Archive | July, 2012

Watch how good I fake it.

I met a beautiful man tonight.

Beautiful in intelligence. Beautiful in eloquence. Beautiful in movie knowledge. Beautiful in spirit and garb. Ugly in unavailability.

He was, quite simply: all that I have learned to live without.

Like most taken men, they don’t realize the golden light they shine upon you which speaks of prose and possibility. They don’t mean to promise you happiness in a smile, or to verify your existence merely by being worthy of their own. Yet they do.

He was poignantly dressed and met each twisting turn of conversation with wit and something to say (as opposed to anything to say). It was such a tonic to meet someone who thinks, learns and then speaks, that I felt myself pulled towards him like a planet towards the sun (or like all women towards chocolate and Ryan Reynolds) (probably in that order).

The attention he gave me was so complete as to suggest we were merely two halves of a whole, that our happy ending was a fait accompli. Such are the perils of dating in the modern world. Men have become so adept at synthesising romance, in the moment, it feels perfectly plausible. It’s not so much that you’re fooling yourself (though, there’s that) or that movies have brainwashed you (though, there’s that), mainly just that they’re THAT DAMN GOOD.

But as the night wore on, alcohol replacing romance with cruel credibility, I began to think perhaps he did know of the web he weaved. That my admiration served a purpose for him and therefore needed to be serviced by him. That our innocent meeting of minds was not so innocent. He had a girlfriend. He was not offering himself in any tangible way, yet nevertheless was taking something from me – claiming the first flush of felicity, borrowing a honeymoon period to compensate for his having expired. I couldn’t help but feel his theft was, if not intentional, not entirely accidental.

His beautiful suit and shoes should have served as my warning shot – an ego dressed in siren song. Yet so starved am I of kindred company, I could hardly turn back at a red flag dressed so sumptuously. But after following his crumbs of cinema and philosophy (my drugs of choice), where did that leave me? Believing initially that we were making something, only to learn we were faking something … not back where I began but somewhere else entirely.

Like the wasteland which lies beyond the porch in Beetlejuice, there was something more terrifying than death (or singledom).

Fast food fantasy.

Tick. Tick, tick, tick … BOOM!

So I’ve been getting my Ace of Base on. In special needs repeat.

This brings joo-joo joy because:

  1. I’m special needs
  2. I’m ooold (to be said like Joey Tribbiani)
  3. I’m instantly transported back to being 17 years old

I’d just moved outta home into a stu-stu-studio with stained-glass windows and kitsch kitchen. Still in high school, I was the same Wuc you almost know today – freckled and forthright, with a penchant for daggy music and eveready dancin’. My mates’d tell tale of hanging at houses with parental sentinel, then camp out at mine – clubbing til dawn under the beats of Boyz II Men, Kris Kross and Marky Mark & The Drunky Bunch.

Good (illegal) (yet strangely innocent) times.

In those days (voice tilts like old codger with one hand on his testicle, the other on his toast), ID was easier to fake. Armed only with dark hair, red lips and a bogus birth certificate (via typewriter and a minimally-criminal brother) … BOOM! Shake the room! I was in.

‘Twas also in my seventeenth year that my love of movies brought its first tradge and lamentable lesson: never know thy neighbours.

Sure, it may seem a wonderbar situation – a beauteous community of possible beaus, barbecues and perennial cups of sugar. In truth, living abreast of you at any given time is a salty sea of schizos and a crackin’ lack of sweetness (proverbial or otherwise).

My first neighbour (cuckoo) dropped by one dog day afternoon as I was hanging washing, my little kitchen watching over me like a white ‘n’ wide grandmother nearby. Baggy in boob and balance, Heretic Hippy paused to borrow some food of iconic import and instantly, puffs of possibility floated above my head as it dawned: I’m living in a real movie moment!

Thus. Taking my lead from every lead in a motion picture, I accepted her invite for coffee and entered her flat (aka Hotel California) with filmic faith.

So began a siege of Pacino proportions. Our camaraderie cooling with our coffees, she came at me like a Jodie Foster film, friends. In minutes I was whisked down the rabbit hole of her youth, a tragic tumult of trauma and abuse. Then onto boyfriends of bulimic past and bash-full present. As she talked, one arm lay over her head like a halted hula, exposing in earnest her left armpit. A bush of hair charged forth as if freshly freed from a turban and, in rhythm to repartee, her free hand serially strummed said frizz like a frenetic harp.

Work the armpit. Work, work the armpit.

Hours passed. The sun and my hope retreated behind a darkened skyline … and each edging towards exit was met with new reasons to stay. Stuck in the Swamp of Sadness, there would be no Artax to take the fall. Beverage turned to bolognaise, dinner to dessert, and talk to Miss America. She waxed loony lyrical on how revolutionary and intelligent the women were. Sufferin’ suffragettes (to be said like Sylvester). Then. At midnight.

“I have to leave sometime, you know.”
“You don’t, actually. You could sleep over there.”

You know the dolly zoom in Jaws, just before the kid bites it? When she pointed to a dark ‘n’ defeated divan in the crusty corner of her consciousness – I felt it in real time, Brody baby.

You can check out, but you can never leave.

I’m Fred. I like tacos and ’71 Cabernet.

Random thoughts which peppered my head today:

I hate it when movies purposefully pluck my heartstrings. Like fucking Beaches, with Hershey slowly succumbing at the fucken seashore. Pluck elsewhere, people.

I made a new acquaintance today. He was bald and sweet, with a naïve view of the world. [Disclaimer: it was not a newborn baby.]

Do you ever crump to ad jingles on TV? [Coughs] Yeah, neither do I.

Jealousy seems the Heidi Klum of emotions … tall and exotic, dressed in Halloween habiliments of hurt, anger and superiority.

Is it possible to find morality in others without also finding judgement?

Once upon a brain fart, I had a crush on David Caruso. It only last ten minutes but in the ninth minute, my brother found out. Lived with it. ever. since.

Is it just me or does the word ‘predilection’ seem reserved for serial killers?

What’s with people who ask how you are, then turn away before you can answer? Some fraudulent interest wouldn’t go astray. You started it.

If I were rich, I’d teach puppies to tap dance. Unhushed puppies.

I have a tendency to talk to myself at inopportune moments … such as in dressing rooms of department stores: “that does not look good”.

Pick that up and put it down properly!

I feel tumultuous. Like Gary Busey in high wind.

Work has been insane in the membrane. Or for the less bombastic: totes nutsack.

In the last fortnight, all hell don break loose (stopping just shy of my shorts catching fire with only vodka to put ’em out). Each morning, trying to wake myself to the dawn was like a pterodactyl being born with tiny wing-claws and grit in its eyes … the end of every day like tits-up Titanic, with the band playing on as everyone scrambled on deck, our ship soaring and splitting in two like a whopping-wafer in an angry iced-latte.

Then. Friday. Things came to an iceberg-lettuce head.

Read: people crying into career soups and one dickhead nigh losing his job.

See, my boss went on leave. Yep. That was it. He went on walkabout and into his competent ‘n’ charismatic loafers stepped another. A woman I quite like, but one unprepared for the dickhead dead ahead; the he-man hurdle she had to clear to be awarded gold. (For us all to be awarded gold.) The details themselves are as long and winding as the collective intestines of The Beatles but suffice to say, he was too wide of wit and tall of ego for it to end well. Our fallout primarily political, his yet to be determined – it was one helluva ride.

Somewhere in the middle, was I. Clambering to keep up, to maintain a sense of logic amongst the panic, mutiny and high-seas. I may as well have been trying to send a fax in an insane asylum, using a post-it and the butt-crack of a contiguous catatonic.

In case you’re wondering, it looked a little like this:

Monday, the boss returns. Peaceful and pious on holiday cheer, he’ll no doubt sprint the last metre of our virtual marathon, barely breaking a bead. Never mind that we’re all shadows of our former felicitations, or that we’ve agnostically-aged faster than Lori Singer in Warlock.

That said, if we’re gonna silver-line this wedgie, it was in the midst of the climactic crunch that I made the decision to finally leave it all behind. Passion should neither be perfunctory nor the byproduct (read: cow plop) of a wandering grass-munching job. The egg may well come before the chicken, but the shit sure (as shit) don’t come before the meal.

Meanwhile (and speaking of), screw James Cameron and the four-stacks he rode in on.

I boycotted that movie for a decade whence its whirlwind release (like a rabid dog upon the bone of good taste), driven to dander by the tide of public love and affliction; his success proof only of self-promotion the likes of which a caterpillar should never see.

For, in somewhat sluggish summation, we all know Kate could’ve fit Leonardo on that door.

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