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april 13, 2008
That’s the Way Love Goes
Fetching is the word that immediately comes to mind to
describe Lt. Dan's first thoughts upon seeing me at the Le
Cieba Airport. My wilted stature, limp sea-salted hair,
the clashing hues of my travelling outfit and of course,
my leper-like sunburn. That's me...simply a vision.
Lt. Dan can be described in that Sex and the City sort of
way as "good on paper". Lt. Dan is in the airforce,
stationed in Honduras for the next 10 months, has
retirement property on the island of Roatan. Blond
military issue haircut. Blue eyes. Dressed in neatly
pressed khaki shorts with a pristine evergreen polo, clean
white sneakers attached to neat athletic ankle socks. He
makes appropriate and genial small talk. Occasionally
peppering the end of his sentences with a "Yes ma'am/sir".
His interest is there, and he offers me a helicopter ride
as consolation for 3 hours of waiting at the airport gate.
Across the airport seats is what catches my eye. A
masculine boho chic sight with gorgeous aquamarine eyes,
an edgy Sally Hershberger razored shag, a sexy British
accent, but most importantly the attitude of supreme
indifference.Oh... He's a photographer too. However that
could be code for unemployed.
He can probably only offer me a Pabst Blue Ribbon and
wouldn't call again until 3-6 months later. Yet I secretly
hope that he leaves his girlfriend and their Park Slope
apartment, and we run away to the retirement property on
Roatan. Why is it that what is wrong for us is always the
most desirable? Isn't that the way love always goes?
That’s the Way Love Goes
Fetching is the word that immediately comes to mind to
describe Lt. Dan's first thoughts upon seeing me at the Le
Cieba Airport. My wilted stature, limp sea-salted hair,
the clashing hues of my travelling outfit and of course,
my leper-like sunburn. That's me...simply a vision.
Lt. Dan can be described in that Sex and the City sort of
way as "good on paper". Lt. Dan is in the airforce,
stationed in Honduras for the next 10 months, has
retirement property on the island of Roatan. Blond
military issue haircut. Blue eyes. Dressed in neatly
pressed khaki shorts with a pristine evergreen polo, clean
white sneakers attached to neat athletic ankle socks. He
makes appropriate and genial small talk. Occasionally
peppering the end of his sentences with a "Yes ma'am/sir".
His interest is there, and he offers me a helicopter ride
as consolation for 3 hours of waiting at the airport gate.
Across the airport seats is what catches my eye. A
masculine boho chic sight with gorgeous aquamarine eyes,
an edgy Sally Hershberger razored shag, a sexy British
accent, but most importantly the attitude of supreme
indifference.Oh... He's a photographer too. However that
could be code for unemployed.
He can probably only offer me a Pabst Blue Ribbon and
wouldn't call again until 3-6 months later. Yet I secretly
hope that he leaves his girlfriend and their Park Slope
apartment, and we run away to the retirement property on
Roatan. Why is it that what is wrong for us is always the
most desirable? Isn't that the way love always goes?
june 3,2008
neveda
I am not one of those people who can say that they met
their true love on-line especially through myspace. While
others may hear from dreamboats and gentlemen, I usually
get such love notes as "I want you to suck my big, veiny
mushroom-headed cock". Nothing but pure poetry, but
something tells me he's not interested to know the "real"
me.
I write these stories on a semi-frequent basis in the hopes
of being discovered as the next great literary talent.
Besides the occasional encouraging friend, it's a rarity to
hear raving praise from complete strangers about my words.
I'm highly responsive to flattery. Statements like "you
should write for the New Yorker" will indeed get me naked.
About two or three years ago, a fellow Myspacer dropped me
a note about how much he enjoyed my writing and quickly
signed up for a subscription about my musings. A bonafide
fan! There's nothing as heady or as ego-boosting as someone
who just wants to talk about how great I am. It's certainly
my favorite topic and only a matter of time before the rest
of the world agrees. He was cute to boot too!
Neveda is his name and hippieness is his game. He lived in
a faraway state, but over the months we developed a
friendship and mild flirtation. Eventually he came into
town, and we agreed to meet. There was anticipation and
complete fear that I had no idea what his name was. He
stopped signing his name to our emails after our second
correspondence. I had a hunch he was named after a state,
but I didn't want to risk the humiliation of calling him
Washington only to be chided that his name was really Dave.
We agreed to meet in Union Square which is not recommended
to meet complete strangers unless you have specific details
like near the Barnes & Noble. After numerous texts, I
manage to track him down. He wasn't lying when he said he
was wearing a fireman's jacket. While I was expecting a
wind-breaker, this was the fire retardant real deal. We hug
and exchange pleasantries. After subtly confirming his name
was indeed Neveda, we decided where we should eat.
We settled in Gab N Snack, and Neveda made a quick phone
call for his cousin to join us. I am completely confused. A
cousin? Joining us? Isn't this a date? I quickly
rationalize that he's only in town for about 2 days and
probably needs to multi-task or maybe he's had bad
experiences before and wants his cousin to insure his
safety from potential psycho killers like myself.
Cousin Nash arrives several minutes later, and immediately
engages Neveda in a conversation about cars. A subject I
could care less about. Under the guise of being a friendly
sort of person that cares, I ask Nash a couple of general
questions. I am soon informed that Nash is a male stripper
or exotic dancer. Since Nash certainly qualifies to shop in
the Husky department, I'm a little taken back. He continues
to fill me in on his latest costume purchase which is a
Vampire/Batman-esque costume complete with cape and mask.
If he can squeeze in a couple of extra shifts, he'll be
able to afford that new Range Rover. It seems the ladies
love a dark knight.
Our little threesome walks around the city a bit. Neveda
receives another call and instructs the mysterious stranger
to meet us on the next block. The mysterious stranger is
another red-headed woman who is desperate to make a cake.
So desperate that she has all the ingredients tucked safely
away in her miniscule backpack. The original twosome is now
a foursome. I am beyond thoroughly confused. Probably
another reason I am still single is that I cannot decipher
between friends and "friends". I am obviously out of my
league.
We end up at Neveda's home for the next two days. It's an
awesome space in the meatpacking district, but it's really
the World Trade Center museum. Once again, this shit could
only happen to me.
Our female friend ooh and aahs over the 9/11 artifacts, yet
doesn't seem to grasp what actually happened on that
fateful day. "You mean steel can actually get hot enough to
melt? People died that day by jumping? The air was
contaminated?" were only a handful of the inane questions
she asked. I couldn't help but think how bizarre it is to
stay in a room that captures the death of 3000 people not
to mention how Nash and Neveda can stand the company of
this twit.
My questions unanswered, we watch a Jet Li movie "The
Animal". We settle into a huge leather couch and watch on
this enormous giant screened TV. Our lady friend still
wants to bake her cake, but Neveda declared the kitchen
strictly off limits. Nash and I make small talk in the
hopes of pretending this is a perfectly normal night out.
Neveda informs us that this film really shows Jet Li's
growth as an actor.
It's time for some much needed herbal refreshment, and take
a walk down to the basement. The joint is passed around,
but it doesn't help make this girl any saner. She blathers
on about smoking Swiss-style, flowers, and the trouble she
got into when she was 15. I keep wondering how I can make a
polite escape.
We file back into the museum and finish watching Jet Li's
finest. I'm guessing Morgan Freeman was in it for the
money. Neveda gets nervous about the neighbors and lights
incense and sprays freshener in the hallway. Our lady
friend is even more insistent about baking her culinary
confection, but is shot down every time. Each denial only
strengthens her quest. Citing an early morning, fatigue,
and anything else he can think of Nash makes a quick escape
from the madness. The minutes the credits roll I do the
same.
I never expected to hear from Neveda again. Surprisingly he
was back in the city weeks later. He apologized for his
friend. They've been internet friends for years, but
apparently internet has a pesky habit of masking the crazy
in someone. Live and learn I suppose. We meet for a dinner
again. The only expectation I have this time is material
for a future blog.
We sip mojitos. He complains about the prices and
inauthenticity of the restaurant. I grapple for
conversation. The caveat of sharing your life on-line is
that people tend to read it. It makes sharing things a bit
frustrating. Every attempt I made was briefly cut short
since he remembered reading about it. No fun telling a joke
if you already know the punch line. Even I'm losing
interest in my favorite topic. I shift the conversation his
way and mistakenly find out about his mother's landscaping
problems with garden snakes. His mother wants to hire an
exterminator, but Neveda says that is inhumane. I'm treated
to a 10 minute PETA speech about the precious lives of
animals especially garden snakes. considering my fear of
snakes I don't agree. We struggle some more for some common
ground. I learn this next interesting tidbit that he's
expecting a baby next month. It's then I realize there's
something to be said about getting to know a person.
Suddenly, I the guy with the fellatio obsession doesn't
seem like such a bad deal after all.
neveda
I am not one of those people who can say that they met
their true love on-line especially through myspace. While
others may hear from dreamboats and gentlemen, I usually
get such love notes as "I want you to suck my big, veiny
mushroom-headed cock". Nothing but pure poetry, but
something tells me he's not interested to know the "real"
me.
I write these stories on a semi-frequent basis in the hopes
of being discovered as the next great literary talent.
Besides the occasional encouraging friend, it's a rarity to
hear raving praise from complete strangers about my words.
I'm highly responsive to flattery. Statements like "you
should write for the New Yorker" will indeed get me naked.
About two or three years ago, a fellow Myspacer dropped me
a note about how much he enjoyed my writing and quickly
signed up for a subscription about my musings. A bonafide
fan! There's nothing as heady or as ego-boosting as someone
who just wants to talk about how great I am. It's certainly
my favorite topic and only a matter of time before the rest
of the world agrees. He was cute to boot too!
Neveda is his name and hippieness is his game. He lived in
a faraway state, but over the months we developed a
friendship and mild flirtation. Eventually he came into
town, and we agreed to meet. There was anticipation and
complete fear that I had no idea what his name was. He
stopped signing his name to our emails after our second
correspondence. I had a hunch he was named after a state,
but I didn't want to risk the humiliation of calling him
Washington only to be chided that his name was really Dave.
We agreed to meet in Union Square which is not recommended
to meet complete strangers unless you have specific details
like near the Barnes & Noble. After numerous texts, I
manage to track him down. He wasn't lying when he said he
was wearing a fireman's jacket. While I was expecting a
wind-breaker, this was the fire retardant real deal. We hug
and exchange pleasantries. After subtly confirming his name
was indeed Neveda, we decided where we should eat.
We settled in Gab N Snack, and Neveda made a quick phone
call for his cousin to join us. I am completely confused. A
cousin? Joining us? Isn't this a date? I quickly
rationalize that he's only in town for about 2 days and
probably needs to multi-task or maybe he's had bad
experiences before and wants his cousin to insure his
safety from potential psycho killers like myself.
Cousin Nash arrives several minutes later, and immediately
engages Neveda in a conversation about cars. A subject I
could care less about. Under the guise of being a friendly
sort of person that cares, I ask Nash a couple of general
questions. I am soon informed that Nash is a male stripper
or exotic dancer. Since Nash certainly qualifies to shop in
the Husky department, I'm a little taken back. He continues
to fill me in on his latest costume purchase which is a
Vampire/Batman-esque costume complete with cape and mask.
If he can squeeze in a couple of extra shifts, he'll be
able to afford that new Range Rover. It seems the ladies
love a dark knight.
Our little threesome walks around the city a bit. Neveda
receives another call and instructs the mysterious stranger
to meet us on the next block. The mysterious stranger is
another red-headed woman who is desperate to make a cake.
So desperate that she has all the ingredients tucked safely
away in her miniscule backpack. The original twosome is now
a foursome. I am beyond thoroughly confused. Probably
another reason I am still single is that I cannot decipher
between friends and "friends". I am obviously out of my
league.
We end up at Neveda's home for the next two days. It's an
awesome space in the meatpacking district, but it's really
the World Trade Center museum. Once again, this shit could
only happen to me.
Our female friend ooh and aahs over the 9/11 artifacts, yet
doesn't seem to grasp what actually happened on that
fateful day. "You mean steel can actually get hot enough to
melt? People died that day by jumping? The air was
contaminated?" were only a handful of the inane questions
she asked. I couldn't help but think how bizarre it is to
stay in a room that captures the death of 3000 people not
to mention how Nash and Neveda can stand the company of
this twit.
My questions unanswered, we watch a Jet Li movie "The
Animal". We settle into a huge leather couch and watch on
this enormous giant screened TV. Our lady friend still
wants to bake her cake, but Neveda declared the kitchen
strictly off limits. Nash and I make small talk in the
hopes of pretending this is a perfectly normal night out.
Neveda informs us that this film really shows Jet Li's
growth as an actor.
It's time for some much needed herbal refreshment, and take
a walk down to the basement. The joint is passed around,
but it doesn't help make this girl any saner. She blathers
on about smoking Swiss-style, flowers, and the trouble she
got into when she was 15. I keep wondering how I can make a
polite escape.
We file back into the museum and finish watching Jet Li's
finest. I'm guessing Morgan Freeman was in it for the
money. Neveda gets nervous about the neighbors and lights
incense and sprays freshener in the hallway. Our lady
friend is even more insistent about baking her culinary
confection, but is shot down every time. Each denial only
strengthens her quest. Citing an early morning, fatigue,
and anything else he can think of Nash makes a quick escape
from the madness. The minutes the credits roll I do the
same.
I never expected to hear from Neveda again. Surprisingly he
was back in the city weeks later. He apologized for his
friend. They've been internet friends for years, but
apparently internet has a pesky habit of masking the crazy
in someone. Live and learn I suppose. We meet for a dinner
again. The only expectation I have this time is material
for a future blog.
We sip mojitos. He complains about the prices and
inauthenticity of the restaurant. I grapple for
conversation. The caveat of sharing your life on-line is
that people tend to read it. It makes sharing things a bit
frustrating. Every attempt I made was briefly cut short
since he remembered reading about it. No fun telling a joke
if you already know the punch line. Even I'm losing
interest in my favorite topic. I shift the conversation his
way and mistakenly find out about his mother's landscaping
problems with garden snakes. His mother wants to hire an
exterminator, but Neveda says that is inhumane. I'm treated
to a 10 minute PETA speech about the precious lives of
animals especially garden snakes. considering my fear of
snakes I don't agree. We struggle some more for some common
ground. I learn this next interesting tidbit that he's
expecting a baby next month. It's then I realize there's
something to be said about getting to know a person.
Suddenly, I the guy with the fellatio obsession doesn't
seem like such a bad deal after all.
june 4,2008
last night with mario lopez
"Tits & ass can change your life. It sure changed mine."
sang Audrey Landers in the 1985 movie of the Broadway
musical "A Chorus Line". Being 8 years old at the time, I
had no idea she was singing about breast implants,
however the words were vaguely taboo and that was enough
to tickle my fancy back in those days. Plus she did fan
kicks. Fantastically, fabulous glorious fan kicks.Who
wouldn't want to be a showgirl after seeing that
performance? Little did I know that I would spend the
rest of my life perfecting my fan kick and using that
song as an occasional mantra.
Flash forward to 2008 when a friend invites me to see
that very musical on Broadway. I'm ecstatic. Even more
ecstatic when I remember that the actor "internationally
known as AC Slater" is a prominent player in the cast.
Our seats are impeccable. Second row. If Slater so much
as sneezes, I will be right there to catch a glimpse.
The lights dim, the show starts, and I'm magically
transported back to the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theater
where my grandmother took me to see the national touring
company in Florida.
"Sing out Morales!"
As the show continues, I remember every song, every
dance. Just like John Leguizamo in "Freak", I'm right
there with Morales. I feel every non-woosh, every
struggle to feel like an ice cream cone as she digs right
down to the bottom of her soul to see what she feels
inside. She felt nothing, but I felt something. It's the
magic that only Broadway and jazz hands can inspire. As
quickly as the show started it ended. The finishing
singular sensation number is complete with sequins and
tons of applause. I study the choreography intensely,
knowing that I will be right in front of my mirror
tonight trying to recapture the top hat & cane combo. I
may throw in a little Fosse slinkiness for added effect.
After the show, my friend and I filter our way through
the crowd. We exit near the stage door where a small but
dense crowd hovers with cameras. I assume to catch a
glimpse of Mario Lopez himself. I'm not the type to hound
celebrities for autographs. It's just a signature, I have
one too. Plus even with an autograph I would still need
$1.25 for a cup of coffee. The cheesiness sucks me into
the fervor. Afterall, how awesome would it be to post a
picture of me and Mario Lopez on my myspace profile.
That's what it all comes down to doesn't it?
As we wait for his arrival, we start to crack jokes about
Mario Lopez. His nuanced performance in the role of
"Zach", his disturbingly veiny biceps, and his
questionable international fame. It becomes obvious that
Mario Lopez is the new John Wong. John Wong is a
childhood friend of mine that dates all the way back to
Ms. Ragno's class in the second grade. Though his name is
John, he will always be referred to as John Wong. There's
just something about his name that must be connected to
his surname. He's not John. He's not Mr. Wong. He's John
Wong. Mario Lopez has the same name musicality. As in:
"Mario Lopez, do you see the irony in playing a character
named Zach?"
"Mario Lopez, are you too good to hang out with your
castmates?"
"Mario Lopez, do you relax your hair?"
"Mario Lopez, why do you need a big SUV to drive you
home?"
"Mario Lopez, what is it like to be "Mario Lopez"?"
We continue to wait for Mario Lopez's big exit. The
lesser known castmemners make there departure through the
stage door. Take away the stage, the heels, and stage
makeup, and these people could be your co-workers. My
friend insists that I get autographs from the lesser
knowns so they can feel valued and important, but that
doesn't have the same cache as Mario Lopez. Anyway,
Morales made her exit, and we accost her with snarky
comments and questions while she scribbles on my
playbill. Tonight was special that's why she cried on
stage she explained. She patted my arm good bye and
disappeared through the night. I took this as a good sign
for meeting Mario Lopez.
There are 2 cars waiting by the curb. One is a modest
town car and the other is an ostentatious SUV variety. My
friend insists that Mario Lopez is humble and would opt
for less flash. We watch as "Cassie", the female lead,
jump into the town car and speed away. So much for that
theory.
I spot what could certainly be Mario Lopez's driver
circling protectively by the huge truck. I inquire if he
is indeed Mario Lopez's driver, and if he enjoys this
occupation. He's not amused and does not succumb to my
effervescent charms. A pushy midwestern soccer mom
interrupts our chat to insure that he hooks her daughter
up with a photo of her and Mario Lopez. Mario Lopez's
driver only looks on in disgust.
Suddenly a huge cheer errupts. Mario Lopez is here. Right
on 45th St. In a tank top no less! You just know that
means that Mario Lopez is a complete famewhore. My friend
insists that I do what needs to be done. I close in on
the SUV, but the opened door blocks me from getting any
closer. In a soft, wispy voice I exclaim, "Mario Lopez,
can I have your autograph?"My request goes unnoticed as
the door slams immediately. Undeterred I inform Mario
Lopez's driver that it was much more thrilling to meet
him instead. Even though I am being completely sincere,
Mario Lopez's driver regards me with nothing but complete
scorn.
The SUV speeds off into the night only to be stopped at a
traffic light. We casually stroll down the street just in
time to wave at the blackened windows and snap a photo of
the infamous SUV. If only the rest of the world knew who
was in that backseat.
last night with mario lopez
"Tits & ass can change your life. It sure changed mine."
sang Audrey Landers in the 1985 movie of the Broadway
musical "A Chorus Line". Being 8 years old at the time, I
had no idea she was singing about breast implants,
however the words were vaguely taboo and that was enough
to tickle my fancy back in those days. Plus she did fan
kicks. Fantastically, fabulous glorious fan kicks.Who
wouldn't want to be a showgirl after seeing that
performance? Little did I know that I would spend the
rest of my life perfecting my fan kick and using that
song as an occasional mantra.
Flash forward to 2008 when a friend invites me to see
that very musical on Broadway. I'm ecstatic. Even more
ecstatic when I remember that the actor "internationally
known as AC Slater" is a prominent player in the cast.
Our seats are impeccable. Second row. If Slater so much
as sneezes, I will be right there to catch a glimpse.
The lights dim, the show starts, and I'm magically
transported back to the Burt Reynolds Dinner Theater
where my grandmother took me to see the national touring
company in Florida.
"Sing out Morales!"
As the show continues, I remember every song, every
dance. Just like John Leguizamo in "Freak", I'm right
there with Morales. I feel every non-woosh, every
struggle to feel like an ice cream cone as she digs right
down to the bottom of her soul to see what she feels
inside. She felt nothing, but I felt something. It's the
magic that only Broadway and jazz hands can inspire. As
quickly as the show started it ended. The finishing
singular sensation number is complete with sequins and
tons of applause. I study the choreography intensely,
knowing that I will be right in front of my mirror
tonight trying to recapture the top hat & cane combo. I
may throw in a little Fosse slinkiness for added effect.
After the show, my friend and I filter our way through
the crowd. We exit near the stage door where a small but
dense crowd hovers with cameras. I assume to catch a
glimpse of Mario Lopez himself. I'm not the type to hound
celebrities for autographs. It's just a signature, I have
one too. Plus even with an autograph I would still need
$1.25 for a cup of coffee. The cheesiness sucks me into
the fervor. Afterall, how awesome would it be to post a
picture of me and Mario Lopez on my myspace profile.
That's what it all comes down to doesn't it?
As we wait for his arrival, we start to crack jokes about
Mario Lopez. His nuanced performance in the role of
"Zach", his disturbingly veiny biceps, and his
questionable international fame. It becomes obvious that
Mario Lopez is the new John Wong. John Wong is a
childhood friend of mine that dates all the way back to
Ms. Ragno's class in the second grade. Though his name is
John, he will always be referred to as John Wong. There's
just something about his name that must be connected to
his surname. He's not John. He's not Mr. Wong. He's John
Wong. Mario Lopez has the same name musicality. As in:
"Mario Lopez, do you see the irony in playing a character
named Zach?"
"Mario Lopez, are you too good to hang out with your
castmates?"
"Mario Lopez, do you relax your hair?"
"Mario Lopez, why do you need a big SUV to drive you
home?"
"Mario Lopez, what is it like to be "Mario Lopez"?"
We continue to wait for Mario Lopez's big exit. The
lesser known castmemners make there departure through the
stage door. Take away the stage, the heels, and stage
makeup, and these people could be your co-workers. My
friend insists that I get autographs from the lesser
knowns so they can feel valued and important, but that
doesn't have the same cache as Mario Lopez. Anyway,
Morales made her exit, and we accost her with snarky
comments and questions while she scribbles on my
playbill. Tonight was special that's why she cried on
stage she explained. She patted my arm good bye and
disappeared through the night. I took this as a good sign
for meeting Mario Lopez.
There are 2 cars waiting by the curb. One is a modest
town car and the other is an ostentatious SUV variety. My
friend insists that Mario Lopez is humble and would opt
for less flash. We watch as "Cassie", the female lead,
jump into the town car and speed away. So much for that
theory.
I spot what could certainly be Mario Lopez's driver
circling protectively by the huge truck. I inquire if he
is indeed Mario Lopez's driver, and if he enjoys this
occupation. He's not amused and does not succumb to my
effervescent charms. A pushy midwestern soccer mom
interrupts our chat to insure that he hooks her daughter
up with a photo of her and Mario Lopez. Mario Lopez's
driver only looks on in disgust.
Suddenly a huge cheer errupts. Mario Lopez is here. Right
on 45th St. In a tank top no less! You just know that
means that Mario Lopez is a complete famewhore. My friend
insists that I do what needs to be done. I close in on
the SUV, but the opened door blocks me from getting any
closer. In a soft, wispy voice I exclaim, "Mario Lopez,
can I have your autograph?"My request goes unnoticed as
the door slams immediately. Undeterred I inform Mario
Lopez's driver that it was much more thrilling to meet
him instead. Even though I am being completely sincere,
Mario Lopez's driver regards me with nothing but complete
scorn.
The SUV speeds off into the night only to be stopped at a
traffic light. We casually stroll down the street just in
time to wave at the blackened windows and snap a photo of
the infamous SUV. If only the rest of the world knew who
was in that backseat.
november 19, 2008
the Nathan Project
Ladies, are you over thirty? Are you single? Do your
friends think it's unfathomable that you are alone and
flowerless on Valentine's Day? Has a perfect stranger
stopped to give you a free copy of "Stop Wondering If
You'll Ever Meet Him?"?
Stop the insanity and change your destiny! For me that
started with a name. That name is "Nathan". I envisioned
that if I were to have a mate, he would bear that name.
Nathan's a common name but not so plentiful. Finding a
Nathan would be like finding a white rhino. You know it's
out there, but few people have seen it. It's a rare and
exotic treat. Sure it may be the name of a hot dog, but at
least it's not Justin or Michael. Ick! Plus, Nathan has a
slight whiff of avant garde but without that bearded
slacker hipster vibe. All you need is vision, or perhaps
just to watch "Gattica" a couple of times.
Disappointingly, there is not a website named
potentialboyfriendsnamednathan.com. I checked. I thought
about registering it. I could be on to something here.
Potentialboyfriendsnamednathan.com could be the next
myspace.
With a lack of a Nathan database, I was forced to do the
social networking thing, and search for random Nathans in
a 5 mile radius. As an aside, my best friend recently had
a dream that I was carrying my second child. The child was
fathered by the mysterious, unknown "Walter". Should the
potential boyfriend named Nathan search not be fruitful,
Walter will be the backup. Always have a plan B.
After a quick browse through my local area, I discovered
two things. Firstly, Nathans are hot! Second potential
mates named Nathan is far from an original idea.
Nathan Semler - married!
Nathan Carpenter - in a relationship!
Nathan Keene - truly madly deeply in love!
Nathan Nolen Edwards - will graduate high school in 2010
but is also in a relationship!
There's also the problem of the ambiguous "Nathans" whose
profiles are private and their relationship statuses are
unknown. Nathan McCormick and Nathan Ingo will not be
hearing from me! In the name of privacy, these "Nathans"
have missed out on opportunity knocking. Once it again, it
just goes to show that you never know.
I stumble across Nathan Gwyne. Gwyne? Hmm...like Fred
Gwyne from "The Munsters"? Could he be a relative? I belly
dance with the widow of Grandpa Munster. I know an omen
when I see one! I read the Alchemist.
Beisdes the challenge of finding the rare single "Nathan",
there is the obvious real stumbling block of this
experiment. How does one explain to "Potential Boyfriend
Nathan" that he is my potential boyfriend named Nathan,
and not come off as the "scary girl". You know, that
psycho girl, and the cause for why Nathan's profile is
now private. It could be a bit of a turn off. Sort of like
showing up on a first date with pictures of engagement
rings. Sadly, Project Nathan has been aborted.Curiously, I
did search for potential baby daddies named "Walter".
Let's just say there will not be any potential "Walter"
fansites in the near future. Perhaps it's time to start
reading that book.
the Nathan Project
Ladies, are you over thirty? Are you single? Do your
friends think it's unfathomable that you are alone and
flowerless on Valentine's Day? Has a perfect stranger
stopped to give you a free copy of "Stop Wondering If
You'll Ever Meet Him?"?
Stop the insanity and change your destiny! For me that
started with a name. That name is "Nathan". I envisioned
that if I were to have a mate, he would bear that name.
Nathan's a common name but not so plentiful. Finding a
Nathan would be like finding a white rhino. You know it's
out there, but few people have seen it. It's a rare and
exotic treat. Sure it may be the name of a hot dog, but at
least it's not Justin or Michael. Ick! Plus, Nathan has a
slight whiff of avant garde but without that bearded
slacker hipster vibe. All you need is vision, or perhaps
just to watch "Gattica" a couple of times.
Disappointingly, there is not a website named
potentialboyfriendsnamednathan.com. I checked. I thought
about registering it. I could be on to something here.
Potentialboyfriendsnamednathan.com could be the next
myspace.
With a lack of a Nathan database, I was forced to do the
social networking thing, and search for random Nathans in
a 5 mile radius. As an aside, my best friend recently had
a dream that I was carrying my second child. The child was
fathered by the mysterious, unknown "Walter". Should the
potential boyfriend named Nathan search not be fruitful,
Walter will be the backup. Always have a plan B.
After a quick browse through my local area, I discovered
two things. Firstly, Nathans are hot! Second potential
mates named Nathan is far from an original idea.
Nathan Semler - married!
Nathan Carpenter - in a relationship!
Nathan Keene - truly madly deeply in love!
Nathan Nolen Edwards - will graduate high school in 2010
but is also in a relationship!
There's also the problem of the ambiguous "Nathans" whose
profiles are private and their relationship statuses are
unknown. Nathan McCormick and Nathan Ingo will not be
hearing from me! In the name of privacy, these "Nathans"
have missed out on opportunity knocking. Once it again, it
just goes to show that you never know.
I stumble across Nathan Gwyne. Gwyne? Hmm...like Fred
Gwyne from "The Munsters"? Could he be a relative? I belly
dance with the widow of Grandpa Munster. I know an omen
when I see one! I read the Alchemist.
Beisdes the challenge of finding the rare single "Nathan",
there is the obvious real stumbling block of this
experiment. How does one explain to "Potential Boyfriend
Nathan" that he is my potential boyfriend named Nathan,
and not come off as the "scary girl". You know, that
psycho girl, and the cause for why Nathan's profile is
now private. It could be a bit of a turn off. Sort of like
showing up on a first date with pictures of engagement
rings. Sadly, Project Nathan has been aborted.Curiously, I
did search for potential baby daddies named "Walter".
Let's just say there will not be any potential "Walter"
fansites in the near future. Perhaps it's time to start
reading that book.