Archives for March 2019

Bar Therapy: Session One

The social lubrication I have been delivering often comes with advice. Mind you, I’m not the type to offer unsolicited advice (unless I see you in a bicycle team get-up), but people seek, and I deliver. A couple joined me at the bar last night. They were teetering on the “cutoff” line, but I played along.

“So, Phil, we’re thinking about getting married.”

“Why would you do such an awful thing?”

“What?”

“Kidding.”

“Are you married?”

“I was for thirteen years. I consider it time served. So, what’s the hesitation about?”

“I don’t know. I mean, you’re a handsome guy.”

“Maybe you should mix in an ice water. And, what does that have to do with your nuptials? I’m no threesome-seeker. I have enough difficulty with one.”

“It’s just … well … women probably hit on you. Let’s say you have a girlfriend. Do you?”

“Hells to the no.”

“Anyway, if you did, and some hot woman comes up to you and says she’s going to fuck you tonight. How do you resist that? I mean, she tells you she’s totally going to blow you and fuck you dry.”

“Um, that doesn’t happen, but if it did, once I finish my happy dance, I’d have to decline graciously.”

“Bullshit.”

“Look, if I have a girlfriend, that means I have chosen to be blown and fucked by said girlfriend. There’s no need for a bar wench. Plus, it’s too fucking stressful. How am I going to get funky with the patron, then wash the stank off me, and find a way to look my woman in eyes while lying about my night?”

“Fine, but what if your girlfriend is away.”

“How far away?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Say she’s gone, out of town for two weeks.”

“Right.”

“And, the woman who is totally going to fuck you tonight is super hot. You’d do her.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?”

“See this? It’s a three-thousand dollar bottle of cognac. I love cognac. I have four bottles of cognac at home. While they’re nowhere near thousand-dollar bottles, they’re delicious. I pour two fingers, sip, and go to bed happy. I don’t need that fancy shit and the stress that comes with it.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“If your man is happy with what he has in you, he’ll probably stay loyal.”

“Again, probably?”

“They say a man is as loyal as his options are limited. It depends on the man and his relationship. If either are tainted, his temptation is more difficult to resist.”

“So, should we get married or not?”

“If you make each other’s lives better, do it, and enjoy it while it lasts. You might want to insist he doesn’t tend bar at Slutopia. I, on the other hand, have been on a horrible dry spell, so I’ll be emailing them my resume as we speak.”

He’s Not Your Ken Doll

Just a bit of advice for those considering dating men over 50: We come as we are. We’ve spent 50 years becoming stubborn, set-in-our-ways apes. No promises of juicy steak dinners, fine cognac, or oral favors is going to change us.

One particular feature that comes with your Phil doll is fur. I’m fucking Italian. As such, I come oilier and furrier than most. Some have suggested that I wax here, trim there, and shave that. Not gonna happen. If your man has a stray hair or two, learn to love it, sugar. You go right ahead and scrape and rip all the hair off your body, if that suits your needs. He’s your cuddly bear. You wouldn’t have a hairless teddy bear, would ya?

Had a friend’s recent bride brag about having couple’s manicures with him. I think they should be called womanicures. Have a look-see at my foot claws and you’ll understand why I would never ask even the cutest little Asian clipper to deal with my baseball-beaten toenails. Sure, my buddy insists (in front of his human investment) that he enjoys getting his toes tidied. I know better.

Fitness nuts are annoying. If you choose to be anything-free, goodie for you — it’s not for me. I was putting Spenda in my coffee and heard a comment suggesting fake stuff is bad, and I’d be much better off using unbleached sugar. You know why I use Spenda? Cuz I like the fucking taste of Splenda. To mimic that flavor, I would need to add four packets of yuck-sugar and then spend five minutes stirring the coffee to get them to dissolve, by which time I would be drinking warm coffee, which sucks ass no matter what packet was added in the first place. Leave me and my coffee alone.

Extreme fitness nuts are red flags. If someone is obsessively training to run a what-the-fuck-athon, I know there’s a horrible break-up in her recent past. Her ex beat down her self-esteem to the point where she believed she somehow became undesirable to all men when she became undesired by him. He’s an asshole, honey. You’re magnificent. Find a man who sees that. Oh, and that man will not be running any hip-cracking race.

It’s best to avoid “shoulds” at all costs, especially when dealing with gray gorillas. Don’t tell us what we should change. Love us as we are, if you want us to stick around.

Welcome to Swing Town

The more I’m exposed to this phenomenon, the less I understand it. Many first dates I’ve recently encountered casually inserted references to a puddle of swingers they almost stepped in. Naturally, while green when it comes to swinging, I’m no rookie at bullshit detection. Anyone who tells me they “kind of, almost, thought about it once … when drunk,” is lying.

So, what gives?

Well, there are different varieties of swinging. The best most men like me can give a nod to is the two girls on one guy thing. We get it. Four tits are better than two, etc. But, page three paragraph four of the Swingers’ Manual (no, there is no fucking such thing) says:

“As Husband-A makes love to Wife-B, while she orally pleasures Wife-A, Husband-B is to station himself bedside on Chair-C, touching nothing but his own Dick-D.”

Say what?

Let me get this straight. I have to sit here and flip my bippy whilst watching Horace leave his man-stank all over my woman? Nope-se-doodles.

I have enough difficulty peeing next to another man. There’s no way I could be in the same room with a second erection. It would be boner see-saw — his grows, mine shrinks. Would not matter one scintilla how hot the women were or how into it my woman was. Not gonna happen.

I’m not judging. You go get your freaky-deaky on, girlie. Just don’t get it on me.

There are many swinger types and swinger parties in SoCal. That’s no surprise. I understand some couples need to spice things up, so they might attend one just out of curiosity, but nothing will happen — unless it does — then, welcome to the shit storm.

Whatever happened to spicing things up with, oh, I don’t know … lingerie? Hey, get crazy and try out the whole oral with an Altoids thing, maybe. Wait, what about flavored lube? No? What’s that? You want some random dude we meet in a bar to get balls deep into you and his tongue-pierced bisexual clit-bopping maven while I keep score? Oh, fuck, no. Are you fucking crazy?

God, I need a drink.

Where are the old-fashioned women? I met my ex-wife at a happy hour. We chatted, spoke nothing of second-hand sodomy, went through the usual five or so dates, then sealed the deal … probably missionary style without any oral or dirty talk. I can’t totally remember because I’m fucking old and killed those brain cells. Still, I’m damn sure she’d vouch that it was a pretty fucking plain-Jack-and-Jane first date that led to 13 years of marriage without vicarious boffery and bedside meat beating. Go figure.

Lead with what?

Last night, I began receiving unsolicited dating advice from a woman in her late twenties who was recently wed. She asked where my woman was. I said there wasn’t. She asked why I’m single. I said I don’t care. Then the interrogation began. We got to the topic of pets.

“I have two cats.”

My buddy jumped in to emphasize that I have — not one cat — TWO cats. She reacted predictably.

“Well, you might want to not lead with that.”

“Really?”

“Sure. What if she’s allergic or doesn’t like cats?”

“Oh, then I’d have them euthanized.”

“Ah, good answer.”

“Your sarcasm detector is broken. I would never get rid of my catSSSSSSSS because some pussy support unit was oversensitive.”

“Maybe that’s why you’re single.”

“Again, I don’t care. Single life suits me just fine. What if your man said he would only consider marrying you if you traded your beloved schnauzer for double-D implants?”

“I don’t have a dog.”

“Right. You certainly have something annoying that he is willing to overlook because he loves the rest of you more than he hates the annoyance. Otherwise, he would not have bent a knee.”

“No. Actually, he loves all of me including my flaws.”

“He tolerates your flaws. My cats are not my flaws. They are two of the finest things about me. They’re clean, quiet, and wonderful company. I’m crass, intolerant, and opinionated. I eat too many peanut butter cookies and drink too much wine and bourbon. My woman is going to have to deal with that or take me in small doses.”

“Well, it’s no surprise you’re having a difficult time finding the one.”

“You’re missing my point again. I’m not searching for the one. You found your one, which is great for you, for now. After you have your heart kicked around like a rugby ball for decades, you’ll understand my perspective. Single life unteathers the soul. Opportunities abound.”

She didn’t buy it. They never do. Ah, young love. It’s cute as a toddler, until shit starts flying.

In a Wink of Time

I’m sitting at a bar minding my own business as nearly everyone around me is in their phones tapping, scrolling, enlarging, and laughing. I used to think I was missing something; now, I think these electronic tumors have become a pandemic of sorts. People don’t talk to each other. There was a sign in a pub in Paso Robles that read, “We don’t have WiFi. Why not talk to the person next to you?” Word.

I usually face the door (Italian thing) and keep an eye on the TV, unless it is on soccer. I scan the surroundings, yes, looking for prospects. I’m single. It’s what we do.

Last night, while scanning, a young lady winked at me. Yes, at me. There was nobody next to me, that’s how I know. Signals have certainly evolved over the years, but I was pretty damned confident that a wink is a sign of flirtation. I didn’t want to wink back, because it had been so long since I winked, I was worried it would come off as a wince. So, I walked over and sat next to her.

“Hi.”

“Oh, hi. How are you?”

“Well, I’m flattered.”

“About?”

“You winked at me.”

“I what?”

Fuck.

“You winked … toward me … when I was over there … with nobody around me … maybe, somebody behind me?”

The mad scramble I made was embarrassing beyond words, yet I kept doggie paddling, hoping to surface with a modicum of self-respect.

“Um, no, I don’t think I did.”

“Is there something in your eye?”

“I don’t think so. I’m just here waiting for my to-go order … to take home and eat … with my boyfriend.”

“I’m sorry. Honestly, I’m not intending to hit on you. I just thought you winked at me as a sign of flirtation, inviting me to come over and chat.”

“Yeah?”

“I now understand that you blinked (which most people do two eyes at a time), and my interpretation of your body language was incorrect and quite presumptuous, so I bid you farewell as I return from wherse I came.”

“Where’s wherse?”

“You’re totally fucking with me, and I deserve every bit of it. I do know how to interpret a smirk. Over there is where I was and where I belong, gripping the blue mountains.”

“Ha ha, you’re kind of cute. Too bad I have a boyfriend.”

“Yes. Yes, it is. Well, until we meet again. Oh, and maybe some eye drops. Toodles.”

I sulked back to my origins and slugged back a long pull of fizzy yellow water. She grabbed her order, headed out, stopped at the door, turned, and winked (of course, she fucking did) as she departed.

Be the boss? Nope.

57 years into this experiment called life, I’ve come to learn that the worst job on earth is managing people. People suck. We’re unreliable. We tire easily. We lie and make excuses. We hate other workers who we think don’t work as hard as we do and make more money. We bring emotional issues from home to work. The average worker’s goal is to make more money by doing less work. This makes being the boss an absolute nightmare.

Sure, I’m generalizing. Not all workers are lazy shits, but we’re all lazy shits sometimes.

Staring at a computer in my home office for 15 years has made me less dough and more doughy, so I decided to take on part-time work. I’ve been working in restaurants and bars since I was 16. I can cook, wash dishes, and pour drinks. Easy-Peasy.

When I interviewed, it was similar to the scene in American Beauty when Lester re-enters the workforce and is deemed a bit overqualified. The interviewer asked if I wouldn’t rather take on a supervisory role. I laughed and said, “Oh f… I mean, heck, no. But, thank you.”

I just want to show up on time, clock in, do my job, clock out, and go home. I want to take nothing home from the job other than some smoke-laced dollar bills and wine stains. Deal with people? Sure — the ones next to me or on the other side of the bar, no problem.

The same thing goes for owning a business. I owned a bar for 10 years. It almost killed me. People ask if I’d consider owning another bar. Again, “Fuck, no. You could hand me the keys to the Bellagio, and I’d hand them right back to you.”

Look, life isn’t about owning more, bigger, better; It’s about stress reduction. Being able to earn a living and leave work at fucking work, is what it’s all about. If I bring home stress, it’s nothing a little bourbon can’t erase. Bourbon doesn’t pay the bills, though. Especially when it’s the bourbon you’re trying to sell.

Sorry if I’m a little preachy and self-helpie here. This is just my perspective. If you love having two screens on your cubicle desk and don’t mind the odors of corpocracy — coffee breath and Jason’s farts — keep slapping that keyboard, sweetie. For me, at this point in life, I’ll trade a Benz for a Bolt and employee reviews for salted rims. Cheers.