We landed in Denver yesterday and now that the cities will be coming in quick succession, I need to figure out a pre-production/ pre-date plan. I was thinking of strategies as our plane drifted over the mountains, until my drugged out dog escaped the safe haven of her bag and tried to climb up my leg. Dating is a full-time job. Dating on the road for the betterment of mankind is not only a full-time job, but a full-time mission as well.
In the meantime, as I rethink my dating strategy, the Denver cold has me not wanting to leave my hotel room and the altitude, with the help of a bloody mary, has made me drunk. I slept late this morning. We’re closer to the sky in this mile high city. It’s as if as the heaviness of the atmosphere lifts off our shoulders, we’re left vulnerable to the heaviness in our hearts, minds, and souls. Even the dog’s crashed out in a pile of sunshine, crushed by the weight of the clouds.
I have my first date lined up for tonight. He’s a songwriter with a beard who likes leafy green vegetables. I think he wrote me a song. I’ll let you know how it goes.
Other dates in the works: a recently bi woman looking for a third person in her relationship with her boyfriend, “Big Bear,” a shockingly funny, silverware soldering, artist type with a penchant for sock puppets, a train conductor of very few words, and possibly (though unlikely), a 26 year old asshole who’s urging me to find my inner cougar. The latter is a big “if.” I might be mean to him if we actually meet.
Here are the San Francisco stats:
I was perused around 300 times, and sent 20 introductory emails. From those emails, I procured 4 first dates, three of which were with the same person. And would’ve gone out with a neuro-marketer in Berkeley as well, had I been smart enough to hit ‘send email,’ before closing the browser window.
Of the five first dates I went on, one was an impromptu meeting on the street with an art restorer who forgot to tell me his name, then there was the 6’5″ time-challenged surfer with big socks who took the “ish” time frame well past the limits of respectability – this ended up being a ‘concept date,’ if you will, and, lastly, there were three first dates with an amazing documentarian who was a little too eager to believe that I was 57, even if I did tell him I didn’t look a day over 52.
The best handles: oftenlucidish and slowswell.
I also lost my faithful counselor, Powerslut 5000, as he was too busy learning to take over (or maybe blow up) the world. I made a sock puppet, though. I made five. I needed a little advice.
San Francisco conclusions: San Francisco men like window shopping. Time is a slippery concept in the Bay Area, and truth and fiction mingle without a sense of irony, leaving a filmy residue of innocence, readiness, and purity on my blackened East Coast soul.
In short, if you catch my drift, I left a little bit of my heart in San Francisco.