Once again:

Best of luck, הראל !

The lengths to which some of us will go to receive attention from the objectives of our desire is absurd. For example, since I realized how much attention my little crush on a singer from a country 10 000 km from me was getting me, I have been shamelessly throwing myself onto the Net in the vain hope that Mr. סקעת himself will somehow discover me and instantly decide that he'd at last met the heart he'd been searching for his entire life, and live with me forever in bliss and joy. It could happen! The world is an odd place. That's why I have fantasy future husbands. You never know who is going to pay attention to you and why.

Predictably, no starry attention has come my way. However, the unexpected and very fortuitous side-effect of all this silliness has been inspiring contact from the other side of the world. Maudlin as it may seem, I marvel at the uncomplicated nature of the Net when, for example, a brand new friend clicks on a button 10 000 km away from me and a few seconds later I have received a song from afar. Now if only someone would invent transporter technology, as seen on Star Trek, to make the world as small small as the Internet makes it feel. Sigh.

Now for a funny story: yesterday my friend l'Urbaniteur-franco-ontarien went to quite a different length to gain the attention of a handsome man as he was walking down leafy Maitland Street. Allow me to set a little background to my tale. Although studies that I have only heard about and never actually read apparently prove conclusively that women are experts at multi-tasking whereas men fail miserably at anything that deviates from one complex thought pattern at a time. I beg to differ. Men are constantly multi-tasking. Whatever we do, driving a car, reading philosophy, performing delicate brain surgery, there is a constant porno flick playing itself out in the back of our heads. We are perfectly capable of functioning while carnality swirls about in the recesses of our minds. I myself have an unchaste series of thought buzzing in the background as I sit here typing.

Now, l'Urbaniteur was not naked as he walked down leafy Maitland Street, although what was about to happen would make him feel naked. Innocently he bounced down the street, humming a happy little ditty to himself, admiring the beauty of the birds twittering in the trees, naked men frolicking behind his eyes.

Suddenly a man so beautiful entered his view that even the naked frolickers in his head stood silent and gaped at his incredible splendour. L'Urbaniteur's head swivelled naturally on his neck in order to keep the gorgeous creature in his full sites as the man passed him by, oblivious of his affect on l'Urbaniteur and on his imaginary Greek tableau. And soon the tableau gained a new player as my friend's head rotated further and further on its axis, unaware that he had fallen so deeply into his internal erotica that with a slight booooing! an enormous shock when a "No Parking" pole leapt up and struck him in the forehead directly above his right eye.

The frolickers scattered into the pastoral distance. The birds peered down and twittered scornfully. Maybe one pooped on his head even (I don't know. I wasn't there). L'Urbaniteur staggered slightly and raised his hand to his head, unaware of what had just happened. He stared mutely at blood on his hand and rubbed it between his fingers, his brow furrowed. Beauty has the ability to completely addle all our upper brain functions. He simply stared as the beautiful creature floated away, still oblivious to the inane affect he had had on a very small part of the world.

It wasn't until his forehead was being stitched Frankenstein-fashion that l'Urbaniteur realized how absolutely ridiculous his actions had been. When he told me, I spit my coffee out all over the book I'd rested on my lap when I'd answered the phone. The book is ruined now, but that's ok. I wasn't liking it all that much in any case.

So there you have it. Gay sex is amazing but it's bad for books.