Archives for November 2018

Nah-dia

As I was disposing of fine tequila at a local Mexican restaurant, I noticed the Lamborghini of women (pretty to look at, fantasize about driving one, can’t afford it) at the end of the bar. November weather in SoCal doesn’t dissuade leg exposure. I glance, appreciate the fine chassis, and return to a task I’m more qualified to undertake — margarita.

You know how you can sense when someone is looking at you? That’s why I try not to stare. Yet, I had the feeling she was looking my way. What gives? I glanced over. She was smiling. She raised a glass and said, “Cheers.” Time for a test drive? I know better.

“Cheers to you, too.”

“My name is Nadia.”

“Hello, Nadia. I’m Phil.”

“Nah-dia.”

“Yes. Nadia.”

“No, Naaaaaaaah-dia.”

“Right.”

“Say it.”

“Naaaaaaah-dia.”

“Come down and sit next to me, handsome.”

“I, um … well, you see, I’m meeting a friend,” I explained as I walked down to clink glasses with her.

“Ah, you are meeting your wife.”

“No. Heavens, no. A friend.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“No. A friend who happens to be a girl.”

“This means girlfriend, no?”

“No. She’s just a friend. We don’t have sex.”

“Sex? Who was talking about sex? You pervert.”

Now I’m completely sideways. Because of her strong Spanish accent, I can’t tell if she’s fucking with me.

“Sorry. I was just explaining that the woman that is coming is not a romantic interest of mine.”

“Why not?”

“She has a boyfriend.”

“So why is she not meeting her boyfriend here instead of you, Pheel.”

“Fill.”

“Huh?”

“Nevermind. Her boyfriend lives in another state.”

“Tell me this, Pheel, if she did not have this boyfriend, you would have sex, as you say, no?”

“No.”

“Oh, you are gay. It’s OK, you know.”

“Yes. I mean, no, I’m not gay and yes, it is OK. In fact, I prefer gay people. They’re far more fun to be around.”

“Ah, so you don’t like Nah-dia because she’s not gay.”

“Of course, I like Nadia. You seem quite nice.”

“Naaaaaaah-dia.”

“Yes.”

“Where is this friend?”

“She’s coming.”

“This friend has a name, I assume.”

“Rachel.”

“Ah, Rachel.”

“No, Raaaaaaay-chel.”

“This is not funny, you know. I’m trying to be nice to you. It is Thanksgiving. You should be nice, not pervert.”

“I’m kidding around with you. You’re very pretty — way out of my league — so I am flirting aimlessly.”

“What this means — aimlessly?”

“It means I realized when I first set eyes on you that you would not want to be with me romantically.”

“I smiled at you and asked you to come over, no?”

“Wait. So, you’re telling me I could be with you.”

“No, of course not, silly. Plus, you have a girlfriend, remember? Or does pretty girl make you forget?”

“She’s not … fuck … all right, let me make sure I have this correct because if I lose this in translation somehow, I might injure myself quite intentionally. Do you, Nadia, want to go on a date with me?”

“Naaaaaah-dia.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want to say it?”

“I don’t think I say it the way you want me to.”

“Yes. When you fix that and get rid of the girlfriend, you ask me then, Pheel.”

“Nice meeting you.”

I returned to my humble stool.

“Bartender? Un otro … mas grande … ahora.”

… Like My Women

Am I an alcoholic, drunk, casual drinker, or non-drinker? Yes.

Doctors will say that booze is bad for you. I say, like masturbation, it depends on the perspective. For example, beating off in your bedroom when nobody is watching is healthy. (Please put down a towel.) Beating off in the produce aisle of Ralphs is unhealthy. Similarly, drinking to make people and situations more tolerable is certainly healthy. Doing so while teaching kindergarten, not so much.

Alcohol works for me in many ways. It lowers my inhibitions. This helps me to avoid being that creepy guy on the corner of the bar staring at landscaping designs on his phone. While making me less attractive (unless I’m buying), booze makes other people more attractive. As my nose reddens and speech slurs, all age, height, and political differences melt away. If she crosses an outside leg toward me, I’m ordering another bourbon and taking things to SEXCON Level 2.

What’s the source of my love for all things fermented? Partially genetic, no doubt. Pop was a boozer. When he got home after a twelve-hour warehouse shift, it was liver workout time. The Budweiser delivery boy (me) presented a steady stream of cans to the Budweiser disposal unit (Pop). Then, right before bed, Pop would tip a few ounces of Seagrams into a glass, slam it, then stagger off to snoredom. Mom didn’t drink much, or maybe she did — just not around the munchkins. Don’t know if I ever saw her drunk. She did like Sambuca. Sambuca is the nectar of the godless.

Another cause for my tipsy trend is that I have worked in bars since 1980. I’m quite comfortable on both sides of the bar. As I prefer my drinks like my women (cold and strong), you’d be happy to encounter me as your beverage dispenser. You won’t catch me pouring any booze into a silly little measuring cup. That’s sinful. Nor, will you notice my lips moving as I count, “one one-thousand, two one-thousand.” A crime against humanity. Should you order from me, you will leave with sufficient alcohol density to make your night more interesting.

Do I prefer hard liquor, wine, or beer? Yes.

Now that I have moved close to wine country, I have been leaning more toward grapeness. Though discerning, I am not snobby. Life truly is too short to skip dessert and drink cheap wine, but cheap wine is better than no wine. I also like my wine like my women (somewhat dry and dark with great legs). I’ve already joined one winery, which encourages my visitation since tasting is free. Can one obtain sufficiently lowered will and expectations by imbibing only 1.5 ounces at a time? Certainly.

There are people who should not drink because they can’t keep themselves in the fun zone. I respect that. More for me. In the same way, I should not eat kale. It makes me angry and miserable. I don’t care if it makes my doo-doo firmer. Fuck kale. In fact, I like my kale like my women.

Wedding Commentary

As far as skeptics go, yours truly would be considered a skeptard. Look, I was married for 13 years. Most of those years were wonderful. We had sex pretty often, too. As I attended a recent wedding ceremony amongst a crowd of pissy-eyed ladies, I struggled to keep from blurting “Ha!”

I’m a horrible person, doomed to die alone.

Seriously, this is an ancient custom, right? The speech around how the ring symbolizes marriage because there is no beginning and no end is nonsensical. There certainly is a beginning. Once signatures hit the marriage license, it’s on, motherfuckers. Ends? A realm of inevitable destinations, including divorce and death. I say replace the wedding ring with a horseshoe nipple ring. There’s definitely a beginning and end, with an unforeseen middle.

The bride and groom wrote their vows. I can’t remember if my ex and I did that. Probably. There’s a template that is followed for these:

  1. State how your life sucked before him/her. It didn’t. You simply have not bungled this relationship beyond repair, yet.
  2. Talk about how he/she came into your life. If you claim your god did this, I will smite thee. Your imaginary friend had some extra time between plagues and decided to arrange and watch a little human porn? How cute.
  3. Proclaim how this person is your end. Basically, you’re promising to never mix with another tab A or slot B, no matter how much alcohol is involved. This is silly.
  4. Say, “I do,” and hope the strength in numbers thing applies to your marriage and not the number of divorce lawyers needed to resolve the mess you’re going to make.

All right. All right. Calm down. A little skepticism is good for you. Judge me to be a godless, loveless asshole. Nailed it.

The party afterward is nice. See? I’m not all Donnie Downer. Think of all the fixin’s. You can play fun games like:

  • Which fork do I use for this?
  • Can you pass the butter balls? Heh, heh. I said “balls.”
  • This champagne tastes like Coors Light without the taste. More like Macadam Light.
  • Fuck, I dropped my napkin again. Oh, well. I’ll use the tablecloth.
  • What’s in the candy tin? Ooh, pink chocolate baby nipples.

Then there’s dancing. I noticed how “The Alley Cat” and “Hokey Pokey” have morphed into “The Cupid Shuffle” and “Stanky Leg.” Lovely. The father/daughter dance is always a bit creepy. Why’s Dad so emotional? If he’s happy, is it because he can finally get her off his auto insurance? If he’s sad, is it because she’s marrying someone just like him, which means he’d better keep his little girl’s room ready?

You wanna know a memorable thing about my wedding? My wife passed out. Yup. I was more of a gentleman then. I caught her and set her down lightly without pointing and laughing. She was only out for a few seconds. I’m confident it was her immune system giving her “what the fuck did you just do” allergic reaction to committing herself to such a sarcastic prick, who hates camping and loves Monty Python.

Anyway, yes, the wedding was nice. Sure beats a funeral. I mean, there are no chocolate baby nipples at funerals.

I’m with Stupid

“Hey. So, where’s the damn book?”

That’s the nudge I receive multiple times a week from a fellow horse at our watering hole. You see, I recently had an epiphany (mortgage bill) and moved away from the beach, farther inland. The money I save on payments needs to go somewhere. Why not my liver? Luckily, I found just the spot to give daddy his liquid meds. The most notable thing about my new Cheers! — aside from the lovely doctors — is that it caters to, let’s say, mature men. Of these, I am less mature. Passing days won’t affect that.

The one fellow (Buddy) reminds me of my father. He has his spot at the bar. He has his drink at the bar. He has his meal at the bar. He has his favorite hat. I sorely miss Pop, so seeing my new friend is comforting. Just as Pop would give me a good swat in the keister when I began to slack, Buddy keeps up the tradition.

“Well?”

“It’s stuck in my head, Buddy.”

“A lot of good it’s doing everyone up there.”

“I know.”

“You haven’t written a single word, have you?”

Relentless. I used to come up with all sorts of excuses for Pop. He would put his hand on my shoulder, close his eyes, shake his head, then look back at me with his bullshit detecting hazel blues and dispose of my excuse. I admit my fault.

“No, Buddy, not yet.”

“What’s the hold-up?”

“Guess I just need a little more reminding.”

“Well, get to it.”

An excuse I tell myself is that I’m so distraught over the orange dick-tater in the White House, that I can think of nothing other than poking the elephant. Buddy wouldn’t approve. Another might be that since I have moved to my shiny new home, I’ve gone 0-fer: my damn home is a virgin. “Whose fault is that?” Pop would ask. Fuck. I can’t even suggest that I’m trying and simply mentally constipated.

It’s not like I’m hermitting. I get out. I even took on another job working banquets at a local country club. Yes, I owned a banquet hall for ten years. Yes, I hated it. Still, for some reason, weddings just make me giddy — I mean, as long as I’m not the one kissing to clinking glassware. It’s an interesting experience, mostly because there I am a minority. I’m old and white. The staff is young and brown. There are no walls between us.

Anyway, my point is I meet people. I’m less and less of a mating option, so breaking my house’s cherry is more and more difficult. Also, things like uninterrupted sleep, bourbon by the fire pit, and talking to my cats in cat voices are priorities rising closer to that of spraying genetic goo.

“Where’s the damn book?”

Fine. I’ll unsheath the beast within my jeans and take him out for another twirl around the block. I’ll flirt, stumble around Bumble, and place myself in sexually favorable situations — around drunk women with neglected parts and pity. I’ll seek women way out of my league. I’ll handle rejection like a champ. When the occasion arises, and I finally enjoy that post-coital bliss, her look of disappointment will be soundly addressed as I point to my crotch and say, “I’m sorry. I’m with Stupid.”