Wednesday, 10 June 2009

• Can I Masturbate?

  
  There's nothing like a scintillating title to lure in a reader and then deliver below his or her high expectations. Actually, I'd imagine my male audience would be more riled by this masturbatory title. Particularly those who may have literally asked this question in years past. Last night I went on a first date with a seemingly interesting prospect arranged by a matchmaker. Yes, in spite of being hit on along the streets of Manhattan, after performing in venues, online, and among friends, I decided that I should add yet another outlet to provide me with dysfunctional dates. With this process, which was a tad unclear from the start, men hire this matchmaker to find their ideal match and the women are simply added to the matchmaker's files as "great catches." Women pay nothing. Well, monetarily speaking... we still may be susceptible to paying the high cost of time poorly spent.
  
  Prior to meeting my first (and probably last) encounter through this nifty (read: sarcasm) service, I felt mildly optimistic that my "match's" and my similar cynicism and sense of humour would spark something in the flesh. We arranged to me at the Ritz (a possible error of judgment as it was the first date meeting locale for the last person I loved dearly) and I hoped to have a fresh new memory; a new coat of paint on an old mural. The potential "match" called and upon learning about my darling cat, encouraged me to euthanize her should we get involved. His nickname henceforth became "The Pussy Killer." In lieu of euthanization he urged me to ship her ass to a shelter or give her to my parents. Yes, the warning signs were there. Yes, I run towards red flags like a stubborn bull.
  
  So I met him at the bar of the Ritz and I realized the attraction was not immediately present. But attraction can grow. Well, attraction can grow when people behave in an attractive way. Fast forward to the middle of the date when I declare to the Pussy Killer we are not a match because he wants a wife directly sent from the casting department of "Mad Men" and I want to (in his words), "Play around with [my] banjo until [I'm] old and panic as [my] beauty disappears and [I] realize [I] don't have a chance of being the next Britney Spears." Such a realization would be heart-breaking, indeed, as I've always been envious of public nervous breakdowns, electronic vocal effects, and having a team of people control my life. This conversation led to his argument that creation is "masturbation" and if I were to someday want to work on an indie film for some lame $60k (which we all know would be a considerably high contract for a low-budget flick) all for the need to express myself then I would be nothing but a selfish, ego-driven woman. I would be a crappy girlfriend and even crappier wife.
  
  End date. Or scene. The beauty in fine dining establishments as the Ritz is that the waitstaff is acutely aware of conversations at each table and as our voices elevated, the waiter would appear and offer more booze or food options. I was turned off by my date's defenses of being "very supportive" once involved with someone and his notion that creation is masturbation and egoic. I argued that creation for me is a calling, this inevitable moment of self-expression. Songwriting isn't some laboured process to me that I pray will glorify my ingenious revelations to an otherwise dark world (though, sure, fame rocks when you can play venues like Jones Beach). Creation is a compulsive, impromptu happening that releases some emotions and makes for some fun jamming on the Casio. And if creation is just egoic mastubation- well, since when did masturbation get such a bad wrap? Particularly coming from the Pussy Killer.
  
  The Pussy Killer would consider this blog to be pure, unfiltered cerebral masturbation. Probably unnecessary- but here's my segue. I'm in the studio working my EP, which will be done next month (woohoo). The next song that will be a virile, shared masturbation (transcending to a musical orgy) to one and all is my song, "Future Former." The Pussy Killer didn't make it to my list of "Future Formers" because there was little chance for a future. But with a nickname like that, he may make it into some live performances. And that's what life for me is all about. Live musical masturbation over a great sound system or blasting from your speakers at home when you purchase this awesome new song and wonder where I get all this incredible inspiration. Now you know.
  
  

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