Thursday, December 08, 2005


I was asked today why there is no mention of my love life in my blog. There are 2 answers to that question and both are quite simple, really.

ANSWER #1: There's no real love life to speak of. I had a bizarre long-distance thing that was on and off and made me slightly hysterical. THAT'S over. And then there was a hot second recently where I thought something would go down... But it never did. We girls all know that if he doesn't call within a week, he's not really interested (or he's a player, a f*ckwit, married, spineless, lost his phone/your number and therefore is not your destined partner, or dead - none of which is something we particularly need).

ANSWER #2: I wouldn't want a potential love interest to read about himself on my blog because that would be creepy. That's partly where the "censored" in "My Life, Censored" came from. I have enough problems keeping them around as it is; I don't need to scare them off even more by blogging about them.

Then again, I don't see the harm in sharing "romantic" experiences from the distant past concerning characters I will never speak to again. And I need to record some of this for my future grandchildren, in the increasingly unlikely case I find someone with whom to create progeny. So here goes.

Back in my London Days, which was, of course, a lifetime ago, I went to a fantastic little club called Cherry Jam. A jazz pianist I met in Tokyo when I was 23 had put me on guest list to see him play accompaniment for a jazz singer-saxophonist-flutist. It was a warm summer evening so I put on my Flashdance-inspired top and cropped trousers (staff discount from Pepe on Carnaby) and my killer heels (staff discount from Gucci at Selfridges).

Of course I got lost outside Royal Oak tube, which is practically a demilitarized zone. The geniuses who created Cherry Jam also thought it would be clever to have zero signage, placing only a jar of cherries in the dark window. At any rate, I did find it in the end. I was a bit frazzled from the search and it's always a bit uncomfortable walking into a party alone. I made a beeline for the bar, and ordered a Raspberry Bellini.

Needless to say, I couldn't drink any more then than I can now... But I'd do it anyway. By the time the band started playing, I was so rocked I was boogie-ing all over the place. The room was packed with couples having (or trying to have) a romantic candlelit dinner but I wouldn't let it spoil my fun.

So I'm shakin' it, which is something I do not do, and finally someone took pity and came over so I wouldn't have to be an ass, solo. The song ends, and he tips up his baseball cap... And holy sh*t, it's Cal from Titanic. He's all, "I'm Billy", extending his hand. Yes I know, nice to meet you Mr. Billy Zane. This man had the most beautiful Asian girlfriend as well as the most gloriously shaped eyebrows I have ever seen. Very down-to-earth guy, just having fun on a Sunday night in London.

In case you're wondering, nothing happened between me and Billy Zane.

I'll speed this up a bit because it's gotten longer than I'd planned. The singer invited me to his house, a few blocks away, for a nightcap on his balcony. Like I said, it was a beautiful evening. There was something funny about his bathroom, but I can't remember what it was. Maybe I broke the flush? Or the light. Hmm. Anyway.

I decided to leave before I did anything I might regret, although (I thought) I really liked him already. He put me in a cab (have I mentioned how much I love riding in London black cabs?), and before I even got home to my 12 foot by 12 foot flat in King's Cross (long story), he had sent me a text message.

"I didn't want you to leave." Call me a sucker but I was finished. Done daddy.

He called me that week and tried to invite himself over. My flat was a mess and I'd had a miniature nervous breakdown at work (yet another story) so I suggested another date. As it turned out, he had an upcoming gig at Cargo later that week. He put me on guest list and I looked forward to it anxiously.

The gig was good. He was wearing some unbelievably strange outfit, as if you sent Napoleon Dynamite to the 1960s and forced him to raid a schoolgirl's closet. I battled the masses and got close enough to say hi but he seemed disinterested and aloof. Maybe he read my thoughts about his dubious fashion sense. Might I add, he was wearing a long, skinny, pink scarf along with the skin-tight yellow tanktop and skin-tight pastel bell-bottoms.

After that, he went on tour to Russia. I moved into a cute Camden 2-bedroom with a crazy woman who grew up in Las Vegas and Manchester. In the meantime, I met the most angelic-looking 21-year old in Camden. He was bartending at a live venue down the road and was largely responsible for my rampant English-style boozing during that period. If he were a girl, people would call him an English Rose. I love younger men as much as the next 29-year old but what girl wants to date a guy prettier than her? And as we've all experienced, the only way to get one guy out of our minds is to get another one in there. So retro-Napoleon it was.

About 4 months after the warm evening on his balcony, I bumped into him as I was walking home from a neighborhood bar alone. He, of course, was with a girly girl - the kind of girl I'll never be, the kind who can wear a swirly 50s-style skirt and carry a little beaded purse. In contrast, I was in my usual uniform of jeans and black eyeliner, probably looking more like an almost-30-year old trying to be Avril Lavigne. Ugh.

Anyway, we made strained conversation as the 3 of us walked up the road. I couldn't wait to part ways - for them to say, well here it is, and leave me the hell alone. Except we all said it at the same time. 8 million dwellings in London, 4 months of wondering where he went, and the schmuck was living with his girly girlfriend directly across the street. From my bedroom window, I could quite literally see into theirs. Excuse me while I gag.

So that's one London Love Story That Wasn't Meant To Happen. Trust me, there are plenty more where that came from. But for now, off to bed...


Blogger ZaZa said...

Yes, I am really enjoying your blog. Sounds like my life at about that age. Especially the possibly broken flush. LOL!

10:57 AM  
Blogger e! said...

B'gina: Please tell me it gets better as I get older.

2:23 PM  

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