Last of the International Playboys

While I was doing the Marty Stark version of zen meditation today (a jaunt to the Third Street Promenade, lunch at Dee's Diner while reading the New York Times, hang out at Hennessey + Ingall's bookstore, and shop for a leather jacket), it hit me. I wish I could say what hit me was enlightment, but instead it was a realization -- I'm the last out of the Mira Hershey Hall Krewe as well as my fantasy football league to be non-coupled. I'll be the third/fifth/odd wheel in every get together.

Now, this can be the jumping point for many a digression of things that piss me off -- that folks in the office ask me why my friends don't set me up ('cuz my friends tend to think my best match is a chunky girl who wears sensible shoes, and they don't dare set me up with folks they consider normal), or that my karma is so bad it's almost cliche (moving to Pittsburgh three months after meeting my first girlfriend in Ellicott City, Maryland, the one I thought was the love of my life before law school telling me I'm just like a brother, living in Silicon Valley when meeting LA Chick then LA Chick having a boyfriend when I finally move down to Lalaland, and let's not forget the Degrassi High sitch in the office).

It's enough to drive me to pack up my stuff in my car and just drive out into the desert.

Look, I know love comes when you're not looking for it. So if I were to take a pragmatic view of things, I need to stop looking. I need to take a break from myself. The question is how.

I guess I need to distract myself, figure out the things that make me chill, which means I need to get back to writing things that don't end with a signature page that reads "Marty Stark, Attorneys for [Insert Cheap Ass Client Here]," which means I need to start chilling out at the crib listening to music while reading some good lit and maybe some architecture books so my mind doesn't rot.