Here I am.
I enjoy how I have mysteriously become the Man in Charge despite being the junior-most engineer. For those keeping track, it's almost eight and I am all about approving bug check-ins and convincing my manager to do what's right rather than taking the easy way out (management loves the "workaround"... this no doubt is one of the reasons why we have the buggiest product in all of existence). Now, I need to get my ass out of here and find some food.
Oh, and between building and crashing our client, I managed to write up a brief synopsis of Sunday.
I drove 80 miles to meet G., someone with whom I have been having daily email conversations for the past three weeks. In written form, he came across rather well: intelligent, sarcastic, prone to writing bitchy rants (a kindred spirit of sorts). But we had never even chatted (online, on the phone, or otherwise). In fact, our first verbal communication took the form of a rushed phonecall I made just before departing my apartment.
"Hey [G.], not surprisingly I am running excessively late. I'm about to leave and, according to the Internet, the drive should take a little more than an hour, so I'll be there around 12:30."
"Are you going to want to get something to eat?" he asked. I realized that I hadn't even bothered to identify myself on the phone; instead I just launched into a progress (or lack thereof) report (a habit of my old boss/coworker that used to annoy the shit out of me).
"Uhhh... yeah. Can you wait that long?"
"Sure. I had my bowl of Total this morning." Odd, that's what I imagined him having for breakfast.
"That's a healthy way to start the day. Okay, I better leave. See you." I'm not even certain I gave him time to say goodbye.
My morning had been spent on the toilet. I woke up feeling like I was going to vomit but my body insisted that there were other means to purge itself. While sitting on the throne bemoaning my fate, images of A. were flashing through my head: A. leaving the bathroom, A. blowing his nose, A. sticking his fingers in his mouth, A. dipping his hands into the "herbs and spices" for the pasta, A. purchasing expired sausage because it was a great deal, A. handling the sausage with those same fucking hands that he never washes except by way of dipping his finger tips in whatever glass out of which he is drinking. I resolved, at that point, to never again eat anything that he personally prepares. I like to imagine my immune system is indefatigable, but eventually any defenses can be overwhelmed.
So, after cleaning myself up (shower, shave, attempted erection of my hair), I hopped in the car and began the drive to Baltimore. Originally, I had intended to bring my digital camera along, but the day was gray with intermittent fog and rain. I didn't feel like being burdened by its presence anyway (sometimes it's like a goddamned purse, a nuisance that you must constantly remember not to leave behind). So, I drove the next hour and fifteen minutes listening to Boards of Canada and chewing the hell out of a stick of Big Red (having had nothing to eat that morning for obvious reasons).
After a trip through gangland territory (I swear, Baltimore makes Brooklyn look like the Hamptons), I ended up in G.'s "hamlet," a reasonably nice neighborhood somehow surrounded on all sides by decay. His is a pleasant little half-house, the yard strewn with feline land mines (apparently the neighbor has a fondness for strays). He opened the door and we shook hands. G. looks like his online pictures, pleasantly attractive but fairly unremarkable. He really does not have any obvious physical flaws, yet somehow he lacks a single eye-catching trait. I was pleased that he did not carry himself in the affected manner that one might expect considering his fondness for gossip and soap operas. We wandered down into his basement (which is admittedly an odd thing to do upon immediately entering someone's house) because I wanted to see the Nativity scene painted down there by the previous owner. I showed off my "Got Jesus?" keychain (which seems to be ominously fading) before we headed off for sustenance.
We waited to be seated for twenty minutes, standing outside some quirky eatery painted in all the primary colors (G said it was popular with the college kids). We stood, shielded from the rain by tarps, and chatted about our respective weekend activities. I focused on what I did Friday and how I was poisoned on Saturday night (neglecting to mention that I spent most of that day playing Dungeons and Dragons). He talked about work: ranting about coworkers, fretting about running into them, complaining about their incompetance. When we were eventually seated, we both ordered the overly thick french toast and continue chatting. I hoped the french toast would be adequate to keep me alive but bland enough to leave my rumbling belly undisturbed. When the check came, we both stared at it for a while before G. picked it up and announced, "it's gas money" (he was referring to my 80 mile commute and not my dyspepsia).
Our next stop was the American Visionary Art Museum, a gallery that combines two of my favorite things: disturbing artwork and disturbed individuals. Through some marvelous twist of fate, the current exhibit was entitled "The Art of War and Peace" and prominantly featured Irving Norman (an California artist whose work I have adored since I wrote a paper on one of his Surrealist triptychs). G., who claims to have A.D.D., suffered through my tedious and obsessive need to read virtually every plaque of biographical or explanatory text in the place. But overall, we had great fun laughing at the loonies and counting the number of artists who were raised on farms (approximately 90%). The were a couple fantastic pieces there (in addition to Norman's) but I stupidly forgot to write any names down (and the gallery did not appear to have a decent brochure). After at least two hours, I think we were both a little exhausted so I suggested we do something suitably dirty and low culture.
We drove back to G.'s and watched the Real World-Road Rules Battle of the Seasons.
G.'s refrigerator is charmingly empty. I was rather amused to discover he has nothing in it but one carton of milk, two cartons of orange juice, a block of cheese and a nearly empty box of Coke cans. I helped myself to one of his last Cokes (despite my general avoidance of caffeinated products) and admired the magazine pages he had adhered via magnets to the side of the fridge (one picture of Brad Pitt, two of Jude Law, all three featuring rather gratuitous abdominal shots). We hung out for a couple hours watching VH-1 Confidential and chatting. He is deliriously political incorrect for a liberal homosexual in the field of education.
We ended up finding dinner in some place called Cafe Zen which featured, according to G., the best Chinese food in all of Baltimore. I was going to make a snide comment about how that statement was akin to saying "the best seafood in all of South Dakota" but bit my tongue. My beef and broccoli (listed in the menu as broccoli beef, which I ordered only to have the waiter reply "beef and broccoli") was too fucking flavorful, heavy on the ginger and possibly pepper. Nevertheless, I had eaten nothing but French Toast all day so I made an effort to feed. Conversation was faltering a bit. I started making mental comparisons to email. It was like we each said our piece while the other listened quietly. Upon reaching the end of our respective rant, we would allow the other person the opportunity for a rebuttal or change of topic. I felt like we weren't really talking with each other, but rather to each other. I then began to wonder if I am more than a little neurotic to be thinking this when I should be paying attention to the conversation at hand.
I picked up the bill, despite his pleas regarding gas money and learned, upon the arrival of our dessert (fortune cookies and tiny little cups of strawberry ice cream) of his intense and irrational hatred of fruit (about which I proceeded to tease him mercilously for the remainder of the evening). I thought it was simply delightful how disgusted he is by anything fruit-related (claiming that it has to do with the texture). At one point, he compared eating an orange slice to having a live goldfish squirming in your mouth. I was tempted to ask him how he managed to suck cock with such a discriminating palate, but once again inhibited my occasionally crude sense of humor.
We returned to his place and watched the Real World. I was particularly enjoying the boundless delight he took in the misery and cruelty of others as he laughed out loud throughout the episodes. Having someone who enjoys television as much as I do is somewhere up there on the list of desired traits in my ideal mate. I sort of broke the physical contact boundary by showing him the hump of bone jutting out of my right hand (from that incident on Christmas Eve 2000). I let him run his finger over it like a miniature roller coaster, but I still was not feeling much physical tension between us (we hadn't so much as accidentally bumped into each other while walking abreast). In fact, the only things I was feeling were tired and dyspeptic. My stomach had begun gurgling in a portentous manner and I had begun to doze off on the couch. I worried I might fall asleep during my commute back home (having still failed to get a solid eight hours of sleep in over a week).
So, somewhere around 10:30, I just stood up and made a rather abrupt attempt at leaving. He escorted me to the door and we stood in a darkened alcove as I pulled on my overcoat. I was criticizing his decoration of the alcove (or lack thereof) in an effort to delay the inevitable awkward ending to what had been an overwhelmingly innocent "date" (and, one could argue, barely a date at all... more like hanging out with a friend all day).
"So what's the appropriate way to end this...?" I was going to be blunt and to the point.
He hugged me and then tilted his head. I reciprocated. Our lips met for a moment, a very brief moment, before I pulled away and headed out the door. His mouth had been partially open, mine not at all. I gave him a fucking peck, like I would my grandmother's prunelike forehead. Once outside, I started to feel like a dick, so I casually mentioned that I should probably give him my cell phone number. We went back inside and I milled around for a couple minutes as he found paper and pen, then wrote down my number. The whole time I was thinking about how I should have handled that embrace/kiss/whatever. My mind was replaying my previous departure, each time making it appear more and more awkward in retrospect. He took my number, I said I would email him, and we said our goodbyes.
I had more than an hour of driving to preoccupy on my inelegant escape.
Oh, and between building and crashing our client, I managed to write up a brief synopsis of Sunday.
I drove 80 miles to meet G., someone with whom I have been having daily email conversations for the past three weeks. In written form, he came across rather well: intelligent, sarcastic, prone to writing bitchy rants (a kindred spirit of sorts). But we had never even chatted (online, on the phone, or otherwise). In fact, our first verbal communication took the form of a rushed phonecall I made just before departing my apartment.
"Hey [G.], not surprisingly I am running excessively late. I'm about to leave and, according to the Internet, the drive should take a little more than an hour, so I'll be there around 12:30."
"Are you going to want to get something to eat?" he asked. I realized that I hadn't even bothered to identify myself on the phone; instead I just launched into a progress (or lack thereof) report (a habit of my old boss/coworker that used to annoy the shit out of me).
"Uhhh... yeah. Can you wait that long?"
"Sure. I had my bowl of Total this morning." Odd, that's what I imagined him having for breakfast.
"That's a healthy way to start the day. Okay, I better leave. See you." I'm not even certain I gave him time to say goodbye.
My morning had been spent on the toilet. I woke up feeling like I was going to vomit but my body insisted that there were other means to purge itself. While sitting on the throne bemoaning my fate, images of A. were flashing through my head: A. leaving the bathroom, A. blowing his nose, A. sticking his fingers in his mouth, A. dipping his hands into the "herbs and spices" for the pasta, A. purchasing expired sausage because it was a great deal, A. handling the sausage with those same fucking hands that he never washes except by way of dipping his finger tips in whatever glass out of which he is drinking. I resolved, at that point, to never again eat anything that he personally prepares. I like to imagine my immune system is indefatigable, but eventually any defenses can be overwhelmed.
So, after cleaning myself up (shower, shave, attempted erection of my hair), I hopped in the car and began the drive to Baltimore. Originally, I had intended to bring my digital camera along, but the day was gray with intermittent fog and rain. I didn't feel like being burdened by its presence anyway (sometimes it's like a goddamned purse, a nuisance that you must constantly remember not to leave behind). So, I drove the next hour and fifteen minutes listening to Boards of Canada and chewing the hell out of a stick of Big Red (having had nothing to eat that morning for obvious reasons).
After a trip through gangland territory (I swear, Baltimore makes Brooklyn look like the Hamptons), I ended up in G.'s "hamlet," a reasonably nice neighborhood somehow surrounded on all sides by decay. His is a pleasant little half-house, the yard strewn with feline land mines (apparently the neighbor has a fondness for strays). He opened the door and we shook hands. G. looks like his online pictures, pleasantly attractive but fairly unremarkable. He really does not have any obvious physical flaws, yet somehow he lacks a single eye-catching trait. I was pleased that he did not carry himself in the affected manner that one might expect considering his fondness for gossip and soap operas. We wandered down into his basement (which is admittedly an odd thing to do upon immediately entering someone's house) because I wanted to see the Nativity scene painted down there by the previous owner. I showed off my "Got Jesus?" keychain (which seems to be ominously fading) before we headed off for sustenance.
We waited to be seated for twenty minutes, standing outside some quirky eatery painted in all the primary colors (G said it was popular with the college kids). We stood, shielded from the rain by tarps, and chatted about our respective weekend activities. I focused on what I did Friday and how I was poisoned on Saturday night (neglecting to mention that I spent most of that day playing Dungeons and Dragons). He talked about work: ranting about coworkers, fretting about running into them, complaining about their incompetance. When we were eventually seated, we both ordered the overly thick french toast and continue chatting. I hoped the french toast would be adequate to keep me alive but bland enough to leave my rumbling belly undisturbed. When the check came, we both stared at it for a while before G. picked it up and announced, "it's gas money" (he was referring to my 80 mile commute and not my dyspepsia).
Our next stop was the American Visionary Art Museum, a gallery that combines two of my favorite things: disturbing artwork and disturbed individuals. Through some marvelous twist of fate, the current exhibit was entitled "The Art of War and Peace" and prominantly featured Irving Norman (an California artist whose work I have adored since I wrote a paper on one of his Surrealist triptychs). G., who claims to have A.D.D., suffered through my tedious and obsessive need to read virtually every plaque of biographical or explanatory text in the place. But overall, we had great fun laughing at the loonies and counting the number of artists who were raised on farms (approximately 90%). The were a couple fantastic pieces there (in addition to Norman's) but I stupidly forgot to write any names down (and the gallery did not appear to have a decent brochure). After at least two hours, I think we were both a little exhausted so I suggested we do something suitably dirty and low culture.
We drove back to G.'s and watched the Real World-Road Rules Battle of the Seasons.
G.'s refrigerator is charmingly empty. I was rather amused to discover he has nothing in it but one carton of milk, two cartons of orange juice, a block of cheese and a nearly empty box of Coke cans. I helped myself to one of his last Cokes (despite my general avoidance of caffeinated products) and admired the magazine pages he had adhered via magnets to the side of the fridge (one picture of Brad Pitt, two of Jude Law, all three featuring rather gratuitous abdominal shots). We hung out for a couple hours watching VH-1 Confidential and chatting. He is deliriously political incorrect for a liberal homosexual in the field of education.
We ended up finding dinner in some place called Cafe Zen which featured, according to G., the best Chinese food in all of Baltimore. I was going to make a snide comment about how that statement was akin to saying "the best seafood in all of South Dakota" but bit my tongue. My beef and broccoli (listed in the menu as broccoli beef, which I ordered only to have the waiter reply "beef and broccoli") was too fucking flavorful, heavy on the ginger and possibly pepper. Nevertheless, I had eaten nothing but French Toast all day so I made an effort to feed. Conversation was faltering a bit. I started making mental comparisons to email. It was like we each said our piece while the other listened quietly. Upon reaching the end of our respective rant, we would allow the other person the opportunity for a rebuttal or change of topic. I felt like we weren't really talking with each other, but rather to each other. I then began to wonder if I am more than a little neurotic to be thinking this when I should be paying attention to the conversation at hand.
I picked up the bill, despite his pleas regarding gas money and learned, upon the arrival of our dessert (fortune cookies and tiny little cups of strawberry ice cream) of his intense and irrational hatred of fruit (about which I proceeded to tease him mercilously for the remainder of the evening). I thought it was simply delightful how disgusted he is by anything fruit-related (claiming that it has to do with the texture). At one point, he compared eating an orange slice to having a live goldfish squirming in your mouth. I was tempted to ask him how he managed to suck cock with such a discriminating palate, but once again inhibited my occasionally crude sense of humor.
We returned to his place and watched the Real World. I was particularly enjoying the boundless delight he took in the misery and cruelty of others as he laughed out loud throughout the episodes. Having someone who enjoys television as much as I do is somewhere up there on the list of desired traits in my ideal mate. I sort of broke the physical contact boundary by showing him the hump of bone jutting out of my right hand (from that incident on Christmas Eve 2000). I let him run his finger over it like a miniature roller coaster, but I still was not feeling much physical tension between us (we hadn't so much as accidentally bumped into each other while walking abreast). In fact, the only things I was feeling were tired and dyspeptic. My stomach had begun gurgling in a portentous manner and I had begun to doze off on the couch. I worried I might fall asleep during my commute back home (having still failed to get a solid eight hours of sleep in over a week).
So, somewhere around 10:30, I just stood up and made a rather abrupt attempt at leaving. He escorted me to the door and we stood in a darkened alcove as I pulled on my overcoat. I was criticizing his decoration of the alcove (or lack thereof) in an effort to delay the inevitable awkward ending to what had been an overwhelmingly innocent "date" (and, one could argue, barely a date at all... more like hanging out with a friend all day).
"So what's the appropriate way to end this...?" I was going to be blunt and to the point.
He hugged me and then tilted his head. I reciprocated. Our lips met for a moment, a very brief moment, before I pulled away and headed out the door. His mouth had been partially open, mine not at all. I gave him a fucking peck, like I would my grandmother's prunelike forehead. Once outside, I started to feel like a dick, so I casually mentioned that I should probably give him my cell phone number. We went back inside and I milled around for a couple minutes as he found paper and pen, then wrote down my number. The whole time I was thinking about how I should have handled that embrace/kiss/whatever. My mind was replaying my previous departure, each time making it appear more and more awkward in retrospect. He took my number, I said I would email him, and we said our goodbyes.
I had more than an hour of driving to preoccupy on my inelegant escape.