Moot Point

On the phone:

“So I was sitting in Starbucks and reading and these two people were on a first date two tables over from me. They’d obviously met through online personals, and the guy was really lame. He aws older than her, like, early-30s and she was younger and cute and Asian. It was more like a job interview than a date.”
“Why would a young cute Asian girl need online personals?”
“Well, she wasn’t that cute, but the guy was really lame and didn’t make any sense. He was talking about how much fun it is to take care of your hypothetical girlfriend. Because she’s all cute with her pyjamas and her sniffles, and you know, it’s the man’s job to take care of the woman, and bring her chicken soup and stuff…”
“That’s so, like, first-date suck-up-ish.”
“I know, but seriously, it’s so cute? Sickness isn’t cute. I know I’m not cute when I’m sick. Am I cute when I’m sick?”
“…A little.”
“Awww.”
“See, that changes your point of view on the subject.”
“But this guy was really lame. It wasn’t really the taking care part, it was just really condescending. And ‘it’s the man’s job to take care of the woman’? What’s that?”

—

He’d bought her a stuffed bunny with Lindt chocolate, which was nice, but seriously, “Here is a stuffed animal, since women are so much like children.” A stuffed animal? Unless her personal included “stuffed animals” as an interest, it seems really condescending to assume that a woman would want a stuffed Easter bunny as a gift. The chocolate is safe, but it’s weird enough bringing a gift on a first date.
It was very job interview-ish. “Tell me about your interests.” They were painfully straining for something they had in common.
Her: “I really like sushi.”
Him: “I like sushi. We should go for sushi some time.”
Even I was bored and I wasn’t even on the date.
It really livened up when he put her down for liking disco. He was all, “I like punk rock,” but he was the least punk rock guy ever. He had short conservative guy hair and was dressed all business casual in bland colours with his shirt tucked in. And he brought her an Easter bunny. Eater. Bunny.
“I hate disco. [...] I would respect you for it if it wasn’t hip to like disco again.” (Disco is hip? Maybe in the MID-NINETIES.)

—

The whole online dating thing must be murder.

I don’t ever want to get old.

There was a group of three couples at the next table over at Kathmandu last night.
Apparently only one of them had eaten at a restaurant that didn’t serve hamburgers or pasta ever. The one guy, who seemed to go in there a lot, explained that they were going to order a bunch of dishes for everyone. You know, like every Chinese restaurant ever. “Why can’t I just get a plate with what I want?” “Well, I want just a plate with what I want.”

Then they had a terribly clever conversation about who has it worse: men or women. Men have to shave every day, the men contended. Women, on the other hand, have to have bikini waxes.
The kicker always being, as the worst guy said: “Women get the monthly plague.“

The worst guy was this 45-50 year old man who’s never had a shrimp, because his parents “just didn’t have fish.”
He’ll eat grouper, sure, he’ll eat cod or haddock, but salmon just “attacks his tongue, it tastes so strong.” Even a nice “mustard teriyaki sauce” won’t save it.
The Talmuni soup, which is, for those not in the know, a mild, lemony soup that has tandoori chicken in it, apparently also “attacked his tongue.”

Worst guy was the worst. He worked in the entertainment industry and has met Andy Kim and his wife was just delighted, once she realized who Andy Kim was. Did you know that Shania Twain is really very short in real life?

After this bizarreness, we went to see Inside Deep Throat at the Carlton. We’ve seen like, 80 previews (not as many as for The Chorus, though), and it was too late for Nobody Knows and Clean.
My favourite part was when Helen Gurley-Brown explained that blow jobs are good for women too; apparently ejaculate is good for the skin on the face, neck and chest “because it’s made of babies.”

I suppose if I must get old, I really hope I get to be an aging sex writer. That Helen Gurley-Brown, she’s got her finger on the pulse. On. The. Pulse.

Not a plague. Biological FACT OF LIFE.