All Men Are Cremated Equal

Rusty built grain silos in the Central California Valley. He worked in the East Bay, but happily commuted ninety minutes one way to work because he could listen to his Harry Potter books on tape. He was really riveted by the second installment and spent about ten minutes of our date acting it out for me, voices and all. I do appreciate a story teller with a flair for the avant-garde, as long as he isn’t dramatically challenged or truly unfunny. Near the end he used his wine glass as a prop a few too many times for my taste, but overall he passed, if only marginally.

Rusty and I happened to be sitting at the center table of the King’s Head Pub & Restaurant in downtown Campbell enjoying a Kapsreiter Pilsner. This was a very cool place, and sometimes I stood on the stage here, singing with the band from my current group-home experience. I share with my family that I was an official fill-in member of the Apollo Creeds, a band whose lead singer’s style was reminiscent of Janis Joplin. The band was playing in our basement one night, and I picked up a tambourine and joined right in. During the next song I danced around the room with my finger castanets ringing like crazy. By the third, I was wailing into the microphone like nobody’s business. I was in!

I really enjoyed Rusty. He changed the conversation from Harry Potter to his matchbook collection. I leaned forward with great interest because this was just the type of nerdy stuff I savor.

“Is it me," I asked, "or have you noticed that not many restaurants give out matches like they did back in the day?"

He nodded and shrieks, "Totally! There used to be a garden of matches near the entrance of every dining establishment and you could snatch as many as you desired. I used to collect matches from everyplace I went."

I told him that even though smoking was banned from restaurants, I still wanted matches. I liked free stuff. He then asked if I’d like another ‘free’ drink. Clever, he was. With a straight face, Rusty ordered a Rusty Nail. He was killing me! He shared with me that his matchbook collection spanned forty years, and he loved the art on the packaging. I asked if he displayed them in a giant brandy snifter on his coffee table, and he told me that I was stuck in the Seventies. He professed the new method of matchbook display was to group them by subject and slip them into plastic sleeves in special binders, or in shadowboxes.

He said his parents’ joke was that he was ‘a twig on the matchbook branch of the family tree.’ His father and uncles had shopping bags full of matchbooks in their closets to prove that they were loony enough to be committed. I suddenly wanted to meet them.

I asked Rusty, "Aren’t they worried about the dangers of fire? Or spontaneous combustion?" And that’s where he zinged me with his close-cover-before-striking joke.

Rusty gave me some things to think about. He had an impressive job, a very interesting background, and definitely an upbeat personality, but his favorite books, movies, and philosophy all come from Harry Potter. He also quite frankly said that he had the maturity of a 12-year-old, and that his last girlfriend was somewhere in his junior high days. I had to pass. And did I mentiojn he came to the date dressed in character as a sorcerer?

I got in about three AM from a first call, which is shop talk for picking up a deceased loved one and bringing them into the care of the funeral home. I e-mailed Christie just before I turned off my light. I really wanted to know where my Clint Eastwood was, or maybe my rodeo king? Or maybe my Gulf War Veteran who was tough yet tender. Maybe someone who had a past, an understanding of the value of life, and someone who could take care of business? And could she answer this for me?

My pillows were fluffed and I was ready to drift off to dreamland, but I must have missed the ferryboat. I stayed in the same position for what seemed like an hour, contemplating the concept of time. I want more time. I am trapped by the active, intelligent person’s ongoing dilemma, which is the lack of time. Life simultaneously seems too precious to waste in front of the television, and too precious to let slip by without enjoying leisure time and purposeful contemplation.

I want time to reflect. I want time to nap. I want time to pursue and develop a great relationship with someone. I want time to explore my fascination with canned foods. I want time to visit my father and niece. I want time to bake cookies for a deserving guy, and learn how to cook a great steak. I want time to get in my Jeep, drive somewhere pretty, and snap a roll of pictures. I want so much time that I might, just might, find myself lying on my bed staring at the ceiling, so bored that I wish I could die, like I did once when I was seven.

I finally turned my head to see what time it was, and I was quite surprised to find 5:37 staring back at me from the digital display. I would have heard my alarm ring in twenty minutes, so I decided to spring the coup early and get in a smidge longer morning workout. It was power-lifting day of my regular exercise routine. Yes, I had an actual workout schedule—a list of all the exercises I’m planning for every day of the week.

I’d incorporated a simple plan that allowed me to view the day’s exercise and just do it. No need to track anything, or try

to come up with something beneficial at five or six in the morning. Every week the workouts changed to prevent my body becoming accustomed to a routine, hence I could always keep my muscles “in shock” like the pros say. And I always keep my excitement level high. Or as high as it can really be doing dead lifts to Abba with no one else in the gym.

I had been counting my reps on the Hammer Strength plate-loaded iso-lateral upper body machine (don’t I sound cool!) when I sensed a man standing near me. Exactly where did he come from? I swear I was the only one in the gym. He grunts something about noticing my form and says he can help correct it. I’m open to his suggestion and wait to see if this is merely a training tip or made up reason to chat me up.

Within mere moments he’s boldly chatting me up, and standing much too close as he “corrects my form.” He fills me in that he’s a former boxer, and he works out Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at the gym we’re currently at. And he loves red meat. A dinner invitation is up to bat in record time. Oh, and his name is Tony.

There’s a fine line at the gym of being flirty or being the Creepy Guy, and so far my big Italian gumbah fits into the innocent, mere flirt category. I quickly assess the situation, giving him gold stars for being built, outgoing, and having good annunciation. Time for some questions from the invisible list in my head, and we’re off with a bang.

He’s from the area, works out said days with his brother, and instinctively knows to mention the fact he thinks he forgot to lock the toolbox in his truck bed. I overlook the bonehead for the brawn in that sentence. He’s yummy!

Blind dating. Yeah, tell me about it. Not the most glamourous way to spend an evening. Some of my blind dates were so fascinated why I was with them on a blind date. And they had to let me know. Yes, I was willing to be set up on a blind date. Over and over again, truthfully. I decided not to tell whomever asked what number he was on a really short list of success. Instead, I helped break down the stereotype that blind dating is for those who cannot inspire or secure their own dates.

I would tell them my blind dating is meeting a special person who someone in your life thought you were special enough to meet. With that, they'd ask if I accepted the date with him because all my friends were married and I was feeling desperate.

First off, the whole ‘desperate girl in her thirties’ thing is not true, because women have choices. We have careers, can have children for years, can adopt, maybe don’t want kids or a family, or even a husband, and are generally too busy to obsess about it. No girl sits home waiting for him because she is desperate and in her thirties. We don't have to settle for just 'man,'so why not advertise what we wants and simply trust that he might be out there? I always thought it was brave that women out there accepted dates sight unseen. 

I was always glad when men were open to learn all the mystical wonders of my dating world. I sometimes got crazy and felt compelled to take my teachings to a global level. I explained the way traditional Chinese couples start a relationship; it’s through being introduced. Once acquainted, they quickly evaluate mutual interest, and then either begin a serious relationship or break it off. So if you wanted a meaningful relationship, the easiest way would be for someone to introduce you to a woman. At least, it seems to work in other cultures.

I met up later with Gunner, a man fresh from the grasp of the military who was a retired Army reconnaissance officer. He wanted to try out a local brewery located in the back of an old-school strip mall called The Pruneyard. Just as we toasted and began sipping our Rock Bottom Brewery Terrapin Alt beers, across the room came a loudly proclaimed, “Fa shizzle ma nizzle!”

We (and everyone else) turned to see a pony keg of a guy working his groove right towards us in a fur-lined Puffa jacket and combat trousers, with a three-inch-thick silver pendant chain around his neck.

“Fabulous jacket,” I exclaimed with much admiration.

The guy looked menacing, but entertaining. I was pretty certain that he knew Gunner by his deliberate beeline to our table.

“Yeah!” he exclaimed. “It’s all about the Benjamins, baby!!”

Meet “Brotha Lunch,” Gunner’s half-brother and budding rapper—or more specifically, a budding gangsta rapper. He pulled up a chair, sat on it backwards, looked at Gunner and asked, “What it is?”

My date was clearly embarrassed and balefully uncomfortable. He was on a blind date and his attention-grabbing brother appeared on the scene. It was a bit weird, so I quickly steered the conversation to include the three of us, hopefully comfortably. I saw this as the only palliative after Brotha L had so rudely butted into our date.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I complimented Lunch’s stylin’ name and let him know that I was pickin’ up what he was layin’ down by saying I knew Sacramento rapper Brotha Lynch Hung Lynch, whose second album dropped in 1995. He immediately sparked like I was the Oakland Po-Po on a Saturday night, and quickly said he had too much street cred to steal a game.

“Lunch” said he wanted to be like Nate Dogg and rob a Taco Bell, or like Snoop Dogg and get 25-to-life for murder, but get off scot free. Even though I was pretty sure Brotha L didn’t have the ten points of “street cred” I was looking for, I knew that focusing the conversation on him would be more note-worthy than what I’d seen from Brotha Gunner thus far.

I had a few beers and I was in the mood for fun banter, plus all my conversations with Gunner prior to the date had been kind of taut. I was glad “L” arrived, and my date “G” seemed okay with the fact I was chatting with, and being kind to his brother. I sipped my Singletrack Copper Ale and adjusted myself in my hard chair. Then Lunch and I got down to it.

“The first step in the hip-hop world,” he said, “is creating a handle.”

I commented that perhaps something influenced by Schooly D’s name would be dope. I also added that I thought his lyrical focus on the lifestyles of inner-city gang members and criminals could be antiviolent if he spun it right. He nodded enthusiastically. He was actually listening to this suburban white girl sitting in front of him.

“Like how the Beastie Boys produced proto-gangsta rap tracks on their 1989 album, Paul’s Boutique,” I went on. “Misogyny creates a conflict between gangsta rappers and women in which these men struggle to empower themselves. Gangsta rap is their means of this empowerment. This is how they throw it down.”

I prattled on with all my key points like there was no tomorrow, and like I actually knew what the hell I was talking about. He would answer me every time with a punctuated “fa sheezy weezy in the keezy” (translation: “we certainly do feel at home”) or a gut-busting laugh and “tribble ribble ma nizzle” (translation: “ah, that’s hilarious”).

When empty glasses stood before us, Brotha Lunch proclaimed that he had to go “kick it with his road doggs on the E side ‘cause he’s rollin’ with the new jack crew.’”

He flashed a peace sign at me when he trotted off, and I looked at Gunner, feeling quite pleased with my bad self. Homey G, however, made it clear that he was always embarrassed by his brother, and his feelings about that were as subtle as a flying brick. After a long silence, Gunner remarked, “The only thing he said to my last date was ‘Hey, phunky monkey, you got some junky in your trunky.’”