Fly Like An Eagle

So it was my birthday last week, right? And being new in town I thought it would be a quiet one. If you have a man or something close to it, they probably at least buy you dinner on your birthday and maybe even an old school gold name plate chain as a gift. Probably not a good trade considering the other ridiculous drama they put you through about which they take absolutely no ownership or have any overstanding, but a girl's gotta eat. And rock the fly gold jewelry.

personally i draw the line at mouth jewelry 

I digress...my girlfriends and gays came through and took me to an adorable spot here in Miami with the Best. Name. Ever: Dolores but you can call me Lolita. Add this place to the list of reasons I love being back along with the fact that there were no heat lamps necessary for our meal on the terrace. There were 8 of us total, part of an eclectic collection of friends that I'm busily curating with gusto and gratitude. Note: post Art Basel I now use the verb "curate" when I'm not talking about art necessarily...perhaps it's pretentious but it really works for me right now, please don't judge.

such a seksie spot

For a while lately I've had a bit of writer's block thinking to myself that I had run out of amusing dating stories for which I will not get sued. After all, I don't get that much play and I'm not a loose woman. But this dinner reminded me of a story I had forgotten to tell because it happened before I moved to New York! Unlike my other stories, this one takes place at the end of my BJ period.

Get your mind out of the gutter. BJ = Before I became Jaded.

You see, Dolores but you can call me Lolita used to be a gastropub (whatever that is) called Firehouse IV. The last time I was in the building was in spring 2002, very very soon after a break up with a fella we'll call Batman, because I discovered he had a bat phone which he used to curate with gusto, his own very special collection of friends.

my batman had abs and arms like this too, a redeeming quality

So this evening a decade ago at Firehouse IV I was with my good girlfriend previously referred to on this blog as JLo. She along with the entire universe wanted me to meet a nice guy ASAP, probably because at that point my eggs were still fresh enough to make a nice fluffy omelet. I however, was not concerned about my eggs per se at that particular moment in time.

this looks delicious

We spotted a tall mandingo across the floor. He was 6'4" of chiseled chocolate, bald head, smooth skin, amazing teeth. A physical specimen to die for. The buns on this dude, omGAWD LAWD A MERCY! However, he was also a paper bagger. Not in the light skinned/dark skinned sense - that's not an issue in this particular story - but because his face was so busted. The kind of face you'd put a bag over to hump. You know the kind of busted that at first sight you know the guy can never ever be your man because what if your kids turn out looking like that, and even worse, what if you have a little girl that looks like him? Because the world ain't a safe place for an ugly woman. And I'm cute enough most days I guess, depending on the lighting, hair and makeup...but certainly not cute enough to pull a poor innocent child through all that ugly.

Anyway, I really needed to get back on the bike after my 3 1/2 year tour as Batman's butler, chef, personal valet, rent free landlord and occasional ATM. Therefore when the Eagle approached I gave up the digits because why not?

see how its talons are just ready to take its prey? i shiver

So this cat worked for UPS. In fact, he was a pilot for UPS (hence the name Eagle). Um...hello? Maybe he wasn't so ugly after all. I think flying planes is pretty cool and he got to travel all throughout South America doing it. And it occurred to me that this man might even pay his own damn rent, or even own a place perhaps. He also had a boat and a yellow Corvette. I foolishly decided to overlook this yellow Corvette situation. And the fact that he invited me on his boat like day one, but fortunately that never happened.

btw can you believe that Deb killed LaGuerta last night? omg

For a week or so we chatted each other up. Blah blah blah where are you from, this and that, what kind of food do you like. We had one date which won me over almost all the way because for like the first time ever, I didn't pay a dime. And it wasn't at Pollo Tropical either, which was Batman's version of fine dining. I still couldn't kiss the Eagle because there was something weird about his lips that turned me off, but I was getting there. I was ready to be wooed by someone with good credit. He must have smelled this on me or peeped my Baker's shoes.

the Pollo Tropical diabetes express special value meal. it's delicious as i recall

But the story ends here! Our relationship wilted as quickly as it started when he invited me to hump in the back of the SUV I was driving that week while my car was in the shop. Hump after only one date!? HELL NAW. The southern belle in me was horrified. I hadn't even cursed in front of this guy. Insulted and disgusted, I lost his phone number and I'm sure he moved on to some girl who was pretty enough not to worry about the kids.

no caption necessary

This is the precise moment when the BJ period ended. No, it did not end when I found the Bat Phone. Can you believe that? Maybe that is the real trippy part of this story.

It was actually the Eagle who ushered me into the DS (=Don't be Stupid) era, which was a couple of phases ago. Now I'm in the EJ (=Extremely Jaded) era. But 10 1/2 years ago I was only as far along as DS.

It's what they call a flashbulb memory. It was a sunny spring day and I was on my cell phone with him, warming up to him, forgetting he was ugly. I was driving that rented red Mitsubishi SUV south on Biscayne Boulevard in North Miami past US1 Fitness (my former home away from home) and Publix. I was wearing a black mini skirt suit from the Limited and a light blue tank top underneath. The jacket was lying on the passenger seat because it was at least 90 degrees outside.

if this car isn't the epitome of overcompensation i don't know what is 

The moment he made that lewd comment (with an appalling lack of game and grace may I add) after I had been the vision of virtue and class, I realized that ALL straight men - young and old, pretty and ugly, fat and skinny, broke and wealthy - only ever care about getting into your knickers. And they'll do or say or buy almost anything to make it happen.

This revelation really took the fun out of things.

Another Eagle epiphany: never wear cheap shoes. They attract the wrong kind of man.

I am Lois Lane

Recently I came across a quote by Assata Shakur, a Black Panther who was convicted in the murder of a New Jersey state trooper back in the day. She is the aunt of the late rapper and my would-have-been baby daddy, Tupac Shakur. May he rest in peace.

Lawd. Have. Mercy. Yummy Genius.

Did I ever tell the story of me seeing him perform live at the Ritz in DC back in the day when I was in college? I was *this close* to him and his teeth sparkled and he was amazing. He performed "I Get Around". Heart be still, I almost died. Anyway, back to the topic at hand.

So his aunt, Assata Shakur, was a Black Panther. And she once said, "A revolutionary woman can't have no reactionary man." Despite having read her autobiography many years ago I don't remember this quote. But the other day when I saw it posted on a friend's Facebook page, I had an Oprah "aha" moment.

Ms. Assata Shakur

A couple of things: 1) Is it egotistical to call oneself a revolutionary? And if not or even if so, am I one of them? 2) Can I be bougie and be an activist at the same time?

I argue that one can, and in fact it's a very practical way to approach the revolution these days, since you're more likely to effect change from within the system than by staging a coup (at least in the US). So, I don't think that designer shoes or Mizani butter blend disqualify a person from radical or progressive thought and agitation.

So let's for the sake of argument say, that I am a revolutionary. Why and how is another topic. Let's just give me that, because I kind of think that I am. And that is the reason why the reactionary men I've dated haven't become men I've mated. (I couldn't resist the rhyme, in honor of Tupac.)

This is the story of Superman. A lovely, intelligent, amazing, sweet boy whom I liked and who liked me, but ultimately bored me to tears until I found a way to blow the whole thing up and send him on his way. I may have also done it for entertainment. Don't mistake me for a drama queen (or rather, this isn't what makes me a drama queen, it's something else altogether) I just literally was so bored by this man I used to cry about it.

Superman and I met several years ago when we started working at the same company at the same time. He was super cute, looked a little like this guy must have looked 30 years ago:

Michael Lee Chin. Billionaire of Chinese-Jamaican descent

Lots of folks don't know there are a lot of Chinese people in Jamaica, and obviously that means a bunch of mixed race Jamaicans with Chinese ancestry. That explains the curry goat/fried rice spots in the hood. In case you were wondering.

Superman was the ultimate gentleman and had an impeccable resume. Ivy league educated, nice to his momma, refused to let me pay for a thing, and he took me to great places. For a second there I thought I could really be into him and that I could fix his nerd fashion because lots of men need a wardrobe makeover and if they let you do it, inept dressing and tightey whiteys (which I didn't learn about until the absolute END) shouldn't be a deal breaker. Right?

But here's the thing. I realized over time that I did all the talking and he did all the laughing. So I said to myself, "Self, you gotta stop running your mouth the whole time and let this man speak. He's smart!" So I did and I PROMISE you...he had very little to say. Maybe his mind was tired from his 100 hour per week job (some folks roll like that, and he was one of them) or maybe it was just empty or maybe, he just didn't care to share with me. That's all possible. Unfortunately that created an experience wherein I was just bored to tears.

I'm not this old but this is an equal opportunity image blog.

We casually dated on and off for like a year or so, and this man was literally so passive he never even tried to kiss me. I finally kissed him like six months in. After chewing on this for literally months I actually don't think it was because he wasn't interested in that - me in particular or women in general. I sincerely think he was just that passive, at least with me. To encourage his man mojo I told him his nickname was Superman, because he worked so hard and was so smart and still found time to do other things. I hoped this would help him to live up to the moniker. Unfortunately what it did was embolden him to reveal his collection of super hero figurines to me, which decorated his apartment all over. Very 40 Year Old Virgin. And to make it worse, he was really a Spiderman fan but I just couldn't bring myself to call him Spiderman even though really, Spidey is more exciting than Superman...

So all the ideas I poured out and thoughts I expressed, were met with an amused chuckle to the point where I wanted to stab him in the neck just to get a reaction. I didn't do this and of course never would, but you know...something has gotta happen, sometime. It was all very whatever kind of music you like.

We fizzled. Actually, we blew up. Fizzle doesn't describe it. In my extreme frustration with his missing personality, I seized an opportunity one fateful September night in 2008, and picked a blow out fight with him on some corner in Chelsea in front of quite a lot of people, and that was that. We spoke once the next day and I did apologize for what I said. But I wasn't sorry, because I didn't care one bit. Existentially I cared, but not about him aside from caring about his general humanity, which we all share.

It is so tempting to settle into a relationship with a malleable and agreeable fellow who has enough of the right characteristics to please the crowd. I've met so many and had a shot being with more than one of them. The truth however is that a man with nothing to say, who does nothing, who protests nothing, who agitates never, is a total bore. And even worse, a man with no ideals or principles, a man who just occupies himself with the daily grind, is a bore and at the same time heartbreaking to walk away from, because these are the men who change your oil, ask about your day, rub your feet and may even be faithful. The ones you should be taking home to mama. Well not my mama because she likes interesting men too. THANK GOODNESS she doesn't like foot rubs or else the pressure would be overwhelming.

How do I find a man of action and progressive thought whose money isn't funny and won't insist I wear my hair natural and tolerate living in some shitbox? Which I have and would, just not as directed. The hair part. Not the shitbox part. That aint gonna happen again if I can help it. So is this guy on OKCupid or Match.com? Is he at the club, at the financial services professionals networking function, or is he one of my mother's friend's sons? Is he at Homecoming for my alma mater or the Alliance Française French film night? Is he chasing white girls like the Black Panthers or sweating NQW chicks like Kanye West? Is he white, brown, yellow, Puerto Rican or Haitian? Is he at the liberry?

Where does a smart woman with an active mind and a lot to say, find her match? Or should I just shut up and focus on becoming a better cook and get some fake boobs along the way? Sure would be easier...

Maybe I'll just get a dog.