something.
Nonetheless, after five years of being one in L.A., I found myself battle-scarred and shell-shocked by the time I moved to Seattle. When people would ask me about the Seattle scene or which bands I liked, my stock answers were "I don't see live music anymore" or the more ethereal "Music is a past-life to me now."
It was inevitable that I would fall in with a crowd who was into music, though. Sure, it started off innocently enough: "My friend has a band playing in Ballard on Thursday night. I can get you on the list if you want to stop by…" Next thing you know I'm dancing up near the stage in a midriff-baring top, noticing how well the chorus goes with the bridge and trying to make eye-contact with the bass player. I know I should take responsibility for my own actions, but shouldn't those who know of my past shoulder at least some of the blame?
The word in the music industry is that Seattle is the next Seattle. Last night I went to the music awards showcase to find out. Beatles punk band The Speedles, alt-country Memphis Radio Kings and Mesopotamian DJ Darek Mazzone all brought me back to a place I haven't been these past few years, but my latest crush is on hard-edged popsters The Lashes.
I liked every song in their half-hour set. The music was hard, the show was not slick, the harmonies were flawless.
"I love Seattle bands," I screamed over the din to my girlfriend. "If these guys were in L.A., they would be 37-years-old and paying to play."
"Really? When I hire bands to play my parties I pay mvmflg."
The music was so loud I couldn't hear what she said, but it sounded like five figures. Once we were outside, she confirmed that it was.
When she saw the shocked look on my face, we both took a beat as we tried to determine if the other was completely out of her mind. Was she horrifically overpaying musicians or was I just so brainwashed from living in L.A. that I was surprised anyone less popular than Jon Bon Jovi was making rent?
Los Angeles musicians put on a professional show, they've got the chops and they're going to make it, dammit, no matter how long it takes. Seattle musicians maintain an air of "casual" -- exemplified by impromptu conferences on stage and the bass player squinting at the notebook paper with the set list written on it -- no matter how long they've been playing together.
Professional really only has one definition, though.
In Los Angeles, even the best bands pay to play. That means that they have to buy a chunk of tickets for their own show ahead of time and then hope to sell them or eat the cost. In Seattle, college guys pay their tuition with the money they make by playing around the coast in original bands.
As I was leaving my last club of the night, I met Ben, the lead singer from The Lashes. In Los Angeles he would be surrounded by managers, publicists and sheltered by a backstage guestlist. In Seattle he was standing with a friend. I asked him if his band has a CD I could buy.
In Los Angeles it would be displayed at a fold-out table manned by tube-topped groupies. In Seattle he said "It's only a four-song EP and it's not going to be released until July."
So I will have to get my fix at the clubs for two more months. Unless The Lashes are a gateway band, in which case they may lead me to try other bands. Oh God, what if the Seattle music scene is like the LA music scene and July means September? This could be an expensive summer... unless I can get myself on guest lists like I used to do. Just until July and then I'll stop. September at the very latest.
<<< home >>>