hottest song of the Oh-Seven!

http://www.myspace.com/themaritalstrifes

by my friend t whose wife a cooks a lot. and there ain't no windows in that uptown kitchen.

later.

tis later. and what a relief...usually valentine's day comes around and er, um, oh i feel not such a gaping hope but a tiny one, like when your shirt gets caught in the drawer because your dresser isn't big enough for all your shirts and so you have to stuff 'em in and then you get a teeny tiny tear in one of them when you pry the drawer open. and nobody notices that little gape but you, its rueful owner. but this yr i have plans. they're not per se romantico, but i am going to see aline crumb get talked to with her husband (and her paramour, a second fella) at the library. and i'm going with a friend. but not a romantic friend. a regular friend.

i did a little experiment this wkend late at night when i got home after a long day out. oh, so much to tell. first off when i went to meet another friend, a platonic friend, at a bar where a friend of his had convened friends of his (are you following this?) and the convening friend (who really is not my friend at all, as you'll soon understand) was someone i once interacted with via an online dating site. now here's the thing: we emailed lots. there was repartee. we talked for a long time. until:

he figured out that i eventally want a tyke or two and he did not. and what galled him (and he's no gaul) is that i seemed to have ignored his statement that he never ever not in a zillion millennia wants tykes of his own and how could i have overlooked such critical informazione? como? yo no capito!!

well, see, i take those ads with grains of salt (sea salt, to be pacific, because i aspire to foody) and it's more about impressionism than literalism, in my estimation, and so i saw that but ignored it. cause also, if you'll bear with me, it's a date for a drink, not for a c-section. and there are several streams to brook before talk of tykes gets underway. anyway, he wasn't having it and was all up in my grill about 'you call yourself a writer!' and 'you review books but you clearly don't pay attention!' and 'you shame the very industry of readers and writers!' and 'for shame, for shame!' and 'the horror, the horror!' and "the horah, the horah!

anyway, he was the guy who convened the drink. so i was all 'i met you, sort of, on the internet, but we never went out' and my actual friend who invited me got a hoot outta that one, that we decided even before laying eyes on each other to avoid each other. really cutting to the chase. so practical. but my hunch of wherein idiocy lies, upon meeting finally, was confirmed.

and then i offered counsel on how one goes about initiating a one-night stand. as if i'm dear fucking abby.

anyway, hours go by, a party is attended, a toast is made, a karaoke tune is sung (gnarls barkley, patsy cline, dylan a la mode de cash), and i goes home. and when i get there i get a bee to put an ad up on craigslist to see how fast people respond. and i posted my ad and then i went to brush my teeth. after such a long day, they needed a scrub.

and when i came out of the wc there were 10 messages and over the next few minutes that number jumped exponentially (though i'm not math gal and i don't really know how much that means) and here's what i learned: some people write 'whet' when i think they mean 'wet' but if they did that on purpose, they'd be clever and i'd want to meet them. but the rest of their notes suggests such wit is not in abundance. also, i learned that digital cameras are being put to all sorts of nefarious and rather unseemly uses. in particular i wonder if well-endowed men buy them more than the less-well-endowed (surely they don't go for the digital elph). one fellow promised to 'pleasure me in my luxury doorman building on the upper east side'—a particularly plum effort at persuasion.

mala educacion!