Shoe Shining...and Other Foibles in Internet-Land.
So let me reply:
1) To the mime from Jersey, good luck with the show. I will send NYC friends to see it so they believe me when I tell them that your pictures were not photoshopped. Never knew mimes had vicious chest hair. Or that they had three young children from two previous marriages. I wonder what your wedding photos were like. KID-ding, I don't wonder. Do not forward. My computer can't handle excessive folicular pixels.
2) To the guy with four dogs. (Cute picture, but you didn't need to be kissing the Corgi) Sorry about the one who's not doing so well (the Terrier?). The thing about dogs is that they don't really flourish in apartments, rent controlled or otherwise. Small ones are a kind-of, sort-of exception. A Great Dane, though? Buddy, not so good. If that Great Dane kept a diary it would read like this: GET ME THE F___ OUT OF HERE! HAVE YOU SEEN MY LEGS AND MY POOS?
3) Chad from Etobicoke. I know I stipulated musicians, but it wasn't, like, a rule. I was going for the general artist type, using music as an example. Origami would've counted. Karaoke doesn't. Nice try. I hope your mother recovers. I do.
4) Leaving a 13-year marriage is tough, Luke, but going on-line to find "The One" is not the path to "Healing". See, you have no idea what's out there. Take it from me.
5) Angelo. Angelo. Size kinda matters. But it's best left to dark fumblings, and the "Oh my God, it must be shrinkage", And, "It's okay, we put too much emphasis on sex", And, "I'm so sorry, I don't know what's wrong", And, "No, really, it's okay, we can just talk and stuff", And, "Oh look at the time. I better be going."
The thing about the picture of your dick that's insulting isn't the picture itself, it's the fact that you didn't take the shot yourself. Iii-eee.
6) Lou from Scarborough. Thanks for writing that song for me, using the melody from "Me and Bobby McGee"...."Busted flat in TOR-on-TO, waiting for the Go-Train, and I was feeling near as faded as my COPY OF NOW MAGAZINE circa 1996 when I was featured as bass guitar for the band that opened for Barenaked Ladies...hahaha"
Yes I cut and pasted that. Just like you did. And yes it was endearing, and yes I think a lot has been written about the fact that BNL doesn't get the respect they deserve. Thing is--I don't agree. Our first fight. Cute.
7) To The Damn Hottie visting from NYC on a training stint for Bloomberg's, umm, yup, I was at the Horseshoe, and though not drunk, I was feeling a little dangerous and lit from the ridiculous amount of people (5 women even!) who responded to my off-the-cuff ad, which, really, looking back, wasn't as fucking witty as it should have been. Anyway. You didn't show up. I won 20 bucks. If I keep this up, I think I found a lucrative part-time job. So thank you. And no, man, you don't get points by drunk-posting at 3:54 with your hotel room number. But you will have no problems getting laid in Toronto. We're like Europeans, but we speak English, mostly. Unless it's French, but know we're faking to impress you. In Toronto.
To the others, I have to be succinct. Maybe more clear. I was serious about the spelling and grammar thing. Call me a snob, call me "stupidy hung-up (sic)", or "anil (sic)" or "your not serious, when it cums to tru luv, speelings not imprtdant" (sic, sic and sic)
It kind of is to me. It kind of really is.
To wrap. We're all lonely, eh? ("Eh" is a colloquialism in Canada, to all my American friends including you, B., from Sausilito CA, nice boat, err, shit like that doesn't impress me, but the headband, it impressed me.)
Here's what I propose. When replying to an ad, don't cut and paste the schtick you've got posted elsewhere. A girl can already picture the first date; you'll tell her she's beautiful, you'll be impressed with every quip, ad lib, fart or notion that comes out of her tiny mouth or bum, but you won't ask her about her grandparents, her favourite high school teacher, or the last CD she bought and was astonishingly (ballingly) disappointed by. It's not hard. Girls love to talk about what's up with their hearts. Girls want to know they're with someone who's really there, with them, and not with someone who's got their life memorized into little savory soundbites. Who told you works anyway? Get off line, now, get a hobby, and find your passion. The rest will follow. Promise.
It's the first time I ever did this....why? I don't know. It's what the kids are doing, I guess. Computers don't come natural to me. I like (prefer, LOVE to) spy someone from across a crowded room, squeeze my best friend's hand and ask them to wish me luck while I try on my own. My post was about the fact that I have found it harder to do that because all my friends are no longer with me in those crowded rooms. Too often, these days, it's just me, alone, looking for a sport or a cohort to make those forays feel less fraught, you know?
No, Marc, I am not looking for "The One", and you're not the one because you really, truly, think you are. And you don't know me. You're cute. Why didn't you let me find that out? And no, Shane, you're not "everything I've been looking for". I can get that from novels, movies, late-night infomercials, and sometimes, gasp, accidental art.
Plus you tuck your shirts in. Don't. Ever. Unless you're in a tux.
I better sign off.
But ladies, I know you're with me....just stop answering my ad. Except for that one time, on a dare (we flipped a coin! And okay, I went first, but I was drunk, 21, in university, a free citizen--free from Catholic constraints--and I did her good.)
Still, no, I have never "questioned my sexuality". But lately...lately...lately...naaaaa, fuck it. I LOVE men; men who lie, cheat and steal, completely unintentionally; men who apologize for fucking up, even when they're not quite sure they actually did; men who cry but don't want me to see that they were crying, unless I really push, but the theatre was dark, guy, so what's the big deal? And okay, I'm going to tell my friends---BUT, they're gonna be all, "awwww what a SWEETheart!"; oh, and men who crack me up until I pee my pants a teensy bit, but it's not my good underwear, so whatever, I wasn't going to sleep with you anyway, but since we're back at my place, I'll change into the "good underwear", I promise, it's only because you ground me into submission; God, men who make me feel nauseous when they're with me, and without me; men who have good hands and strong, furry, forearms, men who have NO idea how cute they look when they're lost, even though they're driving me bananas, so gimme that map!; men who don't know they're the one, even when they do know they're the one, and it's a bit freaky, so they do stupid stuff that they think I can't see right through to make me feel they're not the one, because if they are the one, then what???
Oh Christ. I'm done. I want a man. A grown up. But he's not on-line. He's juggling the phones, he's making ends meet, he's trying to get his youngest to sleep because the new reality is too much for her or him, to bear.
(Big Fat P.S. There's this millionaire ass who's looking for "The One", in Toronto tomorrow. At the Carlu. My married friends (3 of them!) called me to say "OhmyGawd, You're, like, just what he's looking for---Ohmygawd, 5'6" slim, shit together, etc."
So I should go to his "casting call".
#1. My friends suck if they think that's what I want to do on a Wednesday afternoon; get "assessed" by a "matchmaker" ie: pimp.
And to this guy, while I'm at it: Fuck, dude, (sorry, I'm on a roll) if you haven't found her, umm, dangling dough in front of her botoxed face is the surest way to find a bitch that will hit the gin at 3 pm as soon as you have yet another "meeting". You feel entitled because you think you've "made it". Know what? So have I. And there's no equivalent. So. You suck. I know what that line up will look like: Me, but, lobotomized.
Back to you Flip.
(TV joke. In case you're (not your!!!!!) wondering.)