I met my PI at a party that my attorney's law firm threw in their luxurious and tastefully well-appointed Century City offices. My attorney's firm has a very busy entertainment-industry clientele and so does my PI. Ok, he's a bit of a starfucker. He can't (and doesn't) tell me who his famous clients are or what he does for them, and he doesn't tell me enough to sell to a tabloid. But he knows that I work in the industry and therefore understand discretion. I don't worry about what he says about me, because I'm more of a cautionary rather than a tittilating tale.
I told my PI that the details of where a guy went to school, his net worth, or how much he pays in child and/or spousal support isn't what interests me. Just let me know if he makes a habit of driving a blue unmarked van by junior high schools, if he is recently paroled and why for, has a history of beating up women in his life, appears on faces of meth, or has a Friendster account, and I can take care of the rest. I wonder if I would ever pass muster with my PI, if he would caution a guy to stop dating me. I haven't asked him because don't know if I'm ready to hear that answer yet. But I'm getting off track - my Private Investigator tells me that Bachelor #1 sucks and that I should jettison him immediately.
"He's going through a divorce, very recent." he informed me. "He has a few real estate holdings. Professionally, there's a lot to be desired. He is registered with some dating websites and here are his posted profiles. You should read them." My PI handed me a file that, while not thick, had more heft to it than I anticipated.
"Oh, and bachelor #2, the tall blonde young buster with the Harley?" He laughed, "He's hot. Did he mention that he's bisexual?"
I stopped flipping through Bachelor #1's online dating profiles and tried to figure out if my PI was interested in Bachelor #2 for himself and/or yanking my chain. "How did that information make itself known?" I asked.
"I read your blog, the post about the event at the LA Athletic Club. So I checked out asspig.com and he's on it. Here's the info."
My heart sunk. Bachelor #2 is an asspigger.
I whine, "That sucks."
"You little hypocrite!" he squealed. "Because he's bisexual?"
"No, because he's an asspigger. I don't want the possibility of him getting asspig juice on me."
"He seems like a great guy. And he's hot." Sensing that he wasn't quite done with the comments, I looked up from the horror that was Bachelor #1's file. He continued, "Do you mind if I...?"
"No, go right on ahead if you're okay with an asspigger."
"You're right. Never mind. We do have standards." I look back at Bachelor #1's files. He went on, "Too bad. Great smile. Young, though."
"Well he's certainly no writer. This is horrible." I point to Bachelor #1's file. "Such a turn-off."
"What? That picture? I kinda like him with the shorter hair."
"No! Do you even know me? I'm talking about his profile, how he sees himself, his atrocious spelling, choice in reading material, everything!" He looked unconvinced so I made a stronger case, "He thinks performativity is a word."
"You two were obviously meant to be," he giggled.
"Did you read this?" It pained me to give voice to the words, but I read his profile aloud:
I am a busy bee these days, moving from XXXXX to downtown Los Angeles. I am alternately funny and serious, charming and surly. I have some amazing friends that I do not see nearly enough of and am still headlong in pursuit of too many goals - from Art to Zen and everthing in between. Recent projects have taken me a bit further down teh Garden Path than I am used to, but maybe with the right person I can find my way back.
I put the file down and looked at my PI for a reaction.
"Wow," he said, poker-faced.
Looking for obvioulsy cool interesting people that are smart, witty and fun as well as directed, focused and creative. People that I can learn from and vice versa, who are open minded and enjoy living life rather than passively letting it wash over them (though that is necessary occasionally). Cute doesn't hurt, but if that is someone's only good quality it can be depressing.
"That doesn't sound too bad. But I guess you're already turned off by that whole friendster/myspace thing in the first place," he offered.
I couldn't believe I had more convincing to do. Again, I continued:
I am a part-time pornographer and full-time artist. Hobbies and interests include photography, theater, anti-consumerist activism, performativity, and funny interesting conversation.
Without a word, my PI reached over, took Bachelor #1's file out of my hands and read for himself.
In my defense, weakly, "I said he was cute, I didn't say he had anything in his head."
"I just can't believe he referred to himself in the third person here. And here. Again here. Ugh, that was cheese over corn. And yeah, he doesn't seem too bright with that misspelling of narcissism. Celia... is performativity a word?"
"He doesnt know words like narcissism and believes in words like performativity. I love Los Angeles."
I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I said, "Performativity."
My PI laughed, "That should be our new word."
"Yeah, I love Los Angeles for its performativity,"
"What are you guys doing tonight? Us? Oh. Just some performativity."
I still couldn't get past it, "Performativity. That's so rhythm nation."
My PI had enough, "Let's move on. Do we need to go over anything with Bachelor #2, or are we done with him?"
I looked over his files again, just in case I missed something. But what was the point? I was done with him.
I read for my PI's amusement:
Favorite music: Sigur Ros ,Tiki & Tango Cocktail music, Beatles, Fischerspooner, Groovy stuff, Air, dance music.
"So he's gay and he's a bottom. How did I miss this? I thought I had good gaydar."
"Let me see that," asked my PI. I handed him the file and tried to peek at the other folders he had out. I thought we were moving on, but he seemed genuinely interested in the asspigger's profile.
"Listen to this, he said, laughing at my misfortune:
favorite tv shows: The Simpsons, Bewitched, Sex in the City, Frasier, The Carol Burnett Show, Captain Kangaroo, Golden Girls...
"Stop," I wailed. This is too depressing. Favorite cliches? All of the above.
With finality, my PI closes the book on the conversation, "Well anyone who lists the Beatles. I mean really. One night stand. Fuckable, not dateable."
Looks like my calendar is going to be a lot less busy.