Disclaimer #1: I wish Sandra Bullock no specific ill - actually, I wish her no ill whatsoever. She's a celebrity who (up until now) has managed to steer herself clear of most of the tabloid horseshit - but most of her movies appeal to the Oprah crowd. I have seen, according to IMDb a total of one of her films. [Which shouldn't really count as Demolition Man was technically a Sylvester Stallone vehicle - but it brought her into the public eye.] But she seems like a great girl. She's a huge Howard Stern fan, and her appearance at the Razzies this year proves that she can laugh at herself. And finally, though she may not be the subject of debate on the Maxim Hot 100, [I only know of it - I could give a French Fried Fuck about the content of that parrot cage liner.] having seen her twice up close and personal in public, I find her to be extremely hot.
Disclaimer #2: I'm not a "nice" guy. I'm nice-adjacent. I am sarcastic and cynical, and delight at any opportunity I can get to hurl invective at those who deserve it. I mean, I'm a stand-up kind of guy. I'm a dependable guy. But I talk a lot of shit.
I say this up front, because, once I get into it, the last thing I want anyone to think that I'm some poetry-writing emo fuck who has an axe to grind with women because he's too much of a pussy to take a little initiative, and thus, has had few to no dates. Though I haven't exactly reached Wilt Chamberlain numbers, I've done ok when it comes to "the fairer sex," and - despite what one might think, with me being a divorcee-to-be - any gripe I had with women went away when I threw out my poetry journal...
Do I really have to say I was kidding about the last bit? I'd never throw away my poetry journal.
Do I really have to say I was kidding about the last bit? I'd never throw away my poetry journal.
So here we go.
What I know about Sandra Bullock boils down to one movie (Demolition Man), and what I've seen of her on talk-shows. But she seems pretty cool. Having gone to acting school, that's as hard as it is rare for me to say about an actress - famous or otherwise. She also reminds me of a lot of my female friends - romantic and/or otherwise.
Maybe that's the thing here: it's not so much that friendships with women are better or worse than friendships with men, but I think we'd all admit that they're different - and tricky, if not difficult, to maintain.
But I digress...
But I digress...
Friendships with women. I gotta keep it short and get back to my beloved Sandy. Back in the day, I was ok at it - most of the friendships came from unrequited attraction, but in both directions. I either felt romantically toward a girl, but she didn't feel the same way, or vice versa. Ah! l'amour de la jeunesse!!!
I've kind of recently gotten back into the friendship thing with the fairer sex. However, although not impossible, friendships with people of the opposite sex are even trickier when you're married (even if...). I mean meaningful ones where you really get to know someone. Not Whatshername or Thatguy from the cubicle farm, that enjoys Dexter just as much as you do.
I've been in a weird position, though. Knowing that a split is inevitable frees me up to explore friendships with women - and that's about it. A verbal, albeit loosely defined, agreement based on our financial inability to split for right now keeps things from getting complicated - in other words, physical attraction, sex, yadda, yadda. I'm not fucking dead - or dead to fucking. It's just that, still being under the same (very small) roof, for lack of a better word - shoving things in another person's face is pretty cold. We put it this way: just because we're eventually going to be single doesn't mean we can or should act that way now. So, limbo has actually been rather liberating.
Imagine that. This whole fucking first bit is pretty much all disclaimer, isn't it?
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really like women, love women, love being around them.
But I'm about to say might sound harsh. Before you, yes you... You too. And you toward the back trying to shrink behind your friend to avoid my line of vision... before any lovely, beautiful goddess-like fairy princess(es) I know (who's fecal matter doesn't stink; and who's pussy smells like flowers and looks "like a paper cut with a wisp of cotton candy on top") thinks that this is specific to them, I am talking in a very general sense, but based on broad experiences. And experience with broads.
I'll be here all week!
So... Let me set a scene. Sandy called me last night (Oh sure, true story), and just needed someone to talk to. Someone, as she puts it, "who isn't telling me to cut Jesse's balls off and go for the jugular."
Aw, shit! It's not like I thought it was my "in" line, it's how I feel, but... Fuck!
"All right, all right. But can we go to the fucking Edison this time? I think I need to go where people can't hear us. Plus, if you're gonna get thrashed, hate on men, and stumble around like a fucking hobo, I'd rather it be around me than someone from the Date-rape Brigade. Your fuckin' holding your own hair this time though. You puked on my fucking Doc Martens, you cunt!"
*I imagine she'd be the kind of girl who's cool with my sailor mouth, and knows that calling you very, very bad things is my way of saying "I love you." I'm complex, but pretty transparent.*
So we're at the Edison. off night. Early in the evening, so as to avoid gawkers. She's on her second absinthe cocktail. I'm alternating a nice Indian pale
"I wish he could be more like you! You're so good to me!"
Shit, if it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid - I'd be fucking pissed. Excuse me, pi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hissed!!!
"Like" me. Of course. Nothing like the implication that you're perfect, save for one thing that makes crossing the attraction barrier impossible. And that she's legs to the sky with somebody that under any other conditions would make you want to vomit. They want you to get to know them, and then when you do...
Wait - I was back at the shrink's office again. Sorry.
I feel a little bit like a jerk now, but I snapped.
"Look, Sandy-kins, I asked you to come down here for a reason."
"Look, D., I just don't..."
"...feel that way about me. I know. For once, don't fucking flatter yourself. I brought you down here, because yelling at you where things are very loud is a lot more appropriate than in a quiet, hole-in-the-wall, meant for conversation."
"You want to yell at me?"
"Yes and no. But you're probably going to yell at me, and you've got a reputation to protect. I just want to know one thing:
GOD FUCKING DAMN IT GIRL!!!! HOW IN THE FLYING FUCK DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING??? THE GUY LOOKS LIKE FUCKING WALKING VD!!! BUT OH NO, YOU LIKE THE 'BAD BOY,' DON'T YOU??? BECAUSE HE TELLS YOU THAT NOT ONLY ARE YOU GOING TO 'MAKE A GOOD MAN OUT OF HIM' BUT HE WANTS YOU TO AS WELL??? OR IS IT THE OLD 'I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL OF THIS' ROUTINE??? TELL YA WHAT - IF TELEVISION IS TO BE BELIEVED, I HEAR THAT BRET MICHAELS IS LOOKING FOR LOVE. HE'S GOT A HARLEY!!! OOOOOOOOO!!!!"
She hits me with the doe-eyes. Goddammit!!! She's making this hard.
"You don't know him like..."
"Don't insult either of our intelligences by finishing that fuckin' sentence. But I guess I should be glad that I'm hearing it in a cool bar instead of the usual police station, hospital or planned fucking parenthood."
Aw crap! Now she's crying. I didn't intend for that to happen. But then, why did I holler at her like that? That isn't cool. Better pull it back from the brink of destruction.
"I'm sorry. Look, I shouldn't have said it so... um, passionately?"
She sniffles and lets out a giggle. OK. She's remembered she's amongst friends. A friend with a big fuckin' mouth, but a friend nonetheless.
"Are you apologizing?"
"Only for the way I said it. But seriously, for a really bright and beautiful girl..."
"You think I'm pretty?"
I give her the "Don't be a fuckin' moron" look.
"I'm not smart. I ended up with that... that..."
"Cretinous miasma of clownshit and hydrolic fluid? Come on, baby! Let me Godfather that stupid dog of his."
She laughs, but some "cryin' snot" comes out of her nose. It's not quite pig-tails or a schoolgirl uniform, but a grown woman crying like that has a girlish (even kinky) charm to it. I give her my napkin and continue:
"I know that it's hard to see the forest for the trees in this situation, but even before the award - which I hope you aren't letting all this tabloid shit overshadow what is still an amazing accomplishment..."
"I thought the Oscars were for 'Assholes who need Brownie buttons as a cultural barometer...'"
"You know, for a woman, you seem to not want to talk about yourself very much..."
I have successfully avoided the iceberg. She tells me so with a punch in the arm.
"...I was more referring to your production company, but if you want to obssess on your little trinket, fuckever..."
A couple more drinks and rebuilding the ol' ego later, we depart. As is the custom, she vomits on my shoes [My monkey boots this time. Hint: old shoes are best in these situations.] as I hold her hair. She gobbles a metric ton of Certs as we split a joint on the way home.
"I never realized these things were so crunchy before... There's a liquor store!!! I want Jack Daniels. I don't care if it's after two, I'm an Oscar winner!"
"Yeah, sure. I totally encourage you to tell them exactly that. Worked for Drew Barrymore."
"You're such a... thpblllllltttttt."
As I walk... no, as I drag her to the door, she pulls her keys from her purse, which true to a RomCom script, shoot across the lawn - yup, sprinklers too.
"You know, I've never hit a woman before, but you're apparently into that sort of thing, so just keep pushin', toots...."
She slumps in the doorway, giggling like a ninny. It's cute this time. She's had a hard week. I've said what I needed to say.
"I only let men abuse my reputation."
"In the words of Warren Zevon..."
We sing "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me." Badly. Where's David Lindley when you really need him?
RomComs have editors. I spent 20 fucking minutes searching for her goddam keys as she retched up her Campbell's Booze n' Breathmints Stew. She was face down, so I was sure she wasn't going to Morrison on me. What? Too soon?
I laid her on the massage table for two reasons: first and foremost, I'm an insomniac, but it's even harder for me to sleep in other people's houses. She might mistake it for actually giving a shit about her, and I don't need any complications right now. So if she hurled, she wouldn't do the Hendrix shuffle... Fuck!
Second, I'm just evil enough that, when she calls to ask what the fuck happened last night, and why the fuck she's half naked on a fucking massage table with her vomit-caked boots under her face, I can get that far away look in my eye and say:
"Jesse was sure a lucky guy. And I thought you were only versatile on a movie set..."
Punch in the arm. Fade to black.
I've kind of recently gotten back into the friendship thing with the fairer sex. However, although not impossible, friendships with people of the opposite sex are even trickier when you're married (even if...). I mean meaningful ones where you really get to know someone. Not Whatshername or Thatguy from the cubicle farm, that enjoys Dexter just as much as you do.
I've been in a weird position, though. Knowing that a split is inevitable frees me up to explore friendships with women - and that's about it. A verbal, albeit loosely defined, agreement based on our financial inability to split for right now keeps things from getting complicated - in other words, physical attraction, sex, yadda, yadda. I'm not fucking dead - or dead to fucking. It's just that, still being under the same (very small) roof, for lack of a better word - shoving things in another person's face is pretty cold. We put it this way: just because we're eventually going to be single doesn't mean we can or should act that way now. So, limbo has actually been rather liberating.
Imagine that. This whole fucking first bit is pretty much all disclaimer, isn't it?
I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really like women, love women, love being around them.
But I'm about to say might sound harsh. Before you, yes you... You too. And you toward the back trying to shrink behind your friend to avoid my line of vision... before any lovely, beautiful goddess-like fairy princess(es) I know (who's fecal matter doesn't stink; and who's pussy smells like flowers and looks "like a paper cut with a wisp of cotton candy on top") thinks that this is specific to them, I am talking in a very general sense, but based on broad experiences. And experience with broads.
I'll be here all week!
So... Let me set a scene. Sandy called me last night (Oh sure, true story), and just needed someone to talk to. Someone, as she puts it, "who isn't telling me to cut Jesse's balls off and go for the jugular."
Aw, shit! It's not like I thought it was my "in" line, it's how I feel, but... Fuck!
"All right, all right. But can we go to the fucking Edison this time? I think I need to go where people can't hear us. Plus, if you're gonna get thrashed, hate on men, and stumble around like a fucking hobo, I'd rather it be around me than someone from the Date-rape Brigade. Your fuckin' holding your own hair this time though. You puked on my fucking Doc Martens, you cunt!"
*I imagine she'd be the kind of girl who's cool with my sailor mouth, and knows that calling you very, very bad things is my way of saying "I love you." I'm complex, but pretty transparent.*
So we're at the Edison. off night. Early in the evening, so as to avoid gawkers. She's on her second absinthe cocktail. I'm alternating a nice Indian pale
"I wish he could be more like you! You're so good to me!"
Shit, if it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid - I'd be fucking pissed. Excuse me, pi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hissed!!!
"Like" me. Of course. Nothing like the implication that you're perfect, save for one thing that makes crossing the attraction barrier impossible. And that she's legs to the sky with somebody that under any other conditions would make you want to vomit. They want you to get to know them, and then when you do...
Wait - I was back at the shrink's office again. Sorry.
I feel a little bit like a jerk now, but I snapped.
"Look, Sandy-kins, I asked you to come down here for a reason."
"Look, D., I just don't..."
"...feel that way about me. I know. For once, don't fucking flatter yourself. I brought you down here, because yelling at you where things are very loud is a lot more appropriate than in a quiet, hole-in-the-wall, meant for conversation."
"You want to yell at me?"
"Yes and no. But you're probably going to yell at me, and you've got a reputation to protect. I just want to know one thing:
GOD FUCKING DAMN IT GIRL!!!! HOW IN THE FLYING FUCK DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING??? THE GUY LOOKS LIKE FUCKING WALKING VD!!! BUT OH NO, YOU LIKE THE 'BAD BOY,' DON'T YOU??? BECAUSE HE TELLS YOU THAT NOT ONLY ARE YOU GOING TO 'MAKE A GOOD MAN OUT OF HIM' BUT HE WANTS YOU TO AS WELL??? OR IS IT THE OLD 'I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL OF THIS
She hits me with the doe-eyes. Goddammit!!! She's making this hard.
"You don't know him like..."
"Don't insult either of our intelligences by finishing that fuckin' sentence. But I guess I should be glad that I'm hearing it in a cool bar instead of the usual police station, hospital or planned fucking parenthood."
Aw crap! Now she's crying. I didn't intend for that to happen. But then, why did I holler at her like that? That isn't cool. Better pull it back from the brink of destruction.
"I'm sorry. Look, I shouldn't have said it so... um, passionately?"
She sniffles and lets out a giggle. OK. She's remembered she's amongst friends. A friend with a big fuckin' mouth, but a friend nonetheless.
"Are you apologizing?"
"Only for the way I said it. But seriously, for a really bright and beautiful girl..."
"You think I'm pretty?"
I give her the "Don't be a fuckin' moron" look.
"I'm not smart. I ended up with that... that..."
"Cretinous miasma of clownshit and hydrolic fluid? Come on, baby! Let me Godfather that stupid dog of his."
She laughs, but some "cryin' snot" comes out of her nose. It's not quite pig-tails or a schoolgirl uniform, but a grown woman crying like that has a girlish (even kinky) charm to it. I give her my napkin and continue:
"I know that it's hard to see the forest for the trees in this situation, but even before the award - which I hope you aren't letting all this tabloid shit overshadow what is still an amazing accomplishment..."
"I thought the Oscars were for 'Assholes who need Brownie buttons as a cultural barometer...'"
"You know, for a woman, you seem to not want to talk about yourself very much..."
I have successfully avoided the iceberg. She tells me so with a punch in the arm.
"...I was more referring to your production company, but if you want to obssess on your little trinket, fuckever..."
A couple more drinks and rebuilding the ol' ego later, we depart. As is the custom, she vomits on my shoes [My monkey boots this time. Hint: old shoes are best in these situations.] as I hold her hair. She gobbles a metric ton of Certs as we split a joint on the way home.
"I never realized these things were so crunchy before... There's a liquor store!!! I want Jack Daniels. I don't care if it's after two, I'm an Oscar winner!"
"Yeah, sure. I totally encourage you to tell them exactly that. Worked for Drew Barrymore."
"You're such a... thpblllllltttttt."
As I walk... no, as I drag her to the door, she pulls her keys from her purse, which true to a RomCom script, shoot across the lawn - yup, sprinklers too.
"You know, I've never hit a woman before, but you're apparently into that sort of thing, so just keep pushin', toots...."
She slumps in the doorway, giggling like a ninny. It's cute this time. She's had a hard week. I've said what I needed to say.
"I only let men abuse my reputation."
"In the words of Warren Zevon..."
We sing "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me." Badly. Where's David Lindley when you really need him?
RomComs have editors. I spent 20 fucking minutes searching for her goddam keys as she retched up her Campbell's Booze n' Breathmints Stew. She was face down, so I was sure she wasn't going to Morrison on me. What? Too soon?
I laid her on the massage table for two reasons: first and foremost, I'm an insomniac, but it's even harder for me to sleep in other people's houses. She might mistake it for actually giving a shit about her, and I don't need any complications right now. So if she hurled, she wouldn't do the Hendrix shuffle... Fuck!
Second, I'm just evil enough that, when she calls to ask what the fuck happened last night, and why the fuck she's half naked on a fucking massage table with her vomit-caked boots under her face, I can get that far away look in my eye and say:
"Jesse was sure a lucky guy. And I thought you were only versatile on a movie set..."
Punch in the arm. Fade to black.
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