ellroy/gretzky dedication

while we're on the subject of trying: not only do i try, i frequently (some might argue 'invariably') make ass of self. readers, have i shared with you two of my favorite quotes pertinent to WHALES? one is by ellroy, and it is my creed of sorts: 'Any man who won't make a fool out of himself over a woman is a fucking fruit.' (note: i regard man as self--and woman as man--when i recall quote.) words to live by: WHALES 102, ladies, WHALES 102. (i've already otherwise devoted WHALES 101, to laughing at man's stupid jokes; see 'insomniacs, take heed.') the other, equally vital to a WHALES, is the quote by the great one, gretzky: 'i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take.' honestly, it is not usually an issue for me to approach men, at parties, bars, bookstores, coffee shops, subway platforms. after all, i am president of WHALES. and to me it's like throwing spaghetti at the wall: if it sticks, then yay. however, there are times and places where i hesitate, where i question propriety, and when that happens, i ask myself, what would ellroy/gretzky do? (not unlike do parker and stone brian boitano.)

in fact, it was only 2 days ago, upon my return from a soul-searching sojourn (see previous post), at the airport that i spotted an acceptably attractive man. at first, i thought, no, no, no, ms. c, you cannot accost a man at a baggage claim carousel. but then i stood there for a long time (a very long time--which, by the way, gave me an idea of the baggage loader job description: must be small and weak and get stoned out of gourd), considering, and thought that if i didn't say something, for certain later i would want to kick self in ass. (and god i hate that--because it is impossible, to kick self in ass. even i, avid runner (see 'olympics makes me randy'), near-olympian (see previous post), after giving yoga a go and everything, can only touch butt with heel, and without force. readers, show me someone who can kick their own ass--now that's raising the bar--and i'll write him a hate letter that will make the one to jon stewart look like a fucking valentine.)

anyhoo, i went over to mr. luggage-awaiter. i said, 'are you from [western city from whence we arrived]?' he said no, that he was just visiting, and thus began a most animated convo. yes, he used the word 'dude' a lot. he wore his baseball cap askew. his hair was a rat's nest, and the armpits of his t-shirt were torn. i was pleased and agreed to share a cab into town. during that half hour or so, we became relatively well acquainted. i found out he was a badass skier, finishing up med school, and that being so he had no-charge access to all the major museums in the city. i also discovered that he had visited NOT ONE museum. he saw the occasional broadway show when family visited (i gagged reflexively). i was appalled. i said, 'you probably don't even read!' to which he replied, 'i do, too!' i said, 'what--into the wild? on the road?' he angrily pulled out utopia. i rolled my eyes, despite never having read utopia. then i saw it had no bookmark, no dog-ear, no nothing. i called him a liar, that he was not in fact reading at all; otherwise, where was the bookmark? he pointed to a pink paper clip. it was on the back cover. unimpressed i was. i said, 'so, you're on page back cover?' he said, 'i hate you.' unimpressed, yes; unattracted, no. he had said that he worked 80 hours a week, unpaid; so, he was single. i asked him to dinner. he accepted and we exchanged info. (vive ellroy/gretzky!)