undershaker

Still have it. I possess the kavorka. It's never leaving me.

Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?

I don't know.

But, I returned to Johnny Five's -- a 'Stallis eatery at which I have been a regular, off-and-on, since '96 -- this evening and I initiated a conversation with a woman and... I know this sounds self-aggrandizing, but, in the back of her mind, she wanted to have me (oh, bring me the seed of the animal-man, she was thinking... thanks, Hank).

Here it goes: I am sitting at the counter, upon the swiveling-stool closest the register -- after having moved there from one toward the middle, because I thought I saw an old nemesis of mine (really, friend-turned-nemesis), Tvrdik, at a booth over my right shoulder, supping with a paramour (turned out a false alarm) -- and one of the second-shift waitresses took a seat two over to total her tips and have a cup of chicken n' dumpling before departing for home. We got to talking thusly, and I learnt she was a year my senior, and mother to four (you read that Got-damned right!... but discussion of this, which should be able to worm its way into my talk of female vs. male promiscuity, shall be for another day) and wife to one (the baby-daddy (my word) of her four children, the first born when she was 17; she was married a year later).

So, she was talking about her life, fairly well unmolested by my interruption, when she hesitated a moment to note (about my rare inputs, which largely amounted to calculations of where she stood, in various respects), "You are really keeping up with what I am saying. Most people don't pay attention, but..."

Bingo! Such is the mark of a woman who is thinking, damn, if only I wouldn't have been so foolish to not be using depo shots at sixteen; otherwise, I could take this boy home with me and have his (expletive) in my mouth, my (expletive), and my (expletive), because I would have no kids by my high-school lover, so no reason to be married to him, or anyone else... fuck.

I turned her on, however metrosexually I might have seemed in doing so. I mean, really, lending an ear to a woman? Showing some consideration for her thoughts? How gay!

(Truthfully, though, I should not strike anyone as at-all metro. Moreso, I was raised in my formative years (seven-thru-eleven) in a single-parent home, by my mother, who did not want me to up the sociopath that my father is. So, I empathize, I emote, I care -- but am I a Guido, i.e. a snazzy dresser, almost more concerned with my look than with whom I share my bed? Why, no. Rather, I am Oscar Madison with a heart of gold. But I am digressing, so I will continue.)

Now, flash-back to November '01. It is Thanksgiving Weekend, Saturday of it precisely, and after an evening reading Rolling Stone and Foreign Policy at Barnes n' Nobley, I go to Johnny Five's for a nosh. In pulling up to the lot, though, my attention to my stomach is diverted as I see a Buick LeSabre bearing various emo- and indie-rock signifiers (stickers for Local H, Braid, Promise Ring, Get-up Kids), and I decide, I shall find the driver and passengers in this vehicle and attempt to make a new friend.

As luck would have it, I find the two from the car standing on the corner, outside the restaurant, waiting for the other two in their foursome. The two present were smartly-attired indie-rockers -- corduroy pants, t-shirts, v-neck sweaters -- from Wauwatosa, and female (I struck gold, did I not?), and were amenable to conversing with me, but not so receptive to my thoughts. (They were rather standoffish broads, all the same. Some might say they snobs; Ice Cube (pre-Are We There Yet?) would have a different word for them .)

Then, their friends walked up. One is a very short -- five feet two inches? -- blonde and journalism-Spanish double major at UW. She speaks with me openly enough, mostly about Spain (where I had studied Spring '00), and introduces me to the second. Now, she... Is taller -- five feet six inches? -- with longer blonde hair still (to mid-back), a blue, velvetty (sp?) jacket, and knit cap to match. She's a doll, too. Laughs at my poor attempts at jokes and accents -- in learning she attends Beloit College (after having spent a year at UWEC; she was then a soph. at Beloit at time of our encounter), I mimic a pirate (the school mascot is the Buccaneer), and she chuckles -- and smiles broadly as I discuss my doings in Milwaukee.

I'll be damned if she wasn't undressing me with her eyes, even.

But, we parted ways soon enough, as I headed for the alee of the diner, and they... I don't know where they went, but about ten minutes after I entered, they did. And twenty-five minutes after that, the Beloit coed approached my booth (from hers and her mates' in the farthest reach of the smoking section), with the UW Spanish student as wing-walker, and chatted me up a bit more.

And, as I was about to leave, she motioned me over to her table...

I shall leave what transpired thereafter to your imagination.

Ba-boom.