Writers, Rock Stars, and Bad Fashion Choices

The other night RE, alluding to the sex/hummus subtitle of the blog, asked if this was going to be a website devoted to dating. Goodness, no I replied; I mean, we've all seen Sex and the City, and god help me if I ever write the sort of drivel that Carrie did, and somehow got paid extravagantly for. I'm all for the occasional introspective post about the state of romance in the early 21st century, but I don't think there's enough material in my own life to drive this blog along. And even if there were, I'd probably be horribly embarrassed to give you much of a glimpse. What's more, let me just say that this blog's potential as a repository of dating anecdotes was seriously cut short last night when yours truly came to the sad, cliched realization that you most certainly cannot judge a book by its cover. (Or that maybe you most certainly should judge a book by its cover.) And that sometimes the cover looks a lot more like Bobby Flay than you initially realized. Seriously. Basically, this: about a month ago RL participated in a fiction reading that featured a number of youngish Brooklyn writer types. I came late, and through the window of the bookstore, I saw RL sitting next to some attractive young fellow, whom I later found out was another writer, DM. I very half-assedly emailed RL to ask for an introduction, should we all be in the same room together in the future. RL threw a party last night, and assured me that DM would be in attendance. And that DM was, in fact, single. Some brief g-searching confirmed that DM was a decently respected writer whose first novel apparently blew everyone away. DM was also in a band whose indie pop stylings were nicely up my alley. DM seemed like he might be a decent fellow. When I arrived at the party on the late side, RL said something to the effect of, "Oh, yeah, he's definitely coming. And he's bringing recreational drugs. And ... yeah, he's single. He's really single." The bit about the drugs made me a little cringe-y, but the really single bit -- that made me just plain scared. Like on-the-make single? I asked. RL nodded. I shuddered. I should note here that I, too, am single. Very half-assedly, half-heartedly single. I am not really single, in that I-need-to-get-laid-right-now sort of way. Shudder. So...yeah. DM shows up at the party, where he pretty much makes a beeline for a pair of attractive young ladies who very ditzily got all googly-eyed: oh wow, you're a writer? oooh! And either it was so dark outside, or googly-eyed is equivalent to blindness, but no one seemed to notice that DM was wearing not only an atrocious, oversized turquoise polo shirt, but also black shorts and profoundly unfetching Adidas flipflops. The man was a cross between frat boy and Bobby Flay (which might actually be sort of the same thing anyway). Was I disappointed? Sure. But mostly just confused. It was just a profound disconnect between what one does and what one looks like while doing it (or not doing it. And no, not that doing it). It's not like I think all writers of talent should look one way or another. I just don't expect them to look like ... that. Then again, it was already that sort of day: earlier, while watching 120 Minutes (oh yeah!), I got all excited when the video for the La's There She Goes came on. TK then pointed out: It's the alternate version. Just watch. And then the most horrific images came on the screen. I mean, it's a great, sweet-sounding song about heroin; I'm not suggesting that the video should show pretty English girls named Harriet and Polly riding their bikes through the English countryside. But I wasn't expecting lead singer Lee Powers to be playing his acoustic guitar while wearing track suit sans undershirt. Again, the man was wearing a track suit. Without an undershirt. Dear god. So I guess after that spectacle, seeing a probably very talented writer sporting myriad levels of ugliness -- well, all you can do is just shrug, right? It's not like all my dating stories are going to be about fashion, but I'm not going to get very far if the fellas are going to be stupid like that.