My Little Yeti.

I am being stalked by someone who has no desire to ever actually see me.

He’s a painful disappearing act, an amazingly bad magician - although I wouldn’t compare him to David Copperfield, or even dare to insult Doug Henning – no. He was (is) the relationship equivalent of David Blaine, encased in that block of ice, suspended over Times Square for a month, or whatever the amount of time was that he chose to stick himself in there that didn’t really matter to the rest of us. He had become a bit repugnant due to his repetitive tricks, and, like watching David Blaine, I was annoyed yet at the same time just had to watch the train wreck that was inevitable.

[A friend of mine lived in Manhattan when he attempted said stunt, and told me that the cameras failed to show how Blaine actually pissed off a ton of New Yorkers. What the cameras failed to show were people continually lighting up hibachis underneath the block of ice, or that on more than one occasion someone snuck by security and cut Blaine’s catheter line.]

The kicker is that this Kid is such a Sasquatcheriffic-Chupacabtastic-McGuffin of a Kokopelli that I can't really describe him as your typical asshole or douchebag, as that would be too simplistic for the enigma that the Yeti has become --- although A1 has taken to describing him as "the heir to the Massengill fortune" as of late. (Friends are a beautiful thing.) Ironically enough, I can't really be mad at said abominable snowman, as this seemingly on-going non-relationship gives me both a serious case of angina as well as great fodder to get expository to, which is an amazingly fucked up kind of two-fer.

I am consciously weighing the options that he's either bat-shit crazy, or just plain mean; however, I'm sort of leaning towards a 60/40 split of both. These days, I'm beginning to think that he might just be one of those Time-Life Books Unexplained Mysteries, not unlike the phemonenae of Spontaneous Human Combustion, or Extra-Sensory Perception. And in that sense, this has become one hell of an experiment.

It's been two weeks since I last had a sighting. Stay posted.

Nothing that a hundred men or more could ever do.

Right now, I’m listening to a lot…and I mean, a LOT…of Toto. Yes. Toto. It's totally Toto Appreciation Day. All day, every day, in fact. For some reason the sweet, sweet words that Paich and Porcaro skillfully blended into the megahit Africa fills the massive void that would otherwise be lining my stomach. That and whiskey.

The wild dogs cry out in the night
As they grow restless longing for some solitary company
I know that I must do what’s right
Sure as Kilimanjaro rises like Olympus above the Serengeti
I seek to cure whats deep inside, frightened of this thing that I’ve become

It really is all about the fantastic rhyme scheme and word choice. Let's not kid ourselves. It was 1982, I was seven, and I didn't know what exactly Kilimanjaro, Olympus and the Serengeti actually referred to, but it didn't matter: The words were fucking fantastic. I remember asking my pops how to spell the words and then going to town with the corresponding volumes of our Encyclopaedia Brittanica. (Also of note is that, within the same year, I was also floored by the use of the word "Vegamite" in Men At Work's Down Under, and couldn't figure out what that shit was for the longest, as our Encyclopaedia set neglected to cover Australian foodstuffs at that time.)

For Rob because.

Okay! So, last night I was talking to my boy Rob and he's a bit under the weather since this one broad broke up with him, yet keeps on rearing her schizophrenic head(s) like goddamn Tiamat. Clearly, 'twould not be completely out of sorts for dearheart Rob to be twisted into an emotional funnel cake. Ever empathetic to the sorrow of the homies, and through the lens of several glasses of six-dollar chardonnay, I woke up this morning and realized I had emailed him an extremely impromptu (and slightly inebriated) take I apparently had on the whole situation. Get your black mock turtleneck, peg your pants and grab your Zodiacs, because it's time to get your high-school angst-ridden poetry on...

A later note: I edited it down to the best line from said bad poem, since in retrospect, no one really needs to read all that shit.

You can make bullshit sound like rimming an angel’s perineum
So fuck you, Primadonna

I hope Rob is feeling better these days.

What the shit.

Sugar.
Pop.
Funky.
Pops.

Coffee, tea or…me, baby? Touché…Olé.

My opening line might be a bit passé, but...don’t think that I don't know what I'm feeling for you. 'Cause I got a vibe on you the first time that I saw you. I need your love and I won't bring no pain, a little birdie told me that you feel the same? I'm for the real, and for you I'm true blue.

Let's make a deal: Sugar, all I want to do is be your one and only lover.
I just want…to be your lovergirl. I just want to rock your world.

Hey - hook, line and sinker baby, that's how you caught me.
My second verse might be a bit…old hat, but…don't think that I don't know what it's doing to me,
'cause I got a vibe on you the first time you saw through me.

Hey Baby, let me groove you. Let me groove into your love. I just want to be your lovergirl. Let me prove it to you, baby: let me rock your world. I just want to rock your world. Baby, let me soothe you – let me smooth into your love. I just want to be your lovergirl. Let me prove it to you.

Baby.

Let me rock your world. I just want…to rock your world. When the push comes to shove, and you need a little love, let me put some rock into your world. Call me up. Don't be shy, for my love will make you high.

I just want to be your lovergirl.

************************************

Epilogue. Shortly after posting this, one of my boys hits me up on chat and says:

So, yo - is [your post] about ------- ? The poem is sick, illmatic, ma. For real.

Two minutes of silence.

Dude. Those are the lyrics to Lovergirl. Teena Marie.

Five minutes of silence.

Ah. I'm now aware.