Hard to Swallow

I used to have a list. And on this list were all the traits that I wanted in a potential boyfriend.

These traits included (but were not limited to): loves me, tall, artistic, funny, loyal, monogamous, athletic, around my age, healthy, kind, good relationship with his parents, good friends, tips generously, employed, driven, spiritual, attractive to me, and goal-oriented. He would love to watch television, hike, go see movies, try new things, travel, cook and only have eyes for me.

Apparently this man does not exist.

And I don’t believe in “the Secret” or the "Law of Attraction" either. I’ve had Bob Harper on my dream board for two years now and the closest I’ve come to a relationship with him has been NBC renewing The Biggest Loser.

Two months ago, my friend Julie called me on the way home from her audition for Cold Casewhere she was reading for the part of a dead stripper. “I have someone I want to set you up with! His name is Jon. He’s really sweet. A lawyer. And he has nice arms.”

“Has nice arms” should never be one of the top attributes used in pitching you as a blind date. Alas, I replied, “he sounds perfect!”

For two months we kept missing each other like characters in a Meg Ryan movie (back when she made good movies and had less work done than the Griffth Park Observatory). Julie decided we should do a no-pressure, casual outing. Just him, her, his roommate and me.

With two months, I had a huge lead time on research (read: cyberstalking) of Jon the really sweet lawyer with nice arms. My spy skills are unprecedented. Seriously, I could teach classes. But this man is a ghost.

He’s a lawyer and yet there isn’t one single mention of him on the entire world wide web. (Except for one link that listed his home address, but with the cost of gas nowadays, drive-bys and stakeouts are too expensive.)

No MySpace. No Facebook. No Connexion. Not even a forgotten Friendster profile.

So this made the meeting all the more exciting. Maybe this was “the one!” With no knowledge as to what he looked like, maybe we would fall in love at first sight. Years from now, we would tell our adopted Namibian children how we spent years in the same city, getting coffee at the same coffee house, going to the same gym and yet, magically never once crossed paths.

Julie set the rendezvous at a restaurant called RFD. Wondering if it was anything like STK (a highly overrated steakhouse) which was just up the street, I Googled it. I learned that RFD stands for “Real Food Daily.”

A closer look revealed that unlike STK, RFD doesn’t serve anything that once had a face.

It was a vegan restaurant.

I gasped and screamed. “Oh Jesus! He’s a vegan!”

Going back to my list, I realized I had left off, “and eats meat.” There’s a lot I can take. I’ve dated a Republican. I’ve dated an atheist. I’ve dated a drug addict. I’ve dated a man who was engaged to his ex-girlfriend. I’ve dated a stripper. I’ve dated an actor. But I could not fathom dating a vegan.

I think my prejudice of vegans stems from a former acquaintance of mine. After years of fabulous BBQs, James and his perfect little partner, Gary, decided to give up the meat after someone sent them a YouTube of a cow being slaughtered. For months, I was inundated with various clips of animals being slaughtered and told about the “ravages and murders of animals.”

If God didn’t want us to eat meat, he wouldn’t have made animals so damned tasty. And God wouldn’t have given us honey mustard sauce.

But I’ll try anything once. Even if it meant going on a date with a vegan. I mean, he has nice arms, right?

Julie and I arrived first and secured a table. When he and his roommate arrived, he quickly dashed for the bathroom before saying hello. When he finally returned to the table, he proceeded to go through the menu in silence.

Again, I like food and I like trying new things. So I ordered the RFD burger with “the works.” I don’t think you should be allowed to call what I ingested a “burger with the works.” It looked like something used as a prop in Silence of the Lambs.

Thank God for my gag reflex.

It’s not that it didn’t taste good... it didn't have a taste. It was cold and the texture was revolting. I’ve since been told by my friend and fellow carnivore, Kitty, that RFD does in fact serve very good food and I just ordered the wrong thing.

It’s just been a really long time since I had to tell myself, “just swallow. Never mind how cold and chunky it is. Just smile and act like you’re having a good time.”

Regardless of the food, the vegan lawyer with nice arms was not having any of the Alex. Don’t ask me what color were his eyes. I couldn’t tell you. He never looked at me. He either looked at the other two people at the table or at the centerpiece. I came close to waving my hands in front of him and yelling, “yoo-hoo! Over here! Single, homosexual (who puts out on the first date) at three o’clock!”

He didn’t ask me one single thing about myself. I tried to engage him in conversation, but all I got were one word answers. I had a flashback to my childhood dining room table and suddenly felt the need to call my mother and apologize for years of teen angst. It could have been guilt or it could have been whatever that shit was pretending to be cheese on my “burger.”

The only bit of trivia I was able to extrapolate was that he doesn’t like to go out. Which is understandable. I wouldn’t go out either, but I at least try to make new friends and meet new people. Yes, most evenings I walk back to my car thinking, “I could have stayed home and watched Tabitha's Salon Takeover and had more entertainment.” But I try.

I put up a good fight. I tried. I really did. I even had tickets to see Duffy on Friday that I was going to offer if things went well. But with this date going down like the Titanic, we all simply shook hands at the end of the night and I went home as I usually do. Alone.

But he did have nice arms.

I called Ryann on my way home and asked her what she was doing Friday. With no plans to attend a “I Love Lisa Chang” party, she agreed to go with me to see Duffy at the Orpheum.

Duffy is my new favorite artist. Her song “Sugar and Honey” makes me want to do dirty things to myself every time I hear it.

The last time I went to a concert, I think it was Cher’s first farewell tour. I like music. I just don’t feel the need to spend a hundred bucks to sit in a chair and strain to see a tiny little spec move around on stage and try to convince myself that’s actually the artist I paid to see. I think my vision is going. And you know you’re getting old when you complain, “it’s too loud!” And even worse, “it’s ten o’clock! When is she coming on stage!? It’s passed my bed time!”

But Duffy. Duffy’s cute. She can’t dance to save her life and she moves around like one of those creatures in Mars Attacks, but she’s so endearing. And she has a cute accent. She’s like the anti-Winehouse. She makes me smile. She makes me happy. She has me begging her for mercy.

There’s something about her music that’s sad and, at the same time, playful. Like she doesn’t take herself or the boys in her life too seriously. She’ll never be a stepping stone. Which is a lesson I’m trying to learn.

Before the concert, we had a small dinner and tea at a place next door to the Orpheum called Sip Tea. The staff is very friendly and the food was very tasty. I opted for the organic peanut butter and jelly sandwich and pumpkin tea. I highly recommend it if you are in the area.

I’m not a downtown boy. I don’t like driving downtown. I don’t like parking downtown. I don’t like shooting downtown. I couldn’t imagine living downtown. Adam lived in a loft in New York. When we were together, I thought it was artistic and bohemian. Now I think of lofts as very nice prison cells (and not much bigger).

We had excellent seats in the balcony. But I couldn’t help but notice the eclectic audience that had gathered that evening. There were a lot of teenagers. A lot of old, well-heeled and sharply dressed married couples.

And then there were the gays. I felt like I was transported back to West Hollywood Park this past summer when all the weddings were happening. Couples everywhere. It was like a big gay Benetton ad. The tiny black couple. The gi-normous, bald cholo couple who looked like twins. The young twinks holding hands. The much older man and the young Asian guy.

It was at that point when I pointed to Ryann and said, “that’s going to be me one day. The dirty old man with the small, hairless Filipino boy. “

Ryann replied, “You won’t be dirty. You like to shower too much.”

And for the first time in a week, I laughed.