I Will Not Sleep with You for Free Cable

This is another story from the early 2000’s when I used to go to Element bar a lot. If you’re just tuning in now, Element Bar was a small club located on a grotty strip of Queen St. W. that has since been gentrified. My old watering hole is now an American Apparel store (I’m not joking) – if that isn’t gentrification, I don’t know what is. Before this happened, my friends and I liked going to this bar because it usually played good house music & they had a very lax security system, meaning you could usually sneak almost anything (ie. a 6-pack of vodka coolers in your purse or other um, “party favors”) if you batted your eye-lashes at the bouncer. As my friend discovered, this technique was much less effective if you were male. The underlying sketchiness of the place teamed with lots of alcohol made for some interesting experiences.

When it came to meeting people of the opposite sex, Element Bar had this whole ‘Tales of Two Cities’-vibe: It was the best of places…and the worst of places. On any given night you could meet someone like Guy #8 (and hit the multiple orgasm jack-pot) OR you could meet a guy like the one I am about to describe.

On the night in question, I was on the dance floor, the music was good, I was dancing, I had a drink in my hand… It was one of those moments where you say to yourself “at this moment, everything is right in the universe”. Then, I saw a figure approach. I say “figure” because there was a giant bright club light shining directly in his face that made it impossible for me to see what he looked like. He kept leaning in, yelling into my ear, trying to talk to me over the music. I was not interested in interrupting my vodka-fueled-house-music-state-of-bliss for anyone that night so when he handed me a cocktail napkin, I scribbled down my email address just to get him out of my hair.

We emailed back and forth a few times before I decided that “he seemed normal” (my famous last words) and I agreed to give him my phone number. A few days later he called me. Thus began one of the more bizarre conversations of my dating career.

Him: “So, like what kind of stuff are you into?”
Me: “Dancing, shopping, hanging out with my friends, going to school…you know, normal stuff”
Him: “Are you into Art?”
Me: “Yes. My mom and sister are both artists. My mom used to teach art classes”
Him: “Yeah, I’m totally into art. I’m an artist myself”
Me: “Oh yeah? What kind of stuff do you do?”
Him: “I paint action figures”
Me: “I’m sorry, what?”

Because my mind works backwards sometimes, as soon as he said “painting action figures” -I had this image of him sitting in his basement, in front of an easel adding the final brushstrokes to one of his masterpieces: a nude Batman rising out of a clam shell, Impressionist Spiderman, G.I Joe frolicking in Monet’s garden or on second thought, maybe something like this:

After further clarification I found out that he actually meant THIS, as in actually painting. action. figures. D’OH.

This made a lot more sense than the previous scenario (although I was kind of looking forward to the Impressionist Spiderman) but it also seemed so much worse.