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Do you like pina coladas?

26 Aug

So,

Now I’m looking for a housemate and my social cosmos has coughed up no viable entrants. It looks like I’m going to have to go Joe Public and broaden my radar to the big cold universe in the search for intelligent life. Here, intelligent means, you-understand-a-man’s- need-to-be-monosyballic-every-now-and-again-along-with-the occasional-jam-on-a-door-handle-incident-in-an-otherwise-fairly-happy-life.

In short. Welcome to my cave, please excuse the mess.

So, there are sites that deal with this. Find a house buddy kind of thing. But oh, the horror upon logging on.

No. No! No!! Not this again!

The Vietnam of internet dating comes whoop whooping back. I’ve got to pen a self description and one for who I’m looking for. Oh Jesus! I mean, really?

Err..Do you have a pathological loathing of men? What’s your view on the hung parliament? If you were a colour, I mean, no, seriously, like, what colour would you be? OH EM GEE! Me too!!

Thankfully, this site has some helpful catch all banners you can click that will feature as a slogan for your profile. Some of the choices are Loves to Party, Gay Friendly and I’m Reliable! There’s also Christian and Clean and Tidy. *cough*

The closest one I could possibly pick is Loves Animals, which troubles me with its breadth. I mean, I love huge sharks. Dinosaurs aren’t too shabby. Dogs are so cool it’s stupid. Cats belong in a lakeside sack. Lambs are both cute and delicious. I’m not much on wombats but I do like a kookaburra. Emus can plain get fucked.

So, if you’re going to have to select arbitrary categories, let’s do it stupid FB style. You know, those personal quizzes that with a few clicks answer the burning question, “What Superhero are You?”, or “If you were a murderous fascist, you’d be…”- and you delete and re-submit because it keeps coughing up Robin and Pol Pot.

There was one extremely fine quiz that asked you to choose the five things you’d want to survive a zombie apocalypse. An Apache Gunship, Hot Babe, Shot-Gun, Machete and Time Machine.

Der.

They’re as reliable as anything really. I mean, anyone who describes themselves as having a good sense of humour makes me deeply suspicious. Good? That’s like a five out of ten. Easy going? Don’t believe you.  These things are deeply contextual, and one man’s easy-going is another man’s passive aggressive post-it notes around the house fiend.

Ahhh. I’m procrastinating. Erghh. Maybe I should put up a joke profile and feather through those who get it. No. Then I’m one of those snark elitists who mistakes quips for communication.

Which scene in JAWS is the most awesome?

If you had laser eyes which city would you destroy?

Favourite early eighties porn star?

Here’s a banner.

I LIKE CUPS OF TEA.

There, that should say it. That I’m a most-of-the-time-emotionally stable person who sometimes gets sad and can’t find the words to describe it. Sometimes I lie, but I mostly tell the truth. I’m not much for religion, and even less for atheists, and I sometimes get angry about things that confuse me and confused by the kindness I find in untilled corners and most of the time it takes me two or three passes to grasp it and if you too like sipping delicious hot water and chatting sometimes about…. stuff…. I think we’ll be fine.

P.S  Pretty ladies only.

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Man..Woman..Friend?

15 Aug

So,

as I’m choking to death on smoke, jamming a five foot log into a three-inch fire, sure that the sheer force of my masculine intent will blaze it to life, the conversation turns to women. It’s 3am. That’s letstalkaboutwomen-o-clock.

It’s an old question. Can a man and a woman truly by friends? No. Scratch that. Wrong question. Can a woman and man truly be friends if there is sexual chemistry?

Well.

Yes. No. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Oh. Sorry. No. Yes.

This is the correct answer in the correct order.

So, as the smoke gives way to flame (smaller sticks, not testosterone), I listen as a female friend (there, I said it) ruminates on male folly and foible, madness and light, and I have the privilege of again getting a totally different take on things, BECAUSE I have female friends. No. Scratch that. Because I have amazing female friends. Grounded, compassionate, sensual cyclones.

At the peril of sounding like one of those spoon fed toolfucks who wafts on and on about his respect for women, and the great mystery of motherhood, and the ferocity of the lioness and the yeah yeah I-download-porn-and-whimper-as-I-watch-it-too, if I take stock of my feminine brood, honest injun, it’s wall to wall babe town.

So is that part of the kick? Part of the spark and mischief that I find so invaluable in any friendship? A smite of unpredictability that peppers the secret language all friends have, because, well, secret languages are part of friendships. Part of a much bigger word, intimacy. How can you not find someone attractive when they trust you enough to be vulnerable? To make themselves  available for potential ridicule, but to with steady smile, give you the masculine confidence to not do that. To not ridicule.

To be a man.

Ahhhh. I dunno. Way down there, where my beliefs lie in some still pool untroubled by social mathematics, there’s a little waxed paper boat with the word “Yes”  scrawled in crayon that glides the surface. Occasionally, it bumps into the other little boats with the answers to other stuff like, “Is there a God?”,  “What am I afraid of?” and “Will I go bald?

It’s an important moment, when these boats bump. A yes meets a no. A maybe brushes by a still not sure. A shrug meets a I really hope so. These are the moments when ranges are formed. When men are changed.

So, as much as I really hope that little YesBoat is answering the question, can a man and woman truly be friends if there is sexual chemisty? – I think it’s actually floating upon a much larger question.

Am I a man?

And to that, even a tiny wax covered metaphor seems crudely painted if it bears just one word.

Yes?

No?

I don’t know.

But I really, really hope so.

..

Dating frenzy dot com

20 May

So,

I’m rifling through a drawer of notepads,  chinese menus and pen lids, when I come across a list of women’s names scrawled in my lumbering font. Now, usually any old distraction is good enough for me to linger away from the-work-at-hand, ooh staples…I should probably count those, but this has me dropping my get-things-done face guilt free.

It’s a list of the women I net dated in my two-year frenzy back-in-the-day. There are forty-two names on the list. That’s a new woman every 2.43 weeks. For a bloke whose fling meter is way into single figures, that’s staggering.

Back then, I was crawling through the fear and doubt of the end of a seven year relationship and just needed to be liked. And on the net, if you can author an online profile sans GSOH, LBW, EGFL or IABT* you can live like a well-liked king, or at least a glutton, and I stuffed my fucking face.

Still, by net dating standards, 2.43 is limpet paced. It’s not unusual for a gal to line up Romance4U for drinks after work Thursday, catch a  flick at Chaddy with a AdventrGY on Friday, do a Sat Brunswick brunch with FreeASUlikeit then hit a swank Thai with DeadInside on Saturday night. Sunday is a day of prayer.

And that’s the thing about net dating. It’s all about the beginnings. And then more beginnings. The moment the shiny mask turns a shade dusty real, the alarm sounds. It’s kinda like being given a new puppy every day. A puppy with extreme low self-esteem that you can have sex with.

So you scroll through pages and pages of photos and self authored descriptions, like Ebay, except they’re people. You click, you bid, you wait and see. There was chook-feeding, sending out multiple ‘virtual kisses’ (Oh God, that term still makes me vomit in my mouth a bit) to as many women who vaguely caught your fancy with the theory being a thousand seeds would fetch  a dozen birds. Then onwards you cull. I guess the meatworld equivalent would be perching by the female toilets and gushing hi to each entrant.

I preferred the longer game. A considered email in response to specific profiles. Wow?? You own pot-plants too?!

Consequently, I like to congratulate myself that I can still put a detail to each name on that list. I’m not sure it means anything of value.

But, there was Marcela, the Carlton feminist who liked her men to take charge, but only on her moustachioed terms.

Sharon the Bundeberg cutter, with whom with I shared long, elegant MSN chats on all things painful and pure, often drinking myself sober in the process, till she deleted me for ‘feeling too much.’

Kylie from the hills who I didn’t have the courage to say no to.

Yvette with the kids who got engaged to another net guy four days after we met and shagged.

Yvonne who hissed, “You’re a cunt and you’ll always be a cunt.”

Sam the hot Brit who wasn’t the least bit attracted to me but just seem relieved to find a guy who knew the difference between a metaphor and simile.

Jess, who gave me that long look of disappointment when I lied to her.

Louisa who…well….the more horrible we were to each other the better the sex was. She also had a cupboard JUST for chocolate biscuits.

I’m cherry-picking of course. It wasn’t all madness. There was Smirsten. Lovely Smirsten; who slowed things down and defined it all by saying, “Your profile picture looks like a drag queen” and later, when the sadness had resettled, “Oh nugget, you’re just not ready.”

Forty-two names. Two years. It was an education. The irony of finding this list is that I was searching for a draft of an old story I wrote during that time. It wasn’t about net dating. That story is unwritable. You see, the good stuff, the really good stuff, is too private and subtle to be teased out. It thrives outside its birth context.  The rest, well, is just fury and trivia.

*Good Sense of Humour, Love Bush-Walking,  Easy Going Fun-loving, Into Anal Big-time.