Laid Bare: Essays and Observations by Judson, Tom (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

blond man who broke up with me because I had never heard of Prada. (I can’t really say that I blame him.) After that came the Midwestern transplant with the great chest and the penchant for talking like an eight-year-old, followed by several short affairs that, while brief in duration, were richly saturated with drama. Shall we even mention the man who dumped me when I was out of town with a show and who refused to give back my dog? No, let’s not.

The recent medley of Mystery Dates has been uneven, but even though their exterior attributes have been promising (I said “yes” mostly due to their naked pictures online) so far no Prince Charming has opened the door to the accompaniment of 1,000 violins playing the Love Theme from our Major Motion Picture. I’d like to think lightning can strike twice, though; I believe there’s a man out there to complete my musical chord. But where is my Major Third? Who is my Dominant 9? Who, indeed?

If someone creates a musical dating service website I will be the first to subscribe. How would it work? I envision posting the usual personal ad info/fiction, but—here’s the gimmick--with the addition of the entire playlist from one’s iPod. Musical tastes would be analyzed for complementary and discordant overlaps. Knowing in advance what your date listens to could quash any fears that Celine Dion might join you in the bedroom just as things start to get hot and heavy. You don’t want Celine’s heart going on just as your date is going down.

All this is important because music can do more to the savage beast than just soothe him. Years ago I was having phone sex with some guy from the Upper East Side when, after a pause, he said, “Are you listening to ‘Follies?’” I could hear his hardon wilt clear across town.

If I’m really getting back into the dating game I want to know that any potential husbands don’t have an iPod crammed full of dance music and Madonna. I’m not judging those selections—the man who listens to all that wouldn’t be the one for me, though, and we might as well find it out right off the bat. (I do listen to dance music once in a while but usually when I’m full of substances and/or performing acts the likes of which my mother would heartily disapprove.)

Granted, there are potential pitfalls to my system; based on my iPod playlist my perfect match would be a 53-year-old mother of four from a suburb of Indianapolis. Taking a quick scroll through my tunes I see four versions of “Moon River”, tons of Beatles, a smattering of Django Reinhardt and lots and lots of movie soundtracks. If you’re the kind of guy who gets a catch in his throat when listening to the bass flute featured in the Love Theme from “Quest for Fire” you can move right in. I’ll even clear out a couple of drawers for you. Are my tastes middle of the road? Smack down the double yellow lines, baby. But read between those lines and you’ll find some interesting things: oddball Joni Mitchell outtakes, Bryan Ferry doing 1930’s standards and Cuban dance bands from between the wars. And it goes without saying, several cuts from the Robert Mitchum calypso album.

It seems like my knowledge of pop music hasn’t progressed much since getting that big box of records in the mail (“10 albums for one penny!”) from The Columbia Record Club about 30 years ago. If that’s the case, so be it. Just don’t say you weren’t warned if Shelley Duvall singing “He Needs Me” from the “Popeye” soundtrack is playing when you come over for dinner.

I once went on a sex date with a guy because I liked his naked pictures online (see above) but as I climbed the stairs to his apartment I heard coming through the door vintage recordings of cowboy yodeling songs. Wow, I thought; this could be the guy for me! Oddly, I’m drawing a blank right now as to who that was. Hold on… hold on… Oh, right. That was the guy who ended up stealing my dog.

Maybe iPod Dating® isn’t such a hot idea. Maybe I should just stick with the naked pictures.

TRADE WINDS

Wednesday is a big day on the tiny Caribbean island of Saba.  Like a movie set in the Old West where the settlers wait around for Wells Fargo, it's the day when the supply boat from St. Maarten comes in.  Wednesday morning is a combination delivery pickup and social event.  El Momo Cottages, where I was spending the summer, had arriving guests who were expected around 11 AM today so my host Patrick and I headed down to the port about 9:30. On the way down we had a couple of stops to make in “The Bottom,” one of the two main settled areas on Saba (Windwardside, where El Momo is located, is the other.  Patrick and Sophie call Windwardside “the city,” but I think they may have made that up.)

“The Road,” however, really is the official name of the one thoroughfare on Saba.  It goes from the airport on one side of the island to the port on the other and lies across the mountain like a tangled piece of twine.  The switchbacks and turnarounds are legendary because the terrain is so mountainous that it’s impossible to go for more than a few meters in a straight line. The inclines and declines also make it pretty tough for one’s car to go any further than that without downshifting.  On my first trip to The Bottom I found myself clutching the door handle with white knuckles.  It’s not uncommon to round a steep switchback just to find a car headed in the opposite direction but in the same lane.  Most of the cars and trucks here are miniature to compensate for the narrow