March 16, 2003

The trouble with being a hermit is managing those rare occasions when you actually do want to leave the house. With both Suzanne and Rebecca out of town for SXSW, I was pretty much on my own. Which turned out to be not so bad after all.

Going out alone is sort of like traveling alone. While there's no one to share the sights or join in the mockery, there's also no one to get bored or tired or to disappoint if you're bored or tired. And you might actually enjoy the music and/or meet an engaging stranger or two.

Wednesday I watched SWITCHhITTER at an empty Club 505 and met Sari from Finland, whose halting but strangely precise English made her side of our conversation seem particularly poignant. I've threatened/promised to drag her to Sam's or Costco for one of my favorite American love/hates, but I couldn't tell if she wanted to go or was just humoring me. (I spend a lot of time wondering if I'm being humored. I suspect I am.) Plus I got to see Marian and Kristen, two of my favorite and most stylish girl crushes. Kristen and I are supposed to teach each other knitting and crocheting, respectively (I crochet; she knits), and I'm hoping to involve her in my Baby Blue Ball Gag project, which I meant to storyboard this month but which I've been stalling because I find drawing people so excruciating. (But I've still got half the month, so I shouldn't be disgusted with myself quite yet.)

Thursday was mostly waiting in line. I guess the Rhode Island thing terrified our already neurotic fire marshals, because all of the venues had reduced capacity, which meant the assholes with badges got to waltz right in while the suckers with wristbands had to wait outside for hours for even the modest shows.

Friday I learned my lesson and decided to stick with one venue from the beginning so I wouldn't kill my grandma knees waiting in line all night. So Cat Power, which was pretty enough but not as wrenchy as I'd hoped. And Yo La Tengo, dependable and with some comic stylings at the end. I met Steve from Burnsville, the same runty Minnesota town where I lived as a kid. I was hoping we'd know a bunch of the same people, but since I went to All Saints in Lakeville, instead of where ever the Burnsville public school kids went, I couldn't really come up with anyone outside of the Olson brothers. But it was still enough of a small worldy thing to delight me for most of the night. We preached to the choir about politics and got down all goofy teenage dance party style to Yo La Tengo. It was fun.

But here's the pickle. I always feel like a big faker jerk when I have fun with a strange guy while I'm seeing someone, like I'm supposed to broadcast a big, awkward upfront disclaimer or wear some special Med-Alert jewelry. Having a good time seems vaguely dishonest, but it also seems really retarded and presumptuous and conceited to routinely tell every random stranger you talk with that you're involved. As if everyone making small talk with the person randomly sitting next to them is automatically interested in them. And of course, there's the big Stuart Smalley undertone: I'm a great person, darn it! Surely people will enjoy my company even if I'm not going to put out. Right? Right??

Or maybe I'm deluding myself. I used to think that platonic male/female relationships were totally on the level, but my faith has been shaken.

According to my friend Television, apparently this is a common female misapprehension. We all have this crazy idea that men like us for who we are. On a sitcom, the guy would only be hanging out with me for the potential sex (or potential relationship, depending on whether he's Joey or Ross). So if I spend the night palling around, pretending that I really believe Mr. So-and-So would still be wasting his time chatting me up if he knew I were seeing someone, I end up feeling like both a sneaky loser who has to trick people into keeping her company and a rabid egoist who thinks she's impossibly great.

I can't decide whether it's more egotistical to assume every guy who says more than a dozen words to you wants to fuck you or to assume your personality is so captivating that you're worth suffering even without the potential for sex.

And maybe I should worry less about which is most egotistical and more about which is most likely. Or maybe I shouldn't worry about it at all. Maybe this is why I'm a hermit.

1.25.03