Louisville Magazine is Louisville's city magazine, covering Louisville people, lifestyles, politics, sports, restaurants, entertainment and homes. Includes a monthly calendar of events.
Issue link: https://loumag.epubxp.com/i/453014
LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 2.15 41 Is Louisville a good town for singles? "It's a fun town, but too small to be single in." "About the same as anywhere else." "If you're female, it's horrible. The male-to- female ratio is bad." "There are lots of beautiful women here!" "I don't know." "When you're living with your parents, no. But in life, yeah." "It's all about yourself in a way. If you're comfortable in yourself and going out and doing your own thing, then yeah." "Eh." "I think it's the worst. I actually read an article about how Louisville is in the top 10 worst cities to be single in your 20s." "It was easier in Lexington, and that's a way smaller town." "I guess so?" will come to you." (Growl at Ty, say, "'At's right!") "Don't lose your pencils. When I ring the bell, time is up. Any questions? Go!" Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Ty says, "Me? Oh, I'm in the fshing business. Got a pay- to-fsh lake out Dixie Highway. Oh, like, we keep the lake stocked, and people bring their boats and gear. Real busy in summer. Now's my of-season. Oh, it's my dad's business, I just kinda took over. I don't even like fshing, really. Football, though. Tat's one thing I like." Football games play on televisions and projection screens surrounding you. Tables of bar patrons watch. Wonder if this is the real entertainment, if they're really cheering for you and Ty. Say, "Dang, I love fshing." Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Amir says, "So, you ever been with a black man?" Say, "Honestly, no. Not that I have anything against it. My frst best friend was black. Got a T-shirt with a picture of us riding in a carousel and everything, though I haven't seen that thing in years." He dips his tongue under his bottom lip and asks, "What are your three best relationship qualities?" "Hmm, shit," you say. "OK. One, I'm spontaneous; I constantly surprise. Two, I'm very patient. Learned a lot of that with my last man. Tree, hmm, three..." "My number three is I aim to please, if you know what I mean," he says. Saved by the bell! Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Brad is the widest-eyed fsh in this sea. Wonder how much Adderall he's had today, if he sleeps with his eyes open. He's breathing heavy and in the middle of one of your sentences, bursts, "You're so cute." Make him rap for you. He ends a line with "toes." Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Down sits Steve, who you laughed with before this started. He's a real wild carrot-top, partially balding. He admits he was nervous and drank before he came here, so he's feeling nice and loose. Y'all talk Forecastle, Serial Podcast theories, how he and his friends have a late-night band called the Kitchenettes. Tink: I could hang with him, but not cuddled close. (At the end of this, he'll be the only person you check a "yes" for. Tis means the dating service will provide him with your email address, and if he said yes to you, you get his email, too. You'll end up receiving 10 emails, 10 yeses, from the guys. You'll feel uncontrollably guilty about this.) Halfway through your West Sixth IPA and you feel a bit buzzed. Decide to forbid formalities and get weird. When tall Seth asks where you're from, say, "Saskatchewan." Say you arrived here by way of fying Maltese. Say it was like Te NeverEnding Story. Add, "Border control was a breeze." When Adam, the guy who looks the most your age, asks, "How would your best friend describe you?" answer, "Batshit crazy, and I mean BATSHIT." If not for anything else, this is totally worth the $30 you dished for the program. Te rest is a mess of names. Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Dinner's ready! Ding-a-ling-a-ling! Te cow's come home! E Meet Tony. Siedenfaden's. Late Saturday night's "Stop, Drink, Listen" vinyl-spinning dance party. Crowd isn't as heavy as usual. Room to breathe, move. Snap and two-step with each other. He's a short guy, and you look down on him. Wonder if that's intimidating. Make him smell your perfumed scarf. Exchange numbers. When you meet him at the Silver Dollar for their Monday night comedy open-mic, he barely says a word to you. Surprising, because he rocks such an outspoken coat: fufy leopard print, George Clinton-style. He barely laughs at each joke. Is he super nervous? Try to pry it out of him. Nothing. Some funk. E Hear your ex Dan is back in town for Tanksgiving. You're not sure why, but you send him a message, ask about his travels. Tink, Shouldn't I have been on that journey? Sleeping in the back of the Subaru, riding up Highway 1, California coastline salty in my nostrils? Know it would've never worked — he was too drunk and depressed, and you too full of expectation, too eager to bring him to light — but feel lonelier than you have in a while. Know the past is imperfect, but past is a part of this whole process. Past as much as future. Future, what of the future? All this present trying. Failing. Selling yourself like this is weighty, somniferous. You're a social creature, but this is too much talk with too little luck. Are you asking too much? You just want to be surprised by someone for a little while. Ain't asking favors of forever. Ain't trying to squeeze too hard. Listen to Jef Buckley's "Mama, You Been on My Mind" over and over and over again. E Nothing screams possibility like Bollywood. Or a Bollywood-themed party at a friend's house. It was a June night, everyone in the backyard, munching the potluck. You can't remember what you were saying or if you were speaking at all when you heard the gate creak open. You just remember looking over your shoulder from your spot there on the ground, seeing this somebody with crazy brown curls and small, strange eyes, thinking, Tis is the one, then, What does that mean? You shifted and the coins on your gypsy belt jingled. You mingled your way to each other. You, Arielle; him, Michael. You played charming, making jokes, then you talked general shit: artifcial insemination, how the governor of Kentucky could possibly be your dad. You remember when he patted the open seat next to him on the back steps signaling you, how you went to sit down. You remember reading this thing you wrote about swimming naked in the Old State Capitol Building's fountain. You remember him playing "Bicycle" by Memory Tapes on his phone. You remember the two of you leaving, walking across the street, sitting under a streetlight, talking, getting closer. Ten you remember your roommate Caden walking out: Time to go. You remember leaving with no number, no nothing, only the tingle. Ten you were gone. Never to see that boy again. He found you sometime in August on Facebook and you found him baiting. Allured by his words, this country boy living the country boy's dream and mentioning Mexican ladies who speak fuent sparrow. What followed was intermittent attempts at hangs, usually left to the wind. When he cancelled the fshing trip you two had planned, you didn't much mind; went canoeing instead. Let the water tickle your fngers, felt fsh home. Ten he found you again. Tis time in the cold. You think because of that magazine feature you wrote. On the link you posted, he commented, "Te governor of Kentucky would be proud, Ms. Christian." Now he's on your couch and has been for a couple of