My new boyfriend is a rock star! Sort of! I mean, like he's sort of my boyfriend, and he's sort of a rock star...where the value of "sort of" is set to "not at all really."
Whatever, my whole plan to swear off men (temporarily) has gone awry. The last vestige, which is that I don't quite care if anything works out or not, still remains. But I imagine that, too, will soon dissolve on contact. Anyway, potential imaginary men started appearing out of nowhere.
The first was a guy I met briefly at a party, then later found out could be the future love of my life. (This is based on my friend's scientific evaluation of his personality plus the fact that I like his glasses.) You'll start to understand the theoretical sense in which I use the term "boyfriend" when I explain that party guy, with whom I've spent 97 seconds, is the most physically incarnate of the group.
Second on the list is a guy who was described by two different friends as, "Weird. Boring. And geeky." followed by, "Hey, I think you'd really like him." He brings to the table (and remember, this is all in my mind) a dull stability that simultaneously repels and attracts me. Plans to get together with him were placed on indefinite hold when I found out that he frequents this hippie dance event at Ashkenaz. (I told a coworker, "This is sheer prejudice, but I imagine unhygenic old men using dance moves as an excuse to cop a feel." Her response was, "I've been to that event. Your description is spot on.")
The third came about when I decided that I should be offered more choices than dull hippie stability, and demanded that a male friend of mine find me a single guy from the literally hundreds he has access to daily. He accepted the challenge with the assertion, "Don't worry. We'll find you the keys to a shiny new Australia." It took me a few minutes to realize this was a reference to
Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-Long Blog. Mr. Shiny doesn't even earn a "theoretical" rating -- he's still in the hypothesis stage. But although no particular instance of him yet exists, the possibility of an infinite number of instances -- each with his own unique characteristics -- is really reassuring.
This brings us to Rock Star. A couple of weeks ago my friend Eve decided that the cure for her work-induced depression was to surf CL for, first, men in her area and then second, for men in my area. (To be fair, I think she was trying to decide if the differential was worth moving back for.) That's how she found Rock Star, who sounded perfect for me.
She based this on two things:
1. He likes long walks. Because that's so unusual for men in personals ads.
2. He's 33, and likes older women. My guess is that's code for "I like sex" but I thought I'd humor Eve and reply.
Then that whole "I forgot to set forwarding from my alternate email account" thing happened, so for a while I thought he just didn't write back. Then the light bulb came on in my head, I checked my alternate email, and I found
three messages from him. Three charming bland misspelled messages. The second contained the information that he was in a band. (Uhh, "Delete.")
The third contained a link to a youtube interview of him. I clicked, hoping to find comedic material to share with Eve, and there he was, all Cobain-looking and inarticulate. Then I clicked one of his music videos, which was eerily sexy and danceable and innocently playful all at the same time. The thing is, I wasn't sure who I was more attracted to, him or the girl singing next to him. Turns out she's his ex girlfriend.
After about a half hour of watching him play shirtless guitar, watching her writhe around him singing about sex, and then reading articles about how they are the best band in the Bay Area, I sent him my nerdiest photos with the message that we were from very different worlds. But apparently Rock Star has a quiet side. He still eagerly wants to meet.
Last night I told all this to my friend Wendy. Her reaction was, "This sounds like a prank. Or maybe an art project."
Maybe an art project. I'm beginning to think my friends are not...never mind.
Anyway, I sent Wendy off to youtube where she spent the next three hours alternately masturbating and calling back to tell me how I was obligated, on behalf of all womankind, to fuck this guy, art project or no. I was a little surprised, because normally Wendy is Man's Harshest Critic. But band boys are her weakness. I still idolize her for her makeout session with the guy from Counting Crows.
So for this week (while my new boyfriend is on tour) we're pondering the mystery of why a guy who can clearly have anyone he wants (hey, I read those girls' comments on Yelp) currently wants me. I'm guessing there's a serious personality flaw there somewhere. Thankfully, meaningless fictional sex makes personality flaws irrelevant.
Whatever, I'm grateful to him for reawakening the life-affirming playful sexual part of me. Because even if he never shows up for coffee, I still have all his videos.
