Now That I'm Forty...


Born in New York and now going to die in New York. Someday.

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Now That I'm Forty...

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Monday, October 18, 2004

I Meant To Get Out Of This House Two Hours Ago...

...but then I decided to put up a new song, and started with Aaliyah's Rock The boat, but instead put up Shania (cuz I wanted to go for heart, instead of sex, last post notwithstanding), and found myself in the middle of a crying jag. (I swear most times I think I'm a chick in here. See I thought I already had my midlife crisis, but since I'm Now Forty I guess it's time to let the games begin in earnest. Either than or I'm on my period).

Anyone, click the Stop button on your browser to hush Shania up, then hit one of the audiolinks below. I was feeling singy yesterday and I like them, so I'm sharing. Comment freely.

Officially Missing You snippet - click to play


Move Over BeeGees! - click to play

Me at 10/18/2004 01:57:00 PM

Friends

So.
No one told you life was gonna be this way?
Your job's a joke.
You're broke.
Your lovelife's D. O. A.
Look's like you're ALWAYS stuck in second gear.
And no, this hasn't been your day--
Your week--
Your month--
Or even your year--

But.

I do actually have friends. Amazed to find this to be true.

Valentine's Day Girl is reconnecting with me. She called and we launched into conversation as though I hadn't dived off the radar at all during my birthday blues. I like her, but I'm not drawn to her enough to want sex with her. And when it all comes down to it for men, THAT'S the bottom line.

LADIES. TAKE THIS TIP BECAUSE IT'S AS TRUE AS ANY SINGLE THING YOU'LL EVER HEAR ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS.

Men are motivated by sex. Not warm fuzzies, not spooning, not the security of a relationship or family, not the promise of a hot, cooked meal or the pitter-patter of little feet around the house. It's all about the poonani.
Tragedy is, you can't even win the guy by holding out until the wedding day because in this day and age of the fast and loose, if you make him wait too long he's going to get the poonani somewhere else.

I am happy to say that with my last girlfriend in Trenton, I wanted the poonani. Could have had the poonani, I do believe. She wanted me to spoon with her and I did so on a few occasions. But I resisted on a few more occasions--a few more than she was comfortable with. And thus, I didn't take the poonani.

I don't want to spoon with Valentine's Day Girl. I don't want to kiss her. I don't think she knows this yet.

Sex for me is going to be all about the raw chemistry of it. It's going to take place with a thousand camera-angles in my mind. She's going to look GOOD. I'M going to look good. We're going to put pornography to shame. We're going to huff and puff and wheeze and beg and moan and pant. She's going to make all those little clicks and chirps and sounds as I hit it. I'm going to growl from way down deep like a knuckle-dragging, hairy-chested caveman.

That person will be my wife and I'm going to be her man.

And then I wake up to this. This Forty year old who doesn't even LIKE to kiss. Who sees every instance of kissing as a visually sour tasting germ-swap. This bubble-bellied, gynomastic, balding negro male. This brokedown scrub.

Despite it all, though, I've got friends. One friend is lending me money, and not for the first time. Another friend read my blog and checked up on my financial sitch. Two groups of other friends provide me with raw escapism twice a week.

It's a band-aid, but it's better than bleeding on people or catching an infection.

Me at 10/18/2004 11:07:00 AM