Implosion
The Crush
Encourage Saint X
Disparage Saint X
D A T E L I N E U P D A T E : The Crush
Monday, June 18
Rule #1: Don't let expectations run out of control.
I cannot overstate the overwhelming profusion of Bland - accompanied, not infrequently, by the reek of Desperation - in the world of online personals. A few representative, unembellished headlines: (1) Looking for Luvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv (2) I want a good boyfriend (3) Hi (4) (3's clever variant) Hi There (5) WHERE ARE YOU? (6) Here goes (7) Hmmmmmm (8) I am pretty and sweet (9) Pretend I have a clever headline (No, that's your job, Ms. High Maintenance!) (10) Tell me about the lambs, Clarise
Okay, the last one's just plain scary. I'm going to hell, I know. Alls I'm saying is it's a treat to find an exception. Take Sassy, for example:
International woman of mystery seeks goofball for misadventures
Not necessarily Katherine Dunn, but fun enough. (This is the new S, after all - S is dead; long live The Saint! - the one vowing he's not letting a jaundiced eye quash something before it has a chance to play out.) Another save-the-world type? Yeah, I noticed that too. Can't explain. I'm not attaching her picture, but let me say certain characteristics keep showing up in the women who catch my eye, such as short blond hair - I didn't quite realize how strong a factor the short hair is; the blond is a total surprise. She's cute, seems to rely more on sun and wind than makeup, a hint of style. Absent the miraculous appearance of a real-life C.J. Cregg, lets go with this.
One of the first things Sassy says is that she's attracted to the goofball type. I can do that. I can BE her goofball:
Too much? Too strange? It all goes sloshing through my head. Let's remember that she loves City Lights bookstore, where they have aisle upon aisle of all manner of weird, overwritten shit. I'm particularly pleased that I never actually claimed to be looking for anything.
I hit SEND.
* * * * *
One day passes. Two. I'm not sweating it. Maybe she's working on a response. Another little adventure scheme. I'm growing enthused about playing a few more coy rounds, letting our choice of subject begin to slowly reveal who we are and what we care about. I'm all for the control of a few carefully-crafted e-mails. I might be able to pull a good line out of the air every now and then in conversation, but I'm not nearly fast enough on my feet to rival what I can cram onto a page.
I wait . . .
* * * * *
Read Part 2Rule #1: Don't let expectations run out of control.
I cannot overstate the overwhelming profusion of Bland - accompanied, not infrequently, by the reek of Desperation - in the world of online personals. A few representative, unembellished headlines: (1) Looking for Luvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv (2) I want a good boyfriend (3) Hi (4) (3's clever variant) Hi There (5) WHERE ARE YOU? (6) Here goes (7) Hmmmmmm (8) I am pretty and sweet (9) Pretend I have a clever headline (No, that's your job, Ms. High Maintenance!) (10) Tell me about the lambs, Clarise
Okay, the last one's just plain scary. I'm going to hell, I know. Alls I'm saying is it's a treat to find an exception. Take Sassy, for example:
International woman of mystery seeks goofball for misadventures
When I get off from my day job twirling and flipping through the air from trapeze to trapeze, I mount my trusty bicycle and scoot across the city to my daily rendezvous with Q, my handler, who shows me how to work the latest umbrella/ machine gun or sunglasses/ telephoto microcamera. My assignment usually involves saving some wealthy industrialist from kidnapping and eventual torture. I always make them sign over their fortunes to Food Not Bombs or Greenpeace before I untie them and let them go, though. An International Woman of Mystery like myself has to do her part to keep the scales of justice balanced. When I'm not busy making the world safe for truth, justice and itinerant trapeze artists, I like to sneak out of San Francisco and go hiking at Mt. Tam or Big Sur or in the Himalayas. OK, the Himalaya bit is an exaggeration. At least at the moment. I like to boogie down to soukous, swing and '70s funk; spend book-drunk hours browsing through the shelves at City Lights; take my bicycle for hikes up Twin Peaks or through the salt marshes of Marin; lounge in bed til noon; cook with friends; eat delicious food; listen to bluegrass music; play outside in the park in the sunshine. I'm a Southerner who's lived in SF for almost seven years. I do NOT have a Rebel flag on the back of my pickup truck. I never had a truck, to tell the truth. I DO have a Viva La Velorution sticker on the back of my bike, though.
Not necessarily Katherine Dunn, but fun enough. (This is the new S, after all - S is dead; long live The Saint! - the one vowing he's not letting a jaundiced eye quash something before it has a chance to play out.) Another save-the-world type? Yeah, I noticed that too. Can't explain. I'm not attaching her picture, but let me say certain characteristics keep showing up in the women who catch my eye, such as short blond hair - I didn't quite realize how strong a factor the short hair is; the blond is a total surprise. She's cute, seems to rely more on sun and wind than makeup, a hint of style. Absent the miraculous appearance of a real-life C.J. Cregg, lets go with this.
One of the first things Sassy says is that she's attracted to the goofball type. I can do that. I can BE her goofball:
What luck!
I've been searching for you to say thanks ever since you pulled me from that smokestack in Martinez a few years back. (Did I ever learn the importance of reinforced stitching in a parachute that day; no more Kathy Lee Gifford sweatshop knockoffs for me!) But with the temporary blindness and all from the chemical leak I lost you in the crowd.
I thought I caught sight of you again when I was driving above Mill Valley. You were a small blurred dot pedaling like mad, but I'd recognize that bike anywhere. Unfortunately, before I could hit the gas I was surrounded by a pack of triathletes trying to overtake you, and was forced over the edge of the road. Next thing I knew I awoke bruised and groggy to the strains of an oom-pah band, and discovered I was being lashed to a maypole by aged milkmaids and frightening, smiling men in lederhosen. Gott in Himmel!
I don't really like to talk about what I had to agree to in order to make my escape, but suffice it to say I still get funny looks going through airport security.
At least that was better than the time I was walking through the Mission and a skateboard punk crashed into me, knocking me into wet cement. Next thing I knew a live/work loft had gone up around me. I'm sure I would have been found sooner, but what with the neighbors being evicted, and the absence of homeless people looking for shelter - if last year's election taught us nothing (and I think it's fair to say it did), it's that America doesn't have a homeless problem! - I was just kind of stuck there. I was growing worried, until the developers, desperate for the insurance money, torched the place, semi-exposing me to the world again. Thankfully, a really nice man who was preaching through a bullhorn took pity and dug me out. (Post-sermon, naturally.)
Then there was that little fiasco at SFMOMA. You'd think they'd have a better sense of humor about drawing mustaches on the urinals in the men's room, but you'd be wrong. DEAD wrong!
Well, its an age-old story. You've heard it a million times, I'm sure. But thanks anyway for the help awhile back.
Your fan,
-- Saint X
I've been searching for you to say thanks ever since you pulled me from that smokestack in Martinez a few years back. (Did I ever learn the importance of reinforced stitching in a parachute that day; no more Kathy Lee Gifford sweatshop knockoffs for me!) But with the temporary blindness and all from the chemical leak I lost you in the crowd.
I thought I caught sight of you again when I was driving above Mill Valley. You were a small blurred dot pedaling like mad, but I'd recognize that bike anywhere. Unfortunately, before I could hit the gas I was surrounded by a pack of triathletes trying to overtake you, and was forced over the edge of the road. Next thing I knew I awoke bruised and groggy to the strains of an oom-pah band, and discovered I was being lashed to a maypole by aged milkmaids and frightening, smiling men in lederhosen. Gott in Himmel!
I don't really like to talk about what I had to agree to in order to make my escape, but suffice it to say I still get funny looks going through airport security.
At least that was better than the time I was walking through the Mission and a skateboard punk crashed into me, knocking me into wet cement. Next thing I knew a live/work loft had gone up around me. I'm sure I would have been found sooner, but what with the neighbors being evicted, and the absence of homeless people looking for shelter - if last year's election taught us nothing (and I think it's fair to say it did), it's that America doesn't have a homeless problem! - I was just kind of stuck there. I was growing worried, until the developers, desperate for the insurance money, torched the place, semi-exposing me to the world again. Thankfully, a really nice man who was preaching through a bullhorn took pity and dug me out. (Post-sermon, naturally.)
Then there was that little fiasco at SFMOMA. You'd think they'd have a better sense of humor about drawing mustaches on the urinals in the men's room, but you'd be wrong. DEAD wrong!
Well, its an age-old story. You've heard it a million times, I'm sure. But thanks anyway for the help awhile back.
Your fan,
-- Saint X
Too much? Too strange? It all goes sloshing through my head. Let's remember that she loves City Lights bookstore, where they have aisle upon aisle of all manner of weird, overwritten shit. I'm particularly pleased that I never actually claimed to be looking for anything.
I hit SEND.
One day passes. Two. I'm not sweating it. Maybe she's working on a response. Another little adventure scheme. I'm growing enthused about playing a few more coy rounds, letting our choice of subject begin to slowly reveal who we are and what we care about. I'm all for the control of a few carefully-crafted e-mails. I might be able to pull a good line out of the air every now and then in conversation, but I'm not nearly fast enough on my feet to rival what I can cram onto a page.
I wait . . .