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3:58 p.m. - 2013-11-10
Yes, there ARE Good Guys

Romantic ideals. Archetypes. Fairytale heroes. And Prince (Bloody) Charming.

Let's talk about this. Watched a delightful movie this morning. Right up my alley. A modern fairytale about an average (yet secretly wonderful) girl who has to choose between the Bad Boy she's always loved and the New Guy who loves her.

We all know about Bad Boys and the hypnotic appeal they have on Nice Girls.

Of course #1 is the leather jacket wearing, greasy, antisocial, motorcycle driving, "use 'em and lose 'em" asshole. THE flame most moth girls beat themselves against. So convinced their love is the answer. The cure, the fix, the 'at the buzzer save' which will pull that bad boy from the brink and turn him into Mr Wonderful.

Save a bad boy, be validated forever.

Right.

Not really a fan of the archetypical bad boy. My mother's life was enough of a cautionary tale on that score. So this girl didn't waste much time or energy on the leather-jacketed antihero types.

But this isn't the only flavor of bad boy, is it? Nope. Not at all.

There's the King o' the Boardroom bad boys. All portfolios, BMWs and sharply tailored bespoke suits.

Again, not my style. Not my thing. My Chanel grandmother warned me to never trust a man with manicure...he'd always love himself far more than he'd ever love me. Advice I took to heart. I never wasted my time on Mr Dress-For-Success. Besides, I've always driven breakdown-prone pieces of crap cars and not once did a guy in a suit ever stop to help when I was stranded. Not even to call for a tow with his oh-so-sexy car phone. The Don Drapers of the world want cool thin blondes who went to Bryn Mawr and never had an orgasm. So not me as to be a punchline.

Well. If I never lusted after greasers or stockbrokers, who did LA the moth pine for?

Me? I was always a sucker for the Artsy Cool Guys.

The last and by far the most dangerous of Bad Boys.

Why? Because these bad boys have feelings. They have heart. Ideals. Dreams. Character. Talent.

...and egos the size of the fucking planet.

Artsy Cool Guys have soul. They care. Passionate little buggers with their plants and guitars and their battered paperbacks of Kerouac and bootlegs of Lenny Bruce. Vegetarians who graciously eat steaks bought on other people's dimes. Knowledgeable about wine, holistic massage, and the poems of Ungaretti.

Artsy Cool guys are tall, thin, wear long hair, earrings and little round eyeglasses.

And they are deadly.

See: John Lennon, 'thirtysomething' and Peter Horton's Gary, and John Corbett in every role he's ever played. Whether it's Chris in the Morning or Aiden the furniture maker or Tula's xeno boyfriend 'with the long hairs on his head'...oy...John Corbett is the poster boy for Artsy Cool Guys.

My Achilles' heel, chink in my armor, weak spot, the football this Charlie Brown could NOT help running after no matter how many times it was yanked away.

Because this type came with a bonus prize. If you do it right you get to be HER. The Chosen One with cool and cred of her own.

Who could resist being a Muse? The nurturer of genius? The privileged caretaker of Gandhi/Shakespeare/George Clooney with B.O.?

To be the Chosen One who'd morph from an everyday chick with raggedy cuticles and cellulite into Yoko Ono, Rita Coolidge, Marie-Therese Walter, Helga Testorf, and Trudie Styler all rolled into one glorious bundle of female inspirational fabulousness. Wow. Exalted, painted, written and sung about, the ultimate f-ing Band Aid? Resist this lure? Not any mortal woman I know, that's for sure.

And so I was lost.

Arrogant in my rejection of juvenile delinquents and corporate cocks, yet still caught somewhere between fag hag and charwoman to the Artsy Cool Guy. Never getting what I really needed and making do with 'I know he doesn't sleep with me but he needs me' and 'hey, it's my job'. You know, the meek shall inherit and the worthy woman is beyond rubies? Like that only with access to the good parties, the slim glory of reflected cool, and the (faint) hope of someday being not only handy and useful but becoming a full-blown Muse.

That is the pitcher plant of the Artsy Cool Guys.

It takes a very, very long time for some of us to give that shit up to finally see, appreciate, and love the Real Guy.

Real Guys are rarely conventionally cool.

Real Guys don't often have style.

Real Guys have boring jobs with regular paychecks.

Real Guys eat meatloaf.

No Real Guy in the history of Time has ever owned a motorcycle, a guitar, or a hand-woven linen shirt.

Real Guys pay their bills on time.

Real Guys take their mothers to brunch. At IHOP.

Real Guys wear windbreakers.

Real Guys think The Three Stooges are hilarious.

But...

Real Guys remember their anniversaries.

Real Guys know your favorite flower, color, movie, and how you like your eggs.

Real Guys don't quit until you've cum. Twice.

Real Guys carry your picture in their wallets.

Real Guys are thrilled when you: get a raise, run that first mile, turn out a perfect Yorkshire pudding, are having a good hair day.

Real Guys don't wax anything except cars.

Real Guys think you're beautiful. All the time. And don't even notice your ragged cuticles and cellulite.

In short Real Guys sustain you. They need you but they also need you to need them. Real Guys sit you dead center in their hearts and believe themselves lucky you're there.

Sha, sha, your Real Guy might have slightly different attributes. He might love football or barbequing or fly fishing. Hell, your Real Guy might even be a Real Girl. This is fine. What counts is whether your Real Guy is all about Him or whether he's all about YOU. If the equation is balanced and if in your secret heart you believe you come out ahead because you are so very loved. And known. And seen. And appreciated. Then you've gotten it right. If it's otherwise, if you're giving out way more than you get back, if you're longing for your devotion (ie: slavish service) to someday wow your Guy and transform you when he finally sees you and then you'll live happily ever after as Reformed Bad Boy and Venerated Muse...um...ain't gonna happen.

Trust your Auntie LA on this.

You know me. Dopey LA who watches rom-coms, believes in fairytales and has never made a secret of her hankering for tiaras, glass slippers, and pumpkin coaches. It's not about settling. It's about giving yourself permission to go for the Real Deal.

Bad Boys and their reformation isn't the key, it's about something better.

It's about saving your own life.

It's okay to be alone. Absolutely. But if you're going to tie yourself to someone else then make sure it's a Good Guy.

Found mine.

A windbreaker wearing, meatloaf eating, garbage taker-outer who's yet to leave me thirsting alone and waiting for him to get over himself so maybe I'll finally count.

Since five minutes into our first date I have been wearing a crown, sitting in the driver's seat, and been smack in the center of Mick's heart.


How's that for a fairytale ending? ~LA the Romantic



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