Organizing your writing life

DATE FROM HELL: A couple of weeks back, Tania posted one of her worst dates ever and suggested some of us bloggers do the same. Here's one.

This was around...hmm...1994 after I had broken up with a longterm partner. I answered a personal ad in the local alternative weekly and talked with the guy on the phone a few times and we seemed to have a lot in common. Since the Internet revolution was still in its infancy, we couldn't exchange photos or chat online, but we liked the sound of each other, so we met at Tower Records. The guy -- let's call him Paul -- was cute in a gangly sort of way and we wandered about the store looking at cds and talking about favorite bands. Then we decided to go get dinner. He suggested a chain steakhouse, I was agreeable and we took my car.

In the car, I had been listening to Depeche Mode and the cassette was still in the deck when I started up the engine. "Personal Jesus" came on and Paul started singing along...loudly. Then he asked, "Doesn't my voice sound just like David Gahan?" Umm...no. He sounded like a screech owl with a head cold. All the way to the restaurant, he sang and kept asking me if I thought he sounded like the lead singer of Depeche Mode. I finally started agreeing with him just so he'd shut the fuck up about it.

Although I was weirded out by the whole karaoke in my car bit, I thought once we arrived at the restaurant, we'd just have a nice chat and get to know each other. Paul ordered this incredibly large meal and the salad bar. I ordered a sandwich and chips. So, Paul went to the salad bar and brought back a plate so overloaded that lettuce and toppings were spilling on the floor and swimming in ranch dressing. He put the plate down on our table, then went back and filled up another one just like it. People in the restaurant were already staring.

Paul came back to the table and tore into the first plate like he hadn't eaten in weeks. Lettuce was flying everywhere, his face was covered in dressing and he inhaled this giant mound of salad in minutes. Then he started on the second. I sat there staring at him, horrified and a bit disgusted, but couldn't figure out what to say. He had totally zoned out and his full attention was on the food, so he wasn't talking to me anyway. At some point, I realized the entire dining room had gone deathly silent. All the diners and the wait staff were watching Paul (and me) as he manically ate all this salad. Our waitress was hanging back and wouldn't approach the table, probably afraid Paul would eat her.

The manager came over and asked if everything was all right. Nonchalantly, Paul said everything was fine and then went to get another plate! The manager looked at me and asked, "Is there something wrong with him?" I don't even remember what I said. While Paul was loading up the third plate, the dining room was abuzz in whispers, and the waitress scurried over and tossed our entrees on the table and ran back into the kitchen.

I was momentarily relieved when Paul pushed the salad to the side and started cutting up his steak, until he picked up the bottle of Heinz 57 and covered the entire plate with it. Not just the steak, but the lobster and baked potato, too. And then...oh, dear sweet Jebus...he picked up the salad and dumped it onto the entree. It looked like a giant compost heap. As he started to dig in, I got up from the table without a word, put money on the table (including enough for him to take a cab back to his car) and left the restaurant.

A few days later, Paul called and apologized for his behavior. He said he had "food issues" and that it was a good thing I'd left when I did, because about 10 minutes later, he had puked all over the table and the manager called the police.

I hope he left a good tip.