Adventures in Evasion

This having been the day when Cupid pulls back and unleashes his volley of arrows upon the unarmed masses, I'm choosing to delve into my own personal treasure trove of romantic folly, for your amusement. Fret not, for there shall be no mention of the more notorious instances.

This full frontal assault on innocent civilians shall wreak a horribly beautiful kind of havoc. Some folk will have been struck cleanly, a piercing blow leading to a lifelong romantic entanglement. Others may not have been so lucky. There will have been mortal wounds. An arrow splintering on entry, devastating the recipient of its pointed glory (OK, so I'm aware that's treading down a very fine line of accidental pornographic intent so I'll pull out now....er....that too could have been worded better) resulting in a decisive tear to the heart. Others, perhaps the lucky ones in the short term, will have been dealt merely a glancing blow. Perhaps they should get a room, and they probably shall, for their fleeting fun shall entertain in its brevity. The lucky scamps! What follows, however, shall be the tales of a man struck moronic by his overriding stupidity in the face of such wars of the heart.

Of course, you already knew that. I am after all, a renowned imbecile. Some instances already live in infamy. These trials being lesser known, yet possessing no shallower indictment of my foolishness. Let's crack on shall we, kids?

It began, as so often such social car crashes do, with alcohol. Alcohol and music. And sweat. There was a distinct smell of sweat. Man, I could almost taste it. And as you're about to read, I very nearly ended up doing just that. At a "rock bar" with relatively trusted amigos (I say "relatively", as the majority of this trust sees me accept that they shall be my downfall), I soaked up the atmosphere (and the stench of perspiration. Did I mention that?). To the jukebox they went, with my trust to select some decent notes, leaving me to romance my beer. Adoring words were lavished, while it remained steadfast in its silence to me. Then arrived my new friend, a Frenchman. His name I cannot recall, so I shall dub him Jacques. He looked like a Jacques.

Jacques: "Uh....excuse me? Can I....sit here?"

Drunk In Training: "Yeah, work away man"

Jacques and his compadres took residence at our large table. Ample space. Pleasantries were exchanged in the broken English of men who could just as well have been raised in Broken England (stolen joke, yup). Eventually, with the return of my pair of jokers, we had ourselves a dual nationality posse of sorts. In time, I and Jacques were lost in conversation, when things took an unexpected turn. The overly tactile nature of his companionship had raised my eyebrows. It was growing clear to me that the legs he wished to nibble upon were not those of a frog. Finally, he made certain his intent:

Jacques: "Uh....would it be OK, if I were to....uh....have your number?"

D.I.T.: -with panic scarcely disguised by over exuberant tones- "Yeah, sure man!"

Ah, maybe he's just being really friendly. No harm. I'm imagining the romantic sub-plot.

Jacques: "You know, we could....uh....hang out, when friends are not with us.....uh....get coffee? Is this OK?"

Fuck. Let him down gently.

D.I.T.: "Yeah, of course. Sounds cool with me, man!"

What did I just say!? Why would I not just listen to myself!? Oh right, the idiocy. Anyway, eyes widened with barely contained fear in the face of awkwardness, I took possession of his phone, and entered my name and digits as appropriate. I gave him a false number. It was the best escape route available in light of my earlier choices in conversation. Sadly, I had not done so deliberately. I requested his phone once more, and inputted the number correctly. Wow. Smooth.

Jacques: "Um....we go outside now?"

Fuckity fuck. Alright, he wants to be alone with you outside, so as he may make his move. Be firm, yet polite ("Firm", not the wisest word selection once more) and let him know you are attracted to those of a more breastly nature.

D.I.T.: "Me and you? Sure, yeah."

At this point, my mind killed itself.

Jacques: "No, me and my friends. We go."

Thank fuck for that. I'm a polite man. Bizarrely accommodating. Really, you do not want to know just how far I would go to make sure I do not disappoint. I am loathed to let people down. I will, evidently, go to great lengths to placate out of some misguided notion of social niceties. One day this could land me in great despair. Kissing out of politeness? Apparently always on the cards with me. I fear I shall eventually meet a mostly loathsome woman, yet kindly consent to a polite kiss. A polite date shall follow. Sex will be remarkably polite. The marriage likewise. And we shall raise children in a house of thinly concealed resentment, barely hidden beneath a veneer of yet more politeness. And then I shall kill myself. The suicide note will be remarkably apologetic for any inconvenience I have caused. The epitaph shall read "killed by kindness".

As you'd imagine, the next while was fraught with fear and apprehension every time my phone rang. Then, one week on to the day, an unknown caller gave rise to mild panic. What ruse can clear me from this terror? An accent! Sorted. Just so long as I don't try to use an atrocious approximation of a French accent, a false pattern of speech is the way to go to throw Jacques off my trail.

Sober Idiot In Training: "'allo? Can I 'elp you?"

Really? A French accent? Seriously? I was dumb as a post. Not that I've improved of course. Luckily, it was not him. To this day, he has not called. It's been the bones of a year. Sometimes, I weep for him. What a tease!

Of course, there was another instance of overwhelming disgrace. This being more recent, and concerning a person of gender more agreeable to my predilections. I'll skip the foreplay of the story, and skip right to the spine of things. Amazonian she were, in my eyes. Tall, with physical strength I suspected could snap me in half, and a ravenous glint in her eyes that could stop a gazelle at a hundred paces. She had taken a liking to me it would seem. Kindly, I had, being at the bar ahead of her, offered to purchase a drink on her behalf. Her eyes widened with desire, while her mouth hung loose with surprise at such a small gesture.

The hunt was on.

I did as one would reasonably expect of me, and ran. There was also hiding. Behind furniture, people and in the shadows of darkness. Three times she caught me. The first such occasion brought a warning shot. A warning grind, rather. On the edge of the dance-floor, frozen in fear, I was pinned against a wall as she did her thing. My pelvis was in danger of being ground to dust. All I could hear was white noise. All save for the cheers of a friend who was well positioned to witness my plight. I shot a despairing glance in his direction. His eyes met mine and seemed to wordlessly echo his earlier advice to me-

"Go for it. She looks like she'd kill you during sex, but you'd probably die happy."

I resumed hiding once free from her assault. When next she divined my location, she continued her attempts by once more "flirtatiously" knocking her bottle down on top of mine. She had misjudged her own strength. My drink's vessel shattering in my hand. I stared at it in shocked wonder. My lady slinked away. She did not approach me anew til night's end.

Cornered. Only a giggling fellow who had passively watched the unfolding scenes for nearby company. Third time's the charm.

Lady: "Do you think I could have your number? We can meet up and hang out. Go to the cinema or something? See how it goes?"

Things followed more or less the same path as with Jacques beforehand. Number yielded, I realised just how shit a spy I would make. She began to interrogate me as to its veracity. The following minute lasted for hours. Nothing could assure her as to its reality. No coverage meant that calling my phone was bringing no proof. Drunk me made an impulsive decision as to how best to quieten my would-be paramore.

When I withdrew my face from hers, after what could only have been fleeting seconds, I was coated in saliva. She had even licked my chin. My facial hair dripped. Perhaps a result of my quick backing away when her tongue tasted my stomach acids.

Supposed Man: "That might be my real number."

I winked and strutted away.

Supposed Man: -to bemused cohort- "I did two stupid things. I think I just turned down sex. Worse, I gave her my real number."

Her eyes met mine across the emptying pub floor. I ran. Literally. It was another low point.

Now, I have since been informed that she remembers things a little differently. In her version, I being the aggressor come out far more masculine in my actions. I pursued her relentlessly. She asked to be my friend. At this point I cocked an eyebrow and with authority and heavy bass in my voice acted as follows:

Man As Alleged By Lady: "Friends!? I'll show you friends!"

As I took her in my arms, biceps glistening in the moonlight, the suddenly present wind machine blew my shirt open. My long, flowing locks tossed by the breeze. I dipped her extravagantly as I passionately ravished her lips with mine. A cad strikes once more.

Following on from this night I undertook a new strategy of blatant cowardice. I ignored her texts in the middle of a few nights over the next seven days. So long gentlemanly flourishes. Welcome to the new Deebs as he is now viewed. A man scared of women. Yet, I disagree. I do not fear women, nor female contact in any form. I've just allowed my distaste for letting people down to mutate to the point whereby I back away from confrontation until wholly necessary. It's not a viable option. Nor is it who I used to be. I never broached such lows as this conduct, yet scarcely was my behaviour better. I shant allow such veering from my usual instincts again though.

Form a queue ladies, he's single.

Ladies?

Anyone?

Jacques?

The Shake

I would like to start this latest entry by posting a disclaimer:

*Warning: Authors depicted in this blog may be less bitter than they appear*

Now that that's out of the way....

There was a time, nigh on one year ago, when I worked as part of a film festival. Now, I wouldn't want to drag the name of any particular sponsors of this aforementioned festival down with me, so I'll not mention Jameson by name. Suffice to say, it is a festival bearing the name of a....wait....shit....OK, pretend you didn't read the part with the brand mentioned. Moving on, I should mention that I was employed within this particular festival in a position of something resembling middling authority. I was responsible for herding volunteers in the right direction and assigning tasks to said lemmings. They were entrusted to my guidance.

-pause for laughter and judgement of the foolishness of this decision-

Yes. They were fools to have this faith in me. It should go without saying that several were directed over metaphorical cliffs. Yet, handling volunteers is one thing....again, I should stress that I did not literally "handle" my charges. That would be wrong. And only a few were pretty enough anyway. Sorry, I know, not the point. Essentially what I'm angling towards here is that I hold no fear of dealing with fellow festival types. We're all pulling in the same direction, in theory. Sure, some of them were gimboids and ogres, but most were charming types. Sure, for every intelligent, diligent and outlandishly beautiful worker (really, you're too kind) there was the other kind. You know the one- lazy eye trailing the floor, an expression that at once says they are supremely proud of having tied their own shoes that morning (they're not wearing shoes, those are socks. To tell them this would be cruel) while simultaneously leaving you in no doubt they would molest you as soon as breathe in your direction (they're always breathing in your direction, right on the back of your neck....there's drool). Yet, all in all, we're talking some right on, manageable cats here. The public provided their own obstacles. Heck, they brought them specifically from home to fuck with us on occasion. Still, the main problem came in the form of "the talent". These guys brought the tricky, in the same way some of our volunteers brought the rapey.

I recall with great clarity the little whiteboard in the back room, in the shadow of which myself and my co-captain of the venue would gather our thoughts and plans (read- recover from the previous night) for the day ahead. That whiteboard was where I focussed my game. It is where I would make notes for the tasks awaiting us. What screen was each film in? What time did it start? When did it end? Motivational words for our underlings were also a feature.

A personal favourite of mine being the following instructions on dealing with the public

_____________________________________________

*Volunteers*

Stare fiendishly

Smile suggestively

Wink when necessary

Drool if at all possible

Do not touch or feed the customers....

....except the pretty ones

Please remember to tip your Venue Captains

_____________________________________________

Yet the main area of concern upon this modern excuse for parchment was the director's name. That was the sword by which we would live or die. For we lowly civilians had been deigned worthy of introducing these behemoths of art to the baying mobs in a pantheon of cinema. We were presented our mics and pushed into the glaring spotlight for brief moments to do our piece, wipe our brow and depart, returning to the cold shadows from which we crawled. Fine. Dealing with a crowd is another scene I can almost cope with. The problem? The names. We had some killer names to contend with out there.

I spent a whole day staring with wonder, light shining from me as though I were a beacon, brightened by the name of Carter Gunn on my board. Giddy with anticipation. He and his directing partner, of a moniker for less enthralling to me, had produced a piece on bees. By all accounts it was excellent. I couldn't care less. I had two points of interest, and by golly I had no time for anything besides these nuggets of gold. Scrawled upon my beloved board was the simple nickname "The Machine", and I was just stupid enough to pull the pin on that baby. My second moment would fall into place easily behind that gem. And so I got to work. As was the way of things, I met our stars outside and introduced myself. Seeing as I'd be introducing them to the audience in mere moments, it would pay to be on cordial terms with out guests.

Fool: "So, Mr Gunn, I have to say, I've been looking forward to meeting you today."

Bemused director: "Oh....really?"

Fool: "Yeah. I've even gone and nicknamed you 'The Machine'."

Bemused director: "Carter 'The Machine' Gunn? Yeah, very good. Haven't heard that before....-sigh-"

At this point, I figured I was losing them. Alright, time to pull out the bug guns (a shotgun or something, anything that wasn't a machine gun).

Fool: "So your film about bees, i hear there's a lot of buzz around it...."

The contempt was palpable. I had made mortal enemies of the directors. Ordinary, decent men now loathed me to the core. They were right to do so. Still, it was far better than my first introduction of the festival. After that scandal, I held no fear.

Ever had to grasp a particularly difficult name? Latvian names are fucking hard to master. Ivars Zviedris was my Everest. Three days I had to get that thing down. Every waking hour was a blurred cold sweat. I asked volunteers for their advice on how to pronounce it. Their attempts were spotty at best. An Eastern European lady-type? She'll know! OK, she seemed to have it pretty much on the nose. Still, I'd have had to mutilate my tongue to perfect the pronunciation, even if I could have understood what the hell she was saying. Ah screw it, I'll just rush through my intro and mumble his name so that it sounds roughly like it. He'll be too lost in the magnificence of my words to register my verbal transgressions. I contented myself with this as it came time to meet my man.

I was walked out to meet our auteur with these parting words:

"Oh, and just so as you know, he can't speak a word of English....no, I don't know how to say his name right either."

Fuck. So not only could I not twist my vocal chords around his name, but now my fool-proof Plan B had been destroyed too. There were only two words that he would understand in my speech. These would be his first name, and his last name. Motherfucked, is what I was. Oh well, time to shake his hand. At least the rain will disguise my sweaty palms.

Then it happened. The moment that would erase all self-conscious fear from my mind. From this point on, all would stand as gold by comparison.

He had a thumb. He had a middle finger. That was it. Nothing else remained, aside from the palm of his right hand. Yet, it was too late. I'd already committed to the handshake. There was no going back now. My eyes widened in abject horror. I'd have been disgusted with myself if he'd noticed my open-mouthed stare, but seeing as my gaze was fixed upon the former residence of his digits, with my head tilted to some distorted angle of shock, I figure he didn't notice. What he would have noticed, however, was that I shook the fuck out of his middle finger. I grabbed that bad boy, and I clenched it as may a newborn clutch the finger of a father figure.

Fool: "Ivars, pleasure to meet you. Let's get you to your audience, Mr Zviedris. Follow me."

Ivars Zviedris: -blank stare of a man who understood nothing other than the desecration of his own name-