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You know the place. It’s not quite home, but it’s definitely not work. A comfortable Third Space. Small, cozy, lots of regulars with dogs, and sassy, tattooed servers working their way through art school. The ideal corner cafe will fill you up with decent, healthy food for not a lot of money. They’ll remember your name and what you drink for Happy Hour. Hell, the ideal corner cafe will actually HAVE a Happy Hour.

When I got divorced my corner cafe was a pricey little French bistro staffed by minor deities. The divorce wasn’t my idea, and the day I signed papers I showed up at my corner cafe freaked out and slightly drunk. I ordered lobster and prosecco. My waitress asked if I was celebrating anything in particular. When I told her what was up she said, “Oh honey, I will take care of you!” And she did. The lobster was glorious, served with fresh peas and mint. The prosecco flowed invisibly and a chocolate lava cake arrived looking defiant with a lit candle. (The cake never appeared on my bill.) At the table next to mine sat a couple celebrating their second anniversary. It was his third marriage, her second. She was blond and he was bald, and like me they were both lit like Christmas trees. He distinguished himself by asking everyone who passed by to take their picture. We got drawn into conversation and I told them my pathetic story. She patted my shoulder and said, “It gets better, really it does.” He smiled, swayed back and forth like he was on a clipper ship and handed me his camera.

A year and a half later my new corner cafe isn’t quite as swank but it’s just as beloved. It’s seen me through a move, two breakups, boredom, loneliness, unemployment, visits from family, birthday parties, and good old-fashioned hunger. I had the flu at Christmas, and I swear my favorite red-headed waitress saved my ass. She added homemade Christmas cookies to my takeout order. I lived off those cookies for two days.

There should be a Nobel Prize for corner cafes and the lovely people who run them. They are unsung heroes of the Third Space. They help keep us sane.

Gallery 1988’s Under the Influence: A Tribute to Stan Lee is one long scroll of geeky comic book goodness. Everyone who is anyone in the illustration world is featured here. (Kisses to Brandon Bird for the gorgeous portrait of Magneto with baby ducks. MWAH!) It’s all lovely stuff, but Scott Campbell’s Spidermans series stopped me dead in my tracks. Funny, touching little moments delicately rendered in simple watercolors. With 10 small paintings, Mr. Campbell is now my new favorite artist. More here.

On Thanksgiving Day I received an aggressively pornographic message from 24-year-old Chicagoan who looks like a Campbell’s Soup Kid. I want to send it to his mommy.

This morning I heard from a local guy whose profile says, “Some shit.”  He asked me if I could guess what was in his hand.

A self-proclaimed serious Christian, 27, called me angel and expressed an interest in casual sex.

I got a run-of-the mill hubba-hubba from some guy out in the ‘burbs who said I should “holla back” if I wanted to. I didn’t. Then he asked me a favor, could I please reply or send a short email “just for a test,” as he had switched email accounts. When I didn’t respond he emailed again. “Say love, I was curious, were you just not interested? Courtesy yes or no would be nice.” Ooh, he calls me “love” AND he’s manipulative. Where does the line form?

The Most Creative Asshole award goes to a 47-year-old from Dublin who tried to publish a comment on my profile. It said “You can use me as your sled anytime.”

I’m getting the hang of this now and am corresponding with a very nice gentleman. But the unusual messages continue:

A transgendered FTM whose message was mostly unintelligible due to lack of punctuation and spell check. I felt really bad for him, but have absolutely no idea what we would talk about. “So, how’s the surgery going?”

Four different guys who think no photo and no profile will get a response.

A 23-year-old with a girlfriend who wanted “serious answering!” What was my first impression of him “(or his profile, whatev)?”

An elaborately-phrased hubba-hubba from guy who admires Steven Seagal and has the ponytail to prove it. His photo shows him holding a book and standing in front of his vast library.

The Golden Hubba-Hubba award goes to a 50-year-old gent in NoCal:

“I hear that biblioflies migrate to California to mate. Hey there cutes, put on your dancin’ boots, and coooome dance with meeee.”

Today’s messages were from:

A Christian fundy with three kids. Either he didn’t read my profile or he likes adversarial relationships.

A man whose profile consists of the phrase “just your average guy, looking for a good time,” copied over and over into a 4-inch paragraph.

A 47-year-old musician who looks exactly like Santa Claus. Seems like a sweet man, but oh my god he looks exactly like Santa Claus!

A 50-year-old whose portrait was taken leaning over a new-looking gravestone.

After much thought I finally bit the bullet and set up a profile on an online dating service. I wasn’t meeting new people in my day-to-day routine and several friends have made connections this way. If nothing else it would be an interesting sociological experiment, right? Terrific blog fodder?

So far the results have been horrifically entertaining beyond my wildest dreams. My profile wasn’t up for 24 hours before I had to block some idiot from Oklahoma for sending me pictures of his butt tattoos. He likes dolphins. I’m relieved he doesn’t like elephants. Yesterday I got a message from a gargantuan 21-year-old in Nebraska and a photo of him eating. I am also being pursued by a gentleman who appears to have modelled his profile after The Onion’s own Smoove B. Most disturbing, my profile is quite popular with the polyamorous set in the middle of the night.

I did get a message from a normal person. He’s 25 and says “no way” am I really 37. He actually took the time to write me a friendly puppy-like message (sans butt tattoos thank god), so he got a response saying thanks dude, but YOU’RE 25. Coo coo ca choo Mrs. Robinson.

Compared to some of these nutters, the last gentleman I dated (severely depressed, in debt to his eyeballs and separated from his wife) was a paragon of sanity and charm.

This process is a little overwhelming. I’m still figuring out who I should talk to, if anyone.