Just do the math, kath

Faithful blog reader Andrea is a bit of a songstress herself and offered up this reply to my earlier posting:

Just do the math, Kath
He aint' runnin' for senate, Bennett
Even Biscuit don't give a Triscuit
Just click the send button.......

Her email was followed quickly by MGM, giving me more fodder to hate him. I don't even like his taste in music (with possible apologies to Talking Heads):

Crue :Kickstart My Heart Girls, Girls, Girls Wild Side
Slaughter :Fly to the Angles
Talking Heads : Burning Down the House
Warrant :Cherry Pie
and of course ... Barry Everything Can't Get Enough

If I hadn't met the guy, I would SWEAR everything he is doing is part of a bad reality TV show. "Let's take a REAL nerdy guy, give him a James Bond-like car, a credit card with unlimited funds and a script writer and let's see what happens. He has to be somewhat good looking but we have to make him exceedingly annoying. Then we'll see how long it takes for the chick to dump him."

Wait, I think that was a movie, wasn't it? Or should I anticipate Alan Fudd walking out of the shadows. "You're on Candid Camera!"

You Can't Make This Shit Up

This is just too good NOT to share.

I signed into my gmail account to find this message from MGM - thank god we missed each other:

"Heya - if you're online tonight and see me on, IM me. I'm on youtube walking through the myriad of 80's hair bands watching old videos - Motley Crue, Scorpions, Def Lepard, Ratt, Poison, Winger, Warrant, Slaughter (Fly to the Angles!), Van Halen, Whitesnake, Bon Jovi ... figured we could share our favorites back and forth in IM :-)"

Rhymin' Simon

"The problem is all inside your head", she said to me

The answer is easy if you take it logically

I'd like to help you in your struggle to be free

There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

She said it's really not my habit to intrude

Furthermore, I hope my meaning won't be lost or misconstrued

But I'll repeat myself, at the risk of being crude

There must be fifty ways to leave your lover

Fifty ways to leave your lover

You just slip out the back, Jack

Make a new plan, Stan

You don't need to be coy, Roy

Just get yourself free

Hop on the bus, Gus

You don't need to discuss much

Just drop off the key, Lee

And get yourself free



Well, Paul Simon didn't include anything in his classic song about dumping someone by email, so I guess I'm on my own.

After much thought, I've decided I need to end it with Machine Gun Man. It's been real, it's been fun, but it hasn't been real fun.

Except for when his mouth is shut, he is asleep or I am distracted by (ahem) other activites, I absolutely positively CANNOT stand him. Talented as he is, I can't continue to avoid being seen in public with him. I can't imagine even introducing him to any friends. "Did you hit your head?" they'll ask in amazement. "Are you feverish?" others will ask worriedly.

He is a live action version of Roger Rabbit. A cartoon character amongst human, he is unreal, in the true sense of that word. Kids, cats, humans, you name it, he fails to relate on any emotional level that can be construed as "normal."


Besides, Space Man is growing on me. As long as I'm ping ponging between the two of them, I ain't ever gonna get serious with him. So I need to let him rise or fall on his own merits, without the distraction of Roger Rabbit bouncing around in the background.


But alas, this weekend I'm heading north for yet another camp trip with my kiddo. No opportunities for blogging or hooking up but always a chance for more interesting characters and stories. Maine is just full of both.

Redemption

 

I spent most of last week on vacation with my daughter at Old Orchard Beach, Maine. It took me away from the inanity of my current dating life and let me enjoy some time at the shore doing my favorite thing - sitting at the beach reading trashy novels.

We stayed at a campground where surely the term "white trash" was originated. Wild Acres promised "75 acres of serenity." I suppose if you lived in Hell's Kitchen, Wild Acres would come across as serene. But for us two country mice, it was a mass of humanity pressing itself against the shore on this hot August weekend.

We made reservations late and I committed the cardinal sin of chewing out a fellow tourism industry worker. The young-ish man behind the counter looked up at me wearily when we checked in and I complained about our site. It was muddy. It was small. It wasn't nice. "You know it's been raining for, like, a month right?" Of course I knew it but I complained anyway. When I got over myself a few hours later I felt badly for abusing him but it felt good at the time.

We were greeted almost immediately while setting up our tent by our "neighbors," one of whom was actually sitting in a taxi-cab. The disconnect of a taxi-cab at a campsite took a while to digest. The couple explained they were camping together but that the boyfriend was working until 3am most nights and then returning to the campsite. "Hi, my name is Brandy," the girl introduced herself. "Of course you are," I replied. I expected nothing more than someone named after a cheap liquor. Said boyfriend did indeed return "home" every night at 3am and proceed to cuss out Brandy, obviously forgetting that tent walls are thin and his f-bombs hit the ears of all the children in adjacent sites.

But we were there for the beach and the beach we got. It was back to back to back humans right up to the water line. It was honky-tonk all the way but we went whole hog, riding the ferris wheel, the roller coaster and eating trashy junk food like deep-fried oreos. While my kid rode her boogie board in the waves, I sunk back in my chair and dozed while an airplane flew banners overhead with messages appealing to the tourists. "Bella's - Best Pizza on the Strip" and "US Airforce Band Concert Tonight on the Common."

Maybe it was heat stroke. Maybe I was dreaming. But through a haze I stared at a new message on the plane's banner. "Not Good" it read. That wasn't quite right. "Not Good Enough." Not Good Enough for what? The little plane circled and circled then flew away. Then I woke up and realized it was indeed a dream - but in this state, my mind shared what my heart knows. Not Good Enough. Not one of them. Not even close.

Meet Martin

I am so excited to announce that I am totally in love. Forget Spaceman, Machine Gun Man, heck, even forget Jesus ... I have found MARTIN.

Martin is a smooth skinned brown-eyed beauty with a silky voice and a physique that won't quit. I just can't keep my hands off him. I met him in a music store last weekend and it was love at first sight. We left together, I took him home and we've spent every minute together ever since.

Spaceman talked me into the 3 of us going out the other night. We went to the Wildcat Tavern, and we had a great time. There was no jealousy at all - heck, he even thanked me for bringing him!

Machine Gun Man all but ignored him. I tried to tell him how much Martin meant to me but he wasn't listening. He just walked by him in my living room and pretended he wasn't there.

Biscuit runs from the room when he makes a noise.

Martin is a musician like me - we like all the same music. I've spent most of the last week going through boxes and boxes of sheet music, and we play all the old tunes together. It's amazing how he knows all the same songs. It's like we were meant to be together.

Martin is really into the environment - he claims to have figured out how to save the rainforest. Of course, this just makes him all the more loveable, even if it wasn't the first reason why I fell for him. It just adds to what makes him irresistable.

Unfortunately, Martin comes with a heavy price. I'm going to be selling off various personal belongings to be able to afford to keep him around. But that's OK, he's worth it.

By now, you may have figured out ... Martin is ...

MY NEW GUITAR.

Love Me, Love My Cat

They say you can tell a lot about the person by the way they behave towards animals.

I'd like to think that my cat, Biscuit, has super-feline powers and can, in an instant, ascertain the quality and character of a man within seconds of meeting him.

However, if Charles Manson were to visit my Madison home, Biscuit would glue himself to his blood-soaked limbs and ask to sit on his lap. In short, Biscuit is no judge of character. He has loved them all - from PAL to Jesus to Machine Gun Man.

So I'll have to resort to judging the man's attitude towards the cat as yet another measurement of his inadequacy.

Biscuit doesn't just sleep on my bed, he sleeps on my HEAD. Machine Gun Man takes issue with this and not only tosses Biscuit out the door ("fly, kitty, fly!"), he then LOCKS the door, as if the cat might sprout opposable thumbs, rear up on his hind legs and open the door to claim his rightful spot on my scalp. What MGM fails to realize is that Biscuit is the Man of the House and HE is the visitor.

Mr. Nipple Fetish (remember him?) was terrified of Biscuit. He locked out the cat saying the thought of having him in the room gave him night terrors. (In hindsight, the thought of spending the evening with him gave ME night terrors.)

Spaceman is a complete softy when it comes to animals. He lives in a "below grade" apartment so that his now deceased beloved elderly Golden Labs could easily get in and out the door. Upon meeting Biscuit, he said he was not a cat person, although he was very friendly towards the furry guy. He also didn't dead bolt the door to bar him from the room.

The next week he cut a date short so he could go tend to a stray cat that had gone on an unintended ride on his engine block. The next day, he took the stray to the vet to have his burned paws and belly tended to (the image this conjures up, of the cat clinging koala-like to the engine, is awful). He put posters all around town and ultimately found a new home for the stray. If only I could get him to pay as much attention to me. Maybe if I crawl up on his engine block and sustain minor injuries.

Mr. Hawaiian Lai has two cats who were very cool. I met him right after he had had them both groomed for summer (their both being long-haired) and their fur had the consistency of a chamois cloth. I think I liked the cats better than him. The cats slept on the bed and there was no dead bolting involved. He considered getting a third cat but thought somehow it might lead some to question his hetero-sexuality (although personally I have never heard of cat-ownership being one of the markers of sexual preference, who knows).

So alas, looking at this pattern, there is no correlation between cat ownership, Biscuit-worship, or cat tolerance and whether or not a date is going to work out with me. How easy it would be otherwise. I'd just buy the subscriber list to Cat Fancy magazine and voila, instant match.

I'll just have to go on my hunch, that how a person treats an animal is likely a good indicator of how they treat just about everyone else.