November changes

I know that you will think I’m crazy. I know that I have only been single for just under three months. I know that I met the New Viking only three weeks ago. But the New Viking is now the New Boyfriend, and I am falling in love with him.
It is absolutely astounding to me that the moment I decided only to go out with men from a fairly narrow physical category, actively discriminating on physical appearance alone, that I met this prince of a guy, with the biggest heart and the brightest smile in the world. I know that the “blonds only” rule would have ended soon enough; I’m not an idiot, after all, and I knew that the rule was idiotic, just a way for me to fool myself into thinking that I was in control of my dating relationships.
I was reluctant to move forward too quickly, knowing that the heart outpaces the mind. I know all this, but when the right one comes along, you don’t throw that away.
I fear that this blog is going to become significantly less interesting; unhappiness tends to produce the best writing, at least in my own case. And I can't remember the last time I was this happy.

The Move

I'm in the new place. The movers were friendly, hard-working and kinda cute. (If anyone needs a recommendation for movers in Los Angeles, let me know; these guys were terrific.) They really made an emotionally difficult situation go as smoothly as possible. The whole thing took about four hours. I have a lot of stuff. My arms and legs are still covered with bruises and small cuts from hauling everything around. I sorta look like I just got home from a bar brawl.

Of course, now I will be surrounded by boxes for the foreseeable future. I'm going to try to unpack or put away at least one box of stuff every weekday, with a more concerted effort over the weekends. Still, I have no idea where all my books will go. I have a sad feeling that they're going to stay boxed up in my closet until my next move. At least I have big closets.

I'm not sure if it's "home" yet for me. I keep waking up about an hour before my alarm clock goes off. Maybe my body is telling me that it wants to hit the gym, but for now I've moved my morning workouts to the evening. But sleep comes very easily to me at nighttime.

Still no internet connection or landline phone, so no Manhunt or Tivo for me yet.

Moving day

For the first time in my life, I won't be frantically packing the last few boxes as the movers arrive. I'm ready for them.

Seven and half years with the Ex, neatly packed up in boxes in my living room.

Weight: 167.5

The First Date

The New Viking sent flowers.

We had been emailing each other quite a bit this week, and we spoke a few times as well on the phone. We clearly got along quite well. But when the flowers arrived at my office yesterday afternoon, it was an entirely delightful surprise. And one that I didn't read too much into, either, which was one of his concerns. The sweetly worded note showed that it was just a simple gesture, not a grand romantic offering (which would have scared me off).

We had already made plans to see each other this weekend, but...I mean, come on, he sent flowers! So I rang him up, thanked him profusely, and invited him to dinner at Marix that night.

So it was our first date. My first real date (unless you count Boston Jeff) since the breakup, and therefore my first date since 1999, when I met the Ex.

We had a great time. He was as charming and handsome as I remembered. I wasn't a messy bundle of nerves. I was just excited. I had made a promise to myself that I would be completely honest with him, so when the conversation moved into certain topics (circuit parties, steroids) I was forthcoming. I'm not saying that I know for certain that we're going to have a significant dating relationship, but I do know that he's definitely a keeper, the kind of guy I would want to go out with. At the very least, I have made a new friend. And I didn't want to imagine him, down the line, coming at me with "You never told me you did steroids." That would just not be acceptable to me. Best to get it all out there in the first week while he still thinks I'm cute.

(Yeah, he thinks I look like an Abercrombie boy. His words. I would have said "Aging Twinkie" but...)

Three pitchers of margaritas were consumed. Neither one of us needed that last one, of course (or the second one for that matter, on a school night), but I for one simply didn't want the date to end.

Another Viking

I should have spent the weekend packing, but I had an out-of-town buddy stay over on Friday night (celeb spotting: Jake Gyllenhaal at Hugo's at breakfast on Saturday morning) and then I spent much of Saturday at the office.

Sunday, of course, was then spent thinking of ways to avoid packing. So I went to the gym, got my hair cut, had coffee with Hometown Guy, took my computer to the new apartment, and then went to get copies of the keys made. I then packed exactly one box of CDs before heading out to meet a bunch of friends at Faultline.

It was only my second time there, as I generally prefer to do most of my drinking within staggering distance of the house. I got there around 3pm, I think, and the place would soon get pretty packed. Soon after arriving there, I picked out my favorite in the crowd, a very handsome blond man in a group of four or five guys. He was a couple of years older than me, with twinkly blue eyes, about five days growth of blond beard, promisingly fuzzy arms, and a manly build. And a killer smile, which he proceeded to flash in my direction every time we exchanged glances. I thought that he was terribly sexy.

Frankly I was having a hard time believing that he really was interested in me. This isn't because of my usual self-image problems; I just know that I'm probably not what most guys are looking for when they go to Faultline. But we kept catching each other's eyes, way beyond the point when it became clear that we each liked what we could see.

I had no intention of getting blasted (my usual cure for shyness), so I was just beginning to start berating myself for not talking to him. And I started silently berating him too. "Why doesn't he just come over and say hi," I wondered.

Eventually, on my way back from the bar, I found myself passing right next to him. I realized that there wasn't anything remotely intimidating about this friendly-looking fellow, and suddenly I wasn't shy any more. "For God's sake," I blurted out with a laugh, "why didn't you come over and say hi?"

He laughed too. "My friends had been telling me that you were just looking for a daddy," he said. I assured him that I was probably a lot closer to his age than he thought. At almost 48, he certainly was within the appropriate age range as far as I was concerned.

I hadn't come to the Faultline with any expections other than having a few beers with my buddies, and I certainly hadn't come expecting to meet a nice boy or looking for a hookup. Still, there was no sense in beating around the bush, so I asked the most important question right off the bat: "Are you single?" The reply was a gratifying "yes."

He passed every superficial test, plus several less superficial ones. Handsome up close. Upbeat and fun. Nice laugh. Relationship oriented. Responsible homeowner. Blond chest hair. Thinks I'm hot. Misses cuddling with a boyfriend. Good hugger. Has a close circle of friends. Was nice to my friends.

Oh yeah. And he was a fantastic kisser.

We both had other places to be, so we walked out together (chastely) before 6 o'clock. But numbers and email addresses were exchanged, and we hope to get together for a proper date this weekend.

And to think that I had nearly blown off my buddies so that I could go hiking.

Weight: a very contented 177

On the rebound

It has now occurred to me that the Viking was, in fact, my rebound guy, even though I told him very specifically that that was exactly what I didn't want him to be. And even though we never went on an actual date. And even though he really expressed no interest other than "sure I'll go out with you some day." When I lay out all the cold facts like this, all I can say to myself is "What was I going on about?" All my emotional turmoil and romantic frustrations were focused on this one poor man and obsessing on whether he might ever be interested in me. Maybe all the pain and drama of the Viking saga (all of it self-inflicted, I realize) will be worth it in the end, and I can now start thinking about moving on with the next chapter of my life, this time with maturity.

Wisdom from Sixteen Candles: "That's why they call them crushes. If they were easy, they'd call them something else."


I updated my mySpace profile to say that I was ready to date again, and maybe somebody will fall for it. I think that I actually believe it too. I guess I need to get through the move first. Of course, before I can do that, I need to pack. I've got the apartment now, with my little empty bedroom waiting for me. My roommate is there already. But I'm still here in the Ex's house.

The Ex has a weekend visitor. A romantic one. They're not staying here, however; they're staying at a friend's. Rather generous of them, actually. As you all know, I've done my share of whoring around since the breakup. But I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. At the same time: good for him. I don't have a heart of stone.

I don't feel depressed any more, but I'm overwhelmed with inertia lately. I just can't motivate myself to achieve anything useful these days. I've just got to figure out how to slug through all my various tasks, at work and in home life. I can do it. I can do it. I can do it.

Halloween, my new favorite holiday

My goal for the night, as I mentioned before, was to make out with a superhero. 90 seconds after leaving my house, my group encountered a hot Batman, and ten seconds later I was in business. Mmmmm.

(Batman, by the way, gave me his card and we've been in touch today. I'm hoping for a repeat soon...)

It took a while to apply the orange (in three coats, with drying time for each layer), which the Ex graciously did for me, as I stood in my boxer shorts in the kitchen. The shiny wet look comes from a liberal coating of Gun Oil. Yes, covered in lube yet again. Even at that point, I still had a few doubts about the costume, but after I put on the rest of it, it totally worked.

And Aquaman was a huge hit. While I was making out with Batman (who was a fantastic kisser, by the way), close to a dozen people stopped to take photos of us in action. So we kept on kissing. And from that point on, seemingly every 15 or 20 seconds somebody called out to either take a picture of me or take a picture with me. Part of it must have been the skin factor, of course. It was a chilly night, and there really weren't a huge number of guys out there laying it all out there for the world to see. But it wasn't just that; I had plenty of straight guys coming up to take pictures with me ("Great costume, bro"). I think that people simply like Aquaman. Everybody knows who he is from the Saturday morning cartoons, but there hasn't been, say, an Aquaman movie. Comic book fans know about his angsty, hot-tempered side, but most people just think of him as a big blond good guy. He's just sort of out there on the periphery, his recent appearances on "Smallville" and "Entourage" and the unpicked-up TV pilot "Mercy Reef," which a lot of people have seen, bringing him up to the surface (ha!) in 2006.

Back to me, me, me. People were constantly touching me to see if I was actually wet (nope, not after the lube dried). I got plenty of appreciative comments from the gay boys, and a few pats on the butt. I kissed at least one more superhero, a Robin, later in the night. The crowds were pretty easy to navigate this year, it seemed, and my little group basically strolled up and down the boulevard, with a cocktail stop or two along the way, including a brief trip through a not-very-crowded Abbey.

Superheroes aside, I think I only kissed maybe one other boy. At least that I can remember. Still, even if Aquaman didn't get laid, Halloween was exactly what I needed, a huge boost to my flagging self confidence and a fantastic night out with my buds.