I spent a long perilous time looking for love and not necessarily in all the wrong places.  However, I did end up in some strange situations and had more than my share of odd experiences. I often traveled by myself because everyone I knew was married or pregnant or hiding from their children in the bathroom, hoping for a second alone.  So I flew to Cozumel with my tennis racquet and snorkeling gear. I decided to rent a scooter, and one day I drove around the island.  It took me longer than I thought because I stopped at this bar which was hanging off a cliff and rocking with music.  There I met a man, a musician named Lizard King.  Lizard King didn't have any front teeth.  He bought me a beer and asked if I'd like to see his lizard.  It was an iguana, actually, and his name was Carlos.  Carlos lived in Lizard King's guitar case.  He was wearing a sombrero, with his name stitched in red across the brim. Carlos held a guitar in his tiny scaly arms.  He was also a musician. 

After meeting Carlos, I drank my beer in rapido fashion.  Lizard King's eyes were way too glittery, and his teeth were not there.  I said adios, hopped on my scooter and took off.  The waves crashed, the sun set, I drove in my flip-flops, skirt and bathing suit top into the dark, on a long stretch of nowhere, no other cars or scooters, no buildings, no bars, just a lot of sea and darkening sky and then the wild dogs.  The wild dogs barking and growling and nipping at my heels.  I looked at the gas gauge.  I didn't have much gas left.  Finally, the dogs stopped chasing me; they must have found a wild boar or maybe an iguana.  I ran out of gas.

I walked my scooter for miles, wondering if I would ever get back where I started, but I felt with persistence there was a good chance because islands are circular.  Yes, there, indeed, was the saving neon of a gas station sign.

On another looking-for-love adventure, I went out on a date with an architect.  He had a job, a car, and teeth. I had really scored.  Truly, I was in awe at my luck. I can't remember how I met him, most likely in a fern bar.

It was a bicycle riding date, his idea, and he brought his bike to my apartment but said we couldn't use his car because of a mechanical problem.  So we had to strap the bikes onto the back of my Volkswagen Bug, scratching the heck out of the already worn paint job.  I stopped to put gas in the car and then drove us over the Bay Bridge to San Francisco, and we biked along Crissy Field and all around and ended up on Chestnut Street.  He knew of this great restaurant.  We ate and talked and everything seemed to be going well enough, but then he started talking about his ex-girlfriend who had tried to commit suicide because he'd broken up with her.  I said something like I doubted she tried to kill herself just because of him, there had to be more to it, but he didn't agree.  It was all about him and their towering love.  We got into an argument about his girlfriend.  The bill for the food came, and he said he had forgotten his wallet, so I had to pay.  We rode our bikes in a huff to the car, and as soon as we got back over the bridge to my place, he left.  I went to bed, but was up soon after. I had food poisoning. All night long.  The sun rose in the bathroom window which was like a portal on a small boat.  I lived in a teeny studio that didn't have an oven.  The major cooking happened in the toaster.  No matter; I wouldn't be able to eat for a while.

The architect came over the next day.  He knocked on the door, but I didn't get out of bed.  I was still too sick to move.  He left a bouquet of four flowers on the stoop.  Toward evening, I picked them up, chrysanthemums in colors never seen anywhere in nature.   He'd left the price tag on the cellophane wrapper: 2.99 on sale at Safeway.

This type of sorry adventure continued, one bad date after another.  For around twelve years.  Then it changed.  Of course, that's another story.  I had to change something in myself, and it took some time to figure it out.  Anyway, I preferred Lizard King over the Cheapskate Architect with the Suicidal Girlfriend.

Here's a poem from my book Buddha's Dogs about Lizard King, and you can also hear it read on this website.  You might enjoy the other poems on the website, too:

http://www.cruziocafe.com/saloon.html

After Breaking Up with My Twenty-Seventh Boyfriend

I was alone, on vacation, as far down

in Mexico as I could get,

standing in a crowded bar.

He told me his name was Lizard King,

and asked if I wanted to see his iguana.

"Sure," I said.

He opened his guitar case and there

was an iguana wearing a sombrero with the name Carlos

stitched in red across the brim.

Carlos looked like he had a bad hangover

but seemed ready, his tiny guitar

held professionally in his scaly arms.

"Any requests, Senorita?"

Lizard King's eyes glittered

like grains of black sand, and my skin itched.

I didn't care for music anymore,

it all sounded the same.

"Play something that's not about love."

Lizard King smiled.  Many of his teeth were missing.

"Si," he hissed, and Carlos began to strum

Que Sera, Sera with his claws.