Posts Tagged ‘dork’

Well, Your Man Won’t Dance

January 13, 2016

But I will.

Oh.

My.

God.

Total nerdgasm.

I was meeting my person at Church Street Cafe this evening after work, grabbing a tea, just about to turn off my phone and I see a little notice on my Instagram feed.

Mike Doughty just liked your photo.

Followed by.

Mike Doughty is now following you.

What?!

Fuck me.

Wet panties.

Wet.

I am a dork.

I admit it.

I saw that man up front and personal when I was a wee lass, at the Eagles Ballroom in Milwaukee when Soul Coughing was on tour for Ruby Vroom.

I saw him solo at Cafe Montmartre in Madison and I talked to him, briefly about maybe booking a gig at the Angelic Brewing Company.

I remember one of my friends, a co-worker, was so in love with him and screamed out his name and belted out his lyrics, then in a hushed moment declared her unending love and the fact that she was high on mushrooms.

He heckled her so hard she left out of pure mortification.

I saw him back a couple of years ago at The Fillmore when he was playing the Ruby Vroom album pretty much solo and I just finished reading his memoir and like a dork, really thought hard about bringing it with and asking for an autograph.

I didn’t.

But.

I did get my own form of mortification.

I was right up front with my man Stark Raving Brad and our mutual friend Dirty was somewhere out there too with another friend, and I was bobbing along to a solo acoustic rendition of Janine when Doughty changed up the lyrics and said “Edna St. Vincent Millay” instead of the  radio announcer’s name and I whooped out acknowledgement.

He startled, obviously surprised that anyone got the reference.

Secret.

Shhh.

I won a gold medal at an 8th grade forensics meet in Wisconsin when I was at DeForest Middle school reciting a poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

She’s my kind of woman.

And Mike.

Well.

Gah.

He gave me a nod and a smile.

I wanted to sink below the floor.

Or give him a blow job.

Heh.

He got me through the sads in Paris I must have listened to Yes, And Also Yes until I knew every single song back and forth.

It was a part of my soundtrack.

It still is.

I have it on the stereo right now.

Just a little hero worship.

Or.

Maybe some day we’ll meet.

Love, love made them beautiful at last.

She doesn’t fall in love, she takes hostages.

Let me take you hostage, baby.

Your new song can be 27 Carmens.

Instead of 27 Jennifers.

Bwahahaha.

Oh.

Gack.

I think the closest I have ever gotten to being a douche, but I reframed was when I saw Pete Yorn in the hotel bar at the W down on Mission and 3rd.

I bought him a drink and sent it over to his table.

He had some tiny, skinny, glam doll draped over him and they were both slunk so low down in the chair you could barely tell it was him.

But it was.

I asked the waitress and she nodded.

“Send his next drink from me, but you don’t have to tell him, just a fan,” I said.

Then.

“I mean, I owe the man a few drinks when I think about all the sex I had to Music For The Morning After.”

Then I got good and wasted myself.

Not so much anymore.

The days were darker then.

Not so now.

“You’re on your watch tonight, aren’t you,” he said to me from the deep brown leather chair in the front window of the Church Street Cafe.

I am.

One hour and thirty minutes.

Unless I get some crazy hair up my ass and run over to the 7-11.

I’ll buy a bunch of PowerBall tickets, a bottle or fifteen and then go throw myself in the ocean because my life will effectively be over.

Nah.

I think I’ll stay in.

And do what I did last year.

Drink a cup of tea and say some prayers of grace and thanks and let the clock roll over to midnight and then get on my knees and cry a little out of gratitude.

You know.

No biggie.

Just eleven years of being happy, joyous, and free.

And.

Sometimes depressed, wrecked, ravished, ravaged, and lost.

But never fucked up like I used to be.

No.

Never.

Sometimes so overwhelmed with sorrow that I think I will break.

“Does it bother you that I talk so flippantly about him,” my person paused, looking at me with piercing eyes, gentle, but probing.

“No, it’s ok,” I said.

And it is.

I think he would be proud of me.

“You aren’t going to relapse,” he said, “please, that’s just not in your stars.”

Not so far.

Your love is ghost.

But I still remember the kiss you gave me on that night sitting in the front row at Our Lady of SafeWay on a Friday evening.

You wrapped your arm around my shoulder and pulled me close and kissed my forehead.

I won’t ever forget that kiss.

Or.

The glow of you that last night I saw you alive.

I will always remember.

My dark star.

My heart.

I know how proud you would be of me.

I know how proud you are of me.

I hope you and Bowie are out on the dance floor together.

Toasting our souls with ginger ale.

I heard you whisper, “be the ball, Martines,” to me the other day when I was re-arranging the postcards hanging from my mobile.

I was putting up one I had forgotten I had sent myself from Paris.

On Christmas day from the Pompidou, I ransacked the gift shop and bought a cloth sack, a notebook, two magnets–one of the Pompidou and one of a Mark Rothko I really liked–and postcards.

I had written myself a note, one of congratulations for having made it through a blue period, I think Christmas Eve was the only night I thought I might die of heart ache and sorrow, but I knew, from having walked through it before that I would again.

And.

I did.

And it was Christmas and I was high on art in the Pompidou.

I bought a blue on blue on blue postcard of dense indigo; a smash of rich monochrome, super saturated, intense color.

I got that postcard in the mail, read it, and spun the mobile, looking for a place to clip it.

And there it was.

My post card from Hallowell, Maine.

The one I sent myself the Christmas I went to Maine to stay with your family, their first Christmas without you.

I heard your voice, “be the ball, Martines.”

Yes.

I think I will.

Year eleven.

I hereby declare is the year of being the ball.

The belle of the ball.

The apple of your eye.

The ball to be watched.

The ball to be chased.

Because.

I’m done doing the pursuing.

I am enough.

He knew.

He knew so many years before I did.

Mike Doughty knows.

He liked my street art photos from the Marais.

He’s following me.

Who knows who else will.

This is my miracle year.

I just fucking know it.

Like the clarion ring of a soft finger stroking the string on the neck of a guitar.

It resounds within.

Clear as a bell.

These.

Natural harmonics.

This singing of the spheres.

The lightness in my heart.

This divine glow of love all around me.

All.

Around.

Me.

This.

Love.

 

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I Got A Christmas Tree!

December 12, 2015

Yeah.

I know.

I am a dork.

So what?

I am a happy dork.

A very, very, very, very.

Happy ass dork.

Bwahahahaha.

Oh my gosh.

My heart is so full and bursting with love, it rather hurts.

But it’s that good kind of ache, that feeling when your face hurts from smiling a lot, my hurt hearts like that.

It’s an ache I can get used to.

I am also full and heart happy because I received the most beautiful gift from a girl friend today at school.

Oof.

I’m crying.

I just got so much love in this short little period of time.

I am almost overwhelmed by it.

Monstrous love.

How you try to eat me up, but I a still standing.

I shared something with this girl friend our last session at school, how I once had this angel ornament from when I was a little girl.

She was a porcelain angel, a little girl angel, with brown hair in a pink night gown with little bare feet underneath her kneeling legs and the smallest, prettiest pair of white porcelain wings.

Her head was bowed and she was praying with her eyes closed.

When I was a little girl I would think of that little Christmas ornament as me, as my best self, as that perfect little angel–literally.

I felt like a tiny bit of my soul was thrown away when I discovered I had lost that angel, that it had been thrown out in the trash.

I had forgotten about that angel until I saw my friend the first day of our class retreat across the room from me in a gigantic circle.

She was kneeling, her hands resting on her thighs, relaxed, yet alert with a kind of grace and lightness about her and she glowed.

Yeah.

I know.

Maybe it was because she was backlit.

Maybe it was because I was just actually seeing her true self with no filters.

Just this warm, white glow.

Sometimes people are lit up for you to see.

You just have to take the time to stop and notice them.

We had our reunion today at school.

She lives out of state and commutes in for the weekend.

It constantly amazes me the students that do that, hell I bitch about commuting from the Outer Sunset and there is a woman in my cohort who commutes from Miami, Florida.

It was wonderful to catch up and she told me she had a little something for me.

My birthday is next Friday, but I won’t see any of my classmates after this weekend until next semester.

Wow.

That is crazy to write!

Anyway.

She gave me the gift and said, I was drawn to it, it reminded me of you, open it when you get home.

I gave her a big hug and stuck it in my bag, and though I did not forget I also was distracted by a text that told me I had something waiting for me at my door when I got home.

I pulled up on my scooter after refueling at the gas station (figured I was going to have to do it tomorrow, might as well get it out of the way tonight) for the grand total of $1.63 and I peeked into the gated area of my house.

I didn’t see anything.

I thought, oh, I bet my housemate took what ever it was inside and left it by my door.

I secured my scooter, grabbed my keys, and went in the gate.

And there it was.

The tiniest.

Sweetest.

Most adorable little Christmas tree ever.

My heart, like the Grinch who stole Christmas, broke open four sizes too big and my face broke out in a smile and I laughed with pure joy.

I got a Christmas tree!

My darling, sweet, dear friend had left me a Christmas tree on my door step.

Am I the luckiest girl in the world or what?

I brought it inside.

Arranged my kitchen table.

Tucked my school books away for the night and took out my box of Christmas ornaments from the entry closet.

I strung it with blue lights and hung it with ornaments and my heart grew bigger and my smile grew brighter and well.

I think I just became this beacon of pure love in my little home.

I unpacked my present from my school girl friend and set it under the Christmas tree.

Perfect.

Absolute perfection.

I smiled some more.

I really was the fucking biggest dork, I don’t know if I could have let any one see me in these moments, even now I am a bit ridiculous with my glee.

Then.

I opened my gift.

Oh my goodness.

An angel.

A beautiful angel with brown hair.

Tiny wings on the backs of her strong shoulders.

Hands clasped behind in humility.

Eyes down looked and close.

Serene look on her face.

Roses.

Yes roses in her hair.

And these words carved into the fabric of her long dress:

Seeker

She could 

hardly believe

all that 

was waiting

when she 

finally opened

her Heart

and followed

her TRUE NORTH.

 

Excuse me while I collapse with tears.

The thing is.

It hit me while I was beginning this blog.

It was like she gave me back my little girl angel.

Except.

All grown up.

Alive, whole, beautiful, stronger for having been discarded, standing on her own feet, wings open behind her, serenity etched on her face.

I felt this wash of sorrow and grief open in me and flood out of my heart for the little girl that I had lost and for the gift of her coming back to me.

More alive and real than I could have ever imagined back when I was so young and struggling and lost to the wiles of the world.

I am still seeking.

And may I seek forever and for always.

I know, though, I am well on my way and loved.

Oh.

So.

Loved.

I put my angel at the foot of my Christmas tree.

My little guy is too small to bear the weight of the angel.

So she will be my anchor and my acknowledgement of who I am.

Of how far I have come and.

Most importantly.

How I shall proceed.

From a deep abiding place.

Of

Compassion.

Joy.

And.

Love.

 

 

 

You Know it’s a Bad Date When

April 23, 2012

You find yourself daydreaming about oatmeal.

I am having a fabulous sushi dinner and all I can think about is, I wish I had stayed home and made oatmeal for dinner.

Yup.

It was that scintillating.

Poor man, it was a pity date.  He’s not a bad guy, but my gosh, he is a boring fella.

I completely understood how he is divorced twice.  I get it.  I am surprise he was even married twice, but I guess it takes all kinds.

I was on the dork date from hell.  Fantasy novels, science fiction, and obscure Kurosawa films.  My gentleman caller nailed them all.  That and grilling me on Game of Thrones.

Sorry dude, I have not read the books.  I understand they are great, but no, I have not read them.  Or any of the other fantasy authors you espoused.  And unfortunately for said authors, I won’t be hunting them up soon.

I may get lost in space-time continuum and never come back.

Oh. My. God.

Apple tech guy, silicon valley, science fiction, pot smoking dork.

I apparently can’t pick them on OkStupid either.

It was fun to wear heels.  He was tall.  I haven’t worn heels out in a little while.  It was nice to rock something other than my Converse.  And I have to say, I did look quite sassy.

I also got the thumbs up nod from the appreciative eye of the waiter, which was then quickly followed by looks of condolence as he came back and served our meal to us.

Sigh.

Not the worst date ever.  That honor still goes to the Russian guy who wanted to know what my favorite sexual positions was after offering to buy me a banana to accompany my latte from Star Bucks.

Yick.

But there was not a single shred of chemistry.  I managed to nod my head politely, but I got lost listening to the blow-by-blow of the latest science fiction fantasy novel he was reading.

Ugh.

Well, chalk one up to giving it the old college try.  Can’t find the one if I’m not willing to sift through the dorks.

And the thing is, I don’t dislike dorks, nerds, or previous members of the AV Club.  In fact, they can be super sweet, intelligent, nice guys.

Nice guys are nice.

This guy was just flat-out boring.  And a bit pedantic.

Ok, a lot pedantic.

I at least had the excuse of being truly exhausted from work.  No day off makes Carmen a tired girl.  Thank God the divine Ms. Beth brought me a coffee from Fayes this afternoon and delivered it with a sunburnt hug to boost me through the end of work.

I know she was not happy getting sunburnt, but it was lovely to feel a little warmth, before I got on my bike and headed off into the fog.  Summer’s officially here, the fog has rolled in.

It looked like snow.

And felt a little like it too when I was riding my bike home from Dorland Street before meeting up with Mister Silicon Valley for dinner.

He was a gentleman.  I will give him his due.  The door was opened for me, the chair pulled out, the arm offered, the check picked up.

I did my best to be nice, to be polite, but I was bored to tears.

Manners are lovely, a nice car is nice, dinner was good, and all I wanted was to be at home with my oatmeal.

There won’t be a second date.

This is not boding well for OkStupid.  I am not getting the nibbles I used to get on the site.  Then again, I am being upfront with what I am looking for and I am not trolling the site.  I have a pretty good distance from it.

I have popped on and off it since I put my profile back up, but there just seems to be a dearth of interested people.

So, what’s next?

Aside from making a spot of tea and crawling into bed with a down load of Game of Thrones.  I love the show! I just am not really interested in debating the merits of the characters with intimate details.  I don’t know the characters names, even after watching all of the first season.  It’s just a good show.

It would be like if a guy went on a date and the woman talked about the Twilight Movies non-stop.

He probably would not be wanting a second date, unless he was under sixteen and really horny.

Good gravy, I would not have dated this guy were I sixteen and horny.  Not that that makes a good measuring stick of who I want to date, but no chemistry is no chemistry.

Gah, poor guy even makes for a boring blog post.

Next.

Back to work.  Oh wait, I haven’t left work yet.  We lost two people yesterday.  I worked my day off.  I am glad I did, the shop would have been untenable had I not.  But it does make for a tired bike shop gal.

I won’t have a day off until next Saturday.  That makes for eleven days in a row with no day off.

But at the end, I get a three-day weekend.

And I am going to allow myself a new pair of heels when I get my next pay check.  I have already sourced them out.

Until then, Converse, fixed gears, and oatmeal are the rule.

 


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