Sirvice sex is fun's blog: "My poor mistaken friend."

I’ve often heard women give a list of characteristics that they want in a man: a sense of humor, ambition, intelligence, being a gentleman, kindness, etc.  However, when these women come across men of this caliber, they often aren’t interested, explaining they just don’t “feel it.”  Who knows what “it” is and why they aren’t feeling?  This used to be utterly confusing to me, nonetheless.  Worse yet, if a man approached them and said “Good news!  I am all the things you’re looking for; I am funny, ambitious, intelligent and kind,” the women seemed even less interested than before.  

In dating circles, I’ve learned this and adapted accordingly.  Yet sometimes, in some realms, I’ll expect this woman I just met to be different; I will expect this new found golden gem to say what she means and mean what she says and I’ll revert back to the whole “I have the characteristics that you’re looking for” syndrome, forgetting it doesn't work.  And you know what?  It doesn’t work. 

What I’m discovering instead is that all the women I’ve ever met are attracted to and repulsed by the same things.  Women do not like neediness, clinginess or indecisiveness (most men don’t like these qualities either, btw).  On the other hand, women respond to “attraction.”  If they “feel it”, they’re interested regardless of what characteristics the guy might have.  And generally, the way women feel attraction is when they meet someone with characteristics of "confidence", "indifference", "cockiness", "mysteriousness", who have a “rough edge” and who are a “challenge” and "funny".  Strange.  So much for listening to a woman tell me what she’s looking for. 

I’m moving to Spain in two months.  Think the women are any different over there?

Jacques Cousteau called it “rapture of the deep.”  Local divers call it “getting narked.” Others refer to it as the “Martini Effect.”  Its technical name is nitrogen narcosis.  Whatever you want to call it, I got it Saturday morning…big time. 

Gases, when absorbed at higher than normal atmospheric pressure, have a narcotic-like effect on the human body.  While some are greater than others (xenon versus neon, for instance) nearly all gases have this intoxicating effect, including oxygen.  In fact, breathing pure oxygen under pressure is so dangerous that it cannot be used safely beyond 19.8 feet deep.  This leads to what’s called “oxygen toxicity” and is lethal.  Nitrogen, by far the most plentiful gas in our atmosphere (about 70%), though having less narcotic potential than oxygen at an identical depth, has a narcotic potential just the same.  For most people its noticeable effects vary anywhere from 50 feet on, usually at around 100 feet.  Personal factors such as health and fatigue as well as environmental conditions such as water temperature can have an impact on susceptibility and severity of the narcosis.  And while nitrogen narcosis isn’t itself life threatening and easily reversible by ascending to a shallower depth, its impacts on concentration, psychomotor function and problem solving can prove extremely dangerous often leading to poor decision making and, in a hazardous environment, resulting in death (imagine driving a semi after finishing a six pack, the alcohol won’t kill you but the crash will.  Kinda like that).

Saturday I went on a dive trip off Anacapa Island (part of the Channel Islands off the California coast) to see a torpedo bomber (commonly known as an “Avenger”) wreck.  It was a WWII plane, the one George Bush Sr. flew during the war.  The plane was in 120 feet of water.

I took a giant stride into the water, flashed the “ok” sign (right hand over the right shoulder touching the top of the head) and met my group at the bow (front) of the boat.  Once together, we descended.  Visibility was surprising clear (for the Pacific at California) that day, 60 feet, water temperature wasn’t as pleasant, 55 degrees.  Past about 50 feet, the my descent sped up and at about 90 feet I felt a head change.  Falling toward the bottom, this sensation increased until at about 110 it was significant (about as subtle as swinging a bat to the back of my head).

Mind you, I’ve had some experience with the possible effects of narcosis before.  In Cozumel, for instance, I went down to 128 feet in 80 degree water for the Devil’s Throat and upon my ascent, realized I had been under somewhat of an influence while at the deeper depth (a slightly euphoric feeling), but nothing like this.  This was different.  This was 55 degree water and this was a different day on four hours of sleep (did I mention I’m a night owl so waking up at 5 am is rather difficult to do?).

Symptoms vary.  I had read about them, heard about them, guessed about them and talked to people who had experienced them, but from personal experience, I had little knowledge, until Saturday.  My first sensation was muddled thought, delayed reaction time and difficulty in concentration.  Eventually I could hear and feel my heartbeat.  My perception of time became so distorted seconds and minutes would “bend” and “warp” becoming almost indistinguishable.  I grabbed my gauge and kept a close eye on the time checking it constantly.  Simple math would have been difficult.  Long division or multiplication?  Akin to the Theory of Relativity.  Finally, at 125 feet beside the plane on the ocean floor, my vision tunneled, a circle of sight in the middle surrounded by a hazy blur and I could feel nausea setting in.  This was not fun.  The thrill of seeing a wreck, one of my favorite types of diving, was quickly supplanted with and easily outweighed by discomfort and anxiety (another symptom of narcosis).  Had it not been for the many other divers and their possible assistance in case of emergency, I would have stopped my descent.  Even still, this dive, after only 8 minutes, was over. 

I headed back up, slowly of course (“ascend slowly”, one of the first rules of diving along with “never hold your breath” and “equalize early and often”).  I tripled the length of my three minute safety stop and even so, could still feel the lingering effects of the nitrogen.  My entire dive, from start to finish lasted only 26 minutes.

These 26 minutes were all for the good.  The experience was valuable.  Diving can be dangerous.  It’s important that I am aware of and familiar with these possible dangers.  Understanding my limits and acting accordingly not only makes me a safer diver but a better diver.  Going to depths unheard of for the thrill and the bravado of it like I’ve often heard about?  That would make me a stupid diver and a dead diver.  Frankly, I’d rather live to dive another day….like maybe next Wednesday.

My eighty year old uncle likes cartoons.  Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Coyote and Roadrunner and the like.  So, when the Wallace and Gromit movie came out a couple of years ago, I opted to take him.  Unfortunately, by the time he was free, three weeks after the invite, the movie was no longer playing locally (the movie didn’t do very well).  Rather than the day be a complete bust, I asked what other movie he’d like to make.  After paging through the local paper, he chose The Producers, the remake.  I’d seen the original.  Hysterical.  I thought Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick would do a nice piece and I agreed. 

We got to the theater and sat down.  It was maybe a third full and the crowd was made up almost entirely of young Asians.  “Hmm…that’s odd,” I thought.   The curtains came up and the movie started.  A few minutes into it someone, I don’t remember who anymore, burst into song.  I winced.  I can’t stand singing in movies.  “Why is that here and when will it go?” I wondered.  Finally it stopped, “Ahhhh.” 

A few minutes later, another song, and another and another!  The whole fucking movie!  The remake was a musical!  Nobody told me!  I had no idea!  Though the original had numbers, they were part of a comedy and more satire than song.  This was different.  This was unmistakably a musical.  The crowd roared!  They laughed, they cheered, they let out gasps corresponding to appropriate points in the movie and I sat there, skin crawling, shifting in my seat, glancing around and keeping an eye on my watch counting the minutes but minutes didn’t come.  Instead, time slowed down to a stand still I all I could count were seconds.  Grueling, agonizing, painful seconds.  Singing, dancing.  Torment, torture.  All of it.  Every moment of this movie was completely unbearable to me.  I hate, loathe and despise musicals, all except Sound of Music and Singing in the Rain (I have no explanation as to why those two don’t suck and all the others do).  Nothing is more uncomfortable for me to sit through, including horror (another least favorite of mine).  I’m allergic to musicals.  The only thing worse would be sitting through a musical having to eat ginger.  Vile herb!  I’m allergic to it also.  In almost any form, I’m immediately nauseated by it.  Obviously, I’m tasting something other people are not.  My reaction is unique.  I’m allergic. 

When the movie ended, the audience rose with applause.  Maybe for a musical, it’s that good.  I don’t know.  I know at the end of the movie I felt relief.  Relief like water dripping on my forehead for days finally came to an end.  For this reason, I applauded also.  

Not wanting to spoil the experience for my uncle, I had a plan.  I decided to keep my mouth shut and keep him busy answering questions about his favorite parts of the movie while we drove home.  It worked like a charm!  I managed to keep him going about it without so much as a hint of suspicion. Ten minutes later we walked through the door and his wife (my aunt) greeted us (she didn’t want to go).  My uncle walked straight to the bathroom.  Again, he’s eighty.  “Sweet!  Deflect one question from her and by the time my uncle’s out of the bathroom, I’ll be home free,” I thought.   

“How was the movie?” she asked. 

“Jerry loved it!” I dodged.

“Great!  How about you?  Did you enjoy it?”

“The audience roared!  Blah, blah, blah.”  I gave some long explanation of how they carried on hoping she’d forget her question and just accept the general praise.  With this, I figured I’d be done and the topic would die.

Instead, she looked at me curiously.  

“But you… 

The bathroom door opened and Jerry walked out to hear my aunt ask:

“….how did YOU like it?” she probed.

“He hated it,” said my uncle matter of factly. 

“What?”  I exclaimed.  “Why would you say that?  I didn’t complain once!”

“Sirvice, you sat through the entire movie in silence.  Even when everyone else in the theater was laughing, you sat still without making a sound.  Not even a chuckle.  You hated it.” My uncle explained.

“Is this true?” my aunt asked.

The jig was up. 

“Yes, every word.  I hated it!  I can’t stand musicals!” it poured out of me in relief.  “I didn’t know this remake was a musical. I never would have gone!  Never, until now, have two hours lasted longer than half my life!”

Oddly, they understood. 

“Some people don’t like them.  Not everyone does.  We don’t watch action/adventure.  Personal preference.  Next time, we’ll see something we all like.”

Last week, I got an email invite from my cousins to “How The Grinch Stole Christmas” at the Pantages Theater.   Tickets were in hot demand selling for $300.  I got mine free, not to mention lunch.  All of it was included as part of my late aunt’s (a different aunt) gift to her family. 

Today was the day and I drove out to Hollywood for the big show.  After the greetings, we walked down the aisles and found our seats (great seats, center stage).

“This is gonna be impressive.” I thought.  “The Pantages’ production of a cute, childhood classic?  Should be adorable.”

The lights dimmed and the curtain came up.   Max, John Larroquette as the Grinch’s dog, introduced himself and no sooner did he start narrating than the singing began.  It lasted the length of the play until the curtain fell and beyond into the encore!  Encore!  Idiots!  All of them!  You know what happened next…

I survived.  Barely. 

My cousins are dead to me….until Christmas.  Dinner’s at their place. 

I’ve been experimenting with being wrong.  Granted, I’ve had 37 years of practice but this is new to me.   You’d think I would have wised up to this by now, but sadly, I haven’t.  Denial and arrogance are such great persuaders. 

Allow me demonstrate:  In Cozumel, I had dinner with my dive buddy.  Our discussion turned from the day’s dives to alarm clocks and hotel culpability.  I won’t bore you with the details of safe scuba diving and legal liability, that would only further what I’m trying to avoid.  Suffice it to say, we disagreed.  That wasn’t good enough.  It almost never is.  She needed to know that she was wrong and I was right.  In turn, she believed I needed to know I was wrong and she was right.  She reminded me of me and I told her so.  I don’t think she had any clue what I meant, but that’s another matter.   This discussion disintegrated.  I wanted to leave the table.  So did she.  I thought, “What an incredibly obnoxious characteristic!  Completely off putting and much more important than the original issue.  Disgusting!” 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Sirvice, are you kidding?  That’s YOU!”  I know.  I don’t like knowing it but I’m right.  And so are you. 

Another instance:  Tara, my first fuck (Gawd was she fun!), made the point more bluntly:  “Do you know how many times that mouth of yours has talked you out of sex?”  I stood in silence.  (wise move)

These two scenarios, and countless other strained relations, drive home the question: “Would you rather be right or would you rather be happy?”  I have to think about that.    

See what I mean?  I’ve been experimenting.  

I'm such as asshole...

As seen at TripAdvisor.com:

I stayed at the Rendezvous Melbourne in July 2009.  While the room was nice and the service was good, their complaint resolution was atrocious.  The bathroom lights are motion sensitive and were not working properly.  They would not turn on when I entered and not turn off when I exited.  What’s worse is that the lights turned off when I was in the shower THREE times.  I had to sleep with the bathroom door closed.  I complained about this five days in a row.  All five days I was told it was fixed.  It never was.  I ended up changing hotels.  [The Best Western Atlantis’ new wing had just opened.  The rooms were nearly identical in design and appearance to the Rendezvous and the service was unsurpassed.  When the wireless internet wasn’t working properly, they upgraded my room to one with a city view (beautiful) and a wired internet connection, comped the internet and did my laundry for free.  Excellent experience and less expensive too.  I recommend them highly.]  

The night before I left the Rendezvous, the staff apologized for the problems and assured me my bill would be adjusted.  The next morning at checkout, the manager on duty informed me that because my room was booked through a third party (Expedia, Hotels.com, Travelocity, etc), they would not provide any refund.  After more complaining, the manager relented and gave me his word I would be compensated within 4-6 weeks.  Six weeks later?  Nothing.  I called the corporate office twice before I received a return call.  The Vice President of Operations, Geoff Johnstone, listened to my concern and offered to refund one night’s stay ($170 USD) immediately.  The Melbourne Manager, Paul Koenig, was to handle the particulars.  I sent him my account information.  A week passed and I contacted him explaining that I had not received anything.  He assured me he would look into it.  Days later still no refund and the same response from Mr. Koenig.  I explained I was more interested in as estimated time of resolution and an explanation for the delay than I was an assurance he would follow up.  I received no response.  I then contacted the corporate office and left four messages over seven days for Mr. Johnstone.  Never once did I receive a return call. Finally, I asked for Mr. Johnstone’s email address, confirmed it three times and when I wrote, my letter was returned undeliverable.  I called the Melbourne office, asked for Mr. Johnstones email address and wrote him a letter.  Only then did I receive a response.  He copied me on his instructions to an associate that I be refunded $170 and that the funds be in US currency.  The associate responded that he had only received the instructions to send my refund five days earlier but that he would process it immediately.  He asked me for additional account information and sent a refund…in the wrong amount.  When I brought this to Mr. Johnstone’s attention and asked for the remainder, he responded with the following:  “we have gone over and above to satisfy your needs and I think we have been more than fair given the original issues, I now consider this matter closed.”  I agreed.  I told him I would never be doing business with Rendezvous again and my friends (including those at TripAdvisor.com) would know why. 

I dive the Pacific.  It’s unruly, untamed and often unfriendly.  It’s cold (between 50-65 degrees), it’s dark (murky and cloudy blue green), complete with low visibility (5-30 feet), strong currents, strong surges and thick wetsuits (7 mm which may not sound like much, but picture the Michelin Man and you get the idea, VERY restrictive) and hoods.  (Granted, there are parts of the vast Pacific Ocean that don’t come into contact with Southern California and provide phenomenal diving conditions.  I’m not talking about those parts.) 

For reasons that escape me, Southern California is the birthplace of recreational scuba diving (maybe because people in Malibu have way too much time on their hands).  It is some of the most difficult diving in the world and it’s all I know.  For most people, scuba diving is floating in a fishbowl.  For me, it’s as challenging as it is rewarding (then again most things rewarding are challenging).  Despite the work, diving here, like diving anywhere, is peaceful, tranquil, soothing and restorative.  It’s all together nourishing in providing a freedom I can’t quite put into words.  Under the water, life is simple.  Slow.  Manageable.  Magnificent.  .

At the end of the month, my dive buddy and I are going to Cozumel.  Little about it reminds me of the local conditions.  It’s warm (82 degrees), it’s clear (crystal), has high visibility (often 250 feet and beyond on a good day, 100 feet on a bad day), usually quite tame and requires either a skin suit (fabric) or, at most, 3 mm and no hood.  This is completely foreign to me.  In fact, I have no frame of reference (Australia was better than my backyard but similar nonetheless), only my imagination.

I’m fortunate for learning to dive where I did.  You should know why.  If you can dive Southern California you can dive almost anywhere.  Many divers move here and stop diving all together because of the conditions.  They don’t see splendor and they don’t feel relief.  I’m lucky because I, on the other hand, do.  (I seem to see beauty where most people don’t, yet I balk and complain like few people do).  I get to travel to far away oceans and seas and feel overwhelmed and quite comfortable by how easy and dramatic the difference can be.

My mother is dying. It’s not pretty. It’s not patient. It’s not silent nor unseen. It’s disturbing and unsettling. It’s rambling and shaking and repetition. And it’s happening quickly. My mother’s birthday is March 13, every so often Friday, March 13th; an omen, a gentle warning of nothing more than a day of celebration of my mother’s birth. This year my mom’s birthday fell on the Thursday and that’s okay too. I took her to dinner. She held my hand as she got out of the car. She held my arm as she walked and she clutched me with both hands as she climbed the wooden stairs. When I was a child, I used to jump stairs. I used to scale stairs. To get to dinner, I used to leap stairs. She fed my face, she wiped my mouth, she washed my hands. That night, with my mom, we climbed stairs. Much harder than before. “It’s okay,” I’d repeat after each step, “Almost done.” She held my attention as we talked over bread. I didn’t pay so much attention to her words as I did her. Her frailty. Her liveliness. Her storytelling. My mom loved to tell stories. Normally, I hated to listen. Normally, I hated her (hatred being defined as anger toward those we love). For years I hated my mother for sitting by, looking on, while my father beat me. I couldn’t forgive her and I couldn’t forget. I wanted her to feel the hurt that I felt as a child. The loneliness. The helplessness. The terror. I wanted her to know she hurt me. I wanted her to apologize. She never did. That was not tonight. Tonight was her birthday. And I enjoyed her company. I suggested the salmon, she gasped at the price saying soup was much better. I told her the dinner was on the house to make up for the less than delicious Thanksgiving Meal two years before. She smiled. Crusted Salmon with Sun Dried Tomatoes it was. Over dinner she continued to tell stories and I smiled and admired her. Her warmth. Her tenderness. Her supreme innocence. [My mother was abused, frightfully, at first as a child by her alcoholic father, then by her husband (my father) and finally by me. We all took our turns taking our frustration out on her. Her father would shoot at her with a shotgun as she would go running from the house screaming into the night. He always missed. Probably too drunk to see straight. Too drunk to stand. He was a fall down drunk. A dispicable drunk. A real Mr. Hyde and no Dr. Jekyll kind of a drunk. He was my kind of a drunk or my drunk was of his kind. Either way, we were related and I never met the man. His liver gave out when my mother a was child. My life gave out much later.] I indulged her generous appetite and her quiet satisfaction. We celebrated her birthday. I celebrated her smile. She wore it often. I tipped the waiter and thanked the manager by hand. Not for the food, but for the experience. I knew it was one I’d remember. I recorded some of it on my cell phone. As it turns out, she remembered it too. She raved about the salmon for weeks. Three months have followed and my mom’s health has dramatically declined. I visit her often. She is in the living process of dying. I read her stories, “Grandfather Stories, Grandfather Stories, Grandfather Stories,” she said last week. And “Chicken Soup For The Woman’s Soul” (she doesn’t repeat that). She can’t feed herself. She can’t clean herself. She can’t dress herself. She can’t carry on conversations. She rambles and repeats herself. Her quivering lip became a trembling hand became a shaking arm. I feed her face. I wipe her mouth. I wash her hands. “I should have done better for you. I should have done better,” she said today. That is the most coherent my mother has been in two weeks. I wept in her lap. And in all this there is goodness. My hatred for my mom has disappeared. When she “went”, it went too. My mother is dying.

Was not the…

Phlegm,

Congestion,

Running nose,

Watery eyes,

Fatigue,

Insomnia,

Sore throat,

Lack of meetings,

Difficulty concentrating,

Incoherence,

Intolerable agony.

No.  Instead…

The worst part of being sick for four days was not being able to enjoy my evening my cigar.

Now that I’m well (figuratively)…

I get to light up

*drawing the divine smoke into his mouth, closing his eyes, head falling backwards and hand clutching*

“Oh, dear God!”

Okay, so things have changed a bit.  Two nights ago I was wondering what I was doing here.  Today, I don’t care. 

I decided to make the places I wanted to make, the aquarium, the Pompeii exhibit and, last night, Dali at the National Gallery.  Beautiful!  So many incredible paintings and so many beautiful women…enter Trisha, a sarcastic Asian student from Singapore.  Sarcasm?  Kind of a weakness of mine.  If you know me, you knew. 

Trisha wore flats.  I mention this because I’ve noticed almost all the women here wear flats.  No heels anywhere except last night at the Dali exhibit.  There, all the women wore heels, except Trisha.  She wore flats.  Go figure.  Dali, dinner, coffee and good company.  She made me laugh.  I like laughing.  She told me after she had a boyfriend.  For that, she paid for her own dinner.

Today, with a bunch of free time and no more sites to see, I made the rounds, hung out with friends and after a meeting in Richmond, asked to be dropped off at my oasis, the cigar lounge I found the other night.  I sat there staring at the steeple of St Patrick’s Cathedral considering how incredibly fucking fortunate I am.  I mean, I traveled to another hemisphere, another country, another continent and sat on a rooftop smoking a cigar looking at lights.  Does it get much better?  Maybe a little. 

Enter Yvonne, Hannah and Pip, three women asking to join me.  Why not?  “No, I don’t drink but I don’t mind if you do.”  They did.  They did a little more, too.  Tomorrow, I might join them for a Yvonne’s going away party.  My going away party started last night and ends Saturday morning when I leave.  Maybe Melbourne’s not so bad after all.

Wednesday, the day, vanished.  Disappeared.  Gone.  Absent.  Completely.

Long 14 hour flight.  In the very pleasant company of Sarah and her mother Kimberly (immortalized in my pic section).

Verizon promised my phone would work.  My phone didn’t work.  Changed to Telstra, Now the internet on my phone doesn’t work, however at Telstra I did meet Belinda.  A lovely woman….and married.  Pass.

Shuttle has no record of me but gave me a ride nonetheless. Anastasia was the operator.  I dated a woman with that name.  Maybe that explains the special treatment.

Qantas lost baggage, then found it on a later plane.  All of 8 minutes and a complimentary cup of “coffee” later.

There is no coffee in Melbourne.

“Hello, Maria.  I’d like a cup of coffee please.”

“Yes sir.  What kind?”

“Regular.”

“Regular what?”

“Regular coffee.”

“What kind of regular coffee?”

”What do you mean?  Regular. Not decaf.”

“Yes sir.  Do you mean black?”

“Well, that too.  No cream.  No sugar. Black.”

“A short black or a long black?”

“Medium is fine.”

“Yes sir.  A medium coffee.  Short black or long black?”

“What?”

“Would you like a short or a long black?”

“I just want a regular black coffee.”

“Yes, sir.  What kind?”

“Who’s on first?”

Evidently, drip coffee does not exist.  Short black is one helping of coffee grinds making a strong espresso.  Long black is two helpings of coffee grinds making a weaker espresso.  Neither of which are coffee, ergo there is no coffee in Melbourne.  I’m going to hate this city.

Everything is Celsius.  Totally Greek to me.

Toilets don’t swirl.  So much for clockwise, counterclockwise nonsense.  As far as I can tell, toilets fill with force and push out.

Crosswalks tick like a bomb about to explode; they get faster and more urgent the less time there is to cross.  It’s like playing Frogger.

Arrived at hotel by noon.  In the midst of my airport nightmare, I made dinner plans and I suspect I may have tapped a wealth of friends I never knew I knew.  I’ll be hooking up with them later.

Their steering wheels are on the right, which is to say wrong, side of the car and they drive on the left, which is to say wrong, side of the road. 

Finally, and most importantly, the second flight eerily played an omen.  Two months ago I discovered two cover versions of “Love Will Tear Us Apart” (see playlist) that I like much better than the original.  I boarded the plane from Sydney to Melbourne and what song was playing overhead?  A cover version of “Love Will Tear Us Apart.”  Despite being on the receiving end of cool feet, I understood this to be God’s way of confirming that I’m here for a purpose and I’m in the right place, delays, lost baggage, and all.  I hope to find out why soon enough.  Oh, and I’m so sweaty, I can smell me.  Shower time.

Welcome to Melbourne, home of a $9.5 million always open yellow and orange wooden archway.