Auld Lang Syne - Souverain merlot

Here we are. The last day of 2013.

I've already begun my bucket list for 2014 which includes to swing dance one song with Stephen Colbert, and/or Jake Gyllenhaal, and/or Joaquin Phoenix. It's a bucket list. It has to be somewhat outrageously impossible and uber fun otherwise it's just a list of goals or chores. Worry not gentlemen, I do know the basic swing dance steps!

Google has blogging down to a science with grids and numerical data. Majority of people who visit me are from here (the U.S.) but a small group in Italy, a small group in Germany, one person in France, one person from Austria, one person from the U.K., one person from South, Korea, and one person in China also paid Plaid Skirt Torpedoes a visit in the last 2 months since I started this mess of a blog. 

The "one person" searches were most likely looking for plaid skirts or torpedoes. I'm not going to speculate. 

Nonetheless...  

Thank you!
Graze!
Danke!
Merci!
Danke!
Thank you!
감사합니다 !
and...
谢谢!

How can I extend this to Africa? South America? Madrid! I've been reading a lot about Madrid lately. Engrossed in Madrid's beautiful culture.  

And even though I've only been writing this blog for 2 months, the most reads (according to Google) were these blogs...

I don't know why the links are different colors?

Good night Starshine 

Girl Meets Boy 

Simone. Gordon.

Killer Shrimp

Dearly Beloved

Los Angeles being my home base, I get to meet people from all over the world. I love travelers! Mostly I just give them directions or tell them where the nearest Starbucks is (500 yards in any direction!) but it's great when travelers want to chat for a few minutes. I love it.

Anyway,

Last night I shared this Marlot and a pizza with someone very dear to me.

 

Souverain Merlot 2011.

I don't normally drink Merlots but this one opens up very nicely. 

It is definitely a wine you want to share with loved ones. 

 



I started this blog mainly for two reasons.

1. I'm a writer. I write. And even if my day takes me away from writing I will most likely write something here every day, or every other day and also because I don't Tweet, or Instagram, or Facebook, or any of the other media networking things I probably should do. Aside from that I never write under my real name (or use the same name per project) so it seems moot anyway.  

2. I love wine. I know a lot of people who also love wine. I like to share my wine experience and to also remind myself what wines I like.    

Sometimes I do little "inside jokes" like titling my blog 5BB920X which is Walt's license plate you see in the 5th season of Breaking Bad, episode 9, titled "Blood Money". 

Yeah. I'm a geek.

And then it's 3am
And I'm on the corner wearing my leather
And this dude comes up and he's like, "Hey punk"
And I'm like, "Yeah, whatever" -- Liam Lynch

In closing,

Regarding this blog thank you for reading. I hope you find it interesting if nothing else. 

And there's a hand my trusty friend !
And give us a hand o'thine !
And we'll take a right good-will draught !
For Auld Lang Syne !

Happy New Year! See you in 2014!

Holy macro wide angle fisheye

The Olloclip, helping Iphone take better pictures one selca at a time.

An original scene - kicked in the balls

INT. coffee shop - early morning.

Cleve and Karly are sitting in booth.

 CLEVE

So what happens is, she's dressed in leather from head to toe, 6 inch spike heels, the works, and the guy he's naked, and she starts kicking him in the balls...

 

KARLY

Why is she kicking him in the balls?

 

CLEVE

It's a fetish reel who cares why she's kicking him in the balls.

 

KARLY

There's a fetish for women dressed in leather kicking naked guys in the balls?

 

CLEVE

Yes.

 

KARLY

How does a fetish like this start? Some girl is pissed off at her boyfriend one day, publically kicks him in the balls, another guy happens to witness this but rather than call the cops he gets an erection? Doesn't make sense.

 

CLEVE

Doesn't have to make sense. And it's not just a fetish for men, women like it too.

 

KARLY

No they don't.

 

CLEVE

Yes they do.

 

KARLY

No they don't. You only think they do.

 

CLEVE

It's empowerment. CFNM. Clothed female naked male. Femdom. 

 

KARLY

I would so not get turned on watching some girl kick a guy in the balls. 

(beat)

I don't even like watching girls play soccer. 

 

CLEVE

Look, it might not arouse her sexually but you, a woman, cannot sit there and tell me you have never fantasized just one time kicking a man in the balls?   

 

KARLY

I've dated men who needed to be kicked in the balls.

 

CLEVE

See. There you go.

 

KARLY

I said I've dated men who needed to be kicked in the balls, but breaking up with them worked just fine, however if there were no laws, and a woman was angry enough to kick a man in the balls, that is not what she would do.

 

CLEVE

What would she do?

 

KARLY

First of all there's height comparison. Take me for example, I'm 5'3. Now what if the man I want to kick in the balls is 6'2. No woman 5'3 is going to physically be able to kick a man 6'2 in the balls unless she's a flying ninja.

(beat)

Is she a flying ninja, Cleve? Because if she's a flying ninja we're talking about a whole different script. 

 

CLEVE

What if he's laying down, or sitting in a chair?

 

KARLY

No it's not worth it to her if the risk is greater than the reward. If a woman isn't allowed to get that instant gratification by yelling or just saying what's on her mind without consequence she's going to harbor that desire to kick him in the balls. If she's an abused woman, the more she harbors that desire to kick him in the balls the more methodical her mind will wander; and the more methodical her mind wanders the more dangerous she becomes. You've seen Snapped, none of those men were kicked in the balls to death. Those men were all shot and stabbed. See, a woman will wait for you to fall asleep and then just watch you sleep. She may watch you sleep few nights in a row just see how long it takes you to get into that deep REM sleep. Once that's been established,  

 

[crawls up on the table, grabs the ketchup bottle and puts the bottom end of it against Cleve's head like she's aiming a gun]

 

she's going to take that gun and just aim it at his head. She's going to see how it feels having that gun lightly pressed against his temple, and by God if aiming that gun at his head feels good

(beat)

KABLAMO-O!

 

Unless this is a Tarantino film in which case Karly would say

"Kablam-o, mother**ker!"

 

[Enter waitress with plates of food]

 

WAITRESS

Alright, who had the special with sourdough toast?

[Karly scrambles off the table]

KARLY
That would be Cleve. [makes universal hand gesture for gun - pointed at Cleve]
 



And that's where babies come from

Donnie

First of all, Papa Smurf didn't create Smurfette. Gargamel did. She was sent in as Gargamel's evil spy with the intention of destroying the Smurf Village. But the overwhelming goodness of the Smurf Way of Life transformed her into the Smurfette we all know and love. And as for the whole gangbang scenario, it just couldn't happen. Smurfs are asexual. They probably don't even have reproductive organs down there under those little white pants. The only reason they exist is because of magic spells and witchcraft, which is all a bunch of bullshit if you ask me. That's what's so illogical about the Smurfs, what's the point of living if you don't have a dick?       

Ronald

Damnit, Donnie! Why do you always gotta get all smart on us!

 
 

It was great. We had peanut butter sandwiches and apple and honey at snack time. And then during show-and-tell my stuffed walrus was a big hit.

 

 

[Donnie Darko]

 

Dearly Beloved

I have this friend, I've known him since I was a kid. He is the angriest person I know. He prides himself on how mean he is. "I'm a rat bastard! And I don't care!" he's always laughing and singing.

But he has lots of friends. I guess everyone needs at least one rat bastard in their lives.

The Rat Bastard gave me this bottle of wine. It's a dark red wine called Dearly Beloved. Oh the irony. 

It's a good wine. I like how the label is painted directly on the bottle. I'm surprised the wine wasn't laced with poison. The Rat Bastard is crazy that way. He hates everyone.

I'm not kidding. He seriously hates everyone.

He almost died once. All our friends rushed to his aid including me. And when he got well he went right back insulting everyone. 

The Rat Bastard likes telling me he loves me because he knows how much hearing that from him creeps me out. 

But I heard the wine is good so I uncorked it. Fearless. If the Rat Bastard poisoned the wine, at least I die drinking vino.

Cheers to you, Rat Bastard 
Thanks for the wine  

Jimmy Blackburn

I'm reading Blackburn. The making of a (fictional) serial killer, Jimmy Blackburn

 

I think it's interesting when writers invent serial killers. The serial killers seem more understandable than a team of doctors running their diagnostics.       

 

[Oh right. Dexter. I never saw Dexter. I should check that out.]

 

It's unfortunate witnessing mentally unhinged people violently breaking down.

But during the course of a lifetime, ever wonder where's your breaking point? 

 

 

Christine's Psychic

Everyone has a girlfriend named Christine. My Christine is very tall, very lean, long straight yellow blonde hair all one length to her waist, and she looks like a 1970's cover model complete with knit bikini, pale lips, and dark smoky eye make up around the saddest blue eyes you've ever seen.

Everyone loves Christine. She's beautiful. Complicated. And she looks like the kind of girl you would cast in a movie about The Doors, in fact someone did, she's an extra in the movie The Doors.    

Every Tuesday for the past ten years Christine is counseled by a psychic. Some guy in the valley. She gives him $80 for a 15 minute session. I have no idea what he tells her, but now I think Christine goes to him because she doesn't know how not to.

Christine and I read the same books, share some philosophies, we like the same drink, share the same friends, eat the same foods, but aside from that we have nothing in common. Still, on occasion, we manage to talk each other into trying something new.

"Go see my psychic." Christine once said coaxing, "You can't criticize what you've never tried."

Ah the powerful voice of reason.

"Fine." I tell her. "I'll do it." 

I'm not a believer of psychics. Not in the traditional sense. Certainly not enough to spend $80 on. Money would be more useful going to charity in my opinion. But I go. Just this one time. I head into the valley and visit Christine's psychic.

The psychic reminds me of Crispin Glover. Tall. Skinny. Short sleek black hair. Very pale. Like Christine. I can see Christine's attraction to her psychic. The comfort of being in his company. He reminds me of her. 

The psychic wore faded grey dress slacks, a blue shirt, and a faded grey suit vest. He was also adorned with dark colored beads around his wrist and neck.

He performed his reading in what I can only describe as what might have once been a walk-in closet, only now the closet looked more like a sweat hut, just four dark walls and two benches, one on each opposite long wall.

When the psychic shook my hand, he held my hand in his for a minute or so before decisively letting my hand go.  

"Interesting." Was all he said, and then motioned for me to enter his sweat-hut.

The psychic then sat on one bench. I sat across from him on the other.

The psychic sat upright properly postured, feet apart aligned with his shoulders, and one hand firmly upon each knee. He then began a deep breathing technique commonly used in meditation. Approximately thirty seconds past. Then he spoke.   

"I see a new man in your life. He is older than you. This man in not meant to be your lover but you will make one of him. You will meet this man in a public room. Perhaps a bar. A restaurant. He is nicely dressed. Pleasant disposition. But there is something ominous about him. He is not what he seems."

The psychic continued to speak predictions until my 15 minutes were almost finished.

The very last thing the psychic said to me was, "You will recognize this man by his gold car. It will sparkle and shine unnaturally."

Well,

Ok then,

Thanks much,

I will beware of a man in a bar,

Or a restaurant,

With a gold shiny sparkly car.

Awesome.

Great.

And with that I paid the psychic $80 and thanked him for the read.

About a month later I did in fact meet a man. An older man. We met in a restaurant. He and I had sex a few times. And he did in fact drive a gold Jaguar.

"See!" Christine exclaimed.

But I reasoned with Christine that we humans only use a small portion of our brains. Science has yet conclude what the rest of our brains do. It would not be entirely difficult to influence others by the power of suggestion either consciously or subconsciously. Manipulation tactics is the job of any salesman.

Still, I did meet a man who drove a gold car.

About two months after this man and I met, I was watching the news and saw the same man with the gold Jaguar being arrested and lead away by police in handcuffs. It seems this man had embezzled millions of dollars from his company. Part of the evidence that lead to his arrest was in his car.
His gold shiny car.

Odd,

I cannot recall meeting a man since then who drives a gold car,

Or,

Maybe,

I just stopped looking.

Oy!

 

 

I sometimes question whether or not I drink too much, that is until your grandma drinks me under the table on Christmas eve. 25 bottles of wine and a bottle of Ouzo. Who brought Ouzo? But no sooner do the words leave my lips, the guests divide, one by one, stepping back, making a small visual river of space, until only one person is left standing at the end of the divide, the sweet little old lady from New Hampshire. Your grandma.

 

Nothing can be used to chase Ouzo except maybe hellfire and brimstone. And after five glasses of wine you inform me the makings of Ouzo comes from the island of Lesbos. Lesbos? Go Greek independence!

 

I've drank American version of Absinthe. Not the same, I know. But I too hail from the land of ice and snow, I too can whisper songs of gore. If monks can hang with Ouzo, so can I.

 

Well,

 

Um,

 

One,

 

Once,

 

I can hang one time.

 

And though customary to eat a cheese plate when drinking Ouzo like we do with wine, after a shot of Ouzo you don't want to eat anything ever again!

Ever. Ever. Again.

 

I think grandma is wise to us. She knows we don't cook. She knows everything is pre-bought  from the grocery store. She knows the reason our ovens always look clean and unused, is because we don't use them. 

 

I can't be the one to explain to grandma that had she not arrived this year, we would have had cocktails at the house and wandered up to Casa Vega. They have a vegetarian black bean burrito that is amazing! And their bartenders rock!

 

And that's why grandma brought Ouzo to the party.

 

Well played, Grandma B. Well played.

 

Out of pure respect I am up, awake, about to shower, and meet you for breakfast, because nothing would make me happier than crawling back into bed and into the fetal position from whence I came.

 

Eggs.

 

Bloody Mary's.

 

Good morning Starshine!

 

 

Christmas Fraudulence!

My job is to bring the Apple Pie. I take my job very seriously. Family traveled from distant lands to celebrate the holidays with us and we're lucky to have them.

Ahhhhh! Ahhhhh!

We come from the land of the ice and snow;

From the midnight sun where the hot springs flow;

The hammer of the Gods will drive our ships to new lands;

To fight the horde, singing and crying: Valhalla I am coming!

When it comes to Apple Pie we have options. I could have gone to one of the many pie restaurants and picked up a delicious Apple Pie; I could have gone to my neighborhood grocery store and picked up a holiday Apple Pie from the fresh baked goods department;

But no!

Instead...

I opened up this...

 

And then did this...

 

That's right I used my oven!

Once I cleared all the empty wine bottles out of it, I baked!

 Well, I kind of baked.

Technically they baked.

 

 

Apple Pie fraudulence!

 

Merry Christmas! Shhhhhhhh!

 

 

The Glenn Anderson experience - Part V

"I hate that you don't want kids." Glenn said.

People can look good together on paper, and many do, for a little while anyway, be that as it may, when sincere affection is just a shadow to a deeply rooted pursuit, nothing more can be said. The game was over.    

There is a fine line between love and hate. A very fine yet definitive line.

"I don't really hate your house." was all I could think of to say. And because it was still nagging at me I also brought up, "And why didn't you open the door for me?"

"What?" 

"At the restaurant, on our first date." I reminded him.

"Do you know how many first dates I go on?" Glenn said. "Do you know how many women have opened the door for me? None. Zero." 

Ok. Fair enough. First person at the door should hold it open. Courtesy has no gender.

I've never been a "I am woman hear me roar" kind of female. I'm a firm believer of equality but I don't support the crusade of "I can do anything better than you." I don't want a man to submit to me. A kinky night of passion maybe. But not really. 

I get fear and anger. I understand them both. Equally I understand the need to conquer that mountain top. And while it may be human nature to seek the top one percent, to be the best, to despise those who reject you, to crush those who threaten your success, you are nonetheless corroding, withering, decaying and dying. You're just human. Sometimes I think I watch too much Discovery Channel. I've long ago joined those who also made the decision to live in the here and now. The less time spent planning for things I will never be certain about, the more living I can do. But that's what I've decided is best for me.

You do what's best for you.      

Before I die, I would like to find a beautiful countryside house to reside in for 6 months to write a memoir on life as a contemporary Buddhist. When most people think of philosophy they think of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, or something that resembles Hollywood's version of Hare Krishnas, when in truth modern Buddhists are not that elegant. It is impossible for anyone to believe themselves so Godly righteous in this day and age without looking and sounding like a complete ass.
   
And as badly as I wanted to have my way, as badly as I wanted to make Glenn Anderson see things my way, I know what that would really make me.

"Did your friend tell you I went out with her?" Glenn Asked me.

"She did."

"I have no interest seeing her again." he said.

"It's none of my business." I told him.

"I didn't know she was your friend." Glenn said.

"How would you know?"

"Are you upset?" he asked.

Admittedly, there are times when I am very lonely, but there are exceedingly far more times when I am not. I made my choice of remaining unaccompanied. And while being an adult (in this country) generously bears liberties and freedom, we are nonetheless responsible for ourselves and those in our company. It is dishonest and cruel to occupy someone's emotional time merely to fill in the empty spaces. At best all I can hope for, all a person with my beliefs can justify, are moments of mutual sensitivities. No matter how difficult.

"No. I'm not upset." I assured Glenn. "But thank you for telling me. You both felt telling me was the right thing to do and I appreciate it. But you should know, she did say she would go out with you again if you called her."

And with that, Glenn Anderson and I had nothing more to say to each other.

Glenn and I met, dated, had conflict, then he dated one of my girlfriends, we tried to reconcile, couldn't, and then we broke up. All within two dates. No sex.

I was very disappointed,

With everything and nothing in particular,

I was just very disappointed.


Hollywood is a small town. Millions of beautiful travelers come and go. Dreamers come in droves and the quickly defeated pack their bags and head home, just in time for the new batch to arrive. But for those of us who are settled here, for those of us who starved, struggled, and will no doubt starve and struggle some more, for those of us who long ago planted roots here, the saying "until we meet again" is the most unintentionally honest thing said in this town.

I've seen Glenn Anderson around town (easily) a half dozen times more than the dates we were with.       

I had a dream once that I was a little girl, only it wasn't me - but it was me in the dream, and I was standing in the middle of a dirt road, tall grassy fields on both sides of the road, the sky was grey like it was going to thunderstorm, and suddenly I sensed something was going to rush down the road like a freight train, I felt it, I knew it in my chest something powerful was coming only I didn't have the slightest desire to get out of it's way, and then it came, this invisible force blew over me like a tornado, hard, fierce, brutal, and then the next thing I know I'm an adult sitting in a movie theater watching a film with a bunch of other people I didn't know. Casual. No pressure. Just another day.         

[Fast forward to the sushi restaurant]

So recently my date and I are out having sushi and I hear the women behind me talking about men. One woman in particular was relaying the details of her last date, and I knew almost immediately she was talking about Glenn Anderson.

Glenn is still single, apparently. Still eating his chicken Caesar salad the same way. I have no idea if he ever had the child he wanted, I sincerely hope he did. But my dream reminds me of my "relationship" with Glenn Anderson. The last evening I spent with Glenn, otherwise known as our second date, I felt a rush of tension in my chest out of sheer frustration that we couldn't get it together. And now, many years later, I'm having sushi with a date, and Glenn Anderson had just gone out with the woman sitting behind me.   

It reminds me of something,

Hold on,

Wait,

It'll come to me,

Oh right,

This,

It reminds me of this,

Plenty of room at the hotel California; Any time of year (any time of year); You can find it here -- C'mon you know who sings this!

Mirrors on the Ceiling; The pink champagne on ice; and she said "we are all just prisoners here, of our own device"; And in the Master's chambers; We gather for the feast; They stab it with their steely knives; But they just can't kill the beast

-- Eagles, Hotel California


Fin

The Glenn Anderson experience - Part IV

I have this fantasy. I see an attractive man out some place. We see each other. He smiles at me. I smile back. Instinctively we walk towards one another entranced in a gaze of desire. Standing opposite, we share the most passionate kiss either of us has ever experienced. No words. No words. Just the warmth of breath and longing. I make love to this man. This perfect stranger. Engaged. Entangled. Enraptured. 

Almost a year past before I heard the name Glenn Anderson again.  

It's interesting what details stay fixed in the mind about someone after meeting them once; words they say, physical traits, things they do, things they don't do. If two women on two separate occasion go out on a date with the same man, repeating the exact same date, there's a fifty percent chance these women will return from their dates with entirely different measurements of the man. Attraction is born in the heart of that which she likes, conflicted by judgment in the mind of that which she does not.

My girlfriend told me about her date with Glenn Anderson.

I listened to my girlfriend carefully, hearing the details of where Glenn took her to dinner, how Glenn acted towards her, how he ordered his meal, his chicken Caesar salad; in fact, everything leading up to Glenn showing my girlfriend his directorial DVD, including the print on the wall, the wine, the tour of his house, was the exact same date I had with him; the only exception being her perception of how the date went. 

I found myself intrigued.

"When he showed me the room he wants to turn into a baby room, he mentioned meeting a girl once he thought he could have kids with, and I swear he was talking about you." my girlfriend said. "He described you perfectly."

I let my girlfriend know Glenn and I only went out on the one date - almost a year ago. Glenn must have meant someone else.

"Did he tell you about the print hanging on his wall?" I asked.

"Print?" my girlfriend asked.

"The huge photo hanging on his wall of paint splashes." I explained.

"Oh that," she said. "A friend of his is a painter, some girl, and she was painting that thing for Glenn's house, but then something happened to the painting, I don't remember, but she took pictures of it I guess."       

My girlfriend isn't into art. She most likely didn't notice the Rodin, or the craftsmanship of his furniture.

"I love the cute little steps in his house." my girlfriend said.

Right. The same cute little steps I nearly broke my big toe on.

"Did you tell him we're friends?" I asked her.

"I did." she said.

"How did he react?" I asked.

"Weird. But he's kind of a weird guy right?"

"Are you going to see him again?" I asked her.

"If he calls me, sure why not? I mean, that's okay right?" my girlfriend asked.

I knew my girlfriend well enough to know she does what she wants regardless, as most everyone does. I've long ago come to terms, life is a series of things you can either accept, or things you cannot, and to pick your battles wisely.

The next few days that followed I found myself thinking about Glenn Anderson. In total I reflected on our date for several hours. I compared Glenn to the directors I met when I was a teenage girl, Glenn was far more interesting. There were depths to Glenn's personality, like the landings in his house. There were bold yet struggling preciseness in the choices he made, like the print hanging on his wall. And there was a method to his madness, like his patterned routines.      

I ransacked my apartment looking for Glenn Anderson's business card.

And,

There we were,

Once more,

Glenn Anderson and I,

Back at the same restaurant,

Glenn ordered his half Caesar salad with chicken, croutons and parmesan cheese in two separate containers on the side, lettuce and chicken tossed with dressing, fresh ground black pepper on top of the salad after it was brought to him.

Two bottles of wine - and we were back at Glenn's house.

I stepped into Glenn Anderson's front room with a clear and open mind. However my natural inclination to quickly assess my surroundings, I was going to force myself this time to symbolically askew my awareness in a different direction, no matter how random.   

But when we got to that part of the evening where Glenn Anderson wanted to show me his directorial DVD once more, nature did, what nature does, and intervened.

I politely reminded Glenn I saw the DVD last time I was at his place.  

"Oh." was all Glenn said.

I was determined to make the outcome of this night different between Glenn and I. 

"It shouldn't be this hard." I said out loud but not intending to.

"What shouldn't be this hard?" Glenn Anderson repeated.

"This. Us. You. Me." I said.

Glenn thought for a moment, sighed, and then asked, "Why did you call me? You told me months ago we couldn't see each other again?"

 You try condensing everything I've just written, down into a simple answer.

"Second chance?" I questioned.

"Seems you don't like me much." Glenn said pointing his finger at me.

"Seems you don't like me much." I replied.

I blame the wine. Any time you find yourself at the crossroads with a potential lover, always blame the wine. In a moment of absolute false wisdom, though I do not recall now how I got there, I thought perhaps if we verbally undo the things Glenn Anderson and I didn't like about one another, all that would be left are the things that we do like about one another. Again, I blame the wine.

"You go first." I offered.

Admiration can sometimes be found in the center of prejudice. It's just a matter of stripping away the quarrels of previous discontent.

"I hate your tattoos." Glenn Anderson said.

Fair enough. Girls with tattoos aren't for everyone. "I hate your house." I replied which wasn't entirely true. I didn't hate his house, the architecture just didn't make sense to me. 

"I hate the way you pierce your lips shut when you want to say something but don't." Glenn Anderson said.

It's a nervous tick!

"I hate that you have a Rodin." 

"You hate my Rodin?" Glenn asked.

"Not your Rodin. I hate that you have one. You. Never mind. Just go." I said.

"I hate that it took you 9 months to call me." Glenn said.

Actually it was 8 months but who's counting.

"I hate that you make it so complicated being together." I said.



[To be continued...]

The Glenn Anderson experience - Part III

Glenn Anderson stood silently in front of the colorful print hanging on his wall. It was suspended in a beautiful antique ornate frame. The frame was by and far more lavish than the print. The print itself was of a painting, primary colors, seemingly wanting to cross each other, haphazardly, perpendicular, and without any real sense of purpose or direction. It just looked... messy. 

Something you hung on your wall out of polite obligation. 

Dude, you have a Rodin!

What's worse, the print hung on the wall unevenly. I stood before the print with Glenn Anderson wondering how he didn't see that it needed to be straightened. The print hung prominently lower on the right side. Never leave your artwork hanging crooked in front of an artist, you'll drive them crazy. I wanted to give the print a few taps upward to straighten it out.

"Shall I open a bottle of wine?" Glenn asked.

I thought we were just going to look at your new directorial piece?

"Sure." I replied.

Glenn Anderson wanted me to ask about the print. It was a psychological tug-of-war. I didn't want to ask about the print. I wanted to ask him about the Rodin. But Glenn Anderson didn't want me to ask him about the Rodin. He wanted me to ask him about the print.

The reason I didn't ask Glenn Anderson about the print, was due to the fact I was annoyed he didn't seem to care about his Rodin. Sentiments are wonderful things. One's predilection for another makes life sweet. Be that as it may, regardless of what the print means to Glenn Anderson, when you can afford a Rodin, how can you just toss it aside?

I don't know what's worse; buying a Rodin simply because you can, or tossing it aside because it never mattered to begin with.

My friend Nick once told me a story about a shopkeeper in Italy who was using a Michelangelo painting as a door wedge totally unaware of what he had. While Nick was telling me this story I nearly had a heart attack.

The print hanging on the wall had more value to Glenn Anderson than the Rodin. Amazing. While endearments are never beyond the pale, Glenn's Rodin (at that time) I estimate was worth at least two million dollars. Glenn Anderson wasn't just some spoiled yuppie. He was also an artist, or rather a director of art. What little experience I had with directors, whatever my opinion was of directors at the time, I always respect people who succeed in their visionary craft, even if I dislike the material.   

Glenn Anderson returned to the main front room with two glasses of red wine.

"Thank you." I said as he handed me one of the glasses.

"Salute." He said clinking his wine glass to mine.

"I like your home." I politely lied.

"Me too." He replied.  

As we drank our wine I thought; this was the best conversation we had all evening.

"Want to show me your directorial piece?" I asked Glenn.

He carefully thought for a moment. I could see the struggle in his face and his desire to tell me about the print hanging on the wall. For whatever reason Glenn needed me to invite that topic into the open. Glenn wanted me to want to know about the print. Like the girl who wants her boyfriend to want to do the dishes. I want you to want me.   
  
Glenn and I stood but a few inches apart from one another. Drinking our wine. Being nonchalant. Coy. Roguish. Minutes past. Then suddenly Glenn grabbed my hand and lead me to the couch. He took me by complete surprise. I never would have guessed Glenn Anderson to take a such bold initiative. 

Glenn already had his directorial DVD cued into the player. I sat down on the sofa. Glenn sat down next to me holding his glass of wine upon my leg. He clicked on the TV and started the DVD player. I was excited. This directorial was his work. His project. I was about to witness a very personal side of Glenn Anderson at his most passionate.

And even though Glenn Anderson and I were not the least bit fittingly compatible, I was beginning to have faith there might still be a chance for an intimate romantic connection. 

I watched the DVD with Glenn;

And, 

It was not at all what I supposed it to be. Instead of his own creation, it was a 20 minute compilation of commercials Glenn had directed. Commercials I had seen on television many times: sleek expensive car commercials, upscale hotel ad campaigns, and exclusive salon hair products. In between each clip the credits rolled during behind the camera shots of Glenn, the actors, and the crew.  

I don't know what I thought Glenn was going to show me. I guessed, I had hoped, it was going to be something independent, something entirely his own, something driven by the pounding of his heart.

These commercials were all things a director does for money, not because he aches to.

Or,

Maybe at the time,

I was the one who needed to see Glenn Anderson in that artistic light. Maybe it was my own selfish need to have Glenn Anderson bear his soul to me.

I smiled at Glenn.

"That was... wonderful." I lied. "I've seen these commercials on TV. I love them." I lied some more. 

Glenn Anderson seemed pleased.

"Come here." Glenn instructed holding out his hand, "Let me show you the house."

I placed my hand in his and we stood up together. Glenn lead me to one of the small 3-step landings where I tripped on one of the steps. I caught myself before any wine splashed out of the glass. I stubbed my big toe.

We walked down a small corridor as Glenn pointed out the closets and a few personal photos hanging on the wall. Seemed odd to me he would hang personal photos in a darkened hallway where no one would see them unless they were getting bath towels. 

We reached another 3-step landing where once again I tripped going up the tiny steps. Once again stubbing my big toe. This time a little wine splashed out of my glass.

"Don't worry about it." Glenn said casually.

Glenn took me for a tour around his house. The kitchen. The formal dining room. The informal dining room. His office. The Den. The back sitting room. The bathrooms. The bedrooms.     

"What's this room for?" I asked. The room was empty. Completely bare.

"Well, honestly, I'd like to turn this into a baby room," he said looking at me thoughtfully, "hopefully sooner than later." 

I felt like I just had the wind knocked out of me. Didn't we cover this already? I thought I was going to pass out.

My dad once told me; A king can own all the property in the land but he will always want the one thing not on his property. Dad's words never felt more truer than at that moment with Glenn Anderson. I wanted Glenn Anderson's soul. He wanted a baby. In retrospect I suppose that's a fair exchange. But not today. And not with me. Ever.

I simplified my date with Glenn Anderson as being a conflict with our age difference. Stands to reason a man of his age wanting a family, just usually not on the first date. Although not uncommon. I once went out on (what was supposed to be) a dinner date with a man, someone I had just met, who wouldn't even have dinner with me after he asked if I wanted children and I replied no. "I want a woman who wants kids." Was all he said, then paid for our drinks and left the restaurant. I was shocked. But in time I got used to it.

"It's getting late." I said.

"You never think about settling down?" Glenn Anderson asked me.

"Not on the first date." I joked. Glenn Anderson didn't think it was funny.

Clearly disappointed, Glenn Anderson guided me back down towards the front room of his house. I stumbled a few times going down the landings. Glenn Anderson didn't seem to notice.

I felt it best Glenn Anderson drove me back to the restaurant where we met, rather than drive me home. He didn't disagree. 

During the drive back I inquired, "Tell me about the print on your wall." 

"A friend gave it to me." Was all Glenn Anderson said.

Once we were back at the restaurant where our night began, I politely thanked Glenn for a nice evening. He didn't say anything. Instead Glenn Anderson just drove away. 

Glenn called me a few times. I returned his call once. I told him I couldn't see him again. He pursued a few more times before giving up.

I thought that was the end of Glenn Anderson.

But then,

Around 8 months later a girlfriend of mine told me the most interesting story about a certain director she had met and gone on a date with...
        

[To be continued...]

The Glenn Anderson experience - Part II

Most normal girls I imagine would have told Glenn Anderson, "I'm sorry but this isn't working out," right at the moment when he acted like I owed him an apology for the awkward way we met. The night was still young, most normal girls would have called it a night and made other plans with a different guy. Most normal girls would have left the restaurant and not looked back. I'm not most normal girls.   

In what little I knew about him, Glenn Anderson was not a guy who picks up dates, he's not a guy who opens the door for anyone, and he's not a guy who helps a girl to her chair. I suspected he was also a guy who splits the check. I was already prepared to pay my own dinner/drinks because I gave Glenn Anderson less than a 1% chance of sex before I left my place to meet him. The main reason being Glenn Anderson insisted on having dinner with me. I suggested a bottle of wine and a cozy night in, but he said he wanted to have dinner.

Dinner dates are my curse. There are men I wanted to have sex with had we not first gotten to know each other better during a meal that lasted an hour and a half. I don't say that to be mean, but there are times when you're attracted to a person who you don't want to talk to, for many different reasons, but you definitely want to have sex with. Men aren't allowed to admit that because it makes them look like jerks, and women aren't allowed to admit that either because it makes them look like sluts. How dumb. Adults should be able to intelligently discuss what it is they want from each other without all the ceremony that sometimes does more harm than good. Communicate. What do you want? People don't give it a second thought before cutting someone else off the road putting lives in immediate danger, yet admitting you like sex is a social fate worse than a 5 car pile up.

My suggestion of a bottle of wine and a cozy night in, was my way of telling Glenn Anderson I thought he was attractive and the dinner wasn't necessary. But he wanted dinner. Alas, we were doomed.

Just by the awkward way Glenn and I met I knew conversation was not going to be good between us. And while opening the door for me, and pulling out my chair, are both old fashion dating customs, him not doing either felt like a lack of respect. After all, dinner was his idea. He insisted on it. For me this was no longer a date, but a trial, a grudge match. Gloves were on. We were going 10 rounds. If he pissed me off even more the gloves were coming off.          

At the restaurant, Glenn Anderson ordered a bottle of wine. I didn't pay attention to the vineyard. It was alcohol and that's all I wanted. I knew what was coming next.

I remained quiet. I didn't say anything. I just smiled at Glenn when he looked at me, and waited for it. 

Wait for it...

With the wine poured Glenn sat in his chair, crossed his arms on the table, leaned forward, and made himself comfortable.

Here it comes.  

Glenn asked me the series of first date questions I absolutely hate.

1. Do you ever want to get married?
2. Do you have children?
3. Do you want children?
4. What do you want to do with your life?
5. What made you move to Los Angeles?
6. What's your favorite kind of food?

I took a deep breath and answered him.

1. No
2. No
3. No
4. Make art, drink wine, retire in Italy or France until the day I die.
5. I was visiting friends in college and haven't left. 
6. Sushi

Next question?

I've been asked these questions so many times now I'm guessing the dull throbbing pain in my head every time I hear myself repeat the answers to be a permanent condition.

I speculate asking basic trivial lists of questions on dates is what single people do when they've been single far longer than they want to be. Mostly people just talk. Inquiries are answered during intriguing conversation. But single people who hate being single, like taking long tedious verbal detours; they make lists, charts, metaphoric maps using a red laser pointer to indicate one's final destination even though they're only going 10 miles down the road. It drives me crazy.

I love being single - until I end up on dinner dates with people like Glenn Anderson.

I could tell Glenn hated being single. He wondered why other men, less successful men, less attractive men, were happy with someone and he had no one.

I asked Glenn the same questions he asked me. His answers were long, verbose and boring. I didn't listen. I just smiled, nodded my head and drank the wine.

When Glenn ordered dinner, he spoke to the server like he had ordered the same meal a million times before. I remember; a half Caesar salad with chicken, croutons and parmesan cheese in two separate containers on the side, but the lettuce and chicken tossed with dressing, with fresh ground black pepper on top of the salad but only after the salad was brought to him. And he ordered the rest of the meal the same way, complicated and unnecessary.   

I have no idea what I ate but I do remember drinking a second bottle of wine as Glenn told me about his life as a Creative Director. I didn't care enough to inform Glenn that being an artist I already knew what a Creative Director does. I was certain he had already forgotten my mentioning wanting to make art and retire in Italy. Had Glenn and I simply talked like normal people I would have asked Glenn what inspires him creatively; and what he thought about directors like Stanley Kubrick, Russ Meyer, and Roman Polanski. I would have asked him what he thought about using CGI (then in its early stages.) I would have asked him what he thought about the directorial in Breakfast at Tiffany's, and The Great Gatsby circa 1974, two of my favorite movies. If Glenn and I were normal people I would have asked Glenn what he thought about sex and sexuality on film. I would have asked him what he thought about contemporary horror movies, and his thoughts on commercials and the future of advertisements, the internet at this time was still somewhat new. But Glenn and I weren't normal people. Glenn was pissed off he was single. I was pissed off we were having this silly trite dinner in order to reach the next level of getting to knowing each other, whatever that entailed! 

However,

Glenn was too busy reaching his next destination to have a healthy conversation.

So,

After dinner and two bottles of wine I was ready to call it quits and go home. But then Glenn insisted on buying dinner and in the same breath invited me over to his place to see his new directorial project. I should have said no. A normal person would have said no. But I'm not a normal person. Plus I was very curious to see what a directorial by Glenn Anderson looks like. It was the most interesting thing Glenn said all night. I had to see his work. I just had to! 

Glenn's house while visually appealing, hardwood floors, and furnished in dark wood furniture I adore, was still and all, clearly staged. I've never been to a director's house before. But I guess it made sense. Glenn's appearance was staged. His house was staged. Even our dinner date I suspected was also staged. Everyone in their place. On their mark. Everything in its place. Cut. Polished. Glint. Luster.

The house itself was an architectural mess with multi landings divided by a series of 3-step steps. But maybe there was a story behind the multi landings? Frank LLoyd Wright's Hollyhock House has hallways only 6 feet high and incredibly narrow because supposedly the original home owners said they were tired of guests lingering in the hallways during parties, so Wright designed the hallways in the Hollyhock House to be the most uncomfortable places to stand in.

Brilliant.

After one night of hearty festive drinking, Glenn Anderson's house would violently kill me with those tiny steps.

Glenn's house felt like I was entering a crime scene, don't touch anything, everything is right where it's supposed to be, take 3,862 (today!) Even so, Glenn Anderson had the most beautiful hand crafted furniture. How is that possible? How could someone so fixed and manicured own such warm and lovingly made furniture?

And then,

I saw it, 

On his book shelf,

The Rodin.     

Yuppies in the 90's loved Rodin, though most had no idea or appreciation behind the innovation, craftsmanship, complexity and history behind Rodin's talent and sculptures. They just viewed owning a Rodin as part of a sophisticated social status quo.   

Be that as it may,

Glenn Anderson's Rodin wasn't out in plain sight. He didn't display the Rodin on his coffee table for everyone to be immediately impressed by. Glenn Anderson kept his Rodin where I would have had this (elaborate crime scene) been my house, elegantly pedestaled on the comfort of a beautifully hand crafted bookshelf.   

But,

When Glenn Anderson saw me admiring his Rodin, he seemed disappointed. Formerly standing beside me, Glenn walked away from me and repositioned himself in front of a colorful print hanging on the opposite wall from where the bookshelf and Rodin were.   

I think Glenn Anderson wanted me to ask him about the print hanging on the wall. In truth the print wasn't much to look at. It was colorful, random splashes of color, symmetrical... Dude, you own a Rodin!  

Art class 101. Objective: make use of the full canvas.

Withal,

Glenn's odd displays of behavior,

I was beginning to wonder of Glenn Anderson was not as "complex" as I once thought, but rather some kind of evil genius who's diabolical psychological prowess was purely underappreciated.

On second thought,

No.

The guy was nuts.

If I was a normal girl I would have left his house. I wouldn't have even gone to his house.

But as we've already established, I'm not a normal girl.


[To be continued...]