Dont Mince Words

Los Angeles is full of creative people, so it was only a matter of time before I’d have a date with a musician. Who knew it would be a doubleheader. I’ve dated musicians before, but they’ve had day jobs which puts them in the frustrated artist category. These guys were “real” musicians.

Friday night was a 40-something artist that sang and played numerous instruments. He was from the south and still had the accent. That made him even more endearing until he handed me his CD and told me he’d be on the road in a few weeks. I’m never sure if that is ego or an invitation to be a panty-throwing roadie. As I was half-way through my Moscow mule, Friday requested to read my palm.

“Your life line doesn’t look right. You need a liver cleanse,” he told me. No, I just needed to finish my half-empty glass and self-cleanse.

As he continued to dominate the conversation, I prepared my exit speech. Thanks, I don’t need another. It was nice meeting you.

Saturday’s date was with a slightly shy 31 year-old composer/producer. After nearly a month of e-courting, he nutted up and asked to meet me. By the time I had finished my second beer, I managed to wow him with the theatrical merits of Beerfest versus Pineapple Express. He thought I was a genius. I knew I was just appealing to my demographic and it was a struggle. This cougar thing is tough work.

As a writer, I have a strong appreciation for the creative mind. However, in the dating world I still need to find my happy medium between crazy artist and humble CPA.

A close girlfriend got out of a 2.5 year fakelationship and nearly immediately got back to the online dating business with some mildly successful results. I found her get-back-on-the-horse determination inspiring enough to return to the game also. My out-of-the-gate experience left a friend in New York saying, “can you move to San Francisco? Even with the gays, it has to be better dating there.”

I have a dog for companionship and a vibrator for sanity, so dating in Los Angeles is becoming more difficult to do the older I get. I make it very clear with my prospects that I’m not looking for anything casual and really want to make sure there is chemistry and good friendship long before the cock meets the vag. Fucktard said he understood.

We had two great dates with good, engaging conversation in addition to some obvious attraction. However, a day later, he was screwing a stranger. He sent me a morning-after confessional email stating he had made a “mistake” the night before and he felt “horrible” and was “scared shitless and confused.” It was clearly an open and shut case of Jewish guilt meets undefined needs. The one thing he did get right is I deserve better.

One day I’ll meet a man in LA who knows what he wants and it is consistent… from day-to-day and week-to-week. But I have to say, this is the first time I’ve meet a man who was so intimidated by me that he broke his 14-month celibacy and fucked a stranger 24 hours after our second date. Yes, this is one for the LA record books.

Dating is an exhausting exercise, but I support my friends as they venture out there. What is more tiring is when they have a bad experience and state, “I thought this kind of crap only happened to you, Marna.”

Once again, I have to repeat IT’S BAD ALL OVER.

Marci was approached online by a hospital social worker that lives east of New Haven, Conn. Marci is on the upper east side of Manhattan. They spent a week talking on the phone and Social Worker decided to take the train down and take her out for the day and then they’d have dinner. Seemed like an innocent proposition and a typical New York weekend: walk around/eat.

He arrived nervous and it never stopped. He directed his behavior into a few verbal assaults, which finally sent Marci over the edge. She stopped the date and asked him what his problem was. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pill bottle and said, “I didn’t take my Xanax this morning.”

She asked him to take his meds. He then revealed he has had depression since birth, severe anxiety, OCD, and a sleeping disorder. He also hasn’t worked in a year. Marci told him she could almost tolerate the medical disorders, but lying about his employment was a deal breaker.

“But I knew if I told you, you wouldn’t go out with me,” he said.

His send off was classic. “All those nights we talked on the phone were long distance calls for me and I can’t afford it. Do you think you could call me? Will you call me?” he asked.

Instead, Marci emailed me and I had a telephonic intervention with her while he was on a train north. She’s done with dating, she says. “This should have been your date. You would have had fabulous new, insane material,” Marci added.

Well, Marci, I haven’t had a date in more than a month. Thanks for reminding me what’s out there. This blog’s for you.