Spare the Rod...Spoil the Bastard

I've been champing at the bit to write this entry since before I even finished the last one...cuz believe you me - there's a shitload that I would LUV to get off of my chest! But at the same time...I've def. been dragging my feet - praying (or whatever) that I'll get a dollop of good news - and things will play out the way that I WISH that they would....which as far as this entry goes - would limit me to hiding all provocative info. behind that courteous (albeit lame-o) "gonna keep it zipped" disclaimer. See, the thing of it is...no matter what ultimately transpires in this - the most recent chapter in my desolate dating diary - the subject matter (and the length) of this entry depends entirely on me either choosing to take the high road, and hold my tongue in regards to a certain key player, which would be the courteous thing to do regardless...or - choosing to cast aside the feelings of said individual, for the sake of blogging with veracity and verve...whereby leading you by the hand - my devoted steely-nerved readers - down another sordid path...

Here...I have an idea. I'm gonna go do something to try and speed up this tedious wait-and-see process. Afterwards, I'll sit tight for 24 hours, and see if anything happens. Following that, if the results are nil or negligible - mama gwana blow the lid off this shit, no apologies...Sound good? But hey look...if things go my way - then I hate to say it - but y'all shit outta luck...

Soooo...it's now waaaaay past the allotted 24 hour waiting period (like DAYS later) and it looks like I'M the one who's shit outta luck...I did manage to merit a response outta the culprit in question...but honestly, what he said to me was so freaking lame that I am 95% convinced that I have every right - to totally unload...

A couple of Saturdays ago, I awoke to a dreary, drizzly day. I was licking my wounds after having been blatantly snubbed by several acquaintances at a party that I had attended, the night before, and the tentative plans that I had made to get together that day with a new guy - the overgrown fraternity boy, Bluto - had now fizzled. I was feeling sorry for myself and questioning every single, little aspect of my niggling existence - and was completely unmotivated to do much at all...other than sulk. Poised to write the whole day off to malaise, I exulted when a message appeared in my Facebook inbox...from none other than...my most highly revered crush...the Mystery Man!!! You guys remember him, right? (See the "Holding Out For Something Maybe Better" entry) M.M. opened his message to me with, "You might not remember me..." and I was there like, "Are you effing kidding me? Remember you...I've NEVER stopped THINKING about you!!!" (I did manage to dilute some of my enthusiasm in my actual reply...a little) He then asserted that he was still interested in trying to meet up sometime...and that I should let him know if I was ever in his town. I quickly responded, saying that I could BE in his town in 2 hours, if that would work for him (pretty slick, eh?) I sent him my cell# and within minutes we were talking on the phone. He asked if I was really gonna be in D.C. that night, and I said that I hadn't planned on it before we'd talked, but that (never one to pussy foot around) I was totally up for making the trip out there to see him. He told me that it all sounded fine, but that he could only hang for a few hours, since he was (apparently - perennially) snowed under with work (...and on a Saturday night, too...curious...) but I was actually kind of relieved because if this was indeed the case, it meant that I would be leaving outta there before M.M. and I could do something really regrettable like...fuck...on the first date...

The entire 1 1/2 hour drive to his house was excruciatingly nerveracking...for one thing, my little car is a bitch to drive in the rain but on top of that, I was nervous to the nth degree to finally be meeting my intriguing Mystery Man, who I'd placed on such a prodigious pedestal.

I had no trouble finding the block where M.M. lived as well as a choice parking place, but my noodley driving legs, teetering atop ridiculously high heels, did have difficulty climbing the steps of the first yellow house that I found - which unfortunately...was not actually his - doh! I heard him say my name in that buttery voice of his - and I scurried away from that stupid, wrong house - heart racing - to meet him out on the sidewalk. I was not stoked that his first impression of me was of some space case who couldn't even find the right house on her own, but I quickly got over it cuz GODDAMN if that Mystery Man wasn't even more riveting than I'd imagined he'd be! I was hopelessly smitten from the git-go, no lie. He was just so much cuter in person than in his photos...(and I had already found him to be quite comely in his pics.) I loved his sun-kissed complexion and his tight, compact body, his smile and silver bracelet and his jeans, but most especially his eyes...there was this softness about them that positively slew me. I can't recall ever feeling quite that unstrung, in the presence of another human...silly isn't it? But promising, I thought - to finally feel jittery about a man...maybe I wasn't so jaded after all.

M.M. and I sat across from one another - sipping Prosecco and nibbling sweet, crunchy anchovy snacks in his posh living room. I wondered if he was picking up on my anxiety as I struggled to corral my nerves so as not to wrinkle our otherwise seamless conversation. We quickly skimmed over the polite small-talk and stuff and then effortlessly delved into various formative facets of our individual upbringings, both tragic in their own right, although markedly dissimilar. M.M. cited difficulty with commitment as his stumbling block in relationships with women and theorized that this was most likely the byproduct of a certain appalling aspect of his late childhood...This shoulda been a glaring red flag (as if he was warning, "buyer beware...") but since I tend to gravitate toward the wounded, I chose to regard it as something that I could possibly help fix someday, rather than something that could ever negatively affect me......after which, I resumed admiring his relaxed and confident body language, as he leaned comfortably into the corner of his sleek sofa, his legs crossed Indian style.

After chit-chatting and snacking for an undetermined amount of time, I started to worry about how much longer I had until he decided to kick me out, and right about then - he allayed my apprehension when he suggested that we go grab a bite downtown. As we weighed our dining options, I masked my rhapsody from having scored a substantial amount of additional time with my Mystery Man...(*squeal*)

So often - when I'm on a date with a new fella, out of boredom or disinterest or whatever, I find myself surveying the crowd, hoping to find a more interesting subject on which to fixate, just for shits and gigs - 'til I'm able to make my eventual escape (classic roving eye syndrome, I guess) But when M.M. got up and left the table to go visit the little boy's room, it dawned on me that the entire time that we'd been cocktailing and dining, I had never taken my eyes off of him to peruse the other patrons. I was incontestably captivated by him...in toto. I took this as a good sign, and I was growing ever more sanguine that I had maybe (hope, hope) found the perfect elixir for my dating ennui.

Once dinner was over, we walked across the street, away from the restaurant and sat down on some marble steps to talk and partake in an after-dinner cigarette. A funny thing I thought of days later, was - for how enamored of him I was becoming - it never occurred to me to lean in for a kiss...while we were there - shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip on those giant marble steps. My mindset at that point, must've been of something bigger and better than simply wanting to scrump (which is so not like me) Anyway, we got up to go and I was certain that by now, I must have overshot my time limit with him, and I figured that next, we'd be driving back to his house so that I could hit the road and he could get to work. I even asked him if he needed me to scram, so he could attend to whatever tasks it was that he was meant to be tackling (on a Saturday night, let's not forget) He kind of chuckled and said that it was fine, that his work would keep, and that we could stroll around the city, if I wanted...and of course, I did...but first, I couldn't resist calling him out on what I now knew was his poorly concealed emergency exit strategy for the night...goes kinda like this: Say he'd met me and he'd found me to be a complete bore or dog ugly or a combination of the two...well, then he could legitimately implement the "I have a shit ton of work to do" excuse, and I would've left as planned - without getting my nose outta joint. He loosely concurred that my theory was accurate (teeny red flag?) No matter...I was just happy that I'd had made the preliminary cut...Oh joy!

As we set out on our jaunt about the city, M.M. grasped my hand in his.........the tenderness of this simple gesture which declares to passersby that, "This chick is MINE" - sent me aflutter. I mean, I know it sounds corny and all, but I can't even tell you when the last time was, that a guy held my hand in public (maybe 6th grade at the roller rink?) To me, hand-holding equals pure and innocent affection....and it had to mean (just HAD to!) that he was diggin' on me as hard as I was diggin' on him...

We covered a lot of territory before heading back to his car and the crazy thing was, that I never even noticed ('til the next day!) that the witchy heels that I'd been sporting, had worn deep, oozy craters into various places on my poor tootsies (it's now more than 2 weeks after my date with M.M. and my feet are only just now almost right) But again, I think this illustrates how into him I was...I was so glommed onto him and his every word, that I deferred what should have been pretty rad. pain from my feet being shredded...bizarre...

We got back to his house and went straight into his dimly lit kitchen to pour a nightcap, but got kinda distracted when instead, he grabbed me up tight against his body and we started corybantically kissing...I was thinking, "Oh shit...this could be trouble" Things were getting pretty active, pretty fast and at some point I stopped and said, "I don't know if we should be doing this" and he goes, "What...You DIDN'T think this would happen?" (Wait...what did he mean by that? Why would he say such a thing? It's because of the blog, isn't it...cuz I portray myself as such an "easy lay"...) Oh god no, please not that! That would be an enormous red flag...Maybe it wasn't that...Maybe he was implying that since we'd established a friendship online, he'd been as optimistic as I - that once we met, we would share a mutual attraction...k, yeah...I like that much better. But - just to clarify - NO! I did NOT think that "this" would happen because when we'd firmed things up on the phone before I left my house to go meet him, M.M. had fibbed to me that he could only hang out for a short while, which I had believed! I had planned on showing up, spending a little time with him, possibly punctuating our evening together with a hug and a smooch goodnight, and then going back home at a reasonable hour...and that would've been perfectly FINE with me! Believe me, if I HAD've thought that "this" was gonna happen, I would've stuck an overnight bag in my car...or at the very least, put a freaking toothbrush in my purse. For goddsakes - I hadn't even "groomed" properly, never anticipating that he would be going "there". After all, he was...well...HIM...my Mystery Man...he was on a higher plane than all of those base mother fuckers who'd only been interested in getting me into the sack, right?...He was above such libidinous behavior (wasn't he?)...I'd imagined him to possibly be the panacea to my misery...not an aggravator of it...

I knew I was toast when M.M. suggested, "Why don't we go finish this, upstairs..." errrgghhh...glaring red flag!...Maybe it WAS my dumb, ole blog...maybe after reading my sometimes vivid descriptions of mixing it up with guys on the first (and often the ONLY) date - he was convinced that he had just as much right to dip his fingers into my pie, as all the rest of 'em had...What if his sole purpose for inviting me there, was to see how the "me" in real life measured up to the "me" about whom I write in The Big Ugly...Trouble was, that I wanted more than to simply satisfy his curiosity...I was seriously wanting to try and date the dude...

I thought about bailing in order to salvage what little respect he might have ever even had for me. But the messed up part is this, and I don't know why I let it be this way so consistently...I sort of feel like whenever I start messing around with a guy, it's like there's no putting on the brakes after that. With me, for some reason...even a little innocent snogging, will nearly always be misinterpreted by a paramour as the very definition of foreplay...which translates to, "I'm gon' be gettin' me some, boyee!"...I sometimes feel almost guilted into sealing the deal...cuz if I didn't - well then, wouldn't that just make me a filthy, little prick-tease? Hard to say which is worse...filthy, little prick-tease or dirty, rotten whore...hmmmm...Anyway, I tried to rationalize - in the heat of that moment there in M.M.'s kitchen - that maybe he was feeling me up because he sincerely liked me? I mean, it's understood by now, that I was undeniably attracted to HIM, but I'd also sensed (I thought) the potential for longevity between us...I was undeniably kind of bummed while thinking that "It sure would've been nice to court a little, before doing the dirty..." soooo...I peeled myself off of him, pushed him back a bit so that I could look into his eyes, and asked (preparing myself for the inevitable), "Well...do you think that we'll ever do "this" again?" I hoped that he'd get the just that I didn't want "this" to end up to be just another one of my sleazy one-night-stands...to which he replied, "I hope so..." Ok good. So stupid me took his vague assurance and ran with it. He DID want to see me again. He just said so himself! And so I chose, what at the time seemed to be the lesser of the two evils...dirty, rotten whore......

After the deed was done, we made our way back down to the kitchen for those forgotten night-caps which we swilled in his back garden. I was no longer angst-ridden, I was calm and I was not feeling slutty at all...I felt confident that I'd made the right choice to doink him...I wanted to believe that this was the beginning of something really good...

When we went to tuck ourselves in for the final time that night, we messed around, again...and I don't know if it was the booze or performance anxiety or what, but there was a minor malfunction with the condom and when I realized that he was no longer wearing it, I was like, "Oh god, uh oh..." Lord knows, mama just don't do the skin on skin thing - casually anymore...it's really just not an option. In a long term, committed relationship, yes...but this wasn't that...M.M. shrugged off the snafu, fixed the problem, everybody found their happy place and we finally hunkered down for the night...his back to my front...spooning apparently, not an option...teensy red flag...

My internal clock woke me at the same time that it always does (which was evidently, earlier than M.M. would have liked) and I stirred a bit, but not excessively so. Soon thereafter, he jumped up in what seemed like a huff, took the faintly ticking clock off of the bureau by my side of the bed, and hid it somewhere. I had no earthly idea why he would do such an odd thing (did he think that I might try to steal it before the sun was fully up? I didn't even have a bag in which to stow the damned thing) He later remarked that he'd removed the clock because he thought that it was disturbing me...and I was thinking, "That's weird...wonder why he thought that?" But I later took it to mean that my moving around in the bed (because of the clock, he supposed) was actually disturbing HIM...ah ha! (so sorry to have disturbed his highness...)

Once the sun was all the way up, and the blinds were raised - I lay, slightly propped against a pillow, comfortably naked in his cushy bed...hands tucked behind my head, tits - sunny-side up, and I marveled at how he nervously hopped around on one foot - frantically trying to step into his boxers...This was not the self-assured intellectual from the night before...he seemed so out of sorts. Maybe it had annoyed him when after I whispered "Don't you need to get up?" (to get to some bike race or something) and he then grunted that he was already too late to make it on time - that I tickled his back and arms for like 30 minutes or something...(can that even BE irritating?) For some reason though, as soon as he was upright, he seemed genuinely agitated. It was odd to me that I now felt so calm and he was the one who seemed unnerved...Was he worried that his girlfriend might stop by, or something? (I mean you never know...stranger things have happened) No matter what it was that had him seemingly so flustered - his current disposition indicated that I was dangerously close to having fully encroached on his personal space. He was, however, kind enough to fix me a yummy cup of coffee and tolerated chatting with me for a bit, before standing and announcing that NOW - he really did have to tackle his obligations, and I was cool with that...he had been far more generous with his precious time, than I'd ever anticipated him to be…

My Three Tiers of Fame

I first recognized my abhorrence for school way the heck back in the 5th grade. I was in the primordial stages of swapping out my never fully successful attempt at pulling off preppy attire for a better-suited, slightly less mainstream look - and on this particularly pivotal day I remember sporting my new, favorite pair of lemon yellow, corduroy Levi's and feeling vaguely cool (for once) accessorizing with the new wave, wraparound sunglasses that I'd recently pinched from my older sister. I don't know if it was the glasses, or what, but this day also marked the first time ever that instead of being terrified to show up at Mrs. Obenshain's English class without my Wordly Wise homework...again...I was like, "You know what? Who cares...what's the worst that can happen?" And this, my friends, was the precise moment at which I began to foster what became an enduring blase attitude towards school and school work, and it signified the beginning of the end of my brief stint as an obedient, participatory student...

My nonchalance towards anything school-related, gradually worsened and finally reached its critical mass just a few weeks before the end of my 10th grade year. I had just recently moved out of my parents' house and in with a family which I barely knew (although I DID have a massive crush on the son, at the time) and immediately following that, I was politely asked to leave the private all-girls school which I had attended since 2nd grade. Although I hadn't quite completed it, the faculty and administration graciously sent me on my way stating in my transcripts that I had actually passed my sophomore year with a (more than generous) 1.5 average. I left that school with 48 detentions, yet unserved...most all of them issued for skipping classes...To this day, I consider this the most noteworthy accomplishment of my illustrious academic career...

The following Autumn, I applied to and was accepted into a coed, public high school for the gifted and my enthusiasm to get off on an academic good foot, lasted oh...maybe a semester and a half into my junior year. After petering out completely, I went to work - painting houses with a friend. The following school year, I applied again, was admitted again and history repeated itself... a g a i n ...(I never have figured out why I was given a second chance, since I was clearly an academic misfit) but anyway, after bailing on the 11th grade for the second time, I finally fully accepted that school was just never gonna be for me, and I found my rightful place as an enthusiastic slacker - shoulder to shoulder - with my fellow Gen X-ers.

I took a job at the epicenter of the local arts and music scene, at a hip(ish) clothing store which among other things - specialized in providing women's shoes in extra large sizes for local transvestites. When I wasn't working, I was under-age drinking at hole-in-the-wall music clubs or swilling 50 cent cups of coffee and free refills, for hours on end at the hot spot in town...hoping to rub elbows with the artists and musicians that I so admired and emulated. In a weird kinda way, even though I'd opted out of doing the college thing or even high school for that matter, I was - by default - still obtaining an education of sorts...simply by being enrolled in the school of life, as it were.

Soon after I turned 18, the matron of the nice family that had taken me in, recommended that I take my GED, and so I did. The day of the test, I arrived - barely under the wire, crippled by a devastating hangover and having never lifted a finger to study for the damned thing (honestly, at the time, I didn't even know that studying for the GED was an option) but somehow (miraculously) I passed...my score? A 98%...So, at least - there was that...

My stodgy, old grandfather (a medical doctor) made it a point to sit us down and ask in turn - first my older brother, next my sister and finally me (when we were each in like the 8th or 9th grade) where it was that we wanted to go to college and...what it was that we wanted to do when we grew up...blah, blah, blah...Naturally, it was his wish that we would all be as driven as he had been, to practice medicine.......I kept it to myself, that for me at least, this was simply not in the cards...

I was very young when Granddaddy interrogated my older brother and sister about their plans for the future, but I do recall that, even at their tender, young ages, they both had at least an inkling as to where they might want to enroll and which subjects they might be interested in studying. When my turn eventually rolled around, I was ill-prepared to deal with my grandfather's scrutiny, although I'd known that it was inevitable (I couldn't put my finger on it at the time, but in retrospect, I can vouch for the fact that I wasn't then, nor will I ever be...programed to thrive in any academic setting) I struggled to try and placate the old cooter, but the only thing that I could pull outta my ass was - that I did love animals so...I could become a vet?...or something...I dunno...maybe a vet was a bit of a stretch. More than that though, I loved to draw, and I spent a lot of time doing it. But Granddaddy poo pooed my misconception that being an artist was a respectable career option and he was quick to correct my ignorance...

Either to try and impress him or to attempt to change the subject, I nervously presented to him my rendering of the frog dissection that I had done at school, the week before. He was lost in thought for a moment, and predictably his narrowmindedness brought us right back to where we had started, when he offered up the only legitimate career coming to his mind which married medicine and art...yep, it was decided...his youngest granddaughter would one day make him proud as an illustrator for medical journals and books....uhhhhh yeah...not exactly what I'd had in mind there, buddy...

During the whole uncomfortable conversation with my grandfather, I was pretty much just blowing smoke up his old ass, in the hopes that he would drop the topic...soon. Cuz see...I actually DID know what I wanted to be when I grew up. But I couldn't tell HIM that, for mine was an unconventional and flimsy ambition. The end result was tattooed on my mind, but the avenue by which to arrive at my desired destiny was far more nebulous. I knew that I could never share with my conservative grandfather that what I really wanted to do in life, was to become..........famous...

It is now a quarter of a century later. I am, by definition, a "grown-up" and yet I am no closer to determining my very reason for being...here on this planet...at all. The only constant, counter-balancing my endless laundry list of variables, is the fact that I have never let go of the silly longing to someday wind up famous. How could I ever possibly get there? I have no idea. How famous would I want to be? No clue. The whole pipedream sounds so ridiculous when I actually say it out loud. But it's deeply ingrained in me and it also explains a lot of my silly behavior, not the least of which was my jumping at the chance to finally meet - face to face - with Alex P. Keaton, after months of exchanging platonic emails since getting to know each other on a dating site roughly a year ago.

His nickname should need no explaining, but just in case you're stumped...from the pictures that I'd seen, Alex P. looked nearly identical to Michael J. Fox, he even confessed (unprompted) to being short.

When Alex P. originally contacted me, he had been searching an online dating site for fellow artists in his neighborhood, and my profile popped up since I'd made mention that I do dog portraits. At the time he was in a committed relationship with a girl and allegedly was not interested in anything romantic, and I was there thinking, "Dude...calm down...you contacted ME, remember?" Frankly, I couldn't see the point in him striking up conversation with a gal who was on an aggressive manhunt, but whatev...he was interesting to talk to, well-versed, witty and an extremely talented comic book artist, so it was cool.

It's now almost a year after we first began communicating and Alex P. is single...and has been since Christmas and yet we still haven't met in person. A few weeks ago, in an email, he surprised me by asking if I would be interested in posing for reference photos which he hoped might help him to create a female character that he planned to submit to a comic book "penciler" contest...Are you kidding me?! Of course I'll do it! My god, I am an extreme exhibitionist as it is, so posing semi-nude would be a snap. And the thought of possibly being the inspiration behind a new female comic book character, was to fucking DIE for! I know, I know...his request did sound suspiciously like one of those thinly veiled "Come up and see my etchings..."-type lines, but so what! I was all about the chance to have an emerging artist flesh out his next brainchild to my likeness, and to potentially taste "fame", if only on a minute scale...

Alex P. and I got our plans in order and I promptly cut food out of my diet and spent as much time under the sun as I could. My mission? To come as close to resembling a super hero as humanly possibly, in a limited amount of time.

This past Monday, somewhere in the midst of pulling my hectic 10 hour shift - bustin' my hump for my beloved old couple as their overworked, under-paid Cinderella - I found myself in a surprise state of near panic...Out of the blue, it occurred to me that I had absentmindedly broken one of the cardinal rules of online dating...I had given my home address to an online guy, sight unseen...

In my excitement to get together with Alex P. and apply for the position as his muse, I had completely brainfarted on a fundamental safety principal...I had invited him to come over to MY HOUSE for the big photo shoot. Sharing my home address isn't such a big deal, but that's because so far I've only given it to men who lived far enough away that stalking me would be difficult at best. Alex P. lives fairly close to me and drives practically right past my house to go to and from work...so theoretically, it would be a cinch for him to stalk me...should he feel so inclined...

While still at work, my imagination started to get the best of me and my anxiety became nearly debilitating as I trailed from one horrifying, fabricated scenario to the next...When I would finally snap out of it, I realized that I'd been doing shit like vacuuming the same square foot of carpet for the last 5 minutes or so...

Alex P. had known about the Big Ugly for awhile, but had taken a peek for the first time, only a few days before he'd asked to photograph me. He was complimentary, no doubt, but his comments were tongue in cheek in spots, which now gave me pause. I began to convince myself that maybe his sudden idea to meet had to do with him settling a vendetta...Like, what if he was preying on the fact that I am a shameless attention-seeker with those cliche stars in my eyes, and that - coupled with his potential comic book character ploy - would make gaining entry into my home, a piece of cake! What if he was taking it upon himself to act a vigilante, defending the good names of all of my online dating victims - past, present and future members of a persecuted brotherhood - from my wrath...*gulp* What if his plan was to show up at my house...down a few cocktails of courage...appease me by snapping a few bullshit photos...snuff me out...remove my fingers, and teeth AND breast implants...and leave my unidentifiable corpse to bleed out in a suitcase, somewhere...Fame? Yes...Worth it? Uhhh...possibly not...

These gruesome images sabotaged my ability to work efficiently, and caused me to seriously consider canceling my appointment with Alex P.. But then I thought, "Wait a minute...what would be the point of that? He already HAS my address...If the guy wants to kill me...he will" plus there still was the chance that he was legitimately stopping by to finally meet me but more importantly, to take those derned reference photos...which could mean for me...immortalization on the pages of a comic book series...Damn you, foul fame!

When Alex P.'s visit was mere hours away, I called my friend Annie to give her the heads-up about the threat of my possible disappearance. She did not take my semi-serious concerns, lightly. She told me to text her Alex P.'s info, which I did, she then instructed me to leave my cell phone in a discrete but accessible place, with her ph. # up on the screen so that if I got into any trouble I could simply press "send". The deal was, if a call went through to her phone from mine, she'd take that as a signal that I was fucked and she would send her husband over to deal with the sitch, pronto. Our little plan made me feel a ton better...K...I could do this...

It was late evening when Alex P. arrived at my house. Even so - the temperature was still in the upper 80's and I was sweating like a prostitute in church, despite wearing nothing but my favorite microscopic, black bikini. My nerves weren't helping matters either, that's for sure. When he stepped out of his car, I paid close attention to how my dogs reacted to him...I feel like I can always rely on my pups to give me accurate character references on most humans...their instincts have yet to be off the mark. Their decision was unanimous...Alex P. appeared to be...a totally ok guy. I knew it as well, pretty much right away. Realizing it, made me almost embarrassed to think that I had gotten myself worked up into such a frenzy...over nothing.

I finally stopped sweating so profusely, we shot the shit over drinks for awhile and even after he dropped the bomb that his father was a convicted murderer who had done 6 years in the clink for shooting a guy 9 times in the head, I was no less at ease in his presence...go figure...

We eventually got around to the "photoshoot" which was as effortless as the rest of our interactions. Alex P. was the picture of politeness, never overstepping any physical bounds. But no shrinking violet either...we touched on just about every adult topic imaginable, in elaborate detail. We said goodnight around midnight and that was pretty much it.

So for now...I sit and wait patiently to savor the fruits of his labors...fingers crossed that he rises victorious in the comic book contest!!!

I made my entrance into a neighborhood party, the other night, and not so surprisingly, was greeted with averted eyes and the cold shoulder from more than a few people, who are normally quite civil to me. The one who stood out as being the iciest of all, was the misinformed father who - in a conversation with Curlymoe over drinks, awhile back - admitted to having his mind made up about me and my blog, (without ever having read it himself, mind you)...and there wasn't a goddamned thing that anybody was gonna say to convince him otherwise. His behavior was indicative of my perceived consensus among many, that I am a heretic...an incorrigible nonconformer...and reprehensibly incapable of subscribing to acceptable, mature behavior. To top it all off, the fact that I brazenly, publicly admit to my questionable behavior is - to many...inexcusably depraved...

The negative vibe that was so palpable from some in attendance at the party, torqued me at first...I was literally fuming. How dare those people judge me..at all...but especially when most had formed their opinions of me on hearsay since they'd never taken the time to find out firsthand, what all the stink was about. If they ever bothered to actually read The Big Ugly, they might discover that a.) they enjoyed it because b.) what I am doing is no different than what they and plenty of other folks around here do, the main discrepancy being (and we've been over all of this, ad nauseum...) that I publish written accounts of my exploits and that may be a bit hard for some to swallow, but fuck those close-minded, little shits!

I considered admitting defeat and slinking out of the party...tail 'tween my legs...but then it occurred to me...My blog is my thing, it really just is. The whole point of putting it out there is so that people will read and (hopefully) appreciate it...Why not, instead of backing away from the negative press, proudly promote the blog. I got an idea...I could diffuse some of the whispering and perhaps educate the shallow by looking my skeptics square in their hairy eyeballs, giving them a Big Ugly synopsis and bidding them adieu - business cards in their hot, little hands. I first broached the subject with 2 well-respected, affluent local businessmen, who acted surprised when I mentioned that I blog about online dating. They said that they knew nothing about it (I believed one...but not the other) When they asked me how they could find my blog online, I said, "Reach into my back pocket, my business cards are in there" (My hands were both conveniently occupied - one carrying my own drink and the other in charge of a friend's cocktail...) both men - first one and then the other - took a turn sliding a hand into my tight-ass blue jean's pocket and pulling out their own card...without hesitation. How's that for a gimmick?

Oh...and now...here's this - the unveiling of my Three Tiers of Fame...

Level 1.) While doing "research" for a new blog entry, the online date that I'm on, goes horribly wrong...I wind up dismembered, mutilated and in a body bag

(obviously, this is the least appealing of the 3 possible paths to my fame, and by its very nature...eliminates the latter 2)

Level 2.) I continue to travail as a dedicated blogger, determined to win the admiration of judgmental colleagues...but sadly, my irreversible status as the local pariah and the focus of a witch hunt of sorts, has me sidestepping honorable fame for something more on par with smalltime infamy...

(who am I kidding...I currently SIT on this, the dreaded second tier...)

Level 3.) I somehow parlay my own ability, merits, determination and/or luck...into an esteemed career which carries me to the zenith of notoriety where I find my permanent place in the celebrity spotlight...

You know, I just started thinking...I have - in my adult life - never really cared (for more than a few minutes at a time, at least) about what people (outside of my friends and family) think or say about me. I consider this trait my armor and I hope that I'm always clad in it. Lately, I see the value in negative attention, because lord knows...it is attention, nonetheless. So, I've decided that - even though I will be opening myself up to increased criticism and bullying - I think the best thing that I can do right now, is to ramp up the blog's visibility...to turn as many people on to it as I possible can, thus bettering the chances that it ends up in the hands of more folks who truly appreciate it and possibly even in the nurturing hands of someone capable and willing to escort The Big Ugly Blog (with its author in tow) from its seat on the dreaded "2nd Tier" to the coveted "Third Tier of Fame"...