mountain men and fountain pens

I came across this Psychology Today article earlier; it’s dated (2009) but it piqued my interest anyhow.

A recent veteran of the world of online dating (I lasted exactly 1 month, 1 week and 1 day, folks), I’m well aware of the dizzying, almost drug-like effect that accompanies the unending parade of potential partners scrolling across one’s desktop (or dark bar, or boozy birthday, etc. etc.). The New York dating scene isn’t much different from the restaurant one: While most towns only have a handful of really hot places to dine, this city’s got something newer - tastier - hotter - around any given corner. With so much variety up for grabs, what halfway attractive hungry single in his or her right mind would ever narrow the available options to only one?

The answer is a simple one: Pure and utter exhaustion.

That sounds negative, but it’s not: There’s a reason that, with a truly endless variety of dining and drinking options available to the average New Yorker, most of us gravitate to only a handful in the end. And, at the end of the night, the options that come to mind are even slimmer. (For me, there’s Lit and Union Pool. I would prefer if you did not judge me upon that fact alone. But: If you did, I would understand.)

The fact is that once we’ve found what makes us happy - what really satiates us on every level we could possibly dream of - the desire to stray is naturally diminished. We know, somehow, that the hot new bar down the street will probably be overpriced and full of pretentious scenesters, and that we’ll roll out wishing we had just stuck to the place we knew we’d feel warm and welcomed, where we could bop around aimlessly, take stupid photobooth snapshots, maybe spill half a vodka soda on an unsuspecting midget, and that all of it would be just gravy.

And on the nights when we do follow our gut, where we go exactly where we know we’ll be happy — those are the great nights, the nights we’re comfortable in our smiles (too genuine), our clothes (not Helmut Lang), and our interactions (definitely not coked up enough).

I can’t say I met the male equivalent of a Lit or Union Pool during my brief foray into online dating (if I ever do, sweet Jesus, please let him be STD-free in a way that those bars could never be), but that’s what, in this city of a million men, I’m really looking for. I can’t and won’t use some arbitrary percentile to figure out when I ought to say “mo” instead of “eeny meeny.”

But when I find myself looking at the vast cornucopia of options in front of me and say, with a sigh of resignation, “Awh, fuck it, I think I just want to see ____________ instead,” then I’ll know I’ve hit on something lasting. And no amount of options peeking just around the corner will ever pull me away.

Welcome to the new home for my personal writing. It’s been a long time since I’ve blogged steadily (hello, graduate school?), but I’m hoping the semi-nonsensical name will give me ample latitude to write about the motley variety of topics I’ve been itching to have a say in: the wine bar I stopped in at last weekend, the event I’m covering tonight, the show I’m seeing tomorrow, the beardo-du-jour I’m head-over-heels crazy about… and so much more. Stay tuned.