I Hate Classic Rock…And Your Face

So I went on a date.

I know that just two posts ago, I was saying how I WASN’T going to be dating, but I decided to switch it up. I have to keep you readers on your toes.

I met this guy and he asked me out. I didn’t know anything about him, but I thought “What the heck?” So I said yes. I guess that’s how these things work.

The good news is that he was better than Jerry. I mean, he managed not to call me a whore in the first 2 minutes, so that’s good, right? Actually, he didn’t call me a whore at all, so he deserves a gold star or something.

Spoiler alert: We won’t be going out again.

Clue number one was that he didn’t shave. I know it wasn’t a real formal date. No white tie or tails were involved. There were no waltz numbers. But still, aren’t there minimum basic standards? Shaving, for me, is one. Also, please brush your teeth (I have no idea whether he brushed his teeth or not. So I guess that tells you how the date ended. WITHOUT KISSING. Of course, he ate ahi, so you probably wouldn’t have known if he had brushed his teeth earlier. Am I overthinking this too much?)

Clue number two was the classic rock. I will only really rail against one type of music, and that is classic rock. It’s fine. It really is. I just think it shows a profound lack of creativity or love of learning or curiosity or SOMETHING to keep listening just to the same 100 songs for 40 years.

Me: So, what kind of music do you like?
Him: Classic rock.
Me: What else?
Him: Oh, mostly just classic rock. And pop, I guess.

SHUT THE DOOR. You can listen to some classic rock. But for God’s sake, throw something else in the mix if you want me to stick around. Deadmau5. Mumford & Sons. The Mountain Goats. Rihanna. Anything. Just some other damned thing to show your ears didn’t fall off in 1985.

There were other little things. Not bad things, just things. But then…after a few beers…he told me his dream. He confided his dream to me, and because I am the kind of shithead who does these kind of things – in other words, a writer – I am going to share his confidential dream with you.

Bear in mind that he is my age. And that he has ever been in a band. Never had formal musical training. Never sung anywhere, outside of karaoke.

His dream, the thing he wants to work on this year, is getting on the X Factor, The Voice, and American Idol.

I’ll let that settle for a minute.

“But I could blow them all away,” he said. Then he sang a few lines of classic rock, walking along down by the harbor.

Oh my, people.

I don’t even know what to do with that. It would be like me trying to get published in the New Yorker this year. Ah, probably even less likely, since people have actually paid me to write a thing or two. But in either case, not gonna happen.

I’m all for dreams. I’m all for going for it. But completely unrealistic dreams that you have never ever taken a step toward, but for which you have some completely folly-filled confidence you’ll magically attain.

I had to wonder if it is a consequence of our culture of positivity, that tells us anyone can do anything if they dream. I don’t believe it. I believe anyone can do anything if they work hard enough and have enough natural talent and enough luck and are in the right place at the right time.

No, my friend. You will not be on American Idol. For one, the maximum age on Idol is 28, something you passed more than 20 years ago. (“They might have a problem with my age,” he admitted.)

Step away from the nitrous oxide. And don’t ask me out again. (He did. But I declined. I told him “You Can Go Your Own Way.” But “Don’t Stop Believin'” and “Dream On.” Ok, I’m out…)

I could have been a ballerina. If I were shorter, lighter and not incredibly clumsy.