• Creative Men...Confessions of a Junkie

    Confession time. I have an addiction. A bad one. It may kill me if I don't get help. It's. . .(oh, the shame!) creative men. They are my heroin; I (sob) am a junkie.

    It started early, with musicians. It seemed so innocent, just simple teenage crushes. One guy looked like the lead singer from Simple Minds, another looked like Eddie Van Halen and one was a mohawked punk rocker bass player. Musicians. As faithful as a Kennedy. Then came writers and artists, thin pale boys, dressed in black, wearing eyeliner, with no backbone. Next, college boys with fascinating and totally useless majors, so deep, so brilliant, so totally lacking in common sense. Then the actors, funny and charming and attractive and completely mental. I've never learned easily. But, learn I did.

    Ladies, let me clue you in: creative men are MAAAAAD!!! Run at the first sign of a ponytail. Creative men are sweet, emotional, romantic. They will dance with you in the rain. They dedicate love songs and quote sensitive lyrics. They write poetry about your eyes, your lips, your spleen. They send cards and flowers; they paint your portrait and sketch your face. They always remember your birthday. Remember that scene in Willow? You are their sun, their moon, their starlit sky; they dwell in darkness without you.

    And then it went away. Creative men are moody, temperamental, morose. They have hair-trigger mood swings. They sit in dark corners drinking that bottle of wine they were saving for a special occasion (obviously not your birthday). They will go through strange phases and disappear for weeks because they just needed to be alone and why are you so upset? After all, it's not you,it's them. They all have the "If it ain't broke, it must be" syndrome. This means that if things are going well, something must be wrong. They then go insane and either break up with you or need to have a twelve hour talk about the relationship (the same relationship he keeps insisting that you don't have). They contradict themselves and try to turn your words around so they don't look crazy. They will supply you with all the mixed signals your masochistic little heart could desire. They say things like "You just don't understand." Creative men areparanoid. Really paranoid. Don't be quiet around a creative man unless you like being asked "What's wrong?" a thousand times. Trust me, make something up; it doesn't matter if nothing is wrong. If you don't come up with something, he'll never stop. It's a much more reasonable solution than strangulation. (I know I'm making a broad generalization; there are plenty of insane women, too.)

    And most of my guy friends are creative men and I love them for it. I'm just a little cranky. Besides, it's my column, so piss off.)

    Realize that, no matter what you do or say, he is comparing you with some woman who screwed him over. You cannot win. Don't try. Just run. Run before you find yourself in a relationship with this lunatic only to have him decide that his life is not where he wants it to be and he is unhappy so therefore he must break up with you. Why? Because you make him happy. Understand? I don't. Run. Right through the wall if necessary. They hide in places like art schools and colleges, smoky bars and coffeehouses. [And, I'm assuming, Bergman film retrospectives & Renaissance Festivals…-Ed.] Avoid open mike night. They hide in these places for reasons you couldn't understand. The real reason? These places are their own little worlds, formulated so they don't have to face the real one. [Definitely Renaissance Festivals…-Ed.] Or real problems. Or (God forbid) real emotions.

    I have revised my list of what constitutes the perfect man. He can fix my car. He has never had long hair or a goatee. He has never bought flowers for a woman unless his secretary does it for him. He is neither pierced nor tattooed. His musical talent begins and ends with Sinatra tunes sung in the shower. He has never written anything that didn't have to be handed in to a teacher. He reads Sports Illustrated, the paper and war novels. He watches football, Seinfeld and Lethal Weapon; he wouldn't know a Merchant-Ivory film if it bit him on the ass. His literary knowledge is Cliff's Notes. Romance means doing it on the couch. He's probably an accountant or a plumber. His name is Sheldon or Gus. He has a slight paunch; he has never owned a leather jacket. His idea of depth involves the toilet and a snake. His culinary skills include frying, BBQ's and removing the plastic covering from the desert compartment. Sigh.

    Oh well. Gotta go. A pony-tailed blonde with broad shoulders and a sketchbook just walked by. I can feel the DT's already. Never trust a junkie.

    (This story was reprinted from the Ren Rag and "Our Time of the Month", courtesy of Lundegaard Armoury.)

    By Madame Draanan