Zombie Alert Triggers NYC Burnout

The Summer Boyfriend Reality Show is apparently going to have to be cancelled this year due to the boredom of the main character - namely me. Mr. Montauk, whom I met last night, was okay. On another day, I might have even found him kind of cute. I was my usual effervescent self and my hair looked great. Nevertheless, I think both of us were Just Not That Into You.

There is something about dating at 50 that gets in the way of being into anyone. Or maybe it's just me at the moment. I confess that I'm skeptical of people these days and I never used to be. All sorts of behaviors that, in the past, I would have overlooked or excused under the "benefit of the doubt" category I now suspect are red flags flying around the head of a potential asshole.

Naturally I understand that everyone can be an asshole sometimes. It's just that when someone continually interrupts me, for example, I begin to think he is only interested in hearing his own self talking. Maybe he's incapable of sustaining a human connection. Maybe that's why his wife divorced him. Or maybe the wife was CFC (completely fucking crazy). Who knows why people get divorced?

Right after Buzz Kill moved in with his mother, I was much more interested in the men I met. Perhaps the equation was substantially different then because I was hot to trot. Rhet said I was trying on men like I was at Loehmann's. No more. I miss being part of a couple, but as I've recently stated, anyone who enters the picture these days has to contribute something interesting to the story line in the Sitcom of Life at Menopausal Stoners World Headquarters.

Mr. Montauk was not going to contribute a damn thing to the story line, and besides, he was short. So short that my brain said, "My goodness, he's short," when I saw him for the first time and when we stood up from the table to leave the Chinese restaurant.

I'm beginning to think that I look for reasons not to get involved. That's why my Match profile is currently hidden. The only reason I wanted to date in the first place was because I thought the best way to get over That Narcissist was another boyfriend. Apparently that wasn't the case at all. I simply needed to have drinks with him and his ego. Apparently what I need right now is the Peace and Quiet of my own space. I never had my own space before.

There is also a Truth looming on the Horizon: I want to go home to Austin. I know I said I'd never go back to Texas after spending a week in Houston on account of the Conservative Christian Right Wing Republicans. The troublesome nature of Bible Thumpers cannot be overstated, but the fact is that being in New York City does not guarantee the company of like minded individuals - particularly when the subjects like Gaza are being discussed. I have enough sense to avoid that topic because I don't know enough about the situation to offer an informed opinion - and if your opinion on Israel isn't well informed and factually supported when you're on the Upper West Side of New York City, you better keep your mouth shut. If you're within earshot of anyone at all, there is a strong possibility that total strangers will shout you down. So don't even go there unless you're ready to argue.

Then there are the investment bankers (who are now somewhat more contrite since they have less cash on hand) and litigators who think they know more about teaching than their children's teachers. Actually, there are a lot of people who are full of themselves here. And many more people who believe it's perfectly fine to butt into your personal business. There are Nosy Parkers in Texas, for sure, but they tend to be less intrusive. Maybe it's because in Texas, you never know if your neighbor is packing a pistol in her handbag.

Most importantly, however, is the profound difference in the sense of humor between New Yorkers and Texans. I've been thinking a lot about the Zombies Ahead sign in Austin which has gotten so much publicity. Nobody in New York would ever hack into a traffic sign solely for entertainment purposes. The only time I ever laugh until I ready to pee in my pants here in New York is (a) when I'm high or (b) when in the company of another Texan like the Rebbe Mohammed McCrory or Gayle the Hillbilly Hustler.

That sign was very near the house where The Man from San Antone lived when we had that legendary Halloween Party in 1979. Actually, the First Annual Bluebonnet Cotillion was also in that house as was the Quaalude and Mescal party - for which I stayed relatively sober because it seemed likely there would be trouble if someone on Quaaludes ate the worm. It may have been 1980. I can't remember if he lived in the Tarrytown Duplex before or after this place - which caught on fire a few hours before the Halloween party on account of one of the rusty legs of the Weber Smoker busted causing the grill to fall over and spill hot coals all over the wooden deck. I had been to the grocery store to get the food for the party and drove up about the time the fire trucks were leaving. The Man from San Antone figured that if he could have the fire department and over 100 University of Texas students, many of whom were on LSD, over at the apartment in the same evening - he had found the landlord of his dreams.

He moved to a better house a year or so later, though, across the street from Barton Springs. During the last major party we had at that house, the cops knocked on the door simply because they'd never seen the parking lot to Barton Springs completely full at midnight and wanted to meet the host of the party. The Man from San Antone was always good in situations like that no matter how much his consciousness had been altered.

Austin has changed a lot since those days. It's become more homogenized with Starbucks and Barnes & Nobles just like everywhere else. But the spirit remains strong and true in backyards, living rooms, hot tubs, sail boats and beer bars all around town.

Running off to New York City to marry Buzz Kill, have Velvet and find my voice was the right thing to do. I'm not quite done here, but it's like Mr. Peabody says, "Twizzle, Twazzle, Twozzle, Tome. Time for this one to come home."

**Update** I have recently learned that Mr. Peabody did not say "Twizzle Twazzle" etc. It was Mr. Wizard and Tooter Turtle. Similar concept, entirely different show.