How Not to Date a Semi-Famous Musician

Remember Max, the musician who thought I was a total fool after the guy-friend incident? Well flash forward a few weeks and our paths cross once more…

I’m at a local “hipster” pub where enormously talented singer songwriters play their bittersweet ballads in that way you think they’re singing just to you. You know how those guys do it…they look out into the audience and they’re really just seeing a blinding white light but they move their eyes around and get all soulful and you think, Bono means me…he says he can’t live with or without me.

So, Max finishes singing just to me and as I’m walking out with my friend Jen, there he is standing by the door. I say “Great show” and he grabs my arm and says, “Could I please get your phone number?” At that very moment, I regress to age 13. My brain has superimposed Max’s face with that of Simon LeBon’s. I can’t breath. I can’t focus my eyes. I’m picturing doves and that boat Duran Duran used in the Rio video and for some reason MTV VJ Nina Blackwood. I also can’t remember my phone number but Jen quickly writes it down and hands it to him.

Sweet Jesus, he was singing just to me.

Alright, so let’s skip ahead a week when Max calls. To be honest, he’s a little “eccentric”. I’m surprised he even has a phone as he seems like the type who would use like a Morse code telegraph machine because that’s more “alternative.” He asks me out for that night and of course, I say, “Sure, I’d love to.” Whoa, whose voice did I just use? “I’m totally down for anything.” Why was I talking like Victoria Jackson? So Max says he’ll be there in two hours and Jesus…what do you wear with an eccentric musician? Oh damn, I’ve gotta hide the illegal bootlegs of his songs. Oh shit, I’ve got to hide my Jewel albums. No Pink or good Lord, no Kelly Clarkson. I shove the CDs under my bed and try to find the perfect indie baby-tee. I think, “I bet he’d like a shirt with a skull on it or maybe Batman”. I settle on one that says “Everyone loves an Asian,” because it’s ironic, seeing as how I’m not Asian. He’ll love it.

So, we’re at dinner and I’m so nervous I keep ordering shots of Patron. He says something about how String Theory can be exemplified through basic guitar chords. Yeah, okay. I, trying to sound like I “get it” say “Yeah, and so can quarks.” What? The conversation takes another lull. I then say something really odd like, “I’m just so over America.” He asks why and I can’t articulate it, probably because I don’t know what it means and if I did, probably wouldn’t mean it. He drives me home and I invite him up for an innocent night cap. I say, “So this is my pad”, like it’s 1972. He seems a bit put off by this voice I’m using, but then things get really weird. I start to pretend like I don’t know exactly what he does for a living. I say, “So you’re, like, what a musician?” He says, “Uh yeah, you have my CD on the coffee table.” Ooh, forgot to hide that one. “Well I just didn’t know you did it full-time.” He says, “But you have a schedule for all of my shows on your fridge…” All I can think to say for this one is, “Do I?”

He starts to kiss me. Having someone’s lips on yours makes their illegal bootlegs seem less exciting. But I can’t relax because I can’t help but think that my kissing is…too pedestrian. Too normal. Why can’t I kiss him more alternatively? I’ll bet Rose McGowen wouldn’t be this lame. He senses my fear and pulls back. “You alright?” he asks and I realize, I might actually be too alright. I mean, yeah, I’m edgy. I’ll even stay up till 3:00am watching a Real World/Road Rules challenge. Yes. But I’ll never be strange enough, which will ironically make us strangers. There is an uncomfortable silence and after searching my brain for anything to say, all I bring is “I’m really bummed Paula left American Idol.” Arrgh. That’s not edgy, is it?

After all that work to seem off-beat, I blew my cover. I buried the lead. He says something to the effect of “Yeah, I don’t even own a TV” and my heart…dies. Seriously, when a guy says “I don’t own a TV”, he may has well have said, “I’m gay” or “I hate the Jews.” Any of those statements normally mean, “This probably won’t work out romantically”. But it’s him…it’s Max and so I say, “Yeah, I hardly ever watch it either.” As I say this, I notice him staring at my Tivo which at that very moment is recording a late-night showing of “Judge Judy.” Yes, Judge Judy. Is that alternative? I don’t even know anymore. He says “Well I should probably get going. This was fun, I’ll call you.”

He never did call. The next time I saw Max, he was hitting on a girl with green hair and a Partridge Family lunchbox. I still get giddy at the thought of him and his lovely music, although now when I listen to those bootlegs, I know how he tastes and it changes every note. But I suppose he and my fake “Victoria Jackson” persona just weren’t meant to be. Thank God, I’ve got Judge Judy on Tivo.

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