Now that the Mango / Brownstone ride seems to be in full swing and has thus far been nice and quiet (aside from some ex-boyfriend drama which I might choose to detail later, pending interest), I hardly think that there will be any more entertaining dating stories to share (knock on virtual wood). And just like Model Behavior says and Ha Ha Sound agrees, we are indeed falling into the “gross happy couple” bracket.

That said, I refuse to let this blog die and look equally gross. I do have quite a backlog to share so I will try and recount as much as possible to keep this going. I started this project with a purpose, and I have yet to share all of my zany mishaps - so fear not! I will not let my limited and faithful viewership down.

Picking up the Dating Spree momentum after the entire Chutney debacle, I began re-corresponding with a young lady I had met in a grocery store downtown a few months prior in the midst of the first Mango ride. The communication was pretty erratic at first and because I was seeing someone, I was not pursuing anything.

Frenchy was a mulatto theater-chick with a husky voice and kinky hair. Orginally from France, she has been hitting the NYC pavement for the past three years. Her dad was a Sudanese businessman living with her Parisian mother who desperately tried to talk Frenchy out of a career in theater. She would not have it.

Frenchy was, in a word, eager. I had a quick dinner with her in Midtown to get to know her a little better outside of the produce aisle. She began asking a barrage of questions about my marriage / divorce and I unapologetically covered anything she shot at me. I thought for sure that it would be a turn-off, considering the fresh nature of circumstances (at the time). I was wrong. She was unphased. Two nights later she MSN’ed me a cannonade of propositions that led to her coming over my place for “drinks and fun” - her words, not mine. And drink she did. Though I am not sure she had enough to get shitfaced and slobber all over me the way she did. Did I mention she was in theater? She began removing her clothes and some of mine (hey, was I going to protest this - being unnattached at the time?). In the midst of the clothes flying all over my pad, she took a couple swigs of my glass of whiskey (on top of whatever she was drinking that night) that undoubtedly got her moving faster and sloppier.

I must have looked utterly mortified because she stopped at least 3-4 times asking me if she wasn’t performing well. My response was a clear “don’t sweat it - and just keep going.” Maybe I should have stopped it altogether because what resulted was the most awkward and slack tryst of my life. With the first Mango-meltdown and my divorce fresh on my mind, I didn’t help matters any either. Let’s just say there was no adequate release point.

Actually there was one release. And that was Frenchy from my life. A day after the slopfest, I get the following message in my inbox:

Good morning,

I just wanted to apologize for the other night, it really wasn’t appropriate, definitively not sexy and I hope I didn’t act too crazy. And I know you were late for work because of me, I’m so sorry about that and hopefully it didn’t mess up your plans.
 
Have a nice day and I’ll talk to you soon.
 
Frenchy

I wish Frenchy a good career in theater. Though, I will advise her to stay far away from l’alcoolisée.

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Faith is a funnier word than hope. I hope for a lot of things, but it is faith that fuels Brownstone Cool. It is faith that has also burned Brownstone in the past. It is a highly volatile, erratic mode of being / thinking to concede to faith, alone.

When Mango and I had something undeniable going on (see: chemistry), it became a difficult matter to turn my back on - especially after our “talk” a couple of weeks ago. I was bummed that things were a no-go, but I held onto faith as my only glimmer of recourse. The one thing that was clear in this case, was that “the talk” was very Mango-centric. So her ground was established. Mine wasn’t. And I was willing to live with that. I didn’t want to come in and complicate things for her - I was happy that we were now on speaking terms again and I had faith that eventually, I would have my word.

Eventually came only seven days later when we decided to meet for dinner and drinks on a lazy Wednesday night last week. It was to be light and uncomplicated - and it was. We had a tasty Brazillian dinner in midtown and then hit up a local lounge to unwind a bit. A comfortable couch + two glasses of Jack for me + one fruity-concoction for her = resulting into her imploring me to give her my take on everything. Where Brownstone stands. How I feel. With no hesitation, I laid it into her. I did not hold back on anything. I showed her the origin of that faith.

And Mango sat there, doe-eyed and impressed. I guess she is used to shifty guys but I am not afraid of discussing matters of the heart. Scratch that, it wasn’t heart at all. In fact, I emphasized how faith and instinct were the driving forces behind most of my post-divorce decision-making. Nothing was really surprising as I hadn’t been hiding anything from her - but she was more impressed about my unwavering intentions, particularly after our first meltdown. The breakthrough moment came when she realized that these intentions were real, and not forced as she first incorrectly surmised during the winter. It was realized that words were meaningless, and everything was right in front of us. All it took was a little understanding and faith.

Mango and I kissed - passionately. Just like we did back in January. The 7+ month gap fluttered away and became instantly inconsequential. Though it was happening, I could feel a small rush of confusion coming at me. She had her stance (she wanted time / didn’t look to get involved anytime soon). I had mine (i wanted her / but didn’t want to complicate things) yet things weren’t exactly magically sutured by liplocking. Nevertheless, it was a (re)start. Last night we saw a movie. I had a rubber band around my wrist that I had forgotten all about, pulled from a document at work. She started playing with the rubber band while holding my hand and at one point we finagled the rubber band where it was around both of our hands at once.

Brownstone: A ha! You are all mine now!
Mango: Forever?
Brownstone: Is that an issue?
Mango: No. (smiles and kisses Brownstone)

Though the decree has not been chiseled into massive stone tablets, I think it is safe to assume that Mango and Brownstone are indeed together again - this time operating on pure faith - in one another.

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Anyone who owns a domain knows that spam virtually quadruples with every dot com purchase. Being the internet Maharishi that I am, I have taken adequate spam-filtering steps to avoid this mess with this blog. Occassionally one email or two will slip through to my otherwise clean inbox. So without further ado, I’d like to share a shot of brilliance with my faithful readers:

Hello! I am a beauty, virtuous, the stature Gao Tiao Chinese girl, theaffection music, takes the family, on very much likes the overseasculture and the education since childhood, yearned for the overseaslife, hoped can find a sincerity to dote on oneself, no matter thebirth and death, the shed does not abandon, life-long accompaniesspouse, if you also want, please contact with me! You also may read my resume and more pictures

If anyone can translate, I would love to have fun with said Gao Tiao Chinese Spammer and post it on this blog for kicks. Decipher-away!

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In previous posts, I have alluded to a dating spree that I had endured after the first Mango Meltdown back in January. There is no way of really condensing these great exploits into one post so I will try to recount the tales as detailed as possible - for your full comedic viewing pleasure. And of course, just like the Mango-saga, in a serialized format. But, before I begin with the spree, first a little background:

Prior to starting this blog, the initial idea was to write an essay about the shortcomings of the 30-something dating scene in New York, albeit from a freshly divorced-guy’s perspective. The plan was to pitch it to various Men’s lifestyle magazines. Part of the “Why Am I Doing This” section of the site was really the opening sketches of this project.

I came armed with a wealth of material to draw on: my first five-week run with Mango, my whatever-it-was with Slim Faster, as well as a few other hapless dating exploits. Of course, when things kicked up a notch (i.e. meeting more and more crazies) coupled with reading a bunch of very interesting blogs (from the likes of the wonderful people in my blogroll), I was inspired to join the frenzied blogosphere with these active field notes, and ditched the essay idea entirely.

Warming up to the idea of discussing my personal life anonymously, I decided to do a test run on Craigslist’s Personals Area just to see if there would be a reaction from the CL Faithful - as they are known to be vocal here and there (I know this first-hand as a former computer reseller, and writing group advocate who used the site generously over the years). What I didn’t know was that Craigslist also housed the greatest collection of lunatics I have ever engaged in conversation with in my thirty plus years living on this ball of dirt. The ad ran for a few days before I had to take it down due to the flood that overran my inbox. Messages ranged from accusatory finger-pointing to borderline-marriage proposals. I clearly hit a nerve. Before I pat myself on the shoulder, I had to remind myself that the Craigslist breed of person is not your run-of-the-mill human being. It is clear to me that most of the personalites that govern those communities are in one way or another, troubled. Stupid Brownstone ignored this very simple inference and got himself knee deep in some of the nuttiest situations ever.

Leading off in this courting ballgame is Chutney. She is an intelligent, talkative Sri Lankan immigration-lawyer with a very distinct accent and firm about her intentions. She was seeking a “soul-mate” and didn’t have “time to fuck around”. Chutney wrote a very nice, concise reply to my post, included pictures and implored me to send mine over to see if we were attracted to one another. Straight-forward, right? I went for it. Nothing to lose, I thought. After a few chats on the phone and a couple email exchanges, she called me on a Sunday afternoon to meet for a movie.

Movies and first-dates don’t usually mix well in my book, so I decided to try and talk her into a later showing so we can talk a bit, face-to-face and get to know one another better. Talk we did. Or shall I say, she did. Holy crap. I barely got a word in with her. I actually couldn’t wait to get back to the theater to cool-down. We went through the list of movies and started negotiating the choice (no joke). And it went something like this:

Brownstone: how about Pan’s Labyrinth?
Chutney: what’s that?
Browstone: fantasy-like flick, in spanish, subtitled.
Chutney: subtitled?
Brownstone: I’ve heard great things about it.
Chutney: pass. what about The Queen?
Brownstone: cool (was an Oscar Nominee at the time).
Chutney: no wait! Music & Lyrics!
Brownstone: music and what?
Chutney: I LOVE Hugh Grant

Alright, I went for it. Only because it was a first date and I thought it would be nice of me to just go along with checking a crappy flick just because I figured I should be very open. And even though she was a non-stop chatterbox, I was fascinated by the fact that she could go for a mindless, sappy-flick being that she was so sharp and super-smart (she’s even worked in the UN at one point). Midway through the flick the chatterbox continues to run her mouth, but this time about stuff that is forthcoming in the flick. I then begin to suspect that despite it being overly predictable, that she’d already seen the movie. Of course, I had to know…

Brownstone: wait, have you seen this?
Chutney: yes, I saw it 2 days ago
Browstone: are you crazy? why see it again?
Chutney: I LOVE Hugh Grant

There you have it. Craigslist date #1 in a nutshell. On top of this, she was spewing off stories of the endless array of dates she has been on lately putting my exploits to shame. She pretty much ‘released’ herself when she asked me how I found her ad. Her ad??? She didn’t even remember my post. Brownstone was cut-n-paste victim number 3497023242. Sheesh. Needless to say, I did not see her again. More to come . . .

** Oh.. and a small update: The Mango Saga is FAR from over as I had predicted. More forthcoming on that as well.

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Hope. [hōp] n. a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

There it is, defined. Do I really know what it means anymore? Not sure. I don’t think there is an ounce of hope left in my system. In fact, I think hope took a vacation. Actually, hope completely skipped town without me. Thanks a lot. You know I could use that vacation too.

The whole Mango and Brownstone thing is just probably not going to happen. Yes, I know I will get hit with the following: WHAT??? Didn’t you just leave off at a high note in part three? Did I miss part 3.5 or something? What happened?

Well nothing. A whole lot of nothing. A week after I last saw her, she came over my place on her day off and we had the “talk.” She launched right into her intentions - and so began the inevitable discussion about what we were doing. She seemed pretty set that her life was in turmoil and she should focus on her studies instead of relationships. In tears Mango relayed that she didn’t think she should be seeing someone right now. I told her that I didn’t want to complicate her life and that she should go and do her thing, if it would make her happy. I questioned why she was crying when she was pretty set to do what she wanted, and whether she was conflicted by the entire spiel. I am in the dark, really. As always.

But, shit. I am feeling down about it. Really run down. I am ecstatic that she is going to get her life straightened out but I’d be a lying fool if I didn’t also mention that I’d prefer to be right there with her instead of on the outside. All because I desired US to happen although I suspected that things were way too good to be true. I am glad that we reconnected and that we are in touch with no animosity, but this is just brutal especially after last week. Stomping my feet and being vocal about how I want things to be comes off as selfish, and I wasn’t going to have a repeat of January on my hands. That is not my deal - I’m way too old for this shit. It’s just a very empty feeling altogether, especially when there is little I can do to change things.

Coming off a divorce, the feeling is all-too-familiar. And I really don’t know what to think/do at this point but just keep my head up and trudge forward. The steps are heavy, but they are steps nonetheless - in a direction that is way uncertain and likely without her. Oddly, I think something may be in the air. My blog brethren, Ha Ha Sound had a similarly defeating day recently. Though our situations are way different, a knife to the heart is still a knife to the heart and I can relate to the feeling.

Alexander Pope writes that hope springs eternal. Not in these parts, buddy. Hope actually can breed heartache, especially if the end result is not realized to expectation - despite all the faith in the world. Poof! There goes the hope. Just like that.

They say a tornado hit Brooklyn this morning. I like to think there was another with only one eyewitness on the UWS.

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Insanity knows no bounds. Just because the Mango saga has roared back into Brownstone lore, doesn’t mean the crazies aren’t still prancing around, making appearances here and there, adding to these illustrious chronicles. Here are a couple of notables from the last 48 hours, leading off with my favorite billboard girl, herself:

Hey Brownstone

Now I could really use your help, is there any way you can help me design a business card? I’ve been to so many parties this summer when I wish I had something to give to people.

Let me know…

Thanks,
SlimFaster

Batting second, from the land down under (where women glow and men plunder …):

Hi Brownstone

Sawasdee kaa
How are you??? We have not talked long. Thursday I study very hard 35hrs/week some day finished 8.30pm so too tired…. but still think of you..^o^ . I gonna chat with u soon… have a good day

Thanks,
Chicken Pie

A call also came in over the weekend from Flash accusing me of neglecting her. Can I have some aspirin with that cup of crazy?

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Chemistry was never a good subject for me. In High School, I completely sucked at it. This was partly due to having a teacher with a really incoherent accent. All I heard was something something something something supersaturated something something. Supersaturated. The only word I was able to digest all semester. She even called on me once, and I just said “supersaturated?” and was met with a look of serious disappointment. My saving grace was actually a classmate who took a liking to teenage-Brownstone and um… assisted me on all the exams.

Identifying elements and mixing substances aside, chemistry didn’t necessarily parlay over to my romantic life either. It was rare, and just as incomprehensible. I’ve been out with quite a few girls that I’ve been attracted to in a myriad of ways but that chemistry was always elusive.

With this heavy on my thoughts in recent days, I arrived at the corner of the breakfast spot that Mango and I agreed to. I was seven minutes early and I leaned against a phone booth for just a split second when I saw her crossing the street towards me. I barely had a moment to react, but all I remember was feeling absolute euphoria. That is, as euphoric as one can get before 8am on a Sunday.

It was a simple breakfast, just the way I had hoped it would be. We caught up on our recent happenings - me with writing my novel, stress at work, and bad date stories - and Mango with her recent boy-troubles. Thats right, boy-troubles. Apparently, she met some guy shortly after our meltdown in January - and he has been nothing short of psychotic (from how she described it). Without getting into too many details, lets just say there is a restraining order out on him. Yes,that psychotic. Welcome to NYC, Mango. Stress consumed her recent days and she had been contemplating returning home to Bangkok. I vowed to make our planned Wednesday night out one to forget (at least temporarily) all these troubles.

Days move fast when you have something to look forward to. Wednesday rolled around almost as soon as I paid the breakfast check. I came armed with a mini chart that I uncreatively dubbed the “smile meter” housing 50 empty squares that needed to be checked off everytime I put a smile on her face during the evening. It was just a small, modest goal that I wanted her to reach and we had fun filling square by square rather effortlessly throughout the night. Crazy, yes. But that’s how Brownstone rolls.

We dined in one of my favorite Vietnamese spots a couple blocks south of Canal. We then hit up a fascinating show down on the Seaport. By evenings end, she exceeded the 50 smile plateau - mission accomplished. I had a great time with her - and whatever it is that we had, was roaring back. I felt it. I am sure she did as well. We were close again. Though we are taking it slow and trying to hang out as friends only, anyone would have easily mistaken us for much, much more. It is in the way we sat together at the show. It is in the way she grabs onto me when I clown on her. It is in the way she held my hand when walking back from the Seaport to the uptown trains. What that is, I am sure… is that once, miserable subject for me - chemistry.

Mango and I just have it. It’s unmistakable. Unless I am imagining things (gosh, I hope I’m not), I am positive that our properties are aligning, matching up, combining, fusing… all in a supersaturated mix of all the crap that I never figured out from that horrific High School Chemistry teacher. Our matter, matters.

At least, for now . . .

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I’m not one to believe in miracles, but this was a borderline, minor miracle. Mango reaching out to me? AND there’s no catch? Hmmmmm…

So Brownstone’s heart is racing like mad, partly out of shock and also of the aforementioned slight miraculous nature of the event. I quickly composed myself and began my first conversation with her in half a year. It basically went like this:

Mango: apology, apology, apology . . .
Brownstone: holy shit, holy shit, holy shit . . .
Mango: apology, apology, apology . . .
Brownstone: holy shit, holy shit, holy shit . . .
Mango: do you forgive me?
Brownstone: ok lets move past this.

Bottom line - she was remorseful about how she behaved and how she treated the situation back in January. It was very big of her to come forward the way she did (albeit late). A mix of emotions were juggling inside of me but I was completely at ease by it. At ease because the gap was temporarily bridged. A gap that was the impetus for much dwelling.

So we conversed on and off for the next couple of days and also spoke on the phone a couple of times after her work shifts. She admitted to deleting my phone number from her contact info out of anger - and was impressed that I kept hers around (hey, Brownstone’s no fool - even if she was “out of my life” I always keep numbers stored so I can screen calls if they come rolling in from the past - particularly from people I don’t want contact with - see: Released Bachelorettes). We made tentative plans to get together for dinner on Wednesday of the following week (Aug 1). So things were looking up. We both agreed that we would start out very casually with nothing deep to get reacquainted. Perfect.

I woke up early Sunday morning after a Saturday that was devoted to working hard on my novel, and my own self-imposed deadlines. Deadlines that I didn’t exactly meet - causing a very restless evening. I hopped on my laptop to conjure up some early morning inspiration (wishful thinking). I barely eeked a sentence out of my system when Mango joined the insomniac parade via MSN. . .

Brownstone: can’t sleep?
Mango: i slept, but up so early, don’t know why.
Brownstone: yeah, i’ve been restless myself.
Mango: what’s wrong?
Brownstone: not sure, guess i’m a bit stressed
Mango: from what? me?
Brownstone: easy there, princess.
Mango: :o)
Brownstone: wanna get breakfast?
Mango: yes!! coming down here?
Brownstone: I can be there in 30.
Mango: great.

Brownstone quickly washed up and hopped a cab, half-awake, on 8am on a Sunday morning. The spontaneous nature of the moment, and the coincidental shared sleep issues that led to these plans were hardly miraculous, though. They were natural. Thats just how we’ve always been, and now it appeared as if we were returning to that ‘place’. If there are miracles though, it is the effect of super-early weekend mornings on the nerves.

More forthcoming . . .

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I dwell. In fact, I am an expert dweller. I make an art of it.

While it’s not my style to dwell on past relationships, there is always one that just sits in the pit of your stomach that is torture to let go of. For Brownstone, the object of dwell-dom was, and is Mango. This is a long story, so I will have to break it up into parts - the inspiration for this being my anonymous-blog brethren, Ha Ha Sound (check his blog - he’s awesome) whose multi-part posts sets precedents in the blogosphere. (Edit: Ha Ha has alerted me that it was Model Behavior who was the inspiration behind his multi-parts, so I have to give a shout to her as well - and she rules. Must read blog!!)

Anyway, back to the story: I met Mango a couple weeks after my wife and I had separated resulting in my move to the Upper West Side. Clearly, the last thing on my mind was meeting anyone new let alone getting serious with them. A mutual friend had introduced us at my company’s holiday party and for lack of better words, we took to one another rather immediately.

It frightened me at first. How was it possible that I could be interested this soon? Was it genuine? Was this just “the rebound” ? What resulted was perhaps the most tumultuous five weeks of my life. On top of dealing with a pending divorce, a move to a different borough / apartment and a heart-attack that hospitalized my grandmother, Mango was there as my lone bright spot. We had great rapport and a very strong physical chemistry. She just felt right in every facet. I couldn’t believe it. She was responsible for jumpstarting the pep in Brownstone’s step. I saw her a lot, almost any chance that we were afforded. She really made these difficult days tolerable, and I hardly saw her as the proverbial “rebound.” I saw something special, and I was convinced that I could make this work.

The drawback was that the young lady who had introduced us got heavily involved in watching us progress. She was so enthusiastic about the pairing that she became over-zealous in her prodding for updates. There was nothing inherently wrong with this, but it rubbed Mango the wrong way. Mango began to question how genuine my intentions were, believing that my hand had been forced. She had every right to believe this given the timing of the entire tryst, despite my unending protests.

This mess led to Mango and my friend’s falling out in a very catty exchange over the phone. Shortly after this, Mango and I wrangled over the nuances of our feelings. She was overwhelmed to the point of agitation. My defensive stand coupled with an intense plea for understanding was invariably our undoing. We fought, and it was over as soon as it began. I reached out to her two times shortly after, hoping that tempers subsided but to no avail.

And thus began, the cycle of dwelling. Initially shell-shocked and battle-worn, I wanted nothing more to do with relationships. I had a difficult time getting through this, refusing to accept that something so good could be destroyed so effortlessly. This paved the road for my crazy dating spree, all in an effort to have fun and forget Mango, and all in hopes that what I just experienced was not uncommon. In hopes that she’d become a quick afterthought.

I tried. I failed. Failed because I dwell with the best of ‘em. I should start a support group for dwellers, as I surely can’t be the only one. I started this blog to really get my thoughts out of my head and eventually revisit this chapter of my life. Well here it is, in a summarized mess - amongst all of my other misadventures in the past six months since I last spoke with her. Six months, and I foolishly still held a torch for Mango. I held faith that one day we’d speak again, even though the hope and prospect was dim.

“The Art of Dwelling” written by Brownstone Cool.

Dwelling does no good. Trust me, I know this. I really do. In recent months, I have been getting better about suppressing the appetite to dwell. And then of course, last Tuesday evening, my MSN notification alert on my desktop relayed five words that sent my heart into a school-boy frenzy and awoke the dwelling behemoth inside:

“Mango is online. Hi, Brownstone.”

to be continued . . .

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Twelve days after I last hear from her, Wit offers up this gem via e-mail this afternoon.

Hey Brownstone,

sorry i didn’t write to you earlier but I haven’t been here for a week…I was out in Queens last week doing some training… how’s everything on your end?

- Wit

I think I am going to let this one sit for a while. I need a break.

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Model Behavior suggested in a comment on one of my posts that she knows someone that swears by Match.com. That statement pretty much epitomizes exactly why I have veered away from paid dating sites. The whole thing stinks like the filthy C train. I am not going to suggest that Match is a lose-lose situation as I am sure people have met the love-of-their-lives on those kind of sites. But something just isn’t right when I hear that others swear by it.

Here’s what I mean: If you swear by it, you are suggesting that you have seen multiple successes. If you alone had multiple successes, are they really all that successful being that you had to try multiple times? Unless, of course, you call serial-dating a win. Then by all means, swear away but leave Brownstone out of it - because I don’t believe that to be a success. I guess the only argument in favor of swearing by Match that I can think of is that the person met someone significant and he/she also knows many others who have met someone also significant with a small window of failures. Otherwise, it is hardly something to swear by, dont’cha think? And what’s with their purported money-back guarantee? Has anyone excercised getting their money back? Surely not everyone who uses that site lands someone significant within their given time-frame. What gives? How do they know you haven’t met anyone? Something is fishy here.

I may be stubborn, but I believe that most of these sites are prominently filled with two kinds of people:

1. The Socially Awkward Male - the guy that just can’t initiate a conversation with a woman in public and needs a facade like a (not-so) clever profile to lure an unsuspecting female to going out with him. The female then learns the guy has zero social skils when exposed to his real-time game.

2. The Female Liar / Manipulator - the woman on the site has outdated pictures, terrible adjectives in lieu of descriptions, and lies-through-her-teeth about what she wants. “I’m not shallow at all. I just want a nice guy, who will treat me well, who is career, goal and family oriented.” BS. I’m right here, ladies. I am calling your virtual bluffs. And guess what? Mah phone is not-a-ringin’.

Speaking of non-ringing phones, in other news . . .
» Slim Faster initiated playful yet sketchy notes on Facebook with me
» Wit has vanished, again.
» ST Poser looks like she is going to flake on me. What else is new?

Should I humor myself and try one of these sites (a.k.a. fork over $$ for more headaches)? Anybody with any stories (good/bad) to share about these sites? Has a creepy old man showed up at your place with the love-of-your-life and Natalie Cole’s “Everlasting Love” playing in the backdrop? Do tell.

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It figures that as soon as I decide to start a blog about my post-divorce dating life in NYC, that the actual dating part would come to a screeching halt. What a bore. For that, I apologize to my small audience thus far.

Even though Brownstone hasn’t had any dates in the past couple of weeks, lets recap what is going on in my neck of the woods and update you guys on developments (or lack there of).

Shy and Wit have both given me the typical run around. I ask them out, they dance around the question. Wit actually did get back to me last week apologizing that she had been busy and asking me when I was free. Good sign, right? WRONG. She is playing games with me. I answered letting her know which days were good for me and BAM - no response, yet again (six days and counting). I am not going to chase this one, so we are at a standstill and I am literally at wit’s end. Har har.

But not all is lost. ST Poser and I have arranged for a Friday evening hookup, after weeks of email tag and pointless posturing. My expectations are not high, given my recent string of fortune, but you never know. Will she be the next hot prospect to be Released? Stay tuned . . .

ALSO — There is a new potential candidate budding. I meet with a fiction critique group every two weeks in a public atrium in Midtown. There happens to be a restaurant situated near where we usually sit and dog each other’s stories. In this restaurant, I noticed there were two hostesses by the door that greet and seat the incoming diners. I found myself playing eye-tag with one of them for the last two critique sessions. The first time, I didn’t think much of it - she’s a looker. Who wouldn’t look at her? The second time (last week), I caught myself doing it again and her being a lot more responsive. I cannot disrupt my group sessions to talk to her but at one point I could have sworn she smiled at me and I shot her a smile back (of course, this could just be wishful thinking… but who wouldn’t love Brownstone, right??). In any case the opportunity that day passed to go speak with her and I intend on making an attempt next go-round. Hopefully there is a next go-round.

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Alright, did I jinx myself or something? I say I had a date planned this week and so far - nothing, nada, zip. No word. I left Wit a message on her voicemail and email asking her when she’d be free and she has since completely disappeared on me. I could easily go down to the bank to see what’s up, but that’s borderline stalker-like, teenage behavior. Brownstone don’t play like that. I don’t believe in leaving multiple messages like some people do - not my style. I will take this as a sign of two things: 1) I suck. 2) My life and this blog are destined for more crazies! Joy! Honestly though, I can’t see why this would happen (though I am not surprised). There was a good vibe and everything. We all but confirmed a date and time for when we would do this. I will give her the benefit of the doubt right now assuming she is blitzed by work or other obligations that came up unexpectedly. I do have to deposit a check sometime soon so I am bound to run into her unless she has vanished - I will hold off till next week for that.

The possibilities, though, are endless and it’s making Brownstone dizzy. It is possible that I am completely misreading these ladies. It is possible that I am still really rusty post-divorce. It is possible that there is a nationwide conspiracy against Brownstone (Not-so) Cool and this is all being televised closed-captioned, in 150 different languages, commercial-free, hosted unceremoniously by Morgan Freeman and directed by Ken Burns.

Or maybe, it is possible that she somehow found this blog. Argh!

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Flash can be quite piquant. Situational recap: she flirts with me daily over MSN and loves to talk dirty when doing so - all the while during business hours thanks to time-zone differences. Recently, she had been suggesting taking a break later this fall to visit me in New York, presumably for an all-out sexcapade, because I don’t think we have discussed almost anything non-sexual since I began . . . err . . . chatting with her. I know that this all is excellent, and by no means should I not have fun while I am single and unnattached. But, I find this highly suspect and I’d be nuts to let a crazed nympho crash at my place without knowing a bit more about her m.o. So in an attempt to get to know her better, I offer up this recently lovely exchange from earlier today:

Brownstone: So, are you from Singapore or just work there?
Flash: Born here
Brownstone: You said you lived in Canada as well?
Flash: Yep, I left Singapore at 16, now I’m back working here.
Brownstone: Do you have multiple citizenships or something?
Flash: I need to be f**ked

Suspect, indeed. I can’t go more than 5 lines without innuendo, or in this case - spicy propositions hopping right into the dialogue.

I need a glass of water.

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It may seem, from reading this blog, that only crazy girls happen to me. This may be true, and I am ready to accept this fate - but it doesn’t mean that I only meet the nutjobs. But after thinking about it this past week, I think I might have indirectly found my calling. Here’s where Brownstone postulates on the absurd, so get your shit-filters ready prior to reading this mind-fart. Ok, so here’s the theory:

Brownstone was birthed to this great world to thwart evil. Evil, you ask? Surely these women exhibit modicums of undesirable traits, but evil - isn’t that a little harsh? Big, fat NO. I may, in fact, be the saviour of all mankind. I think after these women get through with me, they are changed, forever. Whether it be five minutes of flirting, or even years of dating resulting in marriage, Brownstone is altering the space-time-crazy continuum by simply being there. Whether these ladies remember me or not, they carry the legacy with them — they too knew Brownstone. And as a result, I save the next unsuspecting soul that they would have preyed on. Yes, I have that power. My presence is so wonderful and positive that I am injecting a semblance of good in all these loonies! Brownstone, the saviour. Has a nice ring to it, eh? A ring that didn’t cost me a quarter of my annual salary! / End of shit filter.

But like I mentioned before, they are not all nutjobs. There could be a gem here or there -OR- I could be completely off my rocker, blinded by a well-acted personality and killer legs. Or, better yet, there could be an estrogen-laced conspiracy against the likes of yours truly in motion. Anything is possible at this point. But the faith in me still holds to the belief that gems could still exist.

I met one of these potential gems back in March in a bank by where I live on the Upper West Side. She opened my business account and was flirting with me - and I was flirting back. I got the impression (for whatever reason) that she was married. Don’t remember if it was something she said or whether she was wearing something very blingy on her left-hand. So I did not make much of it. She has a curious first name that is synonymous with the word “bright” and it gives her character. For the purposes of this blog, we’ll just call her Wit. Being that the bank is a block from my home, I did run into her quite a bit over the next several months, in passing. A couple months ago, we struck up a light conversation while I was withdrawing cash to go see Slim Faster (shocker) and it occurred to me that I may have misinterpreted her status/situation because of yet another reference that contradicted being in a serious relationship. Also, during this exchange she noticed my tattoo on my left arm and was asking me about designing one for her (she remembered that my primary business was graphic design when setting up my account) so we began emailing each other on and off since then. I dropped by the bank the other day when I saw Wit in the window waving at me. So I took the opportunity to flirt with her some more and get her phone number. I am going to take her out sometime next week (we already agreed to this) in hopes that I can prove myself and this whole blog wrong.

Or, I could be saving one more future guy from the evil that lies ahead . . .

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A few more exchanges with Shy over the weekend reinforced my concern that she was just playing games with me. Now don’t get me wrong . . . I completely understand the whole thrust-and-parry of the typical courtship dance. I know things don’t happen overnight and I should exercise the upmost equanimity in the wake of a developing situation. But really . . . COME-THE-F*CK-ON. I really don’t have patience for this kind of back-and-forth BS. I am glad others have chimed in and agreed that she may not be interested at all. That makes me feel better as I am about to cut her off completely and I don’t want to feel as if I am making a mistake.

Who wants to take bets that she will be back in the near future asking me whats up with everything? I love this blog. It keeps Brownstone in check, ladies and gents. And I love you guys for throwing your two and a half cents into the spiel as well.

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Shy is definitely pushing buttons with me. Here’s a recent email exchange between her and I:

Brownstone: What do i have to do to get you out for lunch / dinner / cake / anything ??

SHY: Gotta get to know me a little better! lol Send me some emails or chat with me on AIM or something I guess.

Brownstone:
Alright, lets see.. things I know about you so far:

1. your name is #####
2. you are shy
3. you are from Texas
4. you are impossible to get a hold of via IM
5. you give complete strangers your email address at bookstores.

How many points does that get me? what can I trade them in for?

No response thus far. I hope this doesn’t drag on, because I’m no good at just hanging around in silence, twiddling my thumbs. Any word of advice from anyone reading this would be sweet. My patience threshold has certainly reached the brink.

On another note, I blew a potentially excellent exchange I had on the train earlier today. I am not one to believe in magic, but if my memory serves me correctly Monkeypants had some success in the Missed Connections section of Craigslist and it completely inspired me to hammer out the following lame post (Since CL posts have expiration dates, I will copy the body here for archive purposes) :

This is going to sound loopy, and I feel crazy doing this (as if that isn’t cliché enough).

So earlier this afternoon around 1:30PMish, we both got on the uptown #4 train at Bowling Green and I got off at Union Square (not sure if you did too, but it appears as if you were - when I turned my back to you) — this was mistake #2

Mistake #1 was not telling you how radiant you looked when you smiled at me. This is after I told you that you had something underneath your right eye on your face, like a stray lash. You wiped it off and smiled. That smile stays with me the entire day.

If you are reading this… I have hit gold. Write me back, please. I’d love to talk.

We were both wearing black…

I am on a roll with solid Fridays. I will be hitting up a going away party for a friend in Chelsea tonight. Hopefully, I’ll have something more positive to write about next time.

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I feel very slouchy of late and need to drop some weight. Ever since I have moved (from Queens) to Manhattan, I have taken the opportunity to walk home from work when the weather has been cooperative and temperate. Last week, during the unseasonly 70’s we were blessed with, I did it again a few times. The tail-end of my usual jaunt from Union Square is accented with the tree-lined nirvana of Central Park — a modest escape from industry, pavement and every other reminder of my daily life in this crazy city. To get to this poor man’s garden-of-eden from where I’m at, I have to go through the madness that is Midtown. With an iPod handy, good tunes or even better podcast, that nasty leg of the trip is not all that bad. Not all that bad, until you see a girl you dated briefly smack center on a billboard near Times Square.

There she was, huge, in all her glory. SlimFaster is a plus-sized model, which in everyday-speak is also known as “regular-sized woman.” If she is plus-sized, I do not want to know what they call obese people. But that’s hardly the point here. My jaw dropped checking the ad out, though I should not have been surprised. So I thought to myself, this would be an opportune inspirational moment to write about my time with her.

I met her in the midst of looking for a lawyer for my divorce several months ago (on Craigslist, of all places). As it turned out, SlimFaster and I were going through strikingly similar ‘ordeals’ and she referred me to the lawyer that I wound up hiring. With the things we already shared in common and general bullshit posturing out of the way, SlimFaster and I went out on a couple of quality dates. She was great. I was happy to meet someone I could share great stories with and good laughs without the worries of being judged for my ‘baggage’ and history. On our second date (could have been third, but the first time we met was brief at a café where we both made sure we weren’t Craigslist psychopaths), I took her to a party a friend of mine was throwing and to cut out all the pointless particulars, ended up at my apartment later in the evening. Winding down an evening of coy flirting here and there, I took upon an opening to make a move on her. Things are going smoothly (in my estimation) until she stops for a second and says:

“What took you so long?”

Whoah . . . hold on there, mama. A blur of facts flashing through my head like 80s-sitcom-flashbacks: 1) We are only on date #2, and I have barely spent any significant time with her. 2) We are both in the midst of divorce proceedings - things are a bit ‘fresh’. 3) I wasn’t sure she was really into me, tiny flirtations aside. Here we were, and I wasn’t about to be one to thwart any touchy-feely-fun with a heady debate. I should have just shrugged my shoulders or said “I dont know.” Instead, brilliant Brownstone feels like he is being judged for something all of a sudden and becomes compelled to say:

“Some might think we didn’t take long at all.”

Doh! Rally Killer! This nonchalant statement, of course, cuts the momentum and pretty much ends the ride as things quickly got awkward. She was probably turned way off and was out of my life shortly after. Of course, as soon as she got in her cab I realize that my words could have easily translated into indirectly calling her a slut, which was clearly not the intention. When trying to reconnect she simply thwarted my advance citing similarities between myself and her ex-husband to-be.

This whole episode rushes back to me while I stood frozen near Times Square gazing up at her ad. I thought about how I screwed shit up with one stupid line, and all of the pointless what-if’s, shouldve’s, wouldve’s and couldve’s. There she is smiling on that obnoxious Slim Fast ad reminding me of all of this. She was enormous in every way, except in person. The brief time I spent with her, months ago, was unbelievably still weighing on my mind. I walked away thinking, I really need to lose that weight.

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I get into work Monday morning and get a message from good ol’ Guam.

Oh, guess what? I am going to be in New York next summer for work.

How convenient. So, after last week’s nonsense, circumstance throws her a curveball and she decides to re-connect with me. Of course, I am not having it - shooting back with:

Too bad you don’t know anyone here.

Scoooooore! One point for Brownstone Cool. Yep, that might have sounded assy out of me, but she walked right into that one. If anyone thinks I should be nicer about this whole thing, feel free to chime in.

In other news, the weekend was a bit rough. Saturday was the one year anniversary of my wedding and I couldn’t help but feel a bit miffed about the whole situation. I wasn’t really in the mood to be social so I stayed in with a bottle of Jack and watched a slew of inappropriate flicks on my obnoxiously big, and way under-used television set. Good job, Brownstone.

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Friday is here and Brownstone Cool is dateless for the evening. Bummer! This is particularly annoying because it is a cool 70 degrees in the N-Y-C and spring-like nights in the oft-oppressive heatwave we are accustomed to are few and faaaarrrr between.

I want to take this down-time opportunity to introduce the roster of prospects that are currently on Brownstone’s virtual date-plate. Since I will be blogging about this nonsense repeatedly it would be good to have a reference to who the f#%k I am talking about without having to go into backstory. And by prospects, I mean ladies that have not completely gone nuts on me (yet) or ones I have scared off by my limitless charm.

Without further ado, I present:

Bachelorette #1 - ST Poser
Young (24 year old) Myspacer who seems to have taken a liking to my non-stop clowning. She resides on the Lower East Side. Details are a bit sketchy at this point as I am only in the “exchange-messages-via-myspace” and “random-IM-chat” phase. Reason for nickname: she has an array of photos in her gallery with “self-timed” cellphone shots of her posing as if she was auditioning for KING magazine. She looks great (to me), but admits to being somewhat vain.

Bachelorette #2 - CHICKEN PIE (or, CP)
A friend of mine who lives in my neighborhood introduced me to an old friend of hers from Thailand (my friend is from Thailand, herself). This woman currently lives in Melbourne, Australia and chit-chats with me throughout the day via IM. Incredibly nice and sweet, but I am wary of a lot of international women’s agendas so I am playing the wry skeptic without discounting anything just yet. Not sure I am all that physically attracted to her though (but I have never met her in person and only have a site-full of photos to go by). I do enjoy our conversations, so that alone will hold my interest. She has a very curious obsession with eating Chicken Pie’s daily. I don’t care how good something tastes, eating it everyday is madness!

Bachelorette #3 - SHY
Met a young lady recently in Barnes & Noble while having all kinds of issues locating a particular Charlie Huston pulp-novel that I am doing research with (for a story I am working on). She was from the south (Texas) and the southern-charm works wonders on Brownstone. She stresses that she is shy, but had no hesitation forking over her email and random networking site addresses to me after chatting her up. She has been difficult to really get a hold of - hence, the reason Brownstone is probably going to stay in tonight.

Bachelorette #4 - FLASH
Another one of those networking-site finds. She found me, much like Guam did. She is also out of the country (Singapore) so this does not do me any good for now and definitely has my spider-sense tingling (see: bachelorette #2). The other day while I was typing up my Guam post - she got a hold of me via MSN and began cybersexin’ me up. Trying to concentrate on work, a short blog-post, and a girl cybering me was too much to handle (given that I have no cyber-game to bring). On top of that she invited me to view video where she proceeded to flash me a few times and proposition me as if I had an opportunity to jump on over.

Yes, it’s a sad list. At the very least, it makes for great stories, in my opinion so that should answer the question of why I even bother. Maybe tonight I will go on the prowl for Bachelorette #5 (who could easily jump ahead of these 4) - or if anyone has anything cool going on - hit me up. Or maybe, I’ll just stay home as mentioned earlier and write. Note to self: stay away from Myspace!

Update: I have started compiling a comprehensive reference index of bachelorettes post-divorce! Yes, it gets sadder.

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The cool thing about the various networking sites that I am signed on to affords me the luxury (?) of meeting a wealth of people online. I used to have a young lady from Guam that wrote to me twice a week for several months earlier in the year. Last night, I log on to one of these networking sites to be met with one of those birthday alerts for this young lady. Seeing that I haven’t exchanged emails with her for a few weeks, I send her a nice small birthday greeting. I get to work this morning and check my inbox and I have a message from her that reads:

“Who are you?”

Huh? Did I miss something here? Are you kidding me? She sought ME out, and she is asking who I am??? Completely left-field. Of course in my typical irritated retorts I fire back . . .

“I’m the best thing to never happen to you.”

Later, Guam.

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A few weeks ago, one young lady - let’s call her ‘Cult Jam‘ (don’t worry, I promise there will be a reasonable explanation for this) - began chatting me up on Myspace. I am not averse to these type of scenarios as I make myself very available with a decent charm, a pretty moderately sized network and overall positive personality. She found me through a fringe-reality-tv-celeb that I had on my ‘friend-list’ who for some reason decided to place me as one of her top-friends.

Cult Jam is a pretty African American girl with a large social circle (or, so it seems), a very talkative, out-going personality with a wide-range of interests and a peculiar fascination with 80s pop-culture. Seems like a fun girl, right? I thought so, too. After a series of emails back and forth, we decide to meet last week. We had a casual, fun evening where she unceremoniously whooped my ass in a couple games of pool in Chelsea, and a nice long stroll to the meatpacking district downtown where we both took the train going to the Upper West Side (her folks live a few blocks away from me, apparantly). All the better. I felt good about the evening as everything went smoothly with lots of laughs and great stories exchanged. In all, a promising experience.

The following weekend approaches and I get a message from her inviting me to a small company convention weekend getaway in Pennsylvania where people can bring family and friends along. I was on the fence about this because I knew very little about her but I wasn’t about to pass up what seemed like a golden opportunity to learn more about her.

Brownstone: gimme more details about this thing - how do i know i won’t end up tied up in a dungeon with some perverted contraptions? ;D
Cult Jam: you know you wanna go.. take long walks in the creepy woods with me… play volleyball… eat bbq… you know you wanna

Good food, nice girl, away from the chaos of NYC… is there a catch? No way, this is sweet!

Not so sweet. As soon as the van picks us up, the agenda smacks me in the face. Cult Jam is trying to recruit me into one of those MLM (multi-level-marketing) schemes that falls a couple silly non-sellable products away from being a full-fledged pyramid scheme. And her fellow wide-eyed culties are along for the persuasion-athon. What they didn’t realize is that they just picked up an irritable debater that will go to great lengths to get his way and still have fun.

Here, folks, is a sample of some of the exchanges that highlighted the weekend:

Cult Jam: First, a learning seminar, then we get awards
Brownstone: When do the human sacrifices start?

Fearless Cult Leader: Money equals a stress-free life!
Cult Jam’s Cronies: Yea, wouldn’t you love financial freedom?
Brownstone: Not sure how money erases stress.
Cult Jam: You are thinking too much
Brownstone: You are thinking too LITTLE

Oh.. and the BBQ sucked! A grill surrounded by socially-awkward MLM drones with tiny weenies (literally) wasn’t going to get it done. And don’t get me started on the generic fruit punch and orange soda. Financial freedom, indeed.

One of the glaring particulars I noticed at this “company convention” is that virtually all the folks that were being showered with recognition awards for hitting sales milestones were minorities - while the inspirational, fist-pumping, chest-bumping keynotees were - you guessed it - Wonder Bread WHITE. Clear as day. They were all being taken advantage of while these fools were running to the bank with their money. The mass brainwashing was genius, and heartbreaking at the same-time.

When I was returned to my safe NYC haven the following evening non-brainwashed, unscathed, and hungry, I easily convinced Cult Jam into having WHITE Castle with me. I laughed myself to bed, though I did not sleep well.

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