Rock On Gold Dust Woman

Two completely unrelated topics...

First off, I went to the Fleetwood Mac concert last night. They were amazing. Lindsey Buckingham just goes and goes. And Stevie Nicks? Awesome.

Our seats were kind of high up (try just one row from the top), but we were to the side of the stage, so we could see them pretty clearly. Stevie still dresses the same (all flowy, lacy, and witchy), but she was wearing these shoes that can only be described (from my vantage point) as appearing to be orthopedic. So much so that when she hauled out the sparkly gold shawl for "Gold Dust Woman", the effect was more granny than "Rock on, Gold Dust Woman".

She did sing my favorite Fleetwood Mac song, "Gypsy". And the coolest part was she told a story about how she wrote the song. Something about when she first met Lindsey in the 60's and they were touring like gypsies. One of the first places they played was San Diego! It was cool. That song always reminds me of S. Not sure why, but I was glad they played it.

Secondly, a few months ago, I was riding up the elevator, talking on my phone, one afternoon. There were two guys on the elevator with me, and I can only imagine that they thought I wouldn't notice because I was on the phone, but they were totally talking about me. Complimentary stuff, but still, it was kind of awkward.

Anyway, a little while later, I ran into one of them downstairs in the courtyard, smoking a cigarette. He introduced himself (his name was Cash, editorial decision to include his name, it's just odd enough not to really matter, plus, he'll never know he's a featured topic on my blog. Oh! Which reminds me! I just saw that I have an actual follower whom I do not know! My first. Welcome! Not sure how you found me. Tell a friend!) Anyway. We chit chatted, he told me he lives in the building, manages (or owns, the story keeps changing every time I run into the guy) this really hip bar/restaurant downtown. Invited me to meet him out later that night. Alas, he is totally not my type. I think I may be taller than him by a good inch.

Whatever. Cut to a few weeks later. Again, I run into him in the courtyard.

"Cash? Right?" I ask.

"Yes, and you are?"

"Moo. We met a few weeks ago." I remind him. Again, we have the same conversation. Lives in the building. Owns (or is it manages?) hip downtown restaurant. Blah, blah, blah.

This happens every single time I see this guy. It's like it's freaking groundhog day. The last time I ran into him I just pretended we'd never met. He came over and introduced himself. Good Lord. I have now decided that the next time we "meet", I'm going to give him a fake name. And I will give him a different fake name every single time after. This will be fun!

To All the Boys I've Loved Before

A few years ago, long before there were blogs, N and I used to toss around the idea of writing a book about all of the crazy boys we had known. It would be a joint effort, as we both had a lot of stories to tell. I was thinking about this tonight and thought I'd write about just a few.

First there was C. He was the first guy I met when I moved to San Diego. We met at a friend's birthday party. Later that night, he took N and I to the Casbah and gave me my first Mexican valium. Poor C. He was so cute, but so lost. He was such a tortured artiste (he fancied himself an Actor). With a drug problem. Who could never get it up. C didn't last long. He used to call me every once in a while trying to sell me drugs.

Next, there was L. I met L at a pre-Halloween pumpkin carving party. He was a friend of the host and known to be quite the ladies man. After my experience with L, I'm not quite sure why. I won't go into too much detail here (I have my reputation {ha!} to protect!), but suffice it to say L peed in my bed and helped himself to a block of cheddar and every jar of hot sauce we had in the house!

And then there was Michael. You may be wondering why I'm breaking my own rule of using only initials. Well, when it comes to Michael, it's just too delicious not to. Like C, Michael also fancied himself the creative type. When I met him he was spelling his name Mykal. N & I met Mykal at a holiday party at a friend's house. We liked to describe him as "artfully disheveled". You know the type. Hair mussed up just so, jeans perfectly worn, shirt half tucked in, half out. Christ on a stick; the guy wore cover up!

I chased Michael/Mykal down. Went to all the places I knew he hung out until he finally noticed. After a while, Michael/Mykal and I became sort of friends with benefits. We lived close by each other, so it was convenient and we actually hung out quite a bit. But, as such relationships do, after several months our relationship just sort of ran it's course and we lost touch.

When I was thinking about writing this entry, I searched Michael/Mykal on Facebook. (I searched both spellings. Hee hee.) I actually found him (by the more traditional spelling). I considered "friending" him and then thought better of it. I mean, what's the point really? People come into your life and they leave your life. I'm a strong believer in the theory that we learn something from everyone we meet. Even lost, tortured Actor types and boys who eat your cheese.