Keep Portland Passive Aggressive, If That's Okay With You

I keep thinking about this bumper sticker, which leads me back to my hypothesis that perhaps I am too East Coast, too overtly aggressive and not passive enough or that the men here are just ridiculously passive. Or maybe I'm plenty passive. You decide. Anyway, I'm boring myself with that one so here goes Date #6:

J. or LSGG (law school grilling guy) is supposed to meet me at Utopia on Belmont for a platonic brunch at noon. From his picture I wasn't too thrilled, but he had written long, thoughtful emails, which included his love of all things Spanish. Though this part intrigues me, I'm beginning to wonder if detailed messages indicate sheer boredom and/or loneliness and not interest level. Whatever the case, he's 1/2 an hour late, calling twice: once to say he'll be there at 12:30 and again at 12:29 to say he'll be there in 5-10 minutes because he got lost. In my past life I would have been pissed or thought it rude, but in this one I don't really care enough to have any reaction. I'm numb. He's just another guy and this is just another date. And my coffee is good company.

LSGG bursts into the door of the restaurant like he's in a Broadway play in a scene that calls for high drama, his hair still wet, looking frazzled, his palms held out and 20 lbs extra than his photo. Of course he breezes right past me. I enjoy this, watching him frantically search for me. Finally, he walks backwards almost knocking down a waitress in his path and says hello. Maybe I'm in a Broadway musical called Date Me, You Silly Fool or Two Dates a Week or Else or just Dates! I'll work on the score. He is not someone I will have sex with. Ever. I can tell this quickly. But he's nice, has a Russian accent, the kind where most words end in z and he has a dramatic delivery like when he tells me about how he likes to watch the fat drip from a steak via a George Forman Grill and the following riveting tale:

"My muzza haz a brilliant cat who closes his eyes and listens to the birds sing to him. He doez not chase them. He sitz, makes himself comfortable like an audience."

Just like nobody ever wants to hear about your "crazy dream last night" nobody ever wants to know about your pet stories. Ever. I realize this and yet I do share them with my friends. Not with my dates. Honestly, I don't want to make too much fun of this guy. He's genuinely a nice seeming person. But when the check comes, I do the requisite reach for my wallet and offer to pay something. His eye enlarge, "Well zat would be very nice."

Well it would, wouldn't it? A lot of things would be nice.

I fear I may be too traditional expecting him to pay and judging him as a creatin for not doing so. I grant him a second chance. We go for a walk in Laurelhurst Park and he talks, then talks a little more, and continues talking until I understand that I can take my brain on a little vacation, pay no attention to him at all, and he will continue to talk. He's not a bad guy. Let's see, I wonder if his jaw might fall off at some point during this afternoon. Of course he writes me immediately upon arriving home, asking for a second date.

Fantasy or reality: Thank god D. exists in NYC and we are writing each other like mad like 4 emails a day. He took a picture of his dinner (sweetbread tortellini) and my old block on Broome street near Orchard and Ludlow. So cute. We've been writing each other constantly. Clearly, this can only end in heartache and disaster.