100 Bad Dates: #62

Date #62 was a rock star. Okay, not a “star”, exactly, but he was in a band and you couldn’t tell him he wasn’t the hottest shit to ever hit that town.

October 5, 2009; 12:00 PM • by The Checkout Girl

Date #62 was a rock star. Okay, not a “star”, exactly, but he was in a band and you couldn’t tell him he wasn’t the hottest shit to ever hit that town.

We met on Myspace. In his first message, he introduced himself and asked me to the symphony. The show was the next night (tickets had dropped into his lap, you know, because he was a musician), so I barely had time to stalk and analyze his profile before saying yes. The more than 100 (not kidding) pics of him either holding a bass or singing told me all that I needed to know…

Yes, I’m superficial.
Yes, I’m a walking stereotype.
Yes, I agreed to go out with him simply because he was a musician.

The next afternoon, I received another message from Bad Date #62 telling me that I couldn’t attend the symphony with him because the girl he had originally asked could make it, after all. He said that, since he had asked her first, he had to take her. Now, he said this stuff straight up in his message, and I thought, “Well, his honesty is refreshing. I guess.” But it smelled a little like downtown crazytown, and I didn’t really have the time or energy for in-your-face truthiness, so I just let it go with an “I understand. Perhaps another time.”

A few days later I got yet another message, asking me if I wanted to go see his best friend’s band play at a local bar. A close friend of mine was a bartender there, and I knew that drinks would be on the house, so I agreed to go (I know, I know, truthiness. But, you guys, MUSICIAN!). Date #62 and I met up at the bar, and I was pleasantly surprised at how good he looked when not sweating and rocking out with his… well, you know. He was extremely tall, built solidly, and had red hair and a full red beard. Online he looked a little like rock n’ roll Satan. In person, more like a well-groomed Viking.

I got my drinko gratis on and was pretty psyched about how good the band was. They were hard, no doubt, but sometimes a girl just wants to get her headbang on, you know? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little hairspray and eyeliner, people. The weird thing was that he had to stand really near the stage when the band was playing and sort of air guitar or whatever. I don’t judge people when they are being bathed in the rock. Still, he was a bit overenthusiastic and it was, how you say, slightly off-putting? Turns out he had previously been in that band and was “playing” his parts. Passion is great, but let’s keep it in check, Leif Ericsson.

After the show, we went to Denny’s (West Coast don’t do Waffle House) with Juice (yes, really), his from the band, and Juice’s girlfriend, who was about seven months pregnant.

“How was the symphony?” Juice asked me.

“Oh, uh, I didn’t go to the symphony,” I answered.

“This isn’t her,” Date #62 said. “That was another girl.”

I felt uncomfortable.

“Well, how was it, dude?” Juice asked. I looked to the girlfriend for some girl solidarity, but got nothing. She was busy making love eyes at her man.

“It was good. Real good,” he answered, and, thankfully, left it at that.

He walked me out to my car, leaned in close and said, “Hey, do you want to go to a party with some of my friends next weekend?”

“What about Symphony Girl?” I wanted to ask. Instead I just said yes.

“Oh, but don’t mention Juice’s girlfriend,” he said, “His wife gets pissed.”

Come again?

“Oh, okay,” I nodded, playing it cool.

“I mean, they know about each other, but aren’t happy with the situation,” he said.

I had to ask. “Does his wife know about the baby?”

“Oh, that’s not his baby. It’s her husband’s,” was his answer, like it was the most normal thing in the world. What the hell? My spidey sense told me that someone was going to get cut before too long.

“Oh, and Amy will be there, too. You know, the girl I took to the symphony,” he added.

What was I getting myself into? I found out on Bad Date #63 and brother, was it twisted!

The Checkout Girl, originally from San Diego, now proudly claims Richmond as her hometown. She would like a chance to go back in time and scream “YOU LIE!” at Mr. Newcomb when he tells her that she *will* use high school algebra when she grows up. She writes anonymously so as not to break her poor dad’s heart. She shares her work and life adventures at thecheckoutgirl.net, and pens the advice column Ask The Checkout Girl for Belle Magazine. After more than 100 bad dates, she’s found a pretty good guy.

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