Implosion
Encourage Saint X
Disparage Saint X
D A T E L I N E U P D A T E : Implosion
Thursday, June 14
8:30 a.m.
I'm sitting with coffee, trying to wake up before I start any real work, weeding out the ranks of the more vanilla online profiles that keep appearing under the criteria I specify, when I finally come across one with at least a little style to it:
Maybe a touch weird, but on the whole this towers over the crushing mass of people who begin with "I like hiking, and movies, and going to all the great restaurants we're so blessed with living here . . . "
Shoot me. NOW!
9:00 a.m.
I log off and start mucking around with a stupid icon that may or may not be used on an upcoming release of a digital camera from one of the local high-tech companies. (Speaking of vanilla, they invariably favor the most predictable/uninteresting choice when I give variations. And then they make even worse committee-based suggestions for refinement. Ehh, it pays the bills.)
9:15 a.m.
My mind, dulled, thinks back on KindaFunny's words. I begin to think I really should come up with a response. Her primary request is for someone who's "blow-milk-out-my-nose funny". A challenge. (It will help to know that in the section describing her "ideal man" she ends by stating she'd be glad to talk in more depth with anyone about the whole mentoring deal.)
10:00 a.m.
My mind has come to life. I've just posted the following response:
Whatever. I had fun coming up with it. Beat the hell out of doing variations on a silhouette of a man's head for BigTechCompany.
10:19 a.m.
E-mail response from KindaFunny:
This is progress. I passed the first screen. One of the women who contacted me out of the blue has yet to respond to the response I sent her. (Tamer, more normal. I'm not a total psycho - not yet. Actually, I'm pleasantly surprised by my lighthearted, whatever-happens-happens attitude about the whole process.)
I'm feeling good. I'm actually feeling kind of great. Screw work. I'm going for a run. Popped in a tape of Saint Etienne and hit the road for about 45 minutes. All the while formulating next steps.
Noon
I make the call. She's just heading out for lunch with a friend. She sounds friendly; I don't come off retarded, may have even managed to slip in a joke. I say I'll call her back around 1:30.
1:50 p.m.
Blah, blah. We make a little small talk.
1:57:28 p.m.
(Re-read the profile. I figure she can rival even my friend Dr. Butthead, Ph.D. for chatter.) Maybe she's got to get back to work, or is distracted by something. It seems to me like we've made the appropriate introductory move. I inquire if she might want to set up a time to talk later, or even arrange some kind of modest meeting.
Whaaaaat? Apparently I am the weakest link. (She, by the way, was the one to introduce the topic of weather - around 1:54 p.m.)
1:58 p.m. - 2:03 p.m.
Me, phone still in hand, my jaw somewhere around my sternum, head shaking in bemusement. I take a look back at her profile: "I am frighteningly perceptive." Mmmm . . . Frightening . . . let's go with that. This is all too weird. I begin to laugh at the absurdity, then go for a walk down Market Street for a really strong coffee.
2:40 p.m.
Review her profile again. Realize she's got a couple additional pictures linked. She included a picture of herself as a child, and one in which she is holding a very unhappy cat. Oh, did I mention that her parameters for a man included anyone 30-44 living within 100 miles of the Golden Gate Bridge? (Good luck, Ms. Patience.) And, while she identifies herself as living in San Francisco, she actually has a house across the bay in East NowhereLand. I had erroneously assumed the 510 area code was work.
This screams out for some sort of response. Maybe it's all some wacky secondary screen for persistence, a la Willy Wonka. I craft the following:
No, YOU are the weakest link. Good luck, ya freak.
10:30 p.m.
I finally make it dancing (mod Brit pop at 330 Rich). The place is packed. I dance until two. Sweaty, satisfied, very tired.
* * * * *
(It's now Sunday, by the way)
I went on an official blind date last night. A set-up by a mutual friend. Pleasant, good practice, but nothing more to speak of. I confess I didn't mind that much when the bar we ended up at turned on the lights to kick us out a little early.
I gotta head back to the online trolling. Maybe I can find someone who's "Looking for that special someone." (An actual headline that makes no less than 672 appearances.)
NOW you can shoot me.
* * * * *
Response From Frizzled8:30 a.m.
I'm sitting with coffee, trying to wake up before I start any real work, weeding out the ranks of the more vanilla online profiles that keep appearing under the criteria I specify, when I finally come across one with at least a little style to it:
FROM "KindaFunny": I like Fresca. I've never had a headache ('cept when eating ice cream too fast). I island-hopped in Greece for a month when I was 25 and got the best, and last tan my life. I daydream a lot. I like pickles and black licorice. I detest ironing. I sing loudly in my car. I still don't understand why people eat cilantro willingly. I fainted in Notre Dame Cathedral. I have an awesome volleyball serve. I cut up the plastic six pack thingamajiggers so the birdies don't get stuck in them. I mentor a little girl named Jennifer and I'm beginning to dress like her and I'm starting to like The Backstreet Boys, help. If I ever met Dave Matthews, I would fall to my knees and beg him to be my friend. I'm confused as to why men get bellybutton lint, but women don't. My cat loves to lick plastic bags. I like to watch her lick plastic bags. I don't wear a watch. I have a crush on NPR's Michael Krasny (and yes, I know what he looks like). I am the only person I know who likes to visit historic landmarks. I am a liberal. I want to have a fuzzy nugget - just one (okay, maybe two). I know there is a Heaven 'cause I've seen it here on earth and it is: Pottery Barn. The movie American Beauty had me reeling for three days. I walk in the mud barefoot. I run into famous people a lot, and ask them for the time. I fling my hair back like a movie star and hope that you're looking. I lived in Paris for a year, but just found out the other day that Champs Elysees means Elysian Fields. I think we're all looking for something to amaze us. My favorite word is luscious and my least favorite is ointment. I bore easily. I like Gershwin and kumquats. I am frighteningly perceptive. I long for that late night when I will lay with you, babe, you, laughing hysterically, tickling each other until we finally say, man, we should really go to sleep.
Maybe a touch weird, but on the whole this towers over the crushing mass of people who begin with "I like hiking, and movies, and going to all the great restaurants we're so blessed with living here . . . "
Shoot me. NOW!
9:00 a.m.
I log off and start mucking around with a stupid icon that may or may not be used on an upcoming release of a digital camera from one of the local high-tech companies. (Speaking of vanilla, they invariably favor the most predictable/uninteresting choice when I give variations. And then they make even worse committee-based suggestions for refinement. Ehh, it pays the bills.)
9:15 a.m.
My mind, dulled, thinks back on KindaFunny's words. I begin to think I really should come up with a response. Her primary request is for someone who's "blow-milk-out-my-nose funny". A challenge. (It will help to know that in the section describing her "ideal man" she ends by stating she'd be glad to talk in more depth with anyone about the whole mentoring deal.)
10:00 a.m.
My mind has come to life. I've just posted the following response:
So be honest. This is all a ruse. It's all an elaborate new marketing scheme for that mentoring program, isn't it. Some kind of Scientology/Heaven's Gate recruitment campaign? What color are your Nikes?
Or is this just therapy to confront a SELF-cultivated (yet emotionally and psychologically unwanted) affection for The Backstreet Boys. Does this young girl even exist? You couldn't come up with a more original name than "Jennifer"? Maybe you've been channeling the spirit of Joan of Arc. That might explain the fainting in Notre Dame. (I was about 1/1000th of a second away from passing out in The Vatican a few years ago myself. Even then they wouldn't let me sit in the big chair. So close!)
Your attention to detail cracked - me - up! I'd love to hear more. I'll tell you about the dream I had last week in which Lyndon Johnson made a cameo appearance.
-- Saint X
p.s. I've got it bad for Nina Totenberg.
Or is this just therapy to confront a SELF-cultivated (yet emotionally and psychologically unwanted) affection for The Backstreet Boys. Does this young girl even exist? You couldn't come up with a more original name than "Jennifer"? Maybe you've been channeling the spirit of Joan of Arc. That might explain the fainting in Notre Dame. (I was about 1/1000th of a second away from passing out in The Vatican a few years ago myself. Even then they wouldn't let me sit in the big chair. So close!)
Your attention to detail cracked - me - up! I'd love to hear more. I'll tell you about the dream I had last week in which Lyndon Johnson made a cameo appearance.
-- Saint X
p.s. I've got it bad for Nina Totenberg.
Whatever. I had fun coming up with it. Beat the hell out of doing variations on a silhouette of a man's head for BigTechCompany.
10:19 a.m.
E-mail response from KindaFunny:
Howdy - and thanks for the compliments.
Care to cut to the phone? I don't have much time to write, and it seems that the phone is what it's all about anyway, eh? It's 510 --- ----.
Cheers
Care to cut to the phone? I don't have much time to write, and it seems that the phone is what it's all about anyway, eh? It's 510 --- ----.
Cheers
This is progress. I passed the first screen. One of the women who contacted me out of the blue has yet to respond to the response I sent her. (Tamer, more normal. I'm not a total psycho - not yet. Actually, I'm pleasantly surprised by my lighthearted, whatever-happens-happens attitude about the whole process.)
I'm feeling good. I'm actually feeling kind of great. Screw work. I'm going for a run. Popped in a tape of Saint Etienne and hit the road for about 45 minutes. All the while formulating next steps.
Noon
I make the call. She's just heading out for lunch with a friend. She sounds friendly; I don't come off retarded, may have even managed to slip in a joke. I say I'll call her back around 1:30.
1:50 p.m.
"Hi it's S again."
Blah, blah. We make a little small talk.
1:57:28 p.m.
Her: "Well I'm kind of out of things to say."
Me: "I find that VERY hard to believe."
Me: "I find that VERY hard to believe."
(Re-read the profile. I figure she can rival even my friend Dr. Butthead, Ph.D. for chatter.) Maybe she's got to get back to work, or is distracted by something. It seems to me like we've made the appropriate introductory move. I inquire if she might want to set up a time to talk later, or even arrange some kind of modest meeting.
Her: "Well I usually take that as a sign things aren't going anywhere. Thanks anyway. Goodbye."
Whaaaaat? Apparently I am the weakest link. (She, by the way, was the one to introduce the topic of weather - around 1:54 p.m.)
1:58 p.m. - 2:03 p.m.
Me, phone still in hand, my jaw somewhere around my sternum, head shaking in bemusement. I take a look back at her profile: "I am frighteningly perceptive." Mmmm . . . Frightening . . . let's go with that. This is all too weird. I begin to laugh at the absurdity, then go for a walk down Market Street for a really strong coffee.
2:40 p.m.
Review her profile again. Realize she's got a couple additional pictures linked. She included a picture of herself as a child, and one in which she is holding a very unhappy cat. Oh, did I mention that her parameters for a man included anyone 30-44 living within 100 miles of the Golden Gate Bridge? (Good luck, Ms. Patience.) And, while she identifies herself as living in San Francisco, she actually has a house across the bay in East NowhereLand. I had erroneously assumed the 510 area code was work.
This screams out for some sort of response. Maybe it's all some wacky secondary screen for persistence, a la Willy Wonka. I craft the following:
Hmm,
Didn't realize I should have jumped right to the good stuff - like seeing if you made it to that subterranean lake on Kefallonia, or asking whether you preferred the Musee D'Orsay or L'Orangerie, or wondering if you found the ending of American Beauty more or less gratuitous than Boogie Nights or the frog scene in Magnolia.
Guess I just figured there'd be time to roll into all that. Nice talking to you anyway.
Didn't realize I should have jumped right to the good stuff - like seeing if you made it to that subterranean lake on Kefallonia, or asking whether you preferred the Musee D'Orsay or L'Orangerie, or wondering if you found the ending of American Beauty more or less gratuitous than Boogie Nights or the frog scene in Magnolia.
Guess I just figured there'd be time to roll into all that. Nice talking to you anyway.
No, YOU are the weakest link. Good luck, ya freak.
10:30 p.m.
I finally make it dancing (mod Brit pop at 330 Rich). The place is packed. I dance until two. Sweaty, satisfied, very tired.
(It's now Sunday, by the way)
I went on an official blind date last night. A set-up by a mutual friend. Pleasant, good practice, but nothing more to speak of. I confess I didn't mind that much when the bar we ended up at turned on the lights to kick us out a little early.
I gotta head back to the online trolling. Maybe I can find someone who's "Looking for that special someone." (An actual headline that makes no less than 672 appearances.)
NOW you can shoot me.
Next: The Crush