New and Exciting Paths to Disappointment

As many of you (oh who am I kidding) – as both of you know, I moved from the City of Meat to the City of Angels about a year and a half ago to go to law school. In keeping with the title of this blog and the breakneck pace at which it is updated, I will occasionally (read: rarely) write about my journey and my new life in southern California. This is one such post. You will be enthralled by this. Entranced. Riveted. Hypnotized. Under my spell. Like a Podling from The Dark Crystal, having your very essence sucked out of your soul into a vial, your body withering to a dry husk as you sit transfixed in front the glowing power that is my blog. I envy you in your excitement.

I’ve recently become addicted to a show called “Single In…(followed by a city name)” on the WE channel. Yes, I watch your channel, women. You cannot stop me. I will know your secrets! You should never have put them on tv!!

Really I just watch this show. The rest of the shows on the WE channel are crap. You can have them. But the most recent series of “Single in…” has featured L.A., and my main interest in it is so I can say “I’ve been there!” repeatedly to myself. And some of the girls are hot.

Apparently, LA (I am now too lazy to use the periods. You’re lucky I’m even using capital letters here. But I am not too lazy to insert an incredibly long parenthetical taking you light years away from my original clause) is uh…where was I? Oh yeah – LA is the home of the most online dating in the world. I guess a simpler way to put it would be that LA is the “online datingest” city in the world. I don’t know how this fact was arrived at, and frankly I think the claim is suspect, but I’ll go with it. Everyone here is too busy with their careers, I guess is how it goes, so they don’t have time to meet people in the real world. I could also accept the theory that the real world sucks ass.

Whatever the reason, I’ve joined the throngs of online daters. I’ve been doing it for some time actually. Back when I lived in Chicago I went on these kinds of dates quite often. I even ended up dating one girl for over a year. And that was back when the only people with Internet personals were 54 year old pedophile investment bankers. Nowadays it’s much different. They’re much younger, and they mostly work in retail.

My first online date in LA was with an artist. She sent me her website, and I actually liked her work quite a lot. I won’t bust her out here, but if you want the link I’ll send it to you along with her bank account numbers and home address. We talked on the phone for a long time and got along pretty well. She told me all about how she was on the verge of hitting it big in the art world. In just the past week she had sort of exploded – museums were flying her all over to buy her work, dealers were insuring her pieces at 20-60K each, she had a couple of multigazillionaire art investors backing her – she was pretty excited.

I was a little bit intimidated by all this at first. Here’s someone who’s about to be famous in a way. I’ve never been around someone at that point in their lives, and it was intriguing, but I was thinking to myself, what am I bringing to the table here? A law degree? (My friend Rachel has since chastised me for this thoroughly, and I have seen the error of my ways).

I bring this up though, because this is how I was feeling on my way to pick up Candy Warhol for our date. As soon as I got there I saw her crazy, apeshit little dog tied up out back. Great. She let me stand there for about an hour and a half while the hellhound did its best to maul my big toe from 5 ft. away. I mulled over how to get to the doorbell without having to kill this girl’s pet first, which despite its obvious evil nature she probably loved. I was also thinking about how I was going to deal with this about-to-be-very-successful woman situation. When she opened the door, though, George Costanza started running laps in my head, screaming “I’ve got hand again!” You see, there was zero physical attraction. Intimidation – deleted.

Now as they say in Raising Arizona, y’all without sin can cast the first stone. I know in the past I’ve been accused of being, shall we say “shallow” in my preferences for attractive women. This is usually done by my female friends and/or relatives in a good natured, ribbing sort of way, and I don’t mind, because it’s true. It’s unthinkable, but...I like pretty girls. There, I said it. It’s made me somewhat of a social pariah, because no other guy feels this way. I’m the only one. Other men care about the important things, like personality and kindness, and shared interests – not physical attraction. I’ve been haunted for years by the delusion that I can have both. I’ve tried to get help. It’s no use. I’ve accepted it. I just thank God that my more noble friends still deign to speak with me.

Can you hear the knife clattering around the empty sarcasm jar? Cuz I really slathered it on in that last paragraph. Subtle enough for ya? My point is this: I submit to you that any one of you who is judging me right now for saying looks matter, and telling yourself that they don’t is LYING THROUGH YOUR TEETH. Looks do matter. I don’t know anyone semi-attractive who’s married to or dating someone much less attractive than they are. Unless one of the two is incredibly rich or famous. Steve Buscemi probably dates supermodels. But most people end up with someone about as attractive as they are. I take pretty good care of myself physically, and I want someone who does the same. It was obvious that physical fitness wasn’t high on this girl’s list. Which is fine. For her.

Before you go feeling sorry for her, though, and calling me a bastard, as you are wont to do, let me tell you a few other things. See, we went out on a Sunday night, which I don’t usually do because I have class from 9am to 9pm on Mondays. We did this because it was her idea. She was leaving town in two days, and wanted to meet. So we went. We also went to a trendy little Indian restaurant because it was where she wanted to go. And I drove, because she didn’t want to. With all that in mind, she didn’t once a) offer to pay, or b) even THANK ME for paying. And for someone who claimed to have only one kidney she sure could put away the black martinis. She watched me pull out the debit card and pay the tab and didn’t even have the decency to do the fake move for the purse. That’s all I ask for – one fake move. AND DID I SAY THAT SHE DIDN’T SAY THANK YOU??? Whoever heard of this? I’m sorry, but when you invite someone out and you pick the place, you pay. I don’t care if you’re a guy or a girl. You at least offer to pay. You at least offer to split the bill for God’s sake. YOU AT LEAST SAY THANK YOU. Still love this girl? Here’s more.

She was pretty interesting to talk to, if only from a writer’s perspective of taking notes for future short stories – and blogs. But the entire time we were there, she was touching me. I’d say something funny, she’d touch me and laugh. I’d say something not funny, she’d touch me and laugh. Touch touch touch. I have no problem with this when you’re in a relationship. Ok even then this would have been a lot of touching. But on a first date? If I did that I’d be arrested for battery. As we walked to the parking lot – valet only at this place, which I paid for, thanklessly – she had her hand on the back of my neck. The entire way. Like, I don’t know, your wife might do, say when it's icy outside and she's wearing heels. Except that this is LA and it wasn't icy, and it was our first freaking date. It was a possessive kind of holding on. I guess my not once reciprocating her touching all night gave her the idea that this was ok. What do you do there? Shrug it off? Stop and bend over and pretend to tie your shoe? I concentrated on waiting for a thank you to take my mind off of it.

Needless to say, I won’t be seeing the artist again. No attraction, plus annoying and rude = no second date. I wish her all the best with her career. She’s already got the manners of a rich snob down cold. I don’t think I’ll be intimidated the next time I’m about to date someone who’s on the verge of making it. I’ll just be my regular judgmental and morally superior self.

The next date I went on was at Starbucks (she picked it). The girl was on crutches, so I got (and paid for) her fancy drink for her. She didn’t say thank you.