50/50

I am not a grouper or a joiner or a follower which takes me out of the target demographics of most of the social networking sites on the Net. I did, however get firmly addicted to The Show With Ze Frank and as an offshoot of that have become a sporadically active participant in the little pond known as The ORG (www.zefrank.org). It’s fun, friendly and gives us creative/crazy types a nice outlet for whatever we call our art.

As with any arts collective or commune everyone is equal but a few people are a little more equal than others (I have always wanted to use that line) and in the case of The ORG, above the maddening crowd of watchers and lurkers, a few truly inspired souls stand out. In this particular instance I am referring to Bliss and Leary who, out of curiosity, hopefulness or desperation, are embarking on an endeavor appropriately called 50 Dates in 50 States where they are, you guessed it, trying to hook-up with blokes in every state of the Union.

(Author’s note: It has come to my attention that the term “hooking up” is a synonym for “having sex with” a connotation which I, in my naive way, have not intended. I also remember when “Dick” was a perfectly nice man’s name so that pretty much dates me.)

In case you can’t do the math, they need to find 100 guys who can pass their rigorous screening process and escort them to whatever bar, restaurant, mountain overlook, drive-in movie, beach walk, country drive, paint-ball arena, sporting event, beer drinking contest, turtle wrestling rodeo, body art boutique, lobster fishing excursion, dance marathon, or bagpipe killing contest that passes for a first date in your zip code.

If you want further details or to throw your hat in the ring go here: http://www.50dates.tv/blog/ Reproduced here without permission are their essay questions:

Who do you want the date with and why how do you feel about math describe your perfect wednesday what type of girls do you typically date congratulations, all of your hard work has finally paid off, but...ummm...what have you been working on again how do you escape describe your first crush what's in your burrito did seven really eat nine tell me something that will make me smile who's invited to your tea party will our parents like you you have a roll of duct tape, paper bag, and shoe lace...go what is YOUR idea of a perfect date ?

Since I spend a lot of time in departure lounges I figured it would be better to spend my free moments answering their questions than eating stale peanuts and watching businessmen drink cheap booze. Thus:

I’m out of the running for this whole damn fool 50/50 date crusade because the only state I live in now is perpetual denial and besides, if you did decide you wanted to drive here to meet me I’d bet you’d have a hell of a hard time holding your breath for those last few miles. This of course doesn’t in the least dissuade me from writing a rambling response to your application questionnaire because it happens to be well after midnight, I’m tired, bored and in yet another of a succession of hotel rooms in a city where I’m pretty sure they flog people for speaking English.

Forgive me if I diverge from my planned remarks to share a small factoid about my youth: when I was five or six years old my grandmother used to give me about half and inch of PBR in a glass and we’d sit and watch roller derby together. She’d also take me to the track and place $2 bets for me. I’m sure these activities laid a solid foundation for my later years.

Like now for instance. I’m sitting in an airport lounge in Vienna watching the heavens open up and the delays on the departure board roll up like digits on a pinball machine. The liquor if free here and so are the little sandwiches; I’m surrounded by guys in ties with mobile phones stitched to their ears. I, on the other hand, am somewhat more comfortably attired in summer hiking boots and a linen shirt that has never known the love of a good iron. A man the size of Orson Wells in a fat suit just lashed out at the woman cleaning up the dishes saying, “This is appalling! You should see the Qantas lounge!” She laughed uncomfortably and scurried to an Employees Only door; he lumbered off to squeeze into an overstuffed chair.

You asked some very amusing, random, pointed and leading questions, most of which I feel duty bound to ignore completely because I’m they type who can’t do what he’s told, never looks at instructions, reads his own maps (but I will always ask for directions when lost) has a problem with authority and, when forced to work, wants to be in charge or left the hell alone. It should be noted that even though I am Not a Team Player in the corporate mind-control sense, I am the kind guy that parents love. I was raised well, brush up nicely, own a tux, say “please” and “thank you” at the appropriate times, can cook a turkey or a turkey shaped lentil loaf and know enough jokes to entertain the relatives at Thanksgiving dinner.

Be warned- if you do ever voyage to London there is no Mexican food worthy of the name. You know that pack of horrid frozen enchiladas cemented in ice to the back of your freezer? Eating them unthawed and covered in Drain-O would be nearly fifty times more appetizing than anything you would have served to you in London. Except at my place. I have a magic cupboard filled with items smuggled back in my luggage from The Mission District. Illicit dishes with spices and sauces unknown to this barren rock served once a fortnight with all the ambiance of a South-Central tamale parlour.

34,000 feet. Off to my right great mountains of foam reach up to the heavens. Sunset at this altitude has its own special colour and grandeur. Indescribable hues of blood orange and cotton candy pink fold around puffs of spun silk.

We have just been put into a holding pattering in the middle of a mass of storm clouds- thank you very much Heathrow Air Traffic Control. It’s getting harder to type because the plane is bouncing around like a ping-pong ball in a clothes dryer.

Days later now and since you have already left on your odyssey this is even more pointless now than when I started it. I should have finished this a week ago but along with my other more obvious failings I have an almost inhuman inability to write short, pithy, witty prose and must instead drone on and on. No one will ever put a quote of mine on a bumper sticker because I can write nothing of value in under 10 pages. If you hadn’t already noticed I have this nasty habit of being far too verbose for my own good. In grad school, hell, who am I kidding, in every school I ever attended I couldn’t possibly produce work in any mode other than Last Minute Panic. Other people get high to be creative, I stay up for days on end until my adrenaline reserves are all but depleted and then churn out steaming piles of disjointed gibberish. I can only guess that God Him/Her self personally intervened and translated my incoherent ramblings into something with literary merit before my instructors saw them because I always seemed to pull a 4.0. The Universe protects fools, drunks and art history students.

If you like duct tape, you should try gaffers tape! It has all the innate coolness and sturdy sensibility of duct tape but it also PEALS OFF. It’s like the post-it note of the tape world.

I’ve already had my perfect date thanks and I hope you two will experience yours. Mine involved a blue and white sweater, an aging pickup truck named “Ranger,” a side of a mountain overlooking the San Francisco bay and a woman who would later crush my heart with a nutcracker. Of course I didn’t know this at the time and even if I did, I wouldn’t have missed it. It’s beyond my power to convey the feeling of the moment so I’ll let Joan Baez say it for me:

Now I see you standing with brown leaves falling around and snow in your hair
Now you’re smiling out the window of that crummy hotel over Washington Square
Our breath comes out white clouds, mingles and hangs in the air
Speaking strictly for me, we both could have died then and there

Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

Jesus, this entry has gone on long enough, you two are probably half-way to North Dakota by now. The irony of it all is that I spent 26 long years in Santa Barbara hoping to meet up with anyone half as interesting, maniacal, pants-wettingly funny, creative or bizarre as either of you and as soon as I leave (well OK, several years after I leave but still…) Bliss shows up packing enough attitude and industrial strength insanity to blanket all of East Beach. The fact that she has joined forces with the scourge of the Eastern Seaboard, Leary, on this marathon adventure ensures that each and every state will be slightly more amusing and demented than it was prior to their arrival.

I hear there are still a few places on their dance cards yet to be filled so guys, don’t miss this once in a lifetime opportunity to have a date with these two before they are truly famous. I’m afraid that this time I’ll have to watch and wonder from afar.