Archives for October 2016

Finding Love Was Easy

findingloveYou join a social gathering. Scan the room. Eyes meet eyes. Smile meets smile. Eyes check left ring fingers. Then, all it took was an approach and, “Hey, you’re cute. My name is Phil. Let’s have drink sometime. Want to? What’s your number?”

Bam. Done.

Now, I’m forced to scan prospects on this horrible electronic appendage: my Samsung Galaxy. Tap, swipe up, tap, zoom, tap, squint, read, decipher, swipe right or left, repeat until frazzled, order drink, and wait.

Then, once a connection is made, it’s time for back and forth messages. Since there’s no actual face-to-face involved, my body language interpretation skills—honed over two million years by my ancestors—are worthless. I need to read into her words to determine what emotional and time investment will be required before connection.

Also, in the oldern days, it was easy to determine danger levels. Is there a big fella next to her with his hand on her ass? Yep. Avoid. Are there physical signs of tainted goods? Perhaps. Evade. Are there snarky friends, overbearing parents, or smelly infants/pets close by? Uh-huh. Run away!

Today, I need to do electronic surveillance to find signs of danger. Scan social media. Google. Search for common friends. Run health, credit, and background checks. (I don’t do that ridiculous shit, but have had ladies put me through it.) Ask my buddies if they ever had some of her and, if they did, was it worthwhile, am I violating any bro codes by pursuing her. Then, I must determine if these “friends” are being honest or setting me up for failure.

A few rounds of this, and I’m scanning Amazon Fire TV for the next series to binge watch solo. I just can’t take it. Don’t have the drive I used to have. Is that caused by dwindling testosterone? Is it fear of heartbreak? Is it laziness?

Fuck, if I know.

The latest prospects have me sending Bitmoji messages and using this new video app called Marco Polo. What have I become? I loathe the millennial I see in the crosswalk with his dislocated neck staring at his phone without any regard for the two-ton machine bearing down on him, but I am becoming him.

If I set my phone facedown at the bar, within minutes it will blink, buzz, and ding. It calls me to pay attention to it instead of the human in the sexy Cat Woman costume right next to me. Rude fucker.

Times like these make me wonder why I ever left my marriage. Sure, it wasn’t perfect, but whose is? She was kind and beautiful, and she liked me … enough. I didn’t need to find something better. Now, I’d be thrilled to find something half as good. But, I’m not going to. This isn’t stemming from depression or lack of confidence. It’s reality. In this new electronic realm, it’s high unlikely any satisfactory, lasting emotional and physical connection will come from an electronic connection.

So, I think alone.

Excuses For Being Single

conditionThere are many reasons why one would choose single life, but since we’re genetically shoved toward mating, I guess they’re technically excuses. There’s a difference. If you don’t do your homework, your excuse could be “the dog ate it” but the reason is you found something you’d rather do.

So, allow me to examine the top implications.

“Why are you single?”

Reasons:

  • Man: I can’t afford a girlfriend. Woman: I can’t afford another messy pet.
  • I’m not over my ex.
  • I’m too lazy to do all the swiping and messaging required nowadays.

Excuses:

  • I’m quite content, even happy to be on my own.
  • Men/Women suck.
  • I don’t have time.

“You haven’t been in any long-term relationships recently.”

(I usually ask for qualification here with, “Define ‘long-term’ and ‘recently.’” They both tend to be the duration and time since her last boyfriend. The best answer here is, “Have so,” but that rarely prevents further questioning.)

Reasons:

  • I keep looking for something better.
  • I’m too set in my ways (read: selfish).
  • I don’t date the girlfriend type—more the on-her-back-frequently type.

Excuses:

  • I just haven’t met the right one yet.
  • I don’t want to waste someone’s time. If it isn’t working, I set her free.
  • I have poor taste in women.

“Why don’t you consider women who are older, religious, or with young children or dogs?”

Reasons:

  • Because I don’t have to. I see older guys with hot young women, and it gives me hope.
  • Stress sucks.
  • Nature forces me toward women with full egg sacks, even though I’m fixed.

Excuses:

  • I do. Those women typically don’t consider me.
  • They’re all taken.
  • I’m allergic.

The best excuse to give to all the above is, “I have a condition, and I can’t talk about it.” That ends all inquisitions, and creates peace. Peace is good.

Locker Room Talk

lockerI’m in a locker room almost daily (should be daily, but I’m old and uninspired). You know what sort of discussions I hear in the locker room? None. Crickets. We’re either in there to store or retrieve our stuff. Sure, some fellas are brave enough to shower, shave, or blow dry their genitals. Most? Nothing. Not a word.

If a man started bragging about groping Miss So-and-So, or commented on the impeccable buttocks of Miss Such-and-Such, most of us would ignore him and hasten our exits. We wouldn’t ask for more details. We wouldn’t chest bump him.

Now, whereas most male locker rooms are silent, baseball dugouts are not. Coaches and players are not covering their mouths to prevent their opponents from stealing their strategies. They’re doing it so the audience doesn’t read their lips and discover something unhero-like. Most of what is said “behind the glove” is less misogynist and more game-related. Things like:

  • “How could you walk that numb nuts?”
  • “We have a frying pan playing second base. Make sure you pitch inside.”
  • “How’d we get stuck with Stevie Wonder behind the dish?”
  • “This guy says you don’t throw hard enough to hurt him.”
  • “Any chance you can mix in a few strikes before my sunscreen wears off?”

Yes, there’s the occasional female-related comment. It’s usually about a fan, and qualified:

“Which one of you dickheads am I going to offend when I comment on your granddaughter’s inability to keep her legs closed?”

I’m not claiming that all comments are harmless. Sure, some guys take it too far. But, usually, the comments about women involve flattery or fantasy (from our standpoint, not hers, unless she’s a certain kind of woman in a certain kind position). The important distinction is that our locker room talk at its worst is about things we’d like to do to her, whereas a certain tangerine-colored douche canoe who happens to be running for president describes things he has done. Deeds are far more destructive than words, are they not?

Ladies, just to keep you informed, these are things my fellow swine and I say we’d like to do to you. Again, there are circumstances in which you’d find these less offensive:

  • “Play Slinky with your fun bags.”
  • “Take you to pound town.”
  • “Sit on our faces and sing Beatles tunes.”
  • “Bounce quarters or eat sushi off your butt.”
  • “Suck on your big toe.” (This one bothers me, probably more than you. WTF? Why The Foot?)

Things we don’t say involve marriage, parenting, or gifting. Ah, but, you can use your imagination. Add your own subtitles. Or, continue to live with the fact that you’re stuck with immature perverted drunks as mating options.

You’re the Average of Three

threemenEver hear the claim that we are the average of the three people we hang out most with? Usually, it refers to financial status. Hang with three filthy rich people and some of that dirt will coat you. Unsure I buy into that. It’s more likely to be a symptom instead of the cause. If you’re rich, you typically hang in social circles with rich people, right?

I hang with drunks, baseball players, and cats. Average those three and, yep, you got me. Well, I don’t lick myself and sleep in the sun. Still, like my three closest friends, I’m a drunk with a baseball problem. Sure, I consider the benefits of ordering a cobb salad and unsweetened iced tea after a game. Yet, I’m not up for wearing a bully bullseye.

Do you see yourself in others?

I watch a buddy drink himself silly and applaud myself for not being in his shoes. Yet, I’m probably too drunk to realize I am. Then, I get paranoid about how friends and mates see me. Am I someone’s obnoxious drunk buddy?

Three guys my age strolled into the bar and sat in front of my last weekend. I was a party of one, as usual.  I could tell the three were around my age (double nickel), and all I could see in each were parts of me I despise. There must be some clinical term for this that, when eventually diagnosed, will open a wonderful new world of sedation options.

All three, in my eyes, were trying too hard. One had obviously died hair, intentionally messed. I couldn’t stop wondering why he wouldn’t dye his eyebrows to match. Another wore a fashionable T-shirt one size too tight. He looked like a potato sack. His bare arms featured lunch lady triceps and enough elbow folds to store his credit cards. Man three had tight jeans, a sweater tied around his neck, and thick framed glasses.

They all flirted embarrassingly with the servers, then stared creepily at the youthful butts as the ladies fetched their craft beer. Then there was the typical boy-what-I-would-do-to-her comments that made me wish one of these ladies would pivot and remind them the closest they’d ever get would be masturbation fantasy.

Yet, these women are not servants; they are wise manipulators of men who deserve to be exploited.

I was disgusted. Still, I’ve done all of those things. Is this Nature slapping me? Should I clear my closet and force myself to avoid objectifying women as gene replicators? Perhaps. Should I stop calling serves and bartenders pet names like “lovely,” “beautiful,” and “cuteness?” Yeah, probably should. They’re better than “ma’am” and “miss,” right? How about “kitten?” I know—fuck, no.

These fellas were likely similarly disgusted by yours truly—dirty old lonely man at a bar.

“Look at him. Pathetic. He’s probably married, and the wife kicked him out. Or, he’s stinky—hasn’t learned the fine art of modern male grooming. He looks desperate. Who wears printed shirts? Ew. He thinks he’s cool drinking bourbon. That reminds chicks of their grandfathers. Bet that watch is a knock off, too. Poor old sap.”

Yep. That’s me. Now, leave me be.