I've gotta tap out of the dating scene for the time being. I woke up one day and realized I weigh 305 pounds and a baby tooth, with no tooth behind it, fell out last week. How handsome I am!
A confluence of hideous events, both personal and private, involving having being held at gunpoint, acquiring, apparently, two stalkers, having a loved one pass away in the most painful way possible, and then learning my parent and a sibling have been diagnosed with the same disease, and working in a pressure cooker environment and bingo, that was it. I broke. Epic flame out.
At this point I am still sorting through the detritus of the life I used to have, and digging in the dirt to figure out what type of life I will have going forward. Plus, I am weening off of a couple of psychiatric drugs, so that's fun.
All of this is to say that, boy, nothing says good dating material like me right now. When I come out of the other end of this debacle, I'm gonna give this another try. Until then, I really can't look at myself and my life and ask someone to join our fates with a clear conscious. And that's too bad, because every man needs a companion for solace. But it is what it is, so what's to be done.
I won't message anyone, because it's not fair. If you just need a friend, go ahead and message me. I'm still suitable in that category.
Over the months, I have grown very weary of the countless dullards who have written me, confused as to the purpose of my profile, confounded by its' meaning. Sigh.
Look, I will say it once, and then never again: this profile is simply the scratchpad of a genius, nothing less, nothing more.
Here, let me give you my card:
= ACME Amalgamated
= Certified Product Testing Division
= Wile E. Coyote
= Field Product Tester Technichian & Super Genius
Now, if you will excuse me, I need to figure out how to assemble this 1st Generation ACME Batwing Suit, though the directions are all in Chinese. Screw it, we're burning daylight, I've just gone through a fifth Mt. Dew Code Red and I think I just heard a "meep, meep" echoing through the canyons.
Come on, come on, Get me to the top of that butte in five minutes. I need to be airborn in the bat whatchamacallit in under 10. No, no, screw that, I'll figure out how to flap the wings on the way down. Someone find my God D--- GoPro camera....
Doo da doo dodoody dot doo dee doo dot dot dot doo dee doo dot dot dah dee dot dah dee dah dot...dot...bump....and.......aaaaaaaaaaaaaa...........huuuuuuuuuuuump.
Drop the base now,. Bom Bom Bom BOWOWOWM Bom BOWOWOWM ahhhhhhh Bom Bom Beedle Dee Bom BOWOWOWM Bom Deedle Dee Bom. Ahhhhhhhh. Settle down boys, we gonna be here all week.
Who knew that messaging someone and exclaiming your desire to mate with them like two hogs in sweet slop was offensive? Color me surprised. Breaking the ice isn't exactly easy, you know. So I figured, go right in with the animalistic, primal urges. Apparently though, this only seems to work on women either in prison or out on parole. And I'm sick of replacing my stereos and TVs, so time for a new approach.
Dateline: May 12, 2014
I've recently realized something that has eluded me over the years. I dated a woman for six weeks, and apparently she had a thing for lumberjacks. How do I know this? Because as we sat watching the Lumberjack Association's Tree Chopping Championship (yeah, it was as odd as it sounded) she mentioned blithey that she had always hoped to settle down with a lumberjack who had a PH.D in some esoteric field of study.
Red flag moment, because I did a quick mental survey of who I was and what I did for a living and rapidly came to the conclusion that I was as far away from being her ideal mate as humanly possible. Nonplussed, I mentioned that I could understand that, and that I had always wished to settle down with a woman who would perform Tiajuana donkey shows in her living room. And, oh yeah, I knew exactly where and how to get a burro.
She and I stared at each other for a minute and then I got up and left. So, what did I learn? Never date a woman who has a fetish for lumberjacks.
Oh, and Denver? That isn't car smog hovering over your city like a blanket that your mother keeps in a slightly damp bucket in a dank basement - it's marijuana fog. While it is perfectly legal here, if you go looking for a place to stay on AirBnB, be prepared for a serious contact high. Plus, bonus: all of your clothes smell like you mule drugs from South America to Miami...Every day of your life.
For the record, if you want to jump start your economy one burrito at a time, be my guest. And, the people of Denver have been great. But I've never met so many people with that thousand yard stare since I was in Khe San during the Vietnam War. Which I was never in, but that is neither here nor there.
My advice: spring for a hotel that doesn't allow smoking. Just for kicks, I rented a room in a B&B that caters to the Marijuana tourist. Within two hours the smell had me wretching in the bathroom and me on the iPad looking for a hotel. Yeah, cute move on my part wanting to see how a bunch of seriously baked people acted, but good God, the smell. The Smell!
So, turns out Key West wasn't for me. I'd thought it would be a serene haven from the rat race where everyone watched the sunsets and practiced mindful meditation. What it turned out to be was a total drunkfest with mean six toed cats. And Mosquitos that were small but tenacious. Two blood transfusions later, I realized it is basically an island on which no locals could afford to live and the cut throat nature of the locals looking to make a buck. So now, San Francisco is where I am. Just one question though: is it typical that an Alcatraz tour guide might lock you in a cell as a "joke" and then leave you there overnight?
By the time morning came around I was making raisin moonshine in the toilet and a good number of shivs made from toothbrushes and melted toilet paper rolls. I actually dug it, but there was no one around on which to employ said shiv.
One other thing: I now believe it is mandatory that you must become deathly ill after you fly across the country. I'm sitting in my hotel shivering and wondering who managed to slip razor blades into my throat. On the upside, the urgent care clinic had nothing to offer me except a pat on the back and 20 Vicodin pills. 20. Health care is definitely different here than in DC, where an annoyed doctor would have told me to man up and then bitch slap me for wasting his time. Hopefully I will feel better tomorrow, as I have done the open tour bus thing and now plan to plunge myself into the seedier aspects of San Francisco culture. Oh boy!
I've been in Key West for two whole days. Is it possible to develop the dreaded Key West disease in two days?
I don't know, but I realized an hour ago that my left flip flop was actually on fire, and I figured fuck it, I'll worry about this apparent case of spontaneous combustion when it reached my calf.
Something strange is happening to my go go East coast personality. Oh, and the fact that my left foot appears to be smoldering for no good reason. Whatevs.
Update: According to a person who emailed me, I am super awesome. I knew I was super, and of course I'm awesome, but super awesome? Yeah, OK, I can see it. And yes, I did just end a sentence with a preposition.
Update: So, someone indicates with that quick match thingie that they dig you, which is fine I guess, but it's all based on pictures, and most of them haven't read the profile. But when you write to them, they never answer back. Either I am the suckiest first message writer ever, or that's when they first read my profile. Either way, no more responding to the QuickMatch crowd unless they've read this, the longest profile in the history of OkCupid.
Update: On this Labor Day I want to celebrate the fact that we have a day devoted to labor on which everyone just sits around.
Update: Ok, further down in my profile I claimed that rating people was sort of lame. If you think you might like someone, the right thing to do is message them because rating someone is lazy and thoughtless. Well, guess what. I started rating people and I couldn't stop. It's sort of addicting. Suffice to say, if I rated you highly, it's because I think I'd probably like you. And I'm sorry, I should have messaged, but once I started, I was overcome with rating fever. I promise if you message me based on a rating, I am not a lazy writer. Ahem, as you will probably see from my profile, which, while quite long, is informative and the silliest thing you will ever read.
Update: I am having an existential crisis. But, before you go all philosophical on me, I will point out that I really mean it: I woke up this morning any my left arm was translucent. As in, instead of opaque. I can sort of see through it, which is not as cool as it might sound.
Then again, maybe I'm just on mescaline again. That would be so typical of me. Like the time that I joined a spirit circle on a reservation of the Great Sioux Nation. The peyote was blended into a tea made up of water, berries, wild grasses and Johnny Walker Red. Before I drank my share, the chieftain took me by the shoulders and said, with reverence, it was time that I became a man (never mind that I was 42 at the time) and that by drinking the "tea", I would find myself in a strange land and time but that this would be the time and place of my vision quest, in which I would find my spiritual guide who would, from then on, lead me through my life. I thought about this for a moment, looked at him and said "Here's mud in yer eye, you crazy feathered up bastard" and took it all down in a single gulp.
I spent the next 22 hours wrapped in a blanket, shivering and shaking, sick as a dog with a bad baker's chocolate habit, but I did have a vision. It was a platypus who smoked those small cigars and played poker, and cheated the whole time. We played for hours, and when I woke up, the Sioux were gone, and so was all the money in my wallet. And so was any trust I had ever had in those strange creatures.
End of update. To be continued, if I don't disappear altogether.
Yet Another Update: Who uses this Crazy Blind Date thing? No one. Want to know why? Because it's crazy. I mean, how do I know your picture isn't garbled, it's how you really look? Come on. Besides, what if in the picture you're holding a bloody knife and a sign that says "You're Next, Fucker"? Now *that* would be a Crazy Blind Date. And most likely my last.
Update: I've never done this, but apparently there are people who, when they decide they don't want to see you anymore, feel the need to not only tell you this, but kick you in the nuts while doing so. I had a woman tell me she was "too shallow" to see herself with me long term.
I don't know about you, but fuck me. So, in the future, if you don't want to see me again, feel free to say so, but if you can avoid the crotch punch in the process, I'd appreciate it. I know, you have to be thick skinned to do this stuff, but some things you just don't expect and can't prepare for. Like, for instance, a chunk of frozen urine leaking from an airplane, falling off and hitting you in the head. Actually, I would have preferred that.
Then again, you wind up all blue and in a vegetative state in the hospital with all your relatives drawing straws to see who gets to unplug your life support. So, maybe I'd prefer the crotch punch after all.
Update: Who knew I joined a dating site to wind up with enemies? What does that little stat even mean? It bothers me thinking that I have strangers here who are my enemies. And creeps me out a little, too.
And who came up with that whole rating system thing? It's like a cattle call. I refuse, OKCupid, to play that little game. Now, I am going to go do something incredibly cool and hipsterish. Yeah, you want to know what it is, but, like any hipster, I am an annoying effete snob and will refuse to say.
Update: Jiminy Christmas, I just took some random, cheesy test on here and I turned out to be the romantic, gentle boy next door. Who, by the way, women say they like but often gets passed up for the bad boy who will treat them badly. That's it, I'm becoming the asshole you've always dreamed of knowing and bedding.
Or, probably not. I guess I'll just stay my normal, goofy self. But I may threaten to cut you if that'll help.
Update: When a woman asks what you like in bed, I have learned it is probably not a good idea to go straight to the kinkier stuff, but instead just say: you, baby, and only you. Well, maybe minus the baby part, which seems now somewhat unappealingly retro. I learned this after dating someone for six weeks, almost falling for her, and then telling her something I considered fairly tame, but for her seemed to be the end of the world. So I had to sit down for a while and come to terms with the fact that I may be a pervert (not in a "Hey, I love kiddie porn" way, but more in a "I'll try anything twice" kind of way, and probably have). So, I feel the need to add this: if you are sexually prudish, and I never assume I will have sex with anyone, but if you are prudish, we probably won't be a good match. I mean, I love all sorts of sex, from mild to not so mild, so, you know...
Update(12/06/2012): It has recently come to my attention that I may not be a handsome guy. This is shocking to me, and may cause me to reevaluate my decision to seek female companionship. I mean, really, I look in the mirror every day and the guy staring back at me seems perfectly pleasant to look at, but in fact, I may be uglier than the Elephant Man. This is not an easy thing to learn about one's self, so it's going to take some time to sink in. In the meantime, when you look at my pictures, please replace my image with that of Brad Pitt. It will make it easier to bring yourself to picture spending the rest of your life with me. Thank you.
Update (11/30/2013): I've gone forward in time, and have a word of advice: stock up on ammo, instant rice and goldfish. I don't have time to explain now, but in about five months from your time, you will thank me. And then begin the process of fleeing your new and cruel alien overlords. I've said too much already, just do it.
Update (05/2012): Good news and bad news. I recently dropped twenty pounds. But, I swear, it wasn't my fault. Scene: the mall. I went to snatch the kid from his walker, and the little guy was covered in baby oil. Blurp, squirted right out of my hands. What kind of mother does that to her baby? What's the point? I am pretty sure the kid is OK, because even though we were right by the railing on the third floor, I think he landed on a kiosk selling floor cushions in the food court below. The good news is that I think I lost a few pounds fleeing the scene.
Update (09/2011): Have recently taken an interest in local politics. And, to my thinking, there is only one, and I mean only one, candidate to consider for Fairfax County Agricultural Commissioner in 2012: Husted Van der Groot. So, Voot fer Groot, 2012. Vote early, vote often. Or else, As Mr. Groot points out, suffer the wrath of He Who Stalks the Corn! He has a Facebook page, look him up: you'll be glad you did.
Ok, time to take this profile thing seriously. I tend to be dismissive of the notion that writing a few short paragraphs about myself can possibly tell anyone who I am as a person, and so I admit to my previous profile being a bit of a gag. But, as I thought about it, I realized, I've gone to the trouble of opening an account here and posting my pictures (as bad as they may be), so why not walk the final mile and try to at least honestly describe myself here. So, I will.
I am dashing, debonair, lead a life of international intrigue and have been homeless for five years. Sleeping on park benches is seriously underrated, and one can always find a crumpled up newspaper to cuddle up with. I have noticed a tendency for women to be biased against men with no homes, and I, for one, think this is a cruel injustice. I try to stay clean by showering with hoses when I can find one, and the odd bits of soap one finds in dumpsters and the drains of public showers.
Just because I am homeless does not mean I have no pride. I have plenty of pride. Unless I'm hungry, then I'll pretty much do anything for a scrap of bread. But I won't dance for you like an organ grinder's monkey. Unless the bread is very, very good. Then I might dance like that.
I spent years as a carny, guessing weights and ages, but then the drinking caught up with me. I was seeing double most of the time, so I'd guess double the weight or age. After being punched out by angry boyfriends a few times, the carny manager had to let me go. So, I wandered from town to town, a drifter with a dark past. Until I finally made it to a small town in Washington state. There a burly sheriff tried to run me out of town. Frankly, I'd had enough of being treated poorly, so I went on a rampage in the forest surrounding the town, moving stealthily in the night via abandoned mine shafts and, using make shift weapons, decimated the local police force. Luckily my old commander from Vietnam was called in and talked me down. After spending a few years in Leavenworth, they sent me back to Vietnam to locate some still missing POWs. I blew up half the country, so that wasn't good. Now, I travel the back alleys of our nation's capitol, subsisting on the effluvia of our prosperous society.
Oh, wait, sorry, I'm mixing up the movies Pee Wee Herman's Big Adventure and Rambo (parts 1 and 2!) with my actual life. My actual life is pretty boring compared to that. So, maybe I should just stick with the Rambo story. Except I have no survival skills, or that cool knife with a compass in the handle. And if I had to give myself stitches, I don't know what I'd do.
So, I am not really homeless. I have a decent job, drive a fun car, and spend my free time plotting revenge against that burly sheriff. Crap, Rambo again. No, I actually spend my free time devising get rich quick schemes that usually turn into get poor even quicker schemes. Funny how that works.
I exercise on a regular basis, but I must admit to something. Some people treat their bodies like a temple. I sort of treat my own like a pool hall.
What am I looking for? A partner in crime, a woman with a healthy sense of humor and the ability to really laugh. Not just a dainty "ha, ha, ahem." type of laugh, but a real "I can't breath anymore, please call a paramedic" type of laugh. But not a crazy "Hey, I've got two heads in the freezer, wanna see them?" type of laugh either. That's just sort of scary.
If the above wasn't enough to warn you, I'm a bit offbeat. So, you know, if you are not offbeat yourself, or don't like offbeat, you might want to run for your very life. Now.