A pick-up or a spit-up? You decide.

What has two thumbs and gets hit on at a speed metal CD release party? This bitch right here, that's who!

First, I really don't have any business being in a speed metal bar or any bar with metal of any kind. I'm more of the house/grunge/jazz bar type where snazzy drinks with sparkly straws are ordered up by the dozen. I don't have long, frizzy, never seen a pair of scissors grunge hair. I don't own a leather jacket with fringes, and I don't even own a black concert t-shirt of any genre or any decade. I do, however, have an appreciation for all types of music and friends who just released their second CD, and that's what I was doing in a metal bar on a Friday night pretending to head-bang to Knuckle Sandwich. Well, I wasn't pretending. I was banging and screaming the lyrics since I wanted to pay homage to the Spewer, Shredder and Pounders of the Gore.

And that, my friends, is when he made his move. I was caught unawares. I came up from one of the more powerful head bangs, singing with my friend The Girl and I met his gaze. He smiled, adjusting his glasses and pulling on the sleeves of his corduroy jacket (I didn't notice if they had the elbow patches but it would fit the whole image. He certainly stood out in the line of leather wallpapering the walls). I smiled back 'cause I'm friendly like that, and he went in for the kill.

I was flattered. Don't get me wrong. I've been off the market for over three years, co-habitating with The Man and leaving the perfume and make-up for special occasions - like taking out the trash and trimming the bramble bush. We chatted for a bit. He complimented my outfit and headbanger hair and asked what I did for a living and did I do it in Toronto. I answered him politely, inching my way over to The Girl and the Spewgore fans (they are a swarthy but friendly bunch). He asked me if I'd like to get together this week. I said no thank you and that I was in a relationship. He asked why that mattered and did I like to have fun. "Not that kind of fun," I countered. You don't like fun? he asked. I shot him a look and said that I was committed to The Man and would appreciate that he back down before I had to deliver the beat down. Actually, I said thank you but no and left it at that. It also didn't help that I had the entire conversation logged in spit running down my neck.

I went back to singing along with the speed metal version of The Rodeo Song and started to search for a tissue, a rogue napkin or anything to wipe away the remanents. And while he was a more than little distasteful in insisting that a weekly meet-up was in order and acceptable to all parties, I decided it was also a little flattering. If only for the spittle.