The Chase is On

As much as I enjoy hymning and hawing about my insecurities when it comes to being in a monogamous relationship, there is a certain dignity and sweet relief the washes over me anytime I walk by a packed-to-the-gills Center City bar on a hot Friday night. Yes, there is a special kind of exhilaration in not knowing who you may meet or spend the evening/early morning with, but most of the time I found myself opting for a once-in-while night stand with one of the many male compadres I was already all too familiar with. As for the mysterious drunken strangers, I never really ventured much into that territory, and two words come to mind as I attempt to explain why: Tucker Max.

For those of you unfamiliar with the likes of Tucker Max, let me give you a quick summary. Tucker Max: The product of private school and Duke Law. Let’s just say, if he were attending classes in Durham during that whole Lacrosse Rape Party bum rap debacle, he probably would have been named a key witness, if not one of the accused. During college, Tucker began documenting his many cringe-worthy adventures in binge drinking, uncontrollable bodily functions, exploitation of stupid people, and the endless pursuit (and success) of scoring mad punanny. With similar goal-oriented friends rocking such names as “El Bingerosa”, “Slingblade”, “Brownhole”, “Hate”, and “Thomas”, Tucker and his posse left a trail of outrageous bar tabs, piss and semen stained beds, and teary, sore fat girls. The result? A New York Times Best Seller. Twice.

“I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell”, the fruits of Tucker’s labor, has catapulted him to almost idol-like status among 18 to 35 year old men, which inspired NY Times reporter Warren St. John to, in regard to Max’s work, coin the apropos phrase “Fratire”. This lucky bastard is now out of law, working as a full-time writer, banging as many girls as possible (he claims his number is in the low triple digits, and credits many of his hook-ups to girls that contact him via the Internet), and developing a possible show for Comedy Central.

Seriously, I would recommend that every girl read “I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.” You’ll squirm, you’ll gag, you’ll blush, and you might just give up on men all together. This guy, as my friend Camille would say, is a “heartess, souless, shit-filled dickhead assface”. But I also recommend that the fellas read it too, because, well, it’s funny as fuck.

Believe it or not, I actually like Tucker Max. I really like him. Sure, he’s an asshole, but he’s the first to admit it. Yeah, he behaves like a frat boy, but at least he’s an educated, analytical frat boy. True, he’s malicious and evil, but only when he’s completely wasted and egged-on. And whether he likes it or not, his book is the perfect manual for ladies who want to understand manipulative douchebags like himself. Hey, it wasn’t just dudes that got him on the NY Times Best Seller List.

I’m listening to his audiobook for the second time right now. I cyber-slapped it on my iPod, plugged in and giggled manically to myself as I worked on the printing press and pumped out lithographs. Everyone kept asking what I was listening to, but when you’re taking classes in a fine arts academy filled with politically correct trust-funders and middle aged women whose kids just flew the coop for college, it’s hard to explain why you’re laughing about a comment involving hypothetical cunnilingus on a dead donkey.

Maybe in simpler times, Tucker and I would’ve hit it off. He actually looks and sounds like the machosexual I briefly dated a few months ago. We’d meet in a dimly lit bar, drink ’til we were blind, and then engage in a one-night stand to rival all one-night stands. But one, he’s not my type — overly cocky and too clever for his own good. Two, he’d probably be turned off by the fact that I have crooked bottom teeth and a healthy gut (but that’s why the lights in a bar are dimly lit, right?) and three, I gave up on assholes for good a few weeks ago. Not that that would stop Tucker.

Looking over my last few posts, I think it’s fair to say that some of you loyal readers are most likely a bit perturbed and annoyed that I have appeared to find some sort of satisfaction in my more-often-than-not usually pathetic love life. Hell, I even make my self want to vomit a little. When I see any couple walk down the street hand and hand, giddy over the fact that they think they’ve finally found the one, I have a hard time deciding who I want to punch in the stupid head first. And now that I’m in their position, I’m well aware of how the single cynics must feel, but who cares? I’m in loooove. Guh.

But if you’re ready for the downside of my bliss, here ya go…

Sunday night I had a slight panic attack. It began with my frustration with the limited job options facing me at the moment – I could maybe get a job at the Apple Store in the King of Prussia Mall or at the Starbucks on name-any-fucking-corner in the city, and that’s about it. I keep wondering if I made the right choice to leave radio entirely after the Kansas City kiss-off, especially when I see that CBS radio is hiring, but then I remember how much I hated it, even when the going was good. But unfortunately, radio doesn’t quite leave you with a stellar resume that translates well to other jobs. And I’ll shoot myself in the goddamned face before I go into ad sales. I swear I’ll do it.

Then I started worrying about finances – I had planned to move in with a couple of girls at the beginning of the fall, and though the rent won’t be terribly high, between living on unemployment and paying for school, I’m not exactly rolling in it. Sure, I could always borrow money until I take a gig slinging cappuccinos or teaching technologically inept baby boomers how to program an iPod, but I’m almost thirty and seriously need to get back on my independent feet.

Oh, yeah, did I mention I have a birthday next week? Ain’t that just the icing on top of the cake made of poo? But at least things are going well with D*. We’ve been together over a month and things just seem to get better and better with every passing week.

And this is where the panic set-in. I love D, I really do, but I fear for that moment. And when I say that moment, I mean that moment that the current excitement turns to monotonous routine, that the things I used to find endearing about him now make my skin crawl, that one or both of us realize that we hate the other’s guts with a serious passion.

Maybe that’s a little harsh, but being a cynic in love, one eventually comes to the conclusion that not only are things going to end, but they’re going to end badly. As some dead asshole once said, the higher they rise, the harder they fall, and we’ve definitely risen to another stratosphere in record time.

My friends tell me that by voicing this concern, I’m just setting myself up for a one-way trip on the road to ruin. I hate to admit it, but they’re probably right. When things were going good with A*, I told my friends that we most likely wouldn’t make through the summer to which they replied, “Oh, don’t say that. If you think that, it will happen.” And we all know what transpired there.

But I can’t ignore my fears. How can I pretend that everything will always be okay? As I’ve told D many times, I’m afraid I’m not as good a person as he believes me to be. I can be indecisive, insecure, and selfish to the point that I push people away and masochistically enjoy fucking shit up. Of course, I could choose not to be this way, but when it comes to self-protection, it kind of works for me. I just feel bad for the people in my wake, and I don’t want D to be one of them. I care about him so much I almost want to push him away. Or at least let him push me away first, because as you know, I do love playing the victim. But wow — it would really hurt this time.

D called me around the time of the attack, and when he sensed the uneasy exhaustion in my voice, I told him about my fears involving work and money, but not my worries involving us. Besides, why stress out both of us over something we ultimately have little power over? Whatever will happen, will happen. No, I just needed a melatonin, a glass of wine, and some Comcast on Demand to take my overly-analytical mind off of things for the night. I wish I could say that those little helpers had a permanent effect on my psyche.

So there. You wanted the crazy JC back in full effect, and you got her. You lucky people, you.

*Just trying to have a little privacy. Is that too much to ask? Is it? Jesus.

When it comes to my behavior in regard to past relationships, casual dating, and, convenient flings, I can honestly say that I’ve been a bad girl, who more often than not was in need of a spanking (and usually received it more ways than one.) For those loyal readers of my former column, you know about my checkered past — I’ve been the villain and the victim an equal amount of times in the context of society’s moral standards, and though some people applaud my openness about such things, a few prefer to just call me a whore. Which is fine by me, but I wish they would attempt to be a bit more constructive with their criticism.

As far as my frowned-upon choices, I never felt too bad about them. I mean, I carry around my mother’s former Catholic guilt like a sack of potatoes over my shoulder on a daily basis, but when it comes to my relationships, I’ve tended, at least publicly, to show empathy for a couple of reasons. First off, most of my relationships were not whole, but an empty shell of something that will shatter at any moment, so I never felt the need to tip toe around them, but rather let my self-sabotaging nature go to work and finish off whatever is left over. And second of all, I date and sleep with jerks. This is not supposed to put down any former boyfriends I’ve had, but the truth is that I’ve subconsciously and purposefully picked out guys who could never commit, treated me with frustrating indifference, put me down, took advantage of me, made me feel like I didn’t matter, or never supported my work, hobbies, or aspirations. But believe me when I say I don’t blame them at all. I’m the one who stuck around for their crap.

After all, it’s fun to be the victim. You’re never the bad guy in the relationship. You can cheat on the other guilt-free, because they drove you to infidelity with their subconscious abusive nature. You don’t have to feel bad about your actions, since they already make you feel bad enough about yourself. It’s okay to be an asshole — whatever you do, he’ll always be the bigger asshole, right?

Yes, it’s oh-so easy to justify dumb actions with your own analytical bullshit. It’s such a relief to pass the blame on to a less-than-mediocre boyfriend and stay miserable in the death throes. Your friends will excuse your relationship by claiming that you just like a challenge. And when that joke of a relationship ends, you can either hop from bed to bed so you never have to owe anyone anything, or move on to a new “exclusive” shitty relationship. Wheee!

So why would I do something like this to myself? Most likely for the same reason I never used to date the nice guy. Deep down, I know what I am — I’m a selfish, polluted, flesh bag with designer shoes, but I don’t like admitting it. And who would? It’s easier to find a bigger selfish, polluted, flesh bag, so you can look and feel like the angel in comparison. But when you date the nice guy, the truth smacks you in the face like a cold, dead fish – you ARE the asshole in this relationship. Now what are you gonna do?

Revelations like the one above have been donkey-punching my brain since I’ve moved to Philly and begun reevaluating my life and what I want out of it. I don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want to hate the woman I fear myself to be. I want to live proactively. I want to be confident in my choices. I want to be okay with the fact that I’m dating the nice guy who truly loves me for whatever it is that he sees in me. And I want to be able to love him back without skepticism - which is a pretty tall order coming from an existential cynic like myself.

The closer I get to 30, the more I feel myself moving towards becoming the person I want to be. But knowing my fucked-up ways, I’d urge you to stay tuned for the inevitable freak-out.

If Dante Alighieri’s view of Hell happens to be true, most people would probably place me in either the Second Circle, reserved for those overcome by lust, or the Sixth, which is the home for heretics. I myself have always figured I’d fit perfectly into the First Circle, the one set aside for those of us who are basically on the fence. I don’t know what to believe, and I think it’s rather arrogant of any of my fellow bags o’ flesh to think they have it all figured out. But there are times that I can’t help but think stars may have aligned themselves when certain coincidences become to hard to ignore.

D* and I had met online, as with many of my current friends in Philly, and we quickly developed a certain rapport. He was only a few days older than me, funny, and intelligent, with mutual interests. We had been e-mailing each other for about a week when my girlfriend Leslie came into town from Charleston. That night after I picked up Miss L from the airport, we eventually made our way to a hip basement bar in Old City to meet up with her friend from boarding school. We were having a fantastic time, as her buddy relayed stories of the rebellious, competitive, teenage Leslie, and soon it was my turn to cover another round of libations. As I made my way to the fairly empty bar, I looked over, and out of the corner of my eye, saw someone who looked familiar. Very familiar. It wasn’t until I made my way back to my posse that I realized that the individual who caught my attention was D. Alas, the next time I strutted over to the bar, he was nowhere to be found.

“Was that you?”, I e-mailed the next day.

“Uh, yeah. I didn’t even see you.”

“Weird.”

And we left it at that.

Exactly a week later to the day, my free-spirited, first Philly female friend, Brooke, texted me about a queer punk show with Team Dresch on west side of town. Now, I’m not into vajay-jay, but have never been adverse to being in any sort of gay social situation. For some reasons, dykes and homos and I always mix together quite well. Gay men love my “fuck it” attitude and that deep down, I’m just one of them, while gay women think I’m cute, and deep down, think I’m one of them also. Everybody wins!

So we finally hit the Tavern, paid the cover, got our beers, leered at a girl who had done Brooke wrong, and made our way to the other side of the room. And guess who I saw conversing with an affectionate, art-punky female couple. Yep. It was D.

Earlier that day, D and I had made plans to meet for drinks on Friday night, but here he was, 24 hours before our initial date, the second time in the course of a week, on the way opposite side of town. But this time I wasn’t going to be passive. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned around with confused curiosity.

“This is going to sound strange, but are you D?”

“Yeeeaah. You’re not Jess, are you?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.”

“I know, right?”

“How…?”

“I dunno!”

Simultaneously: “Weeeeeird.”

So I officially met D that night, and we watched angry lesbians scream into the mics while standing side by side. The next night, we had our first official date in Center City, and after a couple of beers, he asked if I wanted to see the best secret view of Philly. I was game, so we finished our lagers, and he took me down the block to the Loews hotel and up to the 33rd floor.

The floor was abandoned except for us, and hosted huge wraparound windows overlooking every view of the city imaginable. He very sweetly put his arm around my waist and pointed out bridges and landmarks, but I kept looking up at the stars and wondering if there really is such a thing as a coincidence.

Ugh, I know. How disgustingly sugary-sweet, indeed. Don’t worry, I’ll be back to my usual cynical, pissed-off self in no time. You know how I roll.

*blah, blah, innocent, blah, blah.

After returning from my short visit in Charleston, it’s safe to say that I suffered from a slight bout of depression. But that was to be expected, of course. Besides, I had lived in Charleston for 5 years, knew my way around the town without the assistance of a pocket map, and couldn’t walk down King Street, even in the after-effects of a tropical storm, and not see familiar faces smiling back at me. The same things that prompted me to leave were the same thing that I found myself waxing sentimental about. However, when it was time to go, I was prepared and willing. I missed N*. I couldn’t wait to crack open a bottle of wine and tell him everything about my weekend face to face.

N and I had been dating exclusively for about a month and a half and our relationship seemed to be moving along just fine There was no honeymoon period — things just casually fell into place. We talked pretty much everyday, and I would stay at his apartment a couple nights a week. Though I loved spending time with him, I was careful about giving him his space so he could go fly-fishing, work on his car, go squirrel-hunting, or whatever the hell former eagle scouts chose to do with their time. Like I’ve stated before, though N is successful, kind, and responsible, he’s very much a boy in regard to his hobbies. And as it turns out, he’s very much a boy, period — intimately, romantically, and emotionally.

Shortly after we began dating, N found out that his employer was going to send him to England for 3 months to work with a client during the fall. He was stoked about the prospect, as he had spent a good amount of time overseas before, and I was excited for him. I figured 3 months apart was nothing to worry about if we were committed, and besides, I had never been to England, so him going would be the perfect reason to renew my passport and practice calling cigarettes “fags”.

When I finally got back in town, certain things about N started coming to light – he was becoming harder and harder to get ahold of. He was distant. He wasn’t as affectionate as he used to be.

Now most people would probably be led to believe that he was seeing another girl, but I really don’t think that was the case. Unlike S*, N just didn’t seem like the type to do anything behind my back. And though I’ve been a horrible judge of these situations in the past, I stand by my belief that N was only seeing me and was completely faithful. But something was definitely up.

Last Friday night, I confronted N after a couple of drinks (it was the only way I could work up the nerve.) He had finally returned my call and joined myself and two friends up at the Locust Bar in center city Philadelphia. We stepped outside to have a smoke and I flat out asked what was going on.

It turns out that 3 month trip to England had now turned into a 8 month trip, with him scheduled to leave in less than 2 months. When he told me this, it knocked the breath out of my chest for a moment, but then I gathered my thoughts and said “So what?”

He looked down and simply stated that long distance relationships have never worked for him in the past. Great, I thought, here comes the water works.

“That may be so, but I’m not your past.”

“I know. But I can’t think any other way.”

“What would happen to us if you weren’t going away for 8 months?”

“I’d want us to be together.”

“Then why can’t we have both?”

“I’ve just never had luck with this type of situation.”

“Well, then you’ve already decided how things are going to end. So that’s it.”

And as quickly as that, we were over. I stubbed out my cigarette, wiped away a tear, and headed back to the door of the bar, looking back once to say, “I just wish you had more faith in us.”

I talked to N briefly the next night. He still couldn’t see past the impending trip and I couldn’t spend time with him and pretend everything was okay. I asked him not to call me for awhile, but every time the phone rings my heart jumps a little, and then deflates when I check the screen and realize it’s not him.

There are so many things about the dissolve of our short relationship that make my eyes constantly well up and my heart ache in a clichéd sort of manner. Yes, I really liked him, yes, I saw potential for a long, loving relationship, but it goes beyond that. Firstly, I hate that he showed little emotion. He explained his reasoning for this by referring to himself as a “typical, reserved Anglo-Saxon”, but I wish for the life of me that N didn’t hold his hand so close to his chest. And during our post-break-up conversation, I found out he’s had his heart broken before. Yeah, well, somebody call the WAHmbulance. Christ, who hasn’t had their heart broken? But if that’s what’s going to cause someone to approach relationships with a reserved and cynical eye, then how could anyone be expected to move on?

We all make the huge mistake of letting our past dictate our future, and what does the get us? Nothing! Nada! Zip! It makes us even more miserable than we were before. At some point in life, you have to decide that you’re willing to take a risk and have blind faith that things can and will work out for the best. N is just not at that point. Fortunately, I am.

I just remembered he still has my Mr. Show DVDs. Shit.

*Protecting the innocent — ahh, who am I kidding. No one’s innocent!