2003-09-12 - 8:40 a.m.

As anyone who knows me can attest, I am good at many things.

Whether this online journal indicates it or not, I'm a pretty good writer. I can kick butt on any essay you give me and I'm pretty good at writing short stories and monologues. In fact, just last night I was playing this game where everyone contributed a line of poetry, and everyone's jaw dropped when they read my line. I plan to write a short story with that line in it. So, I think I'm a good writer.

I am a very good masseur. It has stood me in good stead. Many is the person with whom I've experienced some kind of tension, who drops their guard and forgets all about any problems relating to me after one good pass of my hands. Many is the young gentleman who, after enough time with my hands on them, wonders just how efficacious I am with other body parts. In fact, just last night, I was able to engage a woman I had just met in a great conversation about the personalities of various cities and the ways in whcih they are similar--Paris reminds me of DC, Rome of Philadelphia--after I eased all her stress by working her shoulders.

I am a good director, and a good actor in a lot of roles. I am a good listener, which, among other things, makes me a good impressionist. When the mood strikes me, I'm a good cook, and I am very good at making delicious cocktails. I am, if reviews are any indication, good in bed.

What I am not good at, in any way, is acting like a quasi-sane human being around any guy I find attractive. It just shuts down. All the conversational skills, all the witticisms, everything that makes me charming or affable bolts like pretty boy drug dealers at the sound of a police siren, running at Olympian speeds and hiding behind any convenient doorway or trash can in a desperate effort not to wind up someone's bitch. I, in the meantime, am left standing there with any one of the expressions Janeane Garofalo wears in "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion."

In fact, just last night . . .

Let me break it down for y'all. As I have mentioned before in this journal, I spend a lot of time in the vicinity of 6th and Lamar here in Austin, Texas, where the meeting of Whole Foods Market and BookPeople serves as a brief taste of heaven almost every day for me. I live about a 40 minute walk away from 6th and Lamar, which is not bad at all for a Philadelphian, but for a Texan, well, you might as well hike to Arkansas. Anyways, I walk there sometimes in the evening to get my exercise on (just so you guys know, I'm reading the TWOP recap of the VMAs as I write this, so all this hip-hop speak keeps wriggling into my prose, and I'm sorry) and I did just that last night.

Now, this may come as a shock, but in my opinion, working at a bookstore automatically confers a degree of hotness on anyone. It may be because of the fact that my one and only booty call ever was a guy that worked at Borders, or it may just be because somewhere inside me is an Ally MacBeal (there's room for 26 of her) who wants to find romance will searching for out of print Angela Carter. So, the hot guys who work at BookPeople--an INDEPENDENT bookstore, may I add--are all the hotter to me, and I often linger in the store just to cast surreptitious glances at these gentlemen.

Last night, after I had consumed my soup and mini-baguette, I was downing my water by the recycling bin (yes, I drink water with meals now, feel free to kill me) when I noticed one of the hottiest of hotties from BookPeople waiting by the salad bar. This guy is very Mark Ruffalo, but with Jennifer Connelly green eyes, and if that doesn't turn the heart of a gay boy with an indie film fetish I don't know what will. For the remainder of this entry, his name will be Markifer Ruffelly.

So I see Markifer giving a smile my way as I drink down my water. I think "Markifer Ruffelly likes that I drink water. Or recycle, maybe." I give him an awkward smile back, but since the corners of my mouth naturally turn down it no doubt looks like some weird grimace. Then I notice that he's actually smiling at a girl who's coming into Whole Foods, at which point I stick my head in the recycling bin and bang the lid shut on my own head until I feel the euphoria of blood loss, then I go check and see if there is anything I want to take home, like dessert or something.

As I wander through the deli aisles, my nose gets an itch, so I rub it. Right then, My eyes meet Markifer Ruffelly's beautiful green eyes and I look like I'm blowing my nose on my hand. Worse, he had indeed noticed my bizarre grimace and, wondering if this was because of some acquaintance with me, was still smiling that "Do I know you, or are you hitting on me, or are you a psychopath?" smile and I, of course, turn and walk away like some shoplifter who's just seen the store detective. It is, after all, time for me to go check out the cheeses. That is exactly what I was headed in that direction for, Markifer, if that is your real name. I was thinking about bread, which was behind you, and decided I needed cheese first. That is exactly what happened.

So I then make a lap around the store, ENTIRELY BECAUSE I NEEDED TO CHECK AND SEE IF YOGURT WAS ONSALE, before heading to BookPeople to score myself a chai. But then, while I was there I decided I did not want chai, because it was too hot out. However, a chocolate milk from Whole Foods would hit the spot precisely. So after deciding to not even bother buying a pastry from the BookPeople coffee shop (even though their nut bars feature hazelnuts and pumpkin seeds and are therefor works of pure genius) I waited until I thought Markifer would have taken his gorgeous eyes and the girl that he was with out of the store. So I go in and score myself an oatmeal chocolate chip cookie (mmmmmm . . . oatmeal chocolate chip cookie) and a chocolate milk, because I'm dieting, and I get in line . As my eyes wander, they see Markifer bagging his groceries. And Markifer sees me.

As my head whirls back to check out the potted plants on the other side of me, the voice inside my head goes, "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck mothermotherfuck, mothermotherfuck" and then it just turned into the opening of Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, and if the looks and looks away weren't enough to convince Markifer that I was COMPLETELY SPAZZOIDALLY INSANE, my little dancing around while whsipering "Who smokes the blunts? We smoke the blunts!" under my breath was sure to do the trick.

When I left the store, he was talking to some friends outside. I walked away at great speed, all the while trying to hear his voice enough to detect the presence of a gay accent. As yet, no call can be made.

This is not the first time this has happened to me, and it won't be the last. As much as I have every confidence in myself once I know a guy is into me, even a little, I am a quivering mass of dorkosity until that moment arrives. It's hours of fun for the whole family.

Nevertheless, I will be at Whole Foods today ready for another bowl of soup, another mini-baguette, and another bottle of water. And I will drop into BookPeople afterwards. Hopefully, Markifer Ruffelly will not have issued a restraining order.

And even if he has, there's always that guy who looks sorta like a friend of mine, and sorta like this famous violinist.

JoshuaDan FishBell, here I come.

previous - next