This is a repost of my favorite bad date story, originally posted 7/7/11
This song will never die. I'll be an old lady rocking back and forth in my rocking chair on the front porch (I live in the South somewhere?) and I'll tell my son to "crank this shit up." Probably more likely I'll be soothing my teeth between prolonged sips from a Bourbon lemonade, swirling regrets and theophanies into the thick root of a lowball. Sorry I said "theophanies." Just trying it out. Whaddya think? It's probably the worst, but I'm listless these days. Using new words is about as edgy as I get. I'm still waiting for the right moment to casually drop "excoriate" without losing friends.
One time I went on a date with a guy who lived, ate and drank on the Upper East Side. We'll just call him "Harvard Sweatshirt." A snowstorm hit and neither of us wanted to walk three long avenues to the train, so we went back to his immaculate, book-laden apartment. I pulled a copy of "Pockets Full of Chomsky" from his shelf and told him how I'd gifted the series to someone that very morning. His sweatshirt then asked me to "translate complex passages" chosen by him into what I think they mean in layman's terms. You know, because I was a fucking idiot who went to UCLA and couldn't possibly grasp or dissect Chomsky's philosophy.
The degradation sobered me up instantly. I was being hazed. Apparently my ability to break down the assigned excerpts into tiny little pieces at 2am and still look pretty must have been all that he was looking for, for that night anyhow, because suddenly I was "this" and "that" and "more things you want to hear from someone who you're attracted to."
It was freezing, there was a blizzard outside, and the trains were running on holiday service, but I walked three long avenues, transferred trains, and followed the East River home til I could get back to my bed in Williamsburg by 5am.
I don't have that kind of pride anymore.