Mr. Happy Face

Thursday, August 23


Despite what some dead writers might contend, August deserves to be considered in the ranking of cruel months. (Excuse me while I pull a Tuborg out of the cold fridge.) While it may not compare to how the May slapped me around, it's in contention. I know for a fact I'm not alone in my assertion.

There's been a troubling statistical parallel between my recent dating activity and the tabulation of how many billable hours of work I've logged this month. Some variation on the Gravity's Rainbow effect, maybe. (Oh, God, is he going to be making obscure literary references through this whole fucking thing? (Trust me. That last one's worth the research!)) Both situations have left me ample reading time if you hadn't guessed.

I think it's fair to say I've been officially blown off by all four of the latest major contenders. There is - curious verb tense that! - a fifth, a singer, who seemed to be on the horizon. But, alas (or as Art Girl was fond of opining: "sigh") she too is showing signs of abandoning The Saint early in the game. Patience my ass! It's not improbable that my brother is going to have a brand new house built before one of these "relationships" this summer bears substantial fruit.

Out of curiosity, how do you go from looking ridiculously pleased during dinner, OFFERING your business card at the end of the night - thereby supplying all sorts of previously undisclosed information (such as a last name) - to dropping things within three days? Stone cold. I completely understand a desire to take thing slowly, but she (back to Art Girl if that wasn't clear) was giving off a definite impression we were on the move. I'll admit I came on a bit strong once I saw encouragement, but what the hell? I was hoping we were mature enough to sidestep the whole need for coy game playing. That was wishful thinking. Along with being more than a little disappointed, I guess I'm frustrated that the most promising prospect of all ended in familiar, tepid (dis)interest. It gets old fast.

Then there are the minor players, women who have contacted me, but who seem to want a pen pal more than a date. As a rule they have not thrilled. And to be honest, I'm having trouble maintaining my commitment to responding to any and all requests. Maybe that explains the slipping karma. There was Angel Fire - I won't even bother going through the usual exercise of disguising that name (shiver) - who seemed more interested in getting a critique of her poetry than of ever actually meeting. I knew I couldn't go on when she wrote of her great fondness for "The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock." Why the tranpositional error was more egregious to my sensibilities than her choice of pseudonym I cannot say. It might just be indicative of the frantic mush that passes for my brain these days.

Quite frankly, I'm questioning the validity of this whole Internet dating routine. The process is feeling formulaic and radically flawed. Despite the steady rise in my batting average with first-contact - I've worked up a pretty good boilerplate introduction by now - I'm growing less enthused. What looks promising on the computer keeps falling short in reality. Chock it up to my propensity for falsely-optimistic reading between the lines. I'd gladly give it up if I had even the slightest contact with a woman on a regular basis who I could flirt with or ask out. (And the guys perpetually working on my deck and who occasionally seal my apartment in plastic aren't all that cute.) There's a lot to be said for the way familiarity over time allows you to eventually see into the richness of someone you might initially - sometimes repeatedly - discount. Furthermore, the lack of any real foundation between random strangers is not an unimportant factor. With thousands of potential dates waiting at the other end of the modem, the motivation to continue pursuit following a pleasant but average encounter is greatly diminished. The grasping has been frenzied, the straws are rare.

Sometimes I feel like screaming out like Charleton Heston in Planet of the Apes (Yes, saw it! Blowing my snobbish image, I know. Also saw Legally Blond AND Final Fantasy for that matter): God damn them! Damn them all to hell!!

There is a third problem. And this, I admit, may be specific to me - although I think it goes back to the lack of foundation as well. It is the impulse to be upbeat at all costs. What person wants to hear doom and gloom the first time they meet you? How are they to judge whether your little rant is specific to a particular, legitimate issue or indicative of a surly, morose personality? What stranger - what stranger I've probably singled out because she sounds successful - wants to hear right off the bat that this is the worst time for finding work in the past seven years? Or that I have yet to bill a single hour this month? (Note the date above.) God forbid I get into my vast dating history prior to this year. And what's the most fun thing I've been doing all summer? Sad as it might seem, these demented little ruminations have been a blast to write. (At least it is writing. A perpetually forestalled novel is another thing that's hard to be boastful about.) But as a topic of conversation? Verboten!!! ("Say, miss. You don't mind if I record this conversation to play back for my friends later, do you?")

I'm increasingly convinced that half the attraction of someone is when they break character for a moment and become human - when they get really pissed off, or admit they're not doing all that well, or are even unsure what they're doing. (It has been noted, after all, that self-deprecation suits me.) I know there's a line between being upbeat and being real. I think I just really suck at being able to find the balance. Maybe it's as simple as my dates not buying the facade - that I come off as one-dimensional. Artificial person for an artificial process?



But that's just one more obtuse reference that makes me more ridiculous than you might ever possibly guess. (Last one, I promise.)


* * * * *
To finish updating the scorecard: Red, despite the encouraging correspondence, is a no-start. My little princess never bothered following through. And Sassy has fallen off he planet for a second time. Until the next encounter I seem to be relegated back into the role of observer. The familiar old role I've come to loathe. My afternoons are spent watching guys with sketchbooks hit on girls reading textbooks at cafes. ("I'm having a show next month. . . . hey, why don't you give me your e-mail so I can let you know about it.")

Must . . . revitalize . . . before . . . summer . . . ends. Must prolong The Summer of Steve* (I think I'm gonna cheat since the middle of the year in SF is so messed up, and extend my term of business into the long warm days of September and October. Although I must note that it's Thursday night and I'm sitting here finishing this rather than burning up the dance floor.)

Maybe I'm just suffering from a lack of focus. Lost sight of my goal to cram as many dates as possible into the season. Maybe it's just that The Woolies haven't been spreading their love vibe around town lately. (Wonder if I could sit in on a couple rehearsals.) Maybe I should donate blood one of these afternoons in an effort to regain some lost karma.

So what's the deal? Is everyone on fucking vacation this month? (Or is it just me?)

-- Saint X


* A friend who was visiting last weekend, having recently experienced an evening of Speed Dating, and somehow inspired by my public airing of failures, declared he was considering following up my pathetic chronicles with his own. I'm encouraging the title "The Fall of Chris"


* * * * *
Next: Point. Click. Shoot.