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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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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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 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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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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