Hear/Say

As a frequent patron of the White Rabbit, you meet a number of older men.

To open an entry like that was not purposely for sensationalism; also, I don’t consider myself a loose woman– but what kind of loose women does? Wink, wink. But seriously. I’ve encountered more fedoras in Fremont than anywhere else. Fremont should be named Fedora, and Lenin and the troll will need some serious new wardrobes.

This time, I was there to drop in on my friend who works there. Marmalade night was bumpin’, people were jumpin’, no one was krumpin’, if they could that’d be sumthin’. I was out on the patio for some quiet time when I met a man who conversed 1. business 2. life, values, morals 3. a joke about him falling in love with me, living in a hut, having 13 children, and being completely happy 3. building non-profit organizations 4. aliens 5. pyramids.

In between some of this came that strange, subconscious ritual where the other person explains to you what they think– but they’re convinced that they know– about you. I’m always astounded– offended after too much brooding, maybe, but not at the time– at the audacity of this particular venture.

To explain to someone that they know you, they ‘sense’ and ‘read’ the qualities you put forth as a person (and they’re always quite animated when retelling the motives of your grand life, where you’ve conquered the abilities to discover and dominate all corners of your universe… keeping it all so positive, naturally) becomes more of a strange labeling process that slides through small talk so you can get to “reality”, the grit and dirt of life… which can become the faux-humblest cheese talk.

Perhaps I’m not very good are receiving compliments (not to say I ‘get them ALL the time’), but the more simple the compliment, the much more genuine. I’ve found that most compliments given are filled with empty adjectives or hollow meaning; lately, I’ve interrogated them rather than display polite gratitude for generally very nice things being said (that said, ‘very nice’ is a vaguely empty adjective as well). Usually, these are the sort of men that tend to lose interest quickly; after all, how could you presume you know anyone at all, even your best friend?

To guess at the essence of a person, whether or not their name is “Grace” or “Hope” or “Destiny” or “Desire”  (after all, who can hypothesize the full affect of a name on an identity and fate?), is a chancy, touchy topic to pursue. While saying what someone wants to hear (via horoscope-lingo; the vaguely positive to the vaguely negative) or placing them in the position to positively confirm what they like about themselves is a very clever move. Who doesn’t like to be told how awesome they are? But it’s risky: pulling off an earnest attitude is difficult. For people who are actively listening, the meaning of your words have a weight, and the more you say, the more weight accumulates. To pull out a flattering adjective is easy; to earnestly back up words in these “getting to know you” moments must be a challenge. Which is why I love asking these boys or men, these males with their scripted sass and oiled experience of saddling up on placid ponies, what they mean by their beer slick words. In turn, you can read their intentions by the stumble of their words, inconsistenciesand the lack of steady eye contact. The weight of their words crushed their confidence.

(Compliments should mean something; unsolicited compliments are appreciated, but best taken with a grain of salt. It is that compliments you hope for from the right person that matter, but somehow they always miss their cue…)

So to the men who gracefully weave through women like an eel through coral: good move. I say this without bitter angst; I say this because I’ve only experienced this kind of conversation with older men and frequently. Essentially, you offer me a golden idol of all I may achieve, or lauded my accomplishments; yet you do not know me as you think you do by the way I dress, the way I talk, even what I may post on my blog, or how I update my Facebook. My motives and agendas are always private, despite any public appearance and behaviors; so are yours. The idol is false, and nothing more useful than glitter and rainbows tumble from your lips.

It is at that moment that I realize: you and I will know me even less if I’ve thought about this and we still hook up tonight.