Thursday, October 16, 2014

Meet Count Cractus Man

A delightful little biker bar in Eden Wyoming that Dooooders and I found a few years back.

Speaking of Wyoming, do I have a story for you.

So, I meet this guy online from Wyoming last weekend whom I will call Cractus Man.  He's Cractus Man because he's one part Crackie (who wrote me two weeks ago, BTW) and gasp, one part Cactus Man.  Horrendous, right?

I didn't know he was Count Cractus Man initially four days ago.  Talk about a whirlwind romance that went south.  Is THIS the whirlwind romance that Daniel and Joan saw in my future last summer?

Anyway, on paper, this guy looked GREAT!  Good looking, educated, lives not far away, and get this A FUCKING PULITZER PRIZE WINNING journalist.  Yes, for war-reporting.  How often do you meet someone like that?  He's all over Google, because, well, he's famous.

Talk about exciting.  And he's a novelist.  He has 3 books on Amazon for sale.

Marriage made in heaven, right?  He's funny, self-deprecating and hunky.  Two writers!  Two peas in a pod.


Firstly, is it not brilliant that some guys have public FB pages?  The sexy race car driver, Wildcat, and this guy?  It's brilliant because you can stalk their FB and go back a year or so and find out if they're brave or stupid enough to post stuff about their personal life.  Then you can decide if you want their drama or not.

So, I find out that Cractus Man has had apparently a lot of drama.  A LOT.

According to his FB page, his "love of my life" threw him out in July back in Florida then he threw a suitcase of clothes and his computers in his "Jag" and proceeded to drive cross country to visit some weirdo friend in California who called the cops on him.  Cractus then gave the cops a hard time, so he wound up in jail.  Then he drove out to Laramie Wyoming, for who knows what reason, where his car broke down, and he's living in it near the river while doing a guest panel discussion for the journalism department of Wyoming.  The ONLY thing he admitted to me was the last sentence about doing a panel discussion for them.  Everything else he neglected to mention to me, thanks FB.

So we're emailing back and forth, and I'm not letting on that I've stalked his FB, and he's dying to meet me, saying he's smitten with me, going to buy a motorcycle and come over here and sweep me off my feet, and begging me to call him.

I'm thinking, moving a little fast, buddy, why?  Why not find out more about him, first?

So I came right out and asked him, via email, what's going on in his life, that I've read his FB and that seems he has a little drama in his life right now.

Then, no replies.  Just crickets.  Finally, the only reply to my questions was . . .  "Ah, just pull the trigger and call right now. No time for overthinking.," 

Huh?  Why a gun metaphor?  Then, "Say, where'd you go?  Love is so fleeting."  WTF.

I wrote him back that I'd like some answers before we proceed further, like what's going on in your personal life?  Like, are you homeless?  How come you didn't send me any new news articles that you've written?  (I mean, wtf.  Is he unemployed now and living in his car?)  And if so, why?  He's famous.

I get this reply:

"I sent you some faves, Nat.  Love was a word synomous (sic ) with smitten.
(his novel, which I'm tactfully removing the title) Or don't.  Make it complicated if that's
what suits you.  I like it simple and pure and wear my heart on my
sleeve.  So, good luck with whatever perceived assumptions keep you
locked up.  I gave it a shot, because I'm romantic that way.  Cheers,

I guess wanting to know if he's homeless and unemployed is keeping myself  "locked up."

Un-fucking-believable.  Never a dull moment, kiddies.  Doooders said, "Man, Dude, be grateful you dodged a bullet here."  Yeah, no kidding.

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