thematically fickle

The one and only blind date I’ve ever been on was with Mark Kazarian. I have no idea if that’s how his last name is spelled but I’ll never forget it because it’s fun to say really fast. It was late October in 1990 or ‘91 or possibly ‘92; the exact year escapes me because I was very busy being self-indulgent then and now I’m old, a fried-brain combination not conducive to accuracy.

I knew the second I opened the door that there was no future for Mark Kazarian and me. His face was fine, I guess, but it was the stuff surrounding it that put me off. He had dark hair that fell in perfectly greased ringlets to his shoulders, shoulders that were shielded from a torrential rain storm by a leather jacket similar to the one made famous by Michael Jackson. And he was a Sigma Whatever or Something Nu and I was an Anything But.

Had I the wisdom of my 37 years, I would have kindly told Kenny G that we were clearly not each other’s density and saved us both the hassle. Especially since I’d opted for the date instead of attending what was sure to be an outrageously memorable Halloween party thrown by artist friends of The Gaydi Project. But no: I was young and insecure and had a nasty little habit of defining my self-worth through the eyes of boys I dated, and therefore often chose them over my friends. (A difficult admission, to be sure, and to those people relegated to the B-List during that time, I apologize.) This being the case, and despite being aware that I would spend the night regretting my choice, I grabbed my coat and made my defeated exit with this frat boy.

Only, once we left my apartment building, I found myself standing on the stairs, alone in the rain, while a silhouetted Mark Kazarian was sprinting full speed down the sidewalk without so much as a whisper to me. I watched him dash and splash in his loafers for more than half a block before he leaped off the curb between two parked cars, cut sharply to his right and slid himself into his cherry red Saab. I followed him, being the silly girl that I was, and got to the car just as he was leaning over to unlock the door for me. How chivalrous, I thought.

When I got in, he was looking at himself in the rear view mirror and gently patting his head with open palms. “Sorry,” he told me as he fixed his coif and waded in the sheer fineness of his reflection. “I didn’t want to get my hair wet.”

I knew immediately that I wasn’t going to be defined by him. I knew it was over and I knew I had an out. I convinced him to swing us by the Halloween party and, as Auntie Mame likes to say, Jackpot!

This gig was way too alternative for a smooth jazz man with a penchant for secret handshakes. Perhaps it was the numerous televisions playing loops of Eraserhead. Or maybe it was the food, appetizingly displayed as the internal organs of a dead man on a banquet table, each splayed rib of the deceased pierced through with luscious cherry tomatoes. Or it could have been the Tide laundry detergent poured purposely over concrete floors to make—beneath the black lights—a shallow, glowing puddle, an iridescent liquid runway for a transsexual’s angst filled strip tease. Yes. I think it was that. The poor guy bolted with as much communication and even more speed than that which he’d previously exhibited. Every hair on his head was still neatly in it’s place as he left me there at that party, where I would later consummate some seriously unrequited love with a magical kiss in the rain-turned-to-snow. After that, I swore I’d never go on a blind date again.

I’m so fickle: I am, today, on the verge of my second blind date. It’s a little different this time around. It’s not a romantic date and I’m taking Holga, my bodyguard, with me. I’m going to meet this woman—and her entire family—in San Francisco. I cross my fingers that it doesn’t rain. But if it does, I hope she wants to run and play in it with me.