I met my friend Paco for drinks last night, and for a quick tour of open studios on First Friday.  It was a pretty typical First Friday.  A lot of people were out and about, despite the chill in the air, some hipster hotties — a redheaded couple that makes the rounds fairly regularly that we kept running into.  The art was so-so.

You never know what you'll find on First Friday, though.  In one of the studios I found a recruiter for the 2010 Census!  A stout, bald little man with a satchel full of pamphlets, who was with a skinny hipster in a fur trappers hat with the ear flaps down, who didn't say anything.  I heard the recruiter talking to one of the artists who looked pretty down on his luck.

"It's great pay, and you get to get out and meet your neighbors!" the recruiter was gushing, while the artist poured some cheap red wine into a small plastic cup.

"But I'm Canadian," the artist said.

"Well, that's no excuse!" the recruiter laughed.

That's when I butted in.  I mean, if Canadians can do it. 

The recruiter introduced himself as Lenny and handed me a pamphlet out of his satchel.  Good pay, flexible hours.  And it's the Census!  It's like you're making history! 

I tried to sell the artist on it after Lenny left for greener pastures. 

I was like, "dude, you're obviously no Giacometti.  And by the looks of you you can not only use the money, you could use the work."

Seriously, some artist types they get stuck in a rut, and they need to be rousted out.  Work — in moderation — is good for you.  We overdo it, of course, because that's what we do with everything.  But it seems to me this is the perfect gig for someone like that.  It's part-time — you make your own hours, basically.  It's temporary.  And it's social.  He looked like he could get out more, too.

"You might even meet someone... special" I winked.

You never know.  His teeth were tragic.  Big gaps between each one — I mean, each and every nubby little one.  So that could still be a problem.  But basically, you work for the Census, it's like speed dating, right?  You get all the essential information — you can add a few questions as needed — they don't know what's on that clipboard. 

Just slip it in there: "Marital status? Check.  Income?  Check. Boxers or briefs?  Now, if you'll just turn your head and cough..."  

Many's the time I've suspected I'm actually chatting with a census worker on my local hook-up site.  It's question after question.  Stats and measurements, demographics and preferences.  Do you like it like this?  Do you do it like that?  You know the drill.

Meanwhile, back at the bar, my friend Paco is being honest with me. It all started when he showed up twenty minutes late. I had to drink our first round alone.  And the barmaid had that attitude they have with singles. Her saving grace was that she was not very good at math.  I actually made a profit drinking last night.  It's better than working for the Census, almost.

So anyway, it started when I greeted him with "nice of you to show up."

The gloves were off, but he hung back and let me wear myself out a little before he threw that left hook.  I started right in, banging on about my recent sexploits.  Paco is happily married, and I think he's forgotten what it's like being single.  I don't really mind it so much, myself.  It mainly gives me something to bang on about.

So I was going on and on about some recent dating disaster, and he was like: "you know, sometimes, when you're laid back, you're really lovely to be with, but then you have these moments of excitable rigidity, when no one can get a word in edgewise, and you lean forward and make these chopping gestures with your hands, and then you're not so lovely."

Well, you know what I say to that? We can't be all lovely all the time. 

This is what I told him (in as breezy and laid back a way as possible):  I do have my moments of intensity.  And I am aware that sometimes those on the receiving end of a sudden inspiration sometimes feel assailed by it.  And I appreciate their patience and forbearance in allowing me to go there with them.  Because there are things you have to say in order to hear them yourself.  That's a little selfish, and may even be unlovely on my part, but it means a lot to me to be able to be unlovely every now and again.  It's such a burden otherwise.

He was like: "Hey, that's what friends are for, right?"

And then he bought the next round.

Later, as we were walking to the T, he told me his husband, whom I'd only recently met, had googled me, and found a photo of my bum.  He said it had not occurred to him before, really, but now he wondered if it was wise to have a bum basically anyone could google.

I have to tell you, first of all: I am much prouder of my non-googleable front side than my backside.  But this is as googleable as my backside gets:


...and is ever likely to get.  Big whoop, right? 

I know some people think it's sleazy, but then why were you image-googling me, hmm?  And as far as prospective employers: if someone's not gonna hire me because I have a nice ass, then it's their loss, right?  I figure if conservative Scott Brown can get a senate seat from a Cosmo Centerfold, a hint of booty on my part shouldn't disqualify me from a part-time gig at $22.50 an hour with the Census Bureau.

I hope not at least, because I'm thinking I might get a booty-call or two out of it.