Are You Faking or For Real – What’s the Deal Dapper

27 October 2009

One of my most frequently googled posts led to the post in which I make the argument that Sexy comes in all shapes and sizes.  It is a belief to which I have fervently cleaved and embodied throughout my adult life.  The corollary notion that I am primarily attracted by intellect and words in equal or even greater measure than one’s luck in the genetic lottery is also a long held concept.  Like many other personal ideals, it can fall short when tested.

As I write this from the patio of my regular coffeshop, a woman sitting a few feet to my left is testing it.  I see Dr. Bly here all the time.  We became fast friends about a year ago when we shared a table because all others were taken.  Over the course of all those months we’ve had countless coffee dates both planned and unplanned, and I have found her to be brilliant, wickedly funny, a scintillating conversationalist possessed with a healthy dose of snarkasm*, love for wine and baseball**, and a terrific flirt.  By any reasonable measure of people, she’s aces over aces.

Dr. Bly also happens to be, according to scientific definitions she helps write and her own admission, morbidly obese.

When we don’t find someone attractive but others think wee should, or we wish we did, the lack of interest can be rested on absence of the indefinable spark.  I can’t do that because intellectually we spark.\; the chemistry exists and it is mutual.  If the fates were to realign and place her into a size 2-20 body, I would cross six lanes of traffic to ask her to have drinks with me, but this day, like every other day our paths have crossed, I choke on the invitation before she leaves.

I am not certain that the superficial demons on my right shoulder have shouted down more enlightened angels on my left; but I don’t like what it says about me either way.

 

_________________

*the evolutionary cross between sarcasm and snark

* her love of baseball is substantively mitigated by the fact that she is a Red Sawx fan

15 Comments | crush with a little c, dating, random stuff, sucks to write this, women | Permalink
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Easier Than I Thought… I am, That Is

15 October 2009

It was an apple crisp night with stiletto rain falling – the kind of evening possessed with an inherent romance like a train ride to NYC, or farmer’s market Sundays.  I had watched the sky grow darker and the rain colder from the comfort of a heated and covered patio.  The surrealism of watching the elements but not being among them was augmented by the strange introspection I’d been feeling all day.  After finishing my newspapers, a couple of bourbons, and most of one of my favorite cigars, I decided I needed to change the scenery.

Within thirty yards, there was the Metro, a bus, and a cab each of which would have conveniently ferried me to my next destination; but I was in a mood to walk.

I am one of those people that some of you hate (for a host of reasons I am sure, but I reference just one) who carries a rather large umbrella.  Four blocks into my walk I hadn’t poked any eyes or other body parts.  Waiting at a stop light a woman comes to the right of my extended cover.  My mind flashed back to one of LiLu’s moments.  I raised my umbrella and tried to find my most non-threatening voice before saying “Happy to share.”

“Thank you, I’m tired of getting wet” she replied as she moved closer to me before continuing “Uhmm, that didn’t come out right.”

“I think were fine; I know what you intended” I countered as we both laughed a polite laugh.

Not wishing to be rude, I ditched the nub of a cigar still smoldering in my left hand.  We walked for a couple of blocks making the kind of awkward small talk that strangers thrown together by circumstance are prone to make.  At another stop light she faces me and says “I think I know you.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Yeah, I think we’ve met before – you look really familiar.”

“I have to confess that I can be pretty bad with names and faces sometimes, so it’s quite possible – I’m Refugee; nice to meet you.”

“Now I know we’ve met because I had a feeling that was your name… oh, sorry, I’m Jade” she said with more animation than was required.

Given my history in these kinds of moments – I once introduced myself to a bartender I fired – I avoided the “how do we know each other” type of conversation while running though my mental rolodex trying to place our meeting.  We continued having conversation lite for another few blocks until landing in the general area of our destinations.

“Can I buy you a drink to thank you for keeping me dry?” Jade asked while pointing toward the entrance of a nearby watering hole.

Before I had a chance to answer the questions I should have resolved in my head before giving a reply, I heard myself say “It would be my pleasure”.

We had made our way to the back of the bar, got settled and ordered drinks before Jade excused herself to “freshen up.”

There was a beer waiting for her when she returned. I raised my glass to toast, but Jade interrupted with “I need to tell you how I know you.”

“OK, but shall we toast first so we can have a drink while you talk?”

“Cheers, then” Jade said.  “Let me be honest and tell you that I figured it out before I suggested that we have a drink.”

For some reason, I felt a sudden tension in my back like I was about to hear the worst of the scenarios I had conjured in my head.  “Go on” was all I could muster.

“That last couple of blocks I realized that I only kinda know you, and by kinda, I mean not really.  My friend who writes a blog knows you and she knows that I read your blog so she showed me your picture one day… I hope that’s not too weird.”

It was just a bit weird, but I kept my half-formulated thoughts to myself for the moment.  “It’s a touch off putting, but let’s not worry about it” I mostly truthfully declared.

Over the next hour and change, Jade and I had a rather pleasant conversation that only partly felt like an interview.  What follows are the more interesting interview questions and the ones that I think a few more people might want to know:

Why do you blog anonymously? When I started the blog the impetus might have been otherwise but I always suspected that I would write about restaurants.  There is an unwritten rule that restaurant professionals don’t criticize other restaurants publicly.  Given that I might get back into the business one day, and the nature of my current business I have to blog anonymously, though as evidenced by your friend with the picture, I haven’t always been so good at maintaining my anonymity.

That last post of yours was, uhmm, well you know what it was.  If you’ve got that kind of chemistry with her why aren’t you with her? That post was pure fiction – pretty sure I labeled it that way – and was just something I wrote to exercise some prose.  I’ve done it before… and, no, I won’t say if it was inspired by anyone or anything in particular.

Have you ever dated people you’ve met through your blog? A couple, and not sure if either was a good idea in retro(or current)spect. Though, I’m not sure that I wouldn’t do it again.  In a way, I think that meeting people whose thoughts you’ve read for a while is better than most of the random ways people meet.

Do you go out as often as it seems from reading your blog? Not sure how best to answer that question… sometimes yes, others no.  Part of what I do for a living requires me to be very social, and I certainly enjoy it.  At the same time, I enjoy staying home sometimes.  Fuck that sounded like I’m answering a question for a dating profile.

Are you ever going to finish that story about the night with the limo and the ball? I want to, I’ve tried to, I just hate the way the words are arranged on the page.  For some reason I just can’t seem to write about it in a way that makes me happy.  I know the point of it, the arc of it; I just can’t seem to tell it.

Are you going to write about meeting me tonight? Whaddayou think?

12 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, blog friends, dumb things I have done, random stuff, restaurants, women | Permalink
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Playing Poker with Old Foes

9 October 2009

I was the last person to join the poker game and that suited me just fine.  It made me the wild card, the unknown variable.  Inexperienced players usually don’t adjust to changes well and these cats were no exception.  It took six hands for me to become the chip leader, a baker’s dozen before it was just the host and me at the table.

We took a short break so she could say proper valedictions to her dispatched friends and the game resumed with an understanding that a new one had begun.  Playing “heads-up” poker by definition differs from a full table, but our history complicates things.  Did I have an advantage because I could trace the arch of her hips from faded memories?  Did she have an advantage because she knew to kiss the exact spot where my neck meets torso that will buckle a knee?  I didn’t know.  I  did know that I had the bigger stack of chips but that she was dealing from a loaded deck.

Six hands were a virtual draw with us shuffling chips around the table but neither of us gaining tactical advantage.  In the seventh hand, I was slow playing a set of Cowboys and she was waiting for a straight draw after the flop.  As she contemplated her bet, I felt the heat of her with the crossing of her legs and leaning one against mine.

“Do you really think I’m going to show you a tell just because you’re resting your foot against my calve like it belongs there” I asked.

“You just did…” she said while pushing her cards to the middle of the table.  I told myself that it was a lucky guess but I knew she was right.

Suddenly aware of my breathing or vulnerability – it was a jump ball – I broke one of my poker rules and poured another bourbon.  When I returned to my seat I laid down a jack-ten off suit behind a pre-flop raise and her hand rested on my knee as if to say “I knew you would fold – and I’m only partially talking about the game.”

With the cards in my hands and the first shuffle underway, a hand returned to my knee and moved slowly up my thigh.  I wouldn’t make eye contact choosing to instead focus on the suddenly more complicated task of shuffling.  Another hand fell atop mine – I should have folded but I made a big bet.  I stood and rounded the corner of the table and kissed her.  It was instantly familiar: my left hand starting on her cheek and moving to her neck and hair; her right hand starting behind my thigh and moving to the small of my back.

I pulled Jordan from her chair to meet me.  With her facing away from me, she pressed her body to mine while my lips had a conversation with her neck.  There was urgency in her touch and mine. My fingers found the hem of her skirt, the soft of her skin.  Curving around her thigh until the temperature increased, I caught sight of her face in the mirror on the opposite wall.  Watching her closed eyes, slightly parted lips, I suddenly felt like I was spying on her moment.

Refocusing on Jordan, I undid the top button that had been begging for freedom all night.  Fingering the lace of the bra that I’m certain matches the panties, I appreciated the effort – liberating another button, then another until her blouse hangs open and my right hand roams unabated by fabric.

Jordan turned to face me and we kissed with the fervor of teenagers bumping against curfew.  Leaning against the dinning-turned poker table-turned erotic prop, Jordan wrapped a leg round mine until I lifted her onto the table.  Both of her legs are crossed behind me now and my hands wander up her back.  I consider undoing the clasp of her bra but stop myself for reasons I don’t know.

Urgency became insistence as Jordan unlatches my belt, trousers and zipper in rapid succession.  I raised her skirt past her thighs and over her hips, feeling a hint of a tremor on her skin.  Lace moved to the side, and Jordan took a deep and audible breath with me inside her and her nails in my back.

We moved quickly but deliberately in a slightly un-syncopated beat.  Taking off my shirt suddenly became an imperative for Jordan.  “I always hated this shirt” she moaned into my ear just before leaning back and ripping it open sending buttons across the room and me just a bit hotter for her.

Before long Jordan has reclined on the table in a sexy, spent mass.  I start to speak but am preempted by her “Shhhhh, not yet.”

We sat silently for a few minutes until she rose to extinguish the lights.  There was one playing card stuck against the salty sweetness of back.  It was the Ace of diamonds.

6 Comments | dating, deep quiet, fiction, insomnia, random stuff, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, women | Permalink
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Emotional Fluffers and Hypocrisy

4 October 2009

WARNING: Navel Gazing Ahead

“…How does any of that change the fact that I feel like you contact me at your convenience, flirt with me at your leisure, and seemingly want me mostly as an emotional fluffer to remind you of your allure when your not feeling so alluring?”

That was the operative portion of an email I sent to a former-lover/maybe-friend in response to some suggestive messages she sent me late one recent night.  It wasn’t until I reread the email a few times (a self-congratulatory and vain habit I have when I feel like an email struck the perfect note) that I realized that I had been doing the same thing to various women and in varying degrees for much of my adult life.

This barely revelatory revelation shocked me despite its obviousness – I think that we have all done this at some point, right?  The hypocrisy of my outrage was the real problem for me.  There have been too many convenient women in my past, too many women that were fun enough, smart enough, attractive enough, but far from right, and I kept them around far longer than I ever should have.

This largely anonymous admission does little more than assuage my guilt about my past, but acknowledgement of one’s faults is the first step towards ownership of them. Right?

16 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, dating, random stuff, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, women | Permalink
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That’s What Old Friends are for? – part I

28 September 2009

The rain kept me in the house on Saturday.  It was a blissfully unproductive day in which I mainlined college football – props to USF, Stanford, VaTech, and a few other squads that made the day especially interesting – and generally ignored all manner of adult responsibilities.

About the time that I finally accepted that this would be that rare Saturday evening when I would stay in the house, my phone rang with a blocked number.  As is my custom when receiving such calls, I let it go to voicemail. It rang again and was ignored again.  The third ring in three minutes made answering an annoying imperative.

“Good evening, this is Refugee” I said with a hint of annoyance.  I could barely hear the voice on the other end, the caller clearly at a party with loud music in the background.

“[garbled, garbled, garbled] what’s your 20” the voice commanded.

“I can’t hear you, who is this?”

“Moving outside, stand by” my mystery caller said and suddenly became less mysterious.  It almost had to be an old grad school friend, Dave, who else do I know that consistently speaks in clipped borderline militaristic commands.  Dave and I met on the first day of our MBA program – we argued about the practical implications of the financial principle of Opportunity Cost in Advanced corporate finance class.  Our argument continued after class, escalated to a bit of yelling and we became fast friends.  He was a 29 year old former Lieutenant Commander in Navy Special Forces but only threatened to kill me with his pinky finger a couple of times.

“You can hear me know, right” he asked without bothering to wait for an answer before continuing “I expected to see you at this dinner; where are you?” Dave was referencing the gala that concludes the week of partying under the color of politics otherwise known as Congressional Black Caucus week.  He and I routinely catch up on this night when he flies in from the left coast and I mosey down the street to see and be watch the scene with the Black glitterati of politics and entertainment.

“I couldn’t do it this year, my friend, something about them giving an award to that step-n-fetch-it clown Tyler Perry” I replied in a generally true but equally lame explanation.

“Fuck that, fuck him – you need to double time it down here because I need a wingman” Dave replied.  “Hold one” he said quickly.

I could hear him on his other phone but couldn’t decipher the words.  A minute later he returns to our call and states plainly “I’ve sent the car to your place; Tony is our driver and he has instructions to ring your bell every two minutes until you come downstairs in a tuxedo.” With barely a breath, he continued “and Tony is an old [Navy] Chief so he knows how to follow orders.”  The line goes quiet.

I know that every word of Dave’s entreaties is true.  Factoring the distance and traffic, I guesstimate that I have about 25minutes to shower and get dressed.   I swallow hard, strip off my pajamas and get in the shower.  Still affixing my cufflinks when I get the first ring, I indicate that I’ll be down in a minute.  I grab bowtie and cummerbund, pat my pockets for the wallet, cigars, handkerchiefs, business cards, Crackberry, lighter, and pen.  I emerge from my place not yet fully dressed and Tony is at the door of the limo.

“Good evening, Mr. Refugee, there’s champagne in the cooler, Coltrane on the stereo and a party waiting for you.”

To be continued…

18 Comments | random stuff, something else I have started that I may or may not finish, women | Permalink
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Dating – the Triumph of Optimism Over Experience

22 September 2009

Our start wasn’t exactly rousing, but there was some energy in the room.  Allison, my blind date or as my friend, who tends to date zygotes because of the comparative ease called her “my latest reason to tell a story at the bar,” and I acquitted ourselves well by reaching the one hour mark of a blind date before we had approached the quintessential DC question –  “what do you do?” It was a place we found organically in conversation.  When she said cryptically “I work on The Hill,” wattage was lowered by her obfuscating tone and I should have moved to another topic.

Due to an exceedingly high degree of political dorkdom, I enquired further until learning that she is “senior staff for [redacted name of one of the most conservative Senators.]”

“Do you find yourself politically aligned with your boss?” I asked without judgment.

“You’re a liberal aren’t you?  This happens to me all the time in this city – I meet someone, things are kinda going well and then we have the inevitable political conversation.  Suddenly what was going OK goes to hell in a hand basket because he’s on the left and I’m on the right.”

There was more venom in her words and tone than I had expected, especially considering that I thought the evening was still salvageable.  I tried to deflect – “So you mentioned that you’re thinking about moving Uptown; what areas are you considering?”

That dodge worked for a minute or three before Allison coolly stated “So what’s your problem with my boss?”

“I am not going to pretend that politics aren’t important to me.  I’m not going to sit here and suggest that whomever my ideal partner might be she wouldn’t lean more towards the left, but I don’t think that we need to have this conversation. I’m suspecting that we have some differences and they’re substantive in both of our minds.  Why don’t we change the subject… or call it a night.”

As much as I am always eager for a principled and civil political debate (stop laughing, I know who you are,) I wasn’t looking for one this night.

“Since you’ve obviously decided this is going nowhere, why not tell me the problems you have with my boss?” Allison asked again.

There were a couple of more attempts to change the subject, and a couple more insistences from her, until I eventually sacrifice optimism and respond:

“I could get into the hypocrisy of his lip service to smaller government, or his opposition to gay rights a.k.a. civil rights, or his insane opposition to health care reform when his state is in possession of some of the worst health outcomes in the union, but really if you need any other reason than the fact that he believes that people with penis’ have business telling people with vaginas what to do with them, then you’re really correct – we have nothing to discuss.”

21 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, dating, sucks to write this, women | Permalink
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A Path to Seeing Colors

4 September 2009

Relationship red flags can be as heavy as feather against the skin, or as subtle as a sledgehammer to the head.  The ones I ignored on the way to the altar were so glaring that when I drove past the bank in Dupont Circle, instead of the time and temperature the sign would flash “Refugee, Don’t Do It!”

Given that history, I normally have a more sensitive flagometer than most.  Being an hour late for a first date should have sent it into the “back the fuck away zone.”  Displaying the fallacy of “as comfortable at a black tie affair as a dive bar” should have been another.  But I sat through it anyway.

The School Administrator and I had plans to meet at the hip new wine bar that proved to be too hip to make me a drink for 15 minutes.  I decided that going next door to a very solid dive bar and updating SA via text message was the better way to salvage an evening.  Forty-five minutes later my date’s disagreement with my assessment was palpable.

“We don’t have to stay here; I just didn’t want to stew in my own juices next door” I said after the perfunctory “hellos” and “you look greats.”

A short cab ride later we faced each other from the opposite deep backed chairs at the Ritz Carlton.  It was yet another moment of failed logic.

We were two manhattans and two spectacularly overrated glasses of champagne into the evening when my cerebral clouds parted.  SA was neither Vicky Vale to whom to show any bat caves, a unicorn to chase, nor a windmill at which to tilt.

“SA, I think I should call it a night.”

“It’s so early; are you sure? I don’t see a second date after a first that’s so… er, short.”

“I think we’ll both be ok with that.  Let’s just call it the gift of obviousness.”

12 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, dating, restaurants, skin hungry - to borrow a phrase, women | Permalink
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Open Letter to a Few Women in DC

27 August 2009

I understand that there is a not insignificant portion of the men in this city who seemingly strive to harass, objectify, and verbally abuse you.  I get it – I really do.  The best I can express is sympathy as I am not a woman and empathy is not possible.  My understanding, however, does not grant you or anyone license to display rudeness in the face of civility, hostility in the presence of cordiality.

A few of you deserving of special mention:

To the redhead at Starbucks this morning, despite your protests about my motivations and desire to “check out [your] ass,” I assure you I was simply holding the door for someone I mistook for a lady.

To the power suited woman rocking the red pumps in Kinkos, if a gentleman says “I love your shoes,” then a thank you is a more appropriate response than “I’m not interested.”

To the Plain Jane married woman at the seafood counter at Whole Foods, when I asked what you were planning to do with the Skate, sneering “Making it for my husband” only makes me doubt the existence of a man who would marry you.

To the past her prime platinum blonde who I encountered sitting at my local, it had been a really long day for me.  I had just finished working/cooking the bulk of the evening and had endured the indignities and accusations from the aforementioned women throughout my day and I still found enough civility to offer you a light without speaking a word.  I know that you “can” light your own cigarette, and can state the obvious.

None of you, however, can change me.

26 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, random stuff, the social contract, women | Permalink
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Loose Lips

24 August 2009

My dear friend, the Only Slight Sleazy Lobbyist, and I were at the tail end of the best kind of late and lazy summer Sunday.  Our unplanned day included top down driving around the city, a farmers market, a spin through Haines Point, a trip to the batting cage, and a couple of beers on a patio.  We went back to his place to watch the end of the Giants game on the massive porn machine that adorns his wall.  It didn’t take too long for us to realize that game was a replay from the previous night so we switched to the latest episode of Entourage.

E, my favorite character on the show, was having a conversation with his sort of girlfriend when he accidentally called her by his ex-girlfriend’s name.

OSSL: That ever happen to you?

Refugee: Once.  In bed with a woman too.

OSSL: Are you serious, what did you say?

Refugee: I didn’t know it happened… in my defense, we both had been boozing for a while.  I woke up the next morning and she was on the couch and really frosty toward me.  She and I were in a generally weird place, so I just thought she was in one of her moods.  I left.  It wasn’t until much later in the day that I got a text from her that asked “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

OSSL: How did you respond?

Refugee: I still had no idea what happened so I replied “Inasmuch as I haven’t a clue, what are you talking about?”  Then she told me that I said another woman’s name while we were in bed.  There really was no recovery from that, but that’s not the worst part for me.

OSSL: Oh god, what’s worse?

Refugee: I really just wanted to ask her what name I said.

15 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, dating, Only Slightly Sleazy Lobbyist, random stuff, women | Permalink
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You Can Give That Person My Number… or, The Longest Missed Connection Ever

17 August 2009

I like Bar X in a conceptual and cognitive sense but don’t truly feel it as my place for unquantifiable reasons.  I still get there randomly because my friend K, one of my favorite people on this planet and my favorite bartender, keeps one shift a week there.

I had just found a stool at the mostly crowded bar when K found me with a beer and a “So get this!” “A few months ago I did something I never do, answered a call from a number I didn’t recognize” she continued.  “It was around the time that I was looking for a new gig, so I thought that it might be from a job.  It wasn’t!  It was from some guy that I dated long ago and now he won’t leave me alone.  He keeps texting and calling me and just sent me one right before you came in.”

“K, have you had the blunt conversation with him yet?”

“No, I guess I have to now.”

Other people needed K’s attention, but as she set my second beer before me, I told my slightly related story.

“So… I had finally forgotten the number of a woman whose number I used to know by heart and haven’t had a reason to call in a long time.  I had deleted her from the phone, and my number changed so she didn’t have mine either. A month or so ago, I was drinking at a bar near her house.  I had just enough booze to mistake calling her for a good idea.  I got a wrong number and I was delighted to have been saved from myself.”

“Go on” K said warily.

“Two weeks later she runs into an old mutual friend who GIVES HER MY NUMBER.”

“Oh, that’s a major party foul” K said, her empathy showing.

It became a needed foul as I recently needed to ask this woman for help (for a friend) regarding an area of her professional expertise; but I still don’t need the temptation.

As my third beer arrived, I heard the familiar “Dooo, doo, do, do, dooo” that opens Stevie Wonder’s As from his legendary double album “Songs in the Key of Life.”  Bar X has a nice jukebox; and As is not a terribly obscure song.  However, I doubt that many people in the room where born when it was released, 1976, suspect even fewer knew the song, and was just shocked that someone would play it.

As around the sun the earth knows she’s revolving

And the rosebuds know to bloom in early May

Just has hate knows love’s the cure

You can rest your mind assured

That I’ll be loving you always

“K, I need to know who played this” I almost demanded.

“It wasn’t me.  Maybe it was T [the other half of one of the city’s best bartending tandems]”

“T, did you play this” I asked him with the same level of urgency.

“Nope” T answered with a hint of curiosity about the origin too.

As now can’t reveal the mystery of tomorrow
But in passing will grow older every day
Just as all is born is new
Do know what I say is true
That I’ll be loving you always

I turned to face the bar looking for someone who displayed an indication of ownership of the GOAT* of love songs.  Surely someone would be bopping a head, dancing a little but nothing.

“K, I really want to know who played this” I almost pleaded.

“I wish I could help you, Refugee, but do you really think that she’s in here?”

“Probably not; but I am so I can’t rule it out” I replied repeating one of my long held beliefs and turned to scan again.

Did you know that true love asks for nothing
Her acceptance is the way we pay
Did you know that life has given love a guarantee
To last through forever and another day
Just as time knew to move on since the beginning
And the seasons know exactly when to change
Just as kindness knows no shame
Know through all your joy and pain
That I’ll be loving you always
As today I know I’m living but tomorrow
Could make me the past but that I mustn’t fear
For I’ll know deep in my mind
The love of me I’ve left behind Cause I’ll be loving you always**

No one offered a clue. I got my tab resigned but hopeful simply because someone played a song.

“Thank you, K.  Love you lots; and if you find out who played that song you can give them my number and I won’t be any part of upset.”

___________________________

What obscure to slightly obscure song do you love so much that you would cross a room to talk to the person who played it on a jukebox?

___________________________

* Greatest Of All Time*** for those who don’t know, and yes it is the GOAT in my mind, if only my mind.

** For a full reading of the lyrics, click me.

*** Yes, I know that the acronym doesn’t hew to grammatical standards, but I dig it anyway.

___________________________

If you haven’t checked my new blog – dedicated to recipes that I make for my clients and friends – go here.

___________________________

For anyone who notices and likes the slightly changed look of the place, the pictures are courtesy of LiLu

7 Comments | bars aka where we get the booze, Crush with a big C, dating, random stuff, Uncategorized, women | Permalink
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Midlife Non-Crisis

29 July 2009

The Disgruntled Citizen of the World, otherwise known as Valerie, the author of the When I Become Queen Blog, is having a Midlife Crisis.  Hers is primarily related to music but I can relate on so many levels.  What began as a comment on her post has morphed into full on rant…

I am a late 30 something and exist, rather proudly for the record, on the other side of the generation gap. Lady Gaga could walk into the coffee shop where I am writing and slap me with impunity as I could neither pick her from a mug book nor identify a single one of her songs.  I generally lament the state of contemporary music and have happily severed my relationship with it with few exceptions.  I have simply decided that my time is better spent further exploring the brilliance of Coltrane, Marvin Gaye, Sinatra, and Nancy Wilson’s of the world than finding the gems among the screeching, preening, self congratulatory artists that would lay claim to their collective mantle.

I detest reality television (Top Chef being the notable exception) and brag about never having seen a single minute of American Idol.

I loathe current comedy which, to my taste, has descended into a morass of fart jokes and gross-out humor. I’ve seen every episode of Frasier (thanks to Lifetime’s reruns) and ponder if there will ever be a spiritual successor to the brilliantly pithy and wryly told stories of the Crane brothers, et al.

When forced to send text messages, I ostentatiously and unapologetically use semi colons and parentheticals. I refuse to date women who send me more than two “LOL’s” per week regardless of the medium. I will not Twitter, Facebook*, or subscribe to any other self-important social medium (though I readily acknowledge the irony of my blogging.)

I don’t begrudge anyone, especially my friends on the other side, the indulgences I reject.  I happily visit them at places like Recessions where I’ve been known to down spectacularly large mugs of Miller Lite and sing karaoke.  As the saying goes, some of my best friends are younger than me.  I don’t consider myself any wiser, more sophisticated, or better than them… just older and with occasionally differing tastes – tastes that reflect my version of life on this side.

I am happy here and have one hundred percent confidence that, for me, the grass is greener, the bourbon richer, and the women more interesting from this vantage of the generational fence.

_______________________

You know it is Wednesday and I took my turn as contributing editor at DC Blogs. Go on check out that which moved me more than most this past week.

The following excerpt is one that I wanted to include but the Executive Editor and I ultimately agreed was a bit much for DC Blogs.  It certainly deserves your attention, however, if you’re not already hip:

It took me several years to fully understand the lyrics to the Ready for the Word song Digital Display.  If I had this handy instructional post from City Girl’s Blog, my accent on the learning curve would have been much faster –  Finger Licking Good-Part III contains explicit material.

14 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, blogging life, dating, random stuff, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

The Underlying Truths that Set Me Free

15 July 2009

You’re a really terrific woman, but I don’t have time and space in my life to start something…

With you.

I am deeply attracted to you; the reason I didn’t stay the other night had nothing to do with that…

But everything to do with the fact that I had grown tired of you and wanted a cigar more than I wanted to get laid.

I could kiss you all night…

Except for when you press your face too hard against mine and I can feel your teeth pressing through my lips and threatening to draw blood.

I’d love to go with you to a Bastille Day Party…

But I wonder how much it will cost me since in the five times we’ve gone out (in at least as many weeks) you’ve had a dozen opportunities to open your wallet but never have.

I really sorry that I had to cancel dinner with you…

However, when I told you that I had to go deal with my ailing father again and you pouted about your new dress and cancelled plans, I learned everything I needed to know about you.

I’m really sorry that timing isn’t in our favor…

And that it never will be.

19 Comments | dating, dumb things I have done, parents, sex, smoke in your eyes, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Stream of (mostly) Restaurant Consciousness

1 July 2009

I have long maintained the following truths about the brunch scene in Washington, DC:

  • It is largely unimpressive with unimaginative cooking.
  • It is generally overpriced given the aforementioned mediocrity.
  • If I must go out for brunch, I would rather go to the exceptions to the prior two truths (Cashion’s, anywhere Gillian Clarke is cooking) or someplace with inexpensive mimosas because most place’s eggs are just eggs.

So it was that I found myself in a place with inexpensive mimosas and just average eggs on not too recent Sunday afternoon.  I was in the company of a food-loving woman with whom I used to be friends and to whose good graces I wanted to return.  Inevitably, our conversation centered on restaurants and food and I soon learned that she had never been to Restaurant Eve.  With a quick invitation, I returned to good graces…

**************

Restaurant Eve has for several years been considered, by anyone who knows anything about food, among the top five restaurants in the city and among the top fifty in the country.  Dining there is an exercise in elegant simplicity with a staff that defines superlatives for the region.  I have lauded  them before; the distinction in this mentioning is that I am stating without equivocation that it is the single best bar at which to dine in the area.

Comfortably elegant with reserved décor, Eve’s bar makes it clear that its focus is trained on libation and food.  You can have all of the “bar chef’s” in the world and I’d better serious cash that none of ‘em can make a Manhattan as good as Tammy.  As always, the food was rock-ya-socks good… which was rather important because the date decidedly sucked.…

***************

The date may have sucked but I did have the asparagus dish which inspired (minor inspiration, but inspiration nonetheless) the most awesomest salad ever…

**************

That was a dish that formed in my head while I was walking through Whole Foods shopping for ingredients to be used later that evening.  It reminded me of a recent challenge on The Next Food Network Star, which got me thinking about my friend/ NFNS contestant, Teddy Folkman of Granville Moore’s.  I don’t know if it is simply the editing, a mutation induced by the presence of cameras, or an act of desperation to remain before the cameras, but I didn’t recognize the Teddy that I saw on this show.  The Teddy I know is generous, magnanimous, gregarious and a consummate gentleman.  The Teddy on the NFNS is… let’s just say, he’s not that.  This is explained in more (a lot more) detail by a blog post at the Degustation Blog written by one of Teddy’s colleagues at Granville Moore’s…

**************

Speaking of Granville Moore’s, despite the new crowds that Teddy’s television appearance hath wrought, this place remains one of my favorite restaurants in the city.  A recent date there found the Moules Fromage Blue (Mussels cooked in a white wine, blue cheese, and bacon broth) to still be the best in driving distance as were the Frites.  The horseradish crème fraîche sauce surely has crack as its secret ingredient, and I will never tire of the rustic charm of the diminutive décor.  My internet date on the other hand…

**************

Why do people insist on including some variation of “as comfortable in a dive bar as a formal occasion” in their online dating profiles?  Besides being a useless cliché, I find it false for most people.

The first sign of trouble for a date that began promisingly enough with drinks in Chinablocks* came when we left to head towards H Street.  As I was trying to hail a cab, I noticed that the bus which would deposit us at GM’s doorstep, and in only seven minutes, was a block away.  My date balked at the notion of riding the bus.

Bowing to her preference, as is a gentleman’s wont, we caught a cab.  As we moved east, her expression began to change as we moved further from her Northwest DC comfort-zone.  Passing Union Station, she inquired “We’re not going to NE are we?”  I should have turned the cab (and the date) in another direction right then.

GM’s is far from a dump but this woman used her cocktail napkin to “wipe-off” her seat before in a move that made me think I was out with a “Female Niles Crane” but without the searing wit.  Sure the décor is sparingly rustic, but it has character that usually takes years to form.  And in my judgmental nature (shocking to no one,) my date’s discomfort with this place showed me that she had no character of her own…

Have a great holiday weekend everybody.  Be well, eat well, drink well, and I’ll see you all on Monday.

*Chinatown in DC is too small to be described as such, therefore, Chinablocks is more appropriate.  Further, I refuse to call it Penn Quarter.

20 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, dating, Dinner Parties, random stuff, recipes, restaurants, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

Potential Becomes Possible in a Moment

18 June 2009

“All potential lovers encounter a moment when the harbored crush becomes possible”

Taken from the book Service Included by Phoebe Damrosch

I know that I really like a word, a sentence, a paragraph when I can’t stop myself from reading it aloud.  I read that sentence and the rest of the paragraph at least a half dozen times this most recent Sunday.  I read it twice to the woman who gave me the book and several times more on the patio of the coffee shop where I began this missive.

With that sentence, all manner of moments – simple and complex, gestures and statements, plain old moments – bounded across my brain like a romantic kaleidoscope.

An ankle crossed against mine and left there

Feeling a charge when the big of my hand reached the small of her back

An invitation for a drink

The warm, breathy “thank you” that I felt against my neck as much as I heard it while dancing a salsa to the Latin-jazz band’s Afro-Blue

The sharing of personal space for no other reason than sharing’s sake

A last look over the shoulder to see if I was still watching

A certain long lashed ingénue saying “it’s too loud in here”

Sitting next to a blind date as she talks to another man and saying “I don’t think that’s the guy you’re here to meet”

“My mother warned me about men like you”

All of those moments were cosmic winks (which are as good as a nod to a blind man) filled with enough electricity to turn a switch in my brain if not my heart.  Now divorced for more than a decade, within a five iron of age 40, I am still looking for my first last moment.

Tell me about your moments…

15 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, bars aka where we get the booze, blogging life, booze & boozing, Crush with a big C, dating, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

People and Lessons from a Perfect Afternoon in the Park

16 June 2009

Dupont Circle is iconic Washington, DC.  Woebegone tourists have driven around it countless times; every area photographer worth an F-Stop has shot images of it; and on a perfect late spring evening all manner of life in the city can and will find intersection there.

I have fallen in love there when a woman crossed her leg against mine and decided that her ankle resting atop my leg was its natural place, had spontaneous picnics there, and filled more hours than I can recall with competitive people watching there.

This particular perfect Monday I met some people there, and learned a few lessons too.  These are those stories (cue Law & Order chimes.)

Tony is short of teeth, sports immaculately polished black lace-ups, and has a well worn acoustic guitar that he plays with virtuosic skill.  Over the course of at least two hours he went from Brazilian rhythms that conjured images of caipirinhas to old Sade songs and scores of things between.  My friend Dennis and I couldn’t contain our glee at getting this free concert for which we both offered Tony money but he insisted that our gratitude was ample payment.

Amy, cherubic of face, and crimson of hair was possessed with the excitement only those who don’t yet know words can convey.  She danced and sang and waved at everyone within her sight.  I never would want to bend an elbow with some who is capable of not smiling in her presence.

Jack, Amy’s “Pa-Pa,” has grandparental pride that is palpable, and inescapable.  At least 80 years on this earth, still fit and possessing a full head of shockingly white hair, there is nothing about him that makes me think he still couldn’t kick some young guy’s ass like the old Marine that he is.  Thanks for your service Gunny.

Christian Loubutin shoes are gorgeous, elegant, expensive, wearable works of art, but aren’t worth a plug nickel if you don’t know how to walk in them.

There comes an age after which all women should retire hot pink from their wardrobe.

Ice cream cones after dinner are splendid way to end a date.

Among the best reasons to wear a brim (baseball caps are not brims) is that one cannot tip a hat without wearing a hat.

The guy from the six flags commercials has a doppelganger and apparently likes to cruise the circle for younger men.

There is no amount of hotness that can help me get over my lack of attraction for women in dress shorts.

The former also applies to women with “accessory” dogs.

Euro Hipsters in circulation-restricting black pants must smoke a minimum of one Galois cigarettes per eight minutes.

If I sit long enough in any location in the city, I will cross paths with someone I have dated.

As Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent,” similarly, no one can give you a compliment without your assistance.

People who drive convertibles but leave the top prone on days like this ought to have their vehicles repossessed by the Fun Police.

Very few joys are the equal of the simple ones.

19 Comments | advice I'm slightly qualified to give, parents, random stuff, the social contract, women | Permalink
Posted by restaurant refugee

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