The Lectern is Dead! Long Live the Lectern!
(of course, the original gag was that I aimed to find people who didn't have anything better to do than to obsess about these columns. And I've had many a hearty laugh both at the readers', authors', and participants' expense in the ensuing months. Heck, I even got to laugh at myself for a bit.)
Your last guaranteed full weekly recaps:
Modern Love tells the tale this week of a girl with a shifty-handed boyfriend. He hoards, he steals, he misplaces things. An occasion for a Sartre quote if I've ever seen one. Heather Fenby uses this opportunity to graduate from the Villager, where her writings seem to frequently appear (thanks, Google!). If you want to learn more about her, find her blog at http://texting.blogspot.com/. (again, thanks Google!) Fair warning, it's hardly readable due to color issues. Black text on a dark gray background? Honey, wearing all dark colors only works for clothing. Web fashion faux pas!
Note I didn't have much to say about the Modern Love essay itself. The column is slowly sinking into the quicksands of reader ennui. Right now, anyone who starts a Metropolitan Diary blog has an easier assignment than this. Personally, I'd rather start an Ethicist blog or a Manohla Dargis blog if I were to start anew. Someone's already doing a Bruni blog, Choire and Tom have the Kuczynski beat, Gawker's got Stanley and El Ocho covered, and Maureen Dowd has peaked in her literary popularity (Vegas pulled the odds on Dowd's overactive libido, so no guesses on how much longer that persists). Surely the writing and the authors' backstories in the Times are as colorful as the city itself, but Modern Love no longer fits the trend. And, besides, most of its glory moments are when it caused more controversy than entertainment - therefore making the backstory the entertainment, and the column itself meta-entertainment. (which is exactly why I saw this fit to blog about - my Technorati referrals soared after I started writing about Modern Love, and to this date they are still strong.) Now that they're not running anything that's truly fucked up, I have nothing to say about it anymore. Done. Finis. So over.
Let's beat up on our other favorite whipping-boy now: Meet Market! And, oh do they deserve a spanking this week! Lindsay was a terror of a date - how could you deem her fit for a set-up? She hovered close to Queen Worst territory - alternately skewering and praising Joshie (who performed admirably - too bad he hung himself out to dry in the recaps by being the only participant interested in romance). My oh my, what a terribly big-mouthed, classless girl we have on our hands here! Let's display:
When Joshie got to the restaurant, he walked straight up to the table and pulled me in for an all-too-close hug - I was expecting the casual "Nice to meet you" handshake.
I gave him the once over, and immediately noticed one physical "no-no" for me - too short!
I called over the waitress for a glass of wine. Joshie wanted the bottle, which told me he seemed a bit nervous.
He told me about... his love for his favorite food - "meat and potatoes." I'm your typical sushi kind of girl so we hit a sour note with ordering. He wanted the Vertigo burger, which I have heard rave reviews about, but nevertheless, I haven't eaten red meat in five years!
He suggested that we order a lot of different dishes, but sadly followed that with "Well, we're not paying the bill!" That wasn't very romantic.
As he talked about his former partners, I made a mental note of three of Joshie's attributes - good hair (no baldness), good jokes (no pity laughs) and, reassuringly, he smelled like he took the time to take a decent shower.
Lastly, and possibly most importantly, I need to be able to wear heels with any guy I date without feeling like he should be wearing a leash.
Rarely does someone bury themselves this completely in a matchmaking column. All of her rejection criteria focus on superficial needs; she has little restraint from embarassing a gracious date in a widely-read newspaper column; and the girl is obviously spoiled. Perhaps she's the one who should be on a leash.
(Just because I'm bored with writing this blog doesn't mean I've lost my mean streak. Not one bit.)
Next week's date is Becky, a mid-20's art-production coordinator. She admits that she's a dork. Lucky for her, she's got a bunch of dorky-looking guys to choose from. Carlos looks like her best match; he's cool, sophisticated, motivated, confident, and smart. Perhaps she can turn on some of his Latino heat. The other two guys really just cannot compete; Glenn's a bit on the young side to be dating a girl around Becky's range, and Greg needs to grow a set of balls (and lose the earring, Captain Lou Albano).
I'll be reading what happens next week, but someone else will have to blog about it. I won't be! Guest authors are more than welcome if they're sufficiently motivated; email me at my Gmail account (user brianvan, natch) with your submission and I'll post it here. Otherwise, signing off!