wooing the wannabe doctor (cont'd from 'ellroy/gretzky dedication')

so, did the wannabe doctor i met at the airport and i date? no. and i have a few theories where things went awry. we rapid-emailed for a day or so after meeting, and i daresay it was lovely banter. then, to woo in high gear my objet d'obsession (du jour), i wrote for him a short play--about people stranded on a desert island who find doctors so boring they conclude they'd rather die from whatever ills than suffer such company. i thought it harmless--i felt certain he would love it--after all, he was a lowly student, not a real doctor.

but i'm beginning to wonder if maybe it was a misstep--this elaborate piece i worked on, night after sleepless night, in the name of like/lust for a boy i barely know. in fact, since sending it, i have not heard from him. so...methinks, perhaps yes, misstep. perhaps both feminists AND med students have no sense of humor. BUT, i did it, dammit--i picked up a stranger at a baggage claim carousel. and i'd do it all again (only entirely differently). regardless, WHALES, when pride, or timidity, or reason, tries to stick its shitty, little foot in the door, do not forget the words of the great one ('i missed 100% of the shots i didn't take'). it can't be so difficult to improve upon missing 100% of the time (can it?). 99, i aim for you.

i share with you now my offending toil:

REGGIE: People can survive without many things, Charlotte, but not without entertainment. I know. I was once stranded on an island off the coast of Thailand. It was harrowing, but I survived—

CHARLOTTE: I see that—

REGGIE: Barely.

CHARLOTTE: You almost died, Reggie?

REGGIE: Yes. The crew and I, we were parched, hungry, and without foot scrub. Feet take a beating in the tropics, you know.

CHARLOTTE: That’s hardly life-threatening—

REGGIE: And there were horrible natives—cannibals.

CHARLOTTE: Do tell.

REGGIE: Oh, would my reliving the most traumatic event of my life entertain you? That is, excuse my French, cruel [cru ell´]. You’re a sick bitch, you know that?

CHARLOTTE: But cannibals? Incredible.

REGGIE: You ought to see a shrink. Incidentally, mine is excellent. We do role play, wherein I’m a rabbit and she’s a fox, and I must hop for my life—

CHARLOTTE: I don’t need a shrink; I really don’t give a crap about the island. I was just being—

REGGIE: The island—it was a glorious day. About a dozen other men and I had taken a longtail out to snorkel, sunbathe and abuse each other with makeshift seaweed whips. I remember it like it was yesterday: Big Jack got me good—

CHARLOTTE: (To Bartender.) Beer, please.

REGGIE: (To Bartender.) Yes, another martini, too. (To Charlotte.) Where was I?

CHARLOTTE: After the whipping—way after.

REGGIE: Yes, well we all thought for certain we would die in the hands of the Amazon women. There’s no word for ‘no’ in female Amazonian.

CHARLOTTE: I thought you said Thailand.

REGGIE: Oh, now an inquisition? You know no limits…just like the Amazons.

CHARLOTTE: It’s just that the Amazon is in—

REGGIE: Oh, are you going to barrage me with facts? Facts shmacts—

CHARLOTTE: Well, maybe they were vacationing Amazons.

REGGIE: You want facts? Facts is: they were huge. Huge everything: huge heads and breasts and feet. And their hands...ack!

CHARLOTTE: What was the matter with their hands?

REGGIE: Huge hands. You know, because they’re giant women. And everything they touch looks so…tiny. Oh, it was horrible.

CHARLOTTE: What did they touch?

REGGIE: Everything, Charlotte—everything.

CHARLOTTE: Oh.

REGGIE: Yes. It was like an elephant holding a Twinkie.

CHARLOTTE: Say no more—

REGGIE: Or a tic-tac.

CHARLOTTE: Well, it would have been awful for a lesser man.

REGGIE: Yes, well....

CHARLOTTE: Anyway, on this island, you could’ve used a diversion?

REGGIE: Yes, though those womanly beasts were spellbound even by my relatively mini—

CHARLOTTE: So if you could choose a dozen people to be stranded on an island with you, you’d choose what, a dancer?

REGGIE: Naturally...preferably a tap dancer. Also, singers, storytellers, sandcastle-makers. Don’t tell me—you wouldn’t.

CHARLOTTE: Well, what about a doctor?

REGGIE: Doctor?? Whatever for?

CHARLOTTE: When people get sick, Reggie. Or hurt. Might be useful.

REGGIE: Doctors are boring, Charlotte. I’d be bored to death. So not unless it’s Dr. Kevorkian; if I’m not entertained, then, please, put me out of my fucking misery.

CHARLOTTE: But if you break a leg, get appendicitis—

REGGIE: Right up there with lawyers, accountants and mimes.

CHARLOTTE: All right, all right!

REGGIE: I want lights, camera, action, dueling pianos—

CHARLOTTE: Pianos?

REGGIE: Since when does deserted have to mean uncivilized? Never—that’s when. It’s my hypothetical, Charlotte. If you want your island to be empty, dark and devoid of theater, be my guest, morbid freak.

CHARLOTTE: You said deserted, Reggie—and deserted is empty!

REGGIE: Civilized I say, you hippie.

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!)