Jacking off to Mozart

This blog is not supposed to be about my dating life. My parents read it, after all. But I had no cultural experiences or adventures or disasters today, so it's either waxing melancholy about my terrible taste or more hand-wringing about how I don't speak Spanish very well.

Talking art in Spanish with an Italian filmmaker/photographer over wine and jamón sounds really nice. It sounds so nice that it takes me at least ten times longer than it should to notice if the broody arty type in question is incredibly boring, or not particularly intelligent, or not remotely funny, or super pretentious or all of the above. Those of you who know me already know this. Unfortunately, recognizing bad taste doesn't make it magically get better. So, I spent tonight listening to someone who's spent a total of one month in New York go on about gentrification in New York, and how it's all the fault of the banks, wishing like hell that I was in the other room smoking pot and watching soccer with his roommate. Who happens to be a fifty-ish year old woman. Maybe I need behavioral counseling, or shock therapy.

At least the jamón was good.