Given that half the planet's population wipes its ass with bark, I appreciate that I was able to graduate from Northwestern. But I can't help confessing I wish others also appreciated it. Specifically, women. I've been searching for companionship for as long as I can remember to no avail. And perhaps that's part of the problem right there: using words like "avail." But I am who I am and honestly don't see why having a large vocabulary in Chicago should be an impediment.
I live in Bucktown, a happening neighborhood somewhat distant from the city center. I actually had a fight with one woman about its location. "Where are we?" she asked indignantly. "You're in Chicago," I informed her. "The hell I am," she responded. We then spent the majority of our "date" with a street atlas spread before us in my basement apartment, squabbling about city boundaries.
Why do I live in a basement at the age of 53? Not because I favor cool, damp environments, but because I work in a helping profession; while everyone else has been figuring out how to enrich themselves, I've been attempting to give back to society.
I'm a page in a public library off East Wacker. I help arrange books on the shelves, sort magazines, and direct patrons to the restroom. And yet a good number of women I've met don't even know what a page is. "What, you mean like in a book?" "No," I answer calmly, "I'm not a page in a book." Or, I love this question: "Are you working on your M.L.S.?" If you encounter a pilot, do you ask, "Are you considering becoming an astronaut?"
It's very sad to see how the older people get, the more they care about money. It's like they'd rather view your financial statements laid out than hear about your siblings, the starring role you had in the Freshman Revue (at a university noted for its drama program), and your boss.
Here's my financial statement: I do not care about accumulating as much as I possibly can before I depart this earth. I do not care about the right address, travel, fine wine, ridiculously uncomfortable European modular furniture and all the rest of it. I care about the moment, about communication, and laughter.
Blake wrote: "To see a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower." Yet citing this as my personal philosophy has elicited the following responses: "How can you see anything, never mind a grain of sand, in this basement?," "I want a lot more than a wild flower," and "Let's get the check."
Finally, after my mother asked me for the umpteenth time, "Do you mention your degree from Northwestern?," I placed the following ad: "World-famous businessman with balls the size of Vidalia onions seeks company." This drew 26 responses, all of them male. I then dropped the bit about onions and was met with: "Are you Bill Gates?," "Why is a world-famous businessman advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?," and "Why is Bill Gates advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?"
I live in Bucktown, a happening neighborhood somewhat distant from the city center. I actually had a fight with one woman about its location. "Where are we?" she asked indignantly. "You're in Chicago," I informed her. "The hell I am," she responded. We then spent the majority of our "date" with a street atlas spread before us in my basement apartment, squabbling about city boundaries.
Why do I live in a basement at the age of 53? Not because I favor cool, damp environments, but because I work in a helping profession; while everyone else has been figuring out how to enrich themselves, I've been attempting to give back to society.
I'm a page in a public library off East Wacker. I help arrange books on the shelves, sort magazines, and direct patrons to the restroom. And yet a good number of women I've met don't even know what a page is. "What, you mean like in a book?" "No," I answer calmly, "I'm not a page in a book." Or, I love this question: "Are you working on your M.L.S.?" If you encounter a pilot, do you ask, "Are you considering becoming an astronaut?"
It's very sad to see how the older people get, the more they care about money. It's like they'd rather view your financial statements laid out than hear about your siblings, the starring role you had in the Freshman Revue (at a university noted for its drama program), and your boss.
Here's my financial statement: I do not care about accumulating as much as I possibly can before I depart this earth. I do not care about the right address, travel, fine wine, ridiculously uncomfortable European modular furniture and all the rest of it. I care about the moment, about communication, and laughter.
Blake wrote: "To see a world in a grain of sand/And a heaven in a wild flower." Yet citing this as my personal philosophy has elicited the following responses: "How can you see anything, never mind a grain of sand, in this basement?," "I want a lot more than a wild flower," and "Let's get the check."
Finally, after my mother asked me for the umpteenth time, "Do you mention your degree from Northwestern?," I placed the following ad: "World-famous businessman with balls the size of Vidalia onions seeks company." This drew 26 responses, all of them male. I then dropped the bit about onions and was met with: "Are you Bill Gates?," "Why is a world-famous businessman advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?," and "Why is Bill Gates advertising in the 'Chicago Reader'?"
No, I'm not Bill Gates. I wear glasses (Who, at 53, doesn't?), am somewhat overweight (Who in America isn't?), and care about the environment. Hey, maybe I am Bill Gates. See, I'm funny and have personality. So I'd like to think that a first date at Walker Brothers Pancake House would not prompt this comment: "I don't see booze on the menu." Of course not: it's a pancake house. Should I have chosen Hooters?
That was the date where I nearly lost it. Jacqueline was a 39-year-old Assistant Vice something or other at some place that sounded dreadful and all she wanted to talk about were 401ks and Roth IRA Rollovers. I was trying to saturate my Hawaiian Platter (a short stack garnished with pineapple, coconut, and maraschino cherries) with as much maple syrup as possible while she was prattling on about being "fully vested." Then I had yet another opportunity to hear her vision of the "dream," which countless other women have also confided to me.
Basically, these gals are looking to retire. They're hoping to kick back, take it easy, re-do the kitchen of a brand-new home purchased for them as some sort of bizarre wedding present, and possibly have their new soulmate foot the bill for their kids' (from a previous marriage) college tuition.
Imagine: Jacqueline's 39, probably has another 28 years of productivity in her (38 if she invested those 401k funds poorly), and she's ready to slip into a bathrobe. I told her flat-out: "I'm not a player in the capitalist system. If you're looking for a University of Chicago professor with a chair, an orthodontist with a booming practice on Lake Shore Drive, or even somebody who owns two TCBY frozen yogurt franchises in decent locations, I'm not that guy. I'm in a helping profession." She asked, "Are you a nurse?" "No," I answered, "I'm not a nurse. And I'm not someone who can provide a life of luxury for myself or anyone else." "O.K.," she said, "don't get your back up. I'd just like to meet somebody who earns more than $22,000 per year." I asked her why she named that sum. She told me it was the poverty line figure for a family of four. "Oh," I said with new interest, "so you want to start a family?"
I stood naked before a full-length mirror Saturday morning and asked myself, "If I were a woman in her late 40s/early 50s who'd been through two messy divorces, been mistreated and neglected by virtually every man I'd met since then, and were yearning for sexual release to the point of developing hives, would I want to see this guy coming toward me nude?" I honestly couldn't decide and since it's not the sort of question I can ask my mother and she's the only woman I'm friendly with, I'm still without an answer.
