Fine, obviously no one wants to talk about what it means to be a man and I neglected to give you my grand list of what I'm looking for in a mate** so let's just call this morning's post a bust.
But look at this
I find it so easy, always, always, to fall in love with the utter impossible romanticism of the whole Beat experience, and found myself looking longingly at the photos of North Beach in the fifties, thinking, I was born too late.
Isn't that nice?
And here's where the hopscotching comes in. I read Sarcastro
(in case you haven't noticed), who reads this dude
, who linked to the chick
who wrote those words.
It must be like the thrill some folks get out of shopping--flipping through rack after rack of not quite right things only to finally find something that makes you gasp--the feeling I have when I'm following blog trails and stumble across something written by someone I don't know and won't ever know that makes me go "Ah, yes, that's just right."
*Yes, it is a Cortazar reference! Suck my butt, you experimental fiction haters. I'll read what I want, or in this case, intend to someday read it and never get around to it but still reference it anyway.
**I was thinking about this at lunch and I think my requirements are--1. funny 2. smart 3. self-assured and cantankerous without being too obnoxious 4. adores me 5. makes me feel safe 6. sweet 7. calls me on my bullshit 8. loves my dog 9. loyal 10. will accompany me to boring-ass crap so that I have someone to snark with 11. tolerates my family.