I am happy to report that at some point yesterday, I pulled out of whatever physical funk I was in--Mr. Swine Flu Virus seems to have realized that better men than he (like the Baby Fireman) have attempted to get inside my body, only to be shot down, so he has gone off to look for greener pastures, or easy women. My canker sore (which is not herpes, according to resident medical expert, Dr. Jones!) has also receded.
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Yesterday, the next episode in the story of Hot Band Guy was pre-empted by holiday programming.
Now, before I tell you what happened, I'll briefly summarize the story of Hot Band Guy:
- I met him at a party, thought he was super-cute. After that, we emailed a bit. It turned out we were both going to another literary gathering shortly thereafter. But that time, I found our conversation quite boring. Subsequently, I mentioned in my blog how yawn-inducing that experience was ... thinking there was NO WAY (for a bunch of reasons) that he'd ever figure out I was talking about him.
- He figured it out.
- He blogged about me blogging about him--and said part of the reason he'd had nothing to say the second time we met is because he'd (unbeknownst to me) read my blog extensively, and felt paralyzed with TMI or self-consciousness or something.
- I blogged about him blogging about me blogging about him.
- A guy I used to date, Arlo Pumpernickel, wrote into comment that I should give the Hot Band Guy another chance.
- The Hot Band Guy himself asked me to give him a second chance right in front of all of you--right in the comments.
So ... Friday night was the date. I hadn't been feeling too great all day, and by the time the evening rolled around, I was seriously worried not just about holding up my own end of the conversation (particularly after the gauntlet had been thrown) but also about simply holding up my head. I was ready for bed.
That is not to say I wasn't looking forward to it, because I really was. Thanks to all the back-and-forth over the blog business, the whole thing was inherently exciting--and I thought Hot Band Guy had been pretty cute abotu the whole thing. Plus, have I mentioned I think he's quite fetching?
So ... onward! To the date!
We met up at a place called Fort Defiance (named after the rampart built nearby for the Battle of Long Island in 1776, during which Washington defended New York City from the British). It's a convivial Red Hook restaurant with black-and-white parquet floors and a tiny little wooden bar. The neighborhood doesn't have much in the way of reliable transportation, which isolates it from the rest of Brooklyn, so even Friday nights over there can feel pretty quiet, especially when the weather is chilly. As such, it was really nice to walk off the deserted street and into such a vibrant place, surprisingly packed with people; it had the feel of a pub in a small Irish village or something.
Incidentally, every time I go to Red Hook, I want to move there. HBG lives there himself, which is part of the reason why we chose the locale, although another key factor was that my friend Don Hooks had organized a gathering at nearby Hope
& Anchor Diner -- where they have a ridiculously fun
Friday karaoke night. (The first night I met Barnaby Jepperboom, if you'll
recall, we went singing there.)
Anyway, a better name for Hot Band Guy might be Totally Adorable Rocker-Dude Sweetheart. He's affable and gregarious--much less miserable than your average struggling musician. He's the kind of person any chick would be lucky to be able to take home to Mom. Or, really, to be able to take home, period. Weirdly, I imagine his skin had that incredibly pure newborn baby smell--kind of like yogurt and clovers, you know? He's wonderfully healthy-looking, for a musician. We sat around chatting pleasantly for about three hours before I realized (a) it was midnight, (b) I'd gotten about six texts from my friends down the road, telling me I'd better get my butt to the karaoke place and (c) the hot apple cider I'd been drinking was making me drowsy. So Hot Band Guy and I strolled over to the Hope & Anchor.
We settled in and he said he'd sing a song only if I did. Deal. He went for "The Wanderer" by Dion. I was considering "Where is My Mind?" by the Pixies; instead, I decided to please the crowd with "Talk Dirty to Me" by Poison. (Oh yeah. You know you love it.)
By 1:30AM, however, our numbers still hadn't come up. And after spending some serious time on the dance floor--most notably almost shaking my groove thing right off when a particularly talented amateur chanteuse belted out "Ain't Nobody (Loves Me Better Than You)" by Rufus+Chaka Khan--I was feeling like I might go into a dance-induced coma if I didn't get to bed pretty soon. I mentioned to Hot Band Guy that I wanted to take off, but that he should stay, if he wanted to; I didn't want to ruin his fun. He very sweetly told me not to be silly, then walked me to my car ... and we hugged ... and then he took me up on my offer of a ride home ... and we hugged again once or twice ... and then he got out and that was that.
Now ... my peeps, I know this is not a very satisfactory report. And I'm sorry to be relatively tight-lipped. But knowing that Hot Band Guy is reading this post, I feel like I've said MORE than enough already!
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But ... is there any insight on this little ditty you might like to offer? Any messages you'd like me to relay to Hot Band Guy? (I will take this opportunity to say that I think you guys must really have my back--because I was kind of assuming
-CC: welcome to the blog! i'm rally, rally glad you like it.
-Dr. Jones: You're a real M.D.??? Wow! I'm truly impressed. Thank you for coming to my rescue, re: the STD defense.
-Claude (can i call you that?): I'll have to look into this "winter dreams, christmas love" book ... I like your description.
-And sassy Senor Rip: Comment more! You're funny.