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I met up with the crew at The Pub for another night of 80’s covers, shots, and beer. There’s a fair numbers of cuties around and our groups dissolves periodically as one or another of us approaches a girl. I’m in my element: relaxing, catching up with friends and employees (which are not mutually exclusive groups), and generally just joking around. In walks K——, the girlfriend of a one of the aforementioned friends/employees. K—— is one of the sweetest, coolest girls I’ve ever met. She’s intelligent and genuinely cares for those around her, with a quick wit and resiliency I’ve rarely encountered. She’s also dressed to the nines, a knee-length flowing black dress replete with plunging decolletage and black stilettos, all crowned by her bright blue eyes.

“Wow, I mean … wow! What’s the occasion? You look absolutely fantastic.”

“Thanks! Some friends and I went downtown to the House of Blues tonight to catch some up and coming bands. How’s your night going?”

“Pretty good, just getting out.” Through more such small-talk and catchup, I see my friends slowly scatter to give me space, not knowing that I already know this girl.

“You know, it’s kind of funny, my friends don’t know that I already know you, so they’re clearing out ‘cause they think I’m hitting on you. Of course, I totally would be if you were single.”

“I’ve been single for a year.”

I was shocked into utter silence. A chasm even Evil Knievel couldn’t bridge. She just stood staring at me. Talk about capturing my mind.

“Um, then I am hitting on you.”

She laughs it off. “Yeah, we kept it pretty low-profile. We’re good like that. So not everyone knows.”

We spent most of the rest of the night chatting, from the serious to the superficial, people watching and closing down the bar. We trade numbers but she’s not ready to start dating again. It’s too premature, she’s still in recovery mode.

For now.

After the Fashion Whore show on Saturday, I met up with Frenchie and Lutz and The Pub to hang for a few. It was already late, closing in on midnight, and the two were already well on their way to blotto. I’d had a couple beers over the last few hours, but was otherwise sober and starting to tucker out. Lutz nudges my elbow.

“Yo, Barclay, go talk to those girls. Those four over there.”

I make a quick scan. Two reasonably cute girls and two not so cute girls. “Me? Why me?”

“‘Cause you got game, man, you got game.”

“No, I don’t have game. I have anything but game.”

Lutz is swaying, and slurring a bit. “No, you’re right, you don’t have game. But you know what? You’re comfortable in your own skin. Girls like that, you’re comfortable in your own skin.” He says it simply, without production or drama, just his own little observation.

I was immediately swept back to the first time I met A–‘s father, who, contrasting me with A–‘s previous boyfriend, said to A– that “Barclay’s comfortably in his own skin, isn’t he?” The exact same words. Something poignant about that, hearing it again from a completely different source, someone antipodal to A–‘s father’s personality.

But I don’t usually think about it. It took someone, or two people, to remind me that with a little luck and a lot of work, I actually am comfortable with myself (or the evolution thereof). So next time you’re thinking some kind thought about someone, tell them, plainly and simply, and it’ll probably penetrate farther than you expect.

Fits and starts. A jerky, spasmodic evening of false starts. Saturday night started with a trip downtown to Rouge (the old Hustler bar) to check out some local artists, including Ginger’s: DJ’s, belly dancers, body painting, bondage art and performance, all sort of interesting things to view.

Sort of. Ok, I dig some of Ginger’s work, but since I’ve photographed half of it, I was going more for moral support on her behalf and to check out the other artists. Most interesting were the nudes painted on the husks of giant palms, the the dim but variable lighting casting an erotic wave to the figures emerging from the undulating husks. Pretty cool. And there were some reasonably interesting abstracts in the back room. Unfortunately, that’s just about when I mentally checked out.

Out of the rest of the work, I was thoroughly unimpressed. The bondage art pieces were without depth or nuance, just far enough from flat to remove the impression of cartoon and not nearly close enough to indicate any understanding of light or perspective. The themes were entirely too literal and transparent, and the people were ill-formed but without suggestion of eros or disgust. Very emotionless pieces; exactly what I would not expect for bondage art.

There was also a photographer/model duo displaying various pieces, of which I really only enjoyed one piece – although that one piece was quite good. The rest of the shots were decent, but reeked of lighting and composition compensation via Photoshop filters. I could walk up to just about and piece and pull it apart, e.g., “yup, this one was shot digital, the depth of field is all off so they blew out the lighting in the background and ran the watercolor filter over the whole thing, and they printed it larger than the resolution of the camera can support.” Now I have no problem with digital (I shoot digital) or photo manipulation (I do that as well), but for the most part, it’s really hard to make a bad photo good, but really easy to make a good photo worse. It was a more subtle version of what you see over the net: a decent photo/rendering that’s had lens flare, ripple, and spherize effects dumped on top.

After speaking with half the duo, I believe they could do much better leaving the effects at home and learning how to use a camera. Most where shot of a little point and shoot digital, which while fine for snapshots, did not allow for the control required to get what could be a great shot: you could tell just from the contrast that the camera’s metering was off. The potential is there, but the filters killed it for me.

I said goodbye to Ginger, and bailed.

I was to meet up at En Fuego in Del Mar with Chris+Sarah, Mike+Stacey, Brett+Lisa, and Frenchie for a little birthday celebration for Brett. A nice, enjoyable, uncharacteristically mellow time. Frenchie spots two cuties ordering drinks at the upstairs bar near our table.

“Go talk to them.”

My beer’s empty to I saunter up beside them and place my order, nodding hello and attempting to introduce myself. I’m cut short with a disinterested “hi” before she turns to her girlfriend, blocking me out with body language. I pay for my beer and return to our table.

Frenchie looking at me incredulously. “What happened?”

“She wasn’t interested. She and her friend were actually whispering about some hot guy here I can only assume isn’t me. Nothin’ I can do about that.”

“Aww, shit. Oh well.”

Later in the evening Frenchie saddles up to a table with a Lone Lady at the adjacent table. We’re all watching surreptitiously under our conversation, as Frenchie is solid once he’s on the date, but not so good at the introductions. It appears he’s doing alright. Until Lone Lady’s boyfriend comes back and sits down next to Frenchie. And quietly stares at him.

Our table’s alternating between laughing, crying, and huffing “abort” underneath coughs.

But Frenchie doesn’t leave. He keeps on with the conversation, five, ten, twenty minutes with the girl.

After LL and boyfriend leave, Frenchie slides back over to our table.

“Dude, you guys are supposed to tell me when there’s a boyfriend!”

“Frenchie, remember that time a few months ago when I cut you off from hitting on my friend at The Pub after about thirty seconds? The one that was married? Whose husband wasn’t there because he’s deployed? As an active duty Navy Seal?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, aside from the ring, there’s no way you could’ve known she was married. But when the boyfriend is sitting right next to you, well, you’re on your own. You gotta know when to fold ‘em, or at least, exit gracefully.”

Note: Frenchie’s really a great guy, but exiting a relationship of several years, he just kinda lost that “go right up and talk to girls” attitude. But, it does provide us with some great entertainment. We luv ya’, Frenchie.

Saturday was boys night out, and we hoofed it down to Tower23 at the JRDN restaurant to start out the evening. I’ve eaten at JRDN’s before – the steak was excellent although I’ve heard the fish is somewhat lackluster – but had never hung out at the bar before. (I had the sirloin with tri-peppercorn rub in a Cabernet reduction. Try it.) Overall, they’re going for the South Beach style trendiness I find a little irritating. (Yes, I’ve been to South Beach – briefly – so I’m not talking completely out of my ass here.) There were plenty of beautiful women, although mostly appeared attached or uber-maintenance. (Surprise.) Despite the downtown-prices of drinks ($8 to $10 well drinks), the bartenders where quite amiable although very busy. After buying the first round, I figured I didn’t have to pay for the rest of the night.

Now, when I’m out with this group of friends, I usually find myself drinking entirely too much. We usually close down the bars, and my next day is seriously compromised unless I manage to wake up, train, and sweat out the hangover. It’s not their fault, somehow I just lose all common sense and keep consuming, perhaps because they’re so fun to chill with I forget I’m drinking. Well, considering I don’t really like getting tanked, I’ve adopted a bio-chemical approach to these outings that’s worked rather well for me: red wine. Not only do I enjoy wine, but I can’t drink a warm red very fast. We rolled in around 10pm, left after 1am, and in total I had two glasses of wine. Went to bed sober, there was no fogginess of recollection, and I awoke refreshed enough to hang out with my sister, help my friend move, take care of errands, and do my Japanese homework. I think I like this plan. Oh, and it also gave me a new perspective on the whole female introduction/approach thing ….

As I said before, I enjoy drinks, but not getting ripped, but by the time 11pm on Saturday night creeps up, I’ve definitely got a little buzz going. Enough to see failed pick up attempts (mine and others’) as more entertaining than anything else. I must say, they’re even funnier without the buzz. Top two lines that night that made absolutely no contribution to continuing the conversation (neither spoken by myself):

1) To a very tall girl: “Hey, wow, you’re really tall. Hey, wait, where’re you going … ?” (Duh.)

2) To a girl we just barely met:

Girl: “Wanna hear a dirty joke?”

Guy: “You’re a stripper!”

Girl: …

Um, yeah, that went over well. Especially when she’s 5’ 2” / 100 lbs. with DD’s. Maybe (or may not be) accurate, but not complimentary. Thanks for helping me out, guys.

As a side note, considering that a bunch of us had just seen “40 Year Old Virgin,” the (non-PC) theme of the evening was finding variations on “You know how I know you’re gay?” (If you’ve seen the movie you know what I’m talking about.) Unfortunately, the best cut-down to come out of it was from me against myself, when Frenchie was getting me my second glass:

Chris: You know how I know you’re gay?

Me: Because a French guy at a bar is buying me wine?

(Groan. Didn’t translate. Well, par for this post so far. Narative’s as tightly woven as goatse’s ass.)

On the upshot, I met a good looking girl, T–, that’s a bit of a music junkie (and works for a local indie station), skis, is interested in travel, all sort of good stuff, so hopefully we’ll hook up this weekend. Also got a date planned with B– from last weekend.

Was there a point to this post? Well, I think it had something to do with finding applicability of various strategies in different areas, but I really didn’t develop this post ahead of time, so it pretty much sucks reindeer balls. Deal with it.

“Since you’re my boys, if you see anyone out of line or breaking shit or whatever, just kick ‘em out. I don’t give a fuck, just toss ‘em.”

“Whose party is this again?”

“My little sister’s, but it’s at my dad’s house. Should be mad little girls there, like, eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. Some high school, some college. It’ll be banging.”

We’re just leaving the suburban outskirts of San Diego. As we dig deeper into the forested hills, the temperature begins to drop and it starts to feel like a real November evening. We’re hauling six thousand pounds of steel over two lanes on a twisty road to Ramona, to the house Joey grew up in. We start to slow when we see cars lining the side of the highway for hundreds of yards.

Joey sighs. “Fuckin’ amateurs. Like the cops won’t notice this.”

We pull on into the extended driveway, cars packed so tightly we have to pull back the mirrors of the truck in to pass. As we approach the automated gate, a drunk teenager stops us.

“Yo, five bucks to get in.”

The truck cab erupts in laughter from Joey, Carter, Adam, Matt, and myself.

“What, you guys aren’t going to drink? Five bucks for a cup.”

More laughter.

Smiling, Joey explains, “Little dude, this is my place.”

“Oh, shit, you’re Jane’s bruddha! Snap! Here’s some cups.”

“Yo, thanks, keep it up.”

We pull in through the gate, farther up a steep incline past more cars, past a pool and hot tub teeming with drunks, up farther, to the top of the ridge line near the house. The overnighters have pitched tents, and it looks like some might already be occupied.

We mosey down the road, past the spa, into the throngs. There’s an mediocre band jamming near the pool, amidst three hundred or so kids, grouped by proximity to the kegs and fire pit. We trail through the crowd, amused, realizing most of these people were born in the mid to late eighties, and don’t know how hold their liquor, or properly tap a keg, or even poor a good beer for that matter.

A bubbly blond little eighteen year old runs up to Joey: “It says V.I.P. on my ass! Want to see?” She unbuckles her jeans, dropping trou while bending over. She pushes out her ass while adjusting her red thong. Cocking her head around, she barks, “Take a picture!” Matt slaps her ass, Carter whips out a camera phone, taking a picture of Adam licking the letter “P” emblazoned in sharpie on her right cheek. Joey shoots me a pleased told-you-so look and bellows a laugh.

A girl walks unsteadily up to me, extending her palm. “And what’s your name?”

“Barclay.”

She cocks her hips and coils a curl around her finger. “How old are you?”

She too drunk and I’m too quick. “What was your name again?”

“Oh, I’m Kaitlin, I’m friends with …” trailing off into a brief conversation.

She’s too drunk to notice my dodge and I’m too sober, for now, to lie.

I catch snippets of conversation, from a little angel that just had the lights switched on her while screwing some guy in the pool house “… we we were totally going to have a threesome, but I ran out of condoms … yeah, sucks …”

Fuckin’ amateurs.

We continue to mingle, shooting the shit with each other and meta-laughing about while we meta-flirt with the girls. Every once in a while we have to calm down some asshole who gets too drunk and angry and stupid, by we’re there more to just hang than we are to play security. We’re just security by default, as we’re friends of the older bruddha – and ‘cause of that martial arts thing.

Every once in a while we get some straggler tailing us, someone who doesn’t know how to act at a party so they loosely follow around others: “Don’t you go San Diego State?”

I laugh and keep walking. This is too funny.

I have to step in the middle of some altercation, but the two guys don’t want to fight, they’re too busy posturing, willing to forego the fight if they can both walk away while saving face. I let them, making my presence known but not interfering. I see the quick nervous flicks of eyes over to me then back to the commotion. Later in the evening, one of the two gets himself riled up again. I’m there, I was up at the hot-tub with a birds eye view, I could see the group off to side, agitating, angry, and slide down the hill unnoticed.

Before he reaches his target, I’m there casually, as if I just happened to run into me. He recognizes me and tries to enlist me, “What’s your name?”

I lie. “Paul.”

“Man, Paul, this guy’s been talking shit about me all year, would you let someone do that to you?”

Ah, an emotional appeal. Get me involved. Get me answering your questions. A simple ploy. Bruddha, you’re not good enough to play that game with me.

“Let it go, bro. Look at all these honeys here, would you seriously rather be fighting than fucking?”

“I’m already fucking a girl, but this guy’s been talking shit ALL YE—”

“You’re fucking a girl? Right now? Like, the invisible woman, ‘cause I don’t see her.”

He cranes his head, scanning the crowd, looking for her. Yup, he’s under my control now. He’s thinking about what I want him to think about – his girl, and the things he wants to do with her, not some asshat that called him names.

Her spots her and points her out. I don’t follow his finger.

“She’s cute. So why don’t you take her home and fuck her silly?”

He appears to weigh the options and capitulates, retreating to his crowd of friends, but retaining enough ego to call me a “pussy,” on the way out, from the “safety” of his group of friends. Bruddha, unlike you, I can let it slide.

Fuckin’ amateurs.

I’m pissing in the woods when the cops arrive. Carter walks up behind me, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yup.” I zip up.

We start creeping through the woods, testing our stealthiness, putting our outdoor training to use. The cops are out at the highway, directing the flow of cars from the base of the driveway since cries of “5-0” rang through the party. There’s a lot of dried leaves about, and we’re a little tipsy, but there’s great contrast of light and shadow and enough noise from the party to mask our approach. We crouch, just off the side of driveway, listening. People walk withing feet of us and don’t see us. Carter and I snicker, drawing a line across our neck with an index finger, denoting when someone enters the range of a quick and silent kill.

A new police vehicle pulls up, the sheriff. Over the bullhorn, he commands “I want to talk to the organizer of this party or we’re coming in, and we’re going to start checking for things you don’t want to check for.”

We sneak back to the pool, to warn Joey and Jane. The party’s still two-fifty strong. There’s no way the bullhorn could have been heard this far away and over the substantial din.

“Joey, time to clear, or they’re coming in.”

Some drunk girl chimes in. “No, no, everyone should stay! That guy other there said they need a warrant to come in!”

“Honey, all they need to see is one drunk, high, or otherwise fucked up minor to come stumbling out of this place, and they have probable cause. You think that hasn’t happened yet?”

Even in high school, we knew how to tap a keg. We knew what a release valve was for. We always had enough condoms. We knew not to rely on legal advice from some drunk guy from our English class. We knew that when the cops came, everyone should walk away, not try to barricade yourself in. If you walk away, they let you. If you force them to come in, they’ll pat you down and find whatever beer, smokes, weed, or whatever you have stashed on or near you.

Fuckin’ amateurs.

Joey makes the call, “Alright, clear ‘em out, Jane, grab a bunch of your hot friends, take ‘em up to the house, and we’ll keep a smaller shindig going after the cops leave.”

We wander, gently prodding suggestible psyches. “Dude, the cops are here, I’d take off if I were you.” “Dude, they’re gonna try to come in here, where’s my ride?” “Dude, dude, dude….”

There’s a group near the back that’s not moving. The yeah-I-heard- you-but-I-think-I’m-entitled group. Walking up, I wave non-chalantly toward the exit and shake my head slowly, like your kid has just drawn on the wall and lied about it, and you’re too tired to deal with explaining the logic of how you figured it out.

“Gitthefuckouttahere.”

Some drunk little whore is offended by my presentation but not the hand down her pants. “What the fuck, man, you don’t have to be so rude.”

“Honey, I’m doing you a favor. Just get the fuck outta here.”

“You’re doing us a favor? Right.” She looks at her boy. “What a dick.”

I shake my head again, not willing to explain to them how I can smell the joint and they really don’t want the cops in here.

“Like I care. Fuckin’ move.”

They begin to exit, fifteen people in one big offended mood. The last guy up, the guy in the leather jacket, the guy who stands up last to show how cool he is, offers his sage advice over the cherry of his cigarette. “You should care, dude.”

I actually laugh.

“Whatever. Haul ass.”

I meander over to a another crowd. Johnny Punker saddles up next to me. Cracking open a beer while looking at him over my shoulder, I make a suggestion. “I’d leave if I were you.” People give me looks. Yeah, that’s right, I’m old enough to drink and kick people out of a party at the same time.

He assumes a hard-core attitude. “No way man, I leave this party when the cops bust in and handcuff me and drag me out.” Yeah, way to stick it to the corporate man, way to find something important to fight for.

I look back at him and swivel my body square with his.

“No, you’re leaving. You understand me?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m leaving ‘cause you’re telling me to. Uh, later.”

He high-tails it out the back. At least he catches on quick, quicker than his friend, who pronounces to his remaining friends, “The cops aren’t really here.”

“Uh, yeah, they are. Walk twenty yards that way,” indicating with my finger, “you can see the red and blue flashes through the trees. I may not have been around much, but usually just cops have those.”

“Yeah, right, the cops aren’t here.”

“You think I’m sending dozens of hot little girls away for no reason? Are you an idiot?”

He turns back to his friends, mumbling, “There’s no way the cops are here.”

“Alright, dumbass, just go. Leave. Right now. You’re not smart enough to be at this party. Get the fuck out.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“I’m your guardian fuckin’ angel.”

“I–”

“No, fuck that. Just leave. Bye. Go. Now.”

“But–

“Nope. Go.” I wave him off and walk away, leaving him to to escort himself out.

Fuckin’ amateurs.

When we’ve got the party down to a decent size, the police pull away and we start up the DJ. There’s male and female nakedness at the hot tub, and things are relaxed. We share the more interesting anecdotes of clearing three hundred people without incident with five somewhat drunk assholes. I lay back on the side of the tub, thinking of how stupid I was when I was eighteen. I watch the stars of a rural night sky dance and dip and hide behind the silhouette of a pretty young thing dancing above me, and I am content, even thought I too am still, a fuckin’ amateur.

She’d circled the bar several times now, counter-clockwise, looking for someone or something. She was tall and relatively thin, with hips a little too wide for her frame and a pronounced Egyptian proboscis. I hadn’t really noticed her aside from her regular cycle through the club, not attractive nor unattractive.

Out of the blue, Sean hooks her arm and queries, “Have you met my friend Barclay?” He’s wearing his eternal smile, sincere and goofy. She mumbles something and waves him off without breaking stride. We go back to our conversation about lenses and lighting.

Ten minutes later in her next lap, Sean again hooks her arm again. “Have you met my friend Barclay?” She stops briefly with a noncommittal wave, and continues on.

Fifteen ‘til last call, she’s circling again, although noticeably less stable. Same question: “Have you met my friend Barclay?”

She halts, confused, and Sean starts extolling my virtues. She’s just moved here from New England, she’s a New England girl, New England is the place to be. Sean rolls with it, “Yeah, that’s what Barclay’s always telling me. Barclay’s from New England.”

“Really, where?”

I pause, trying to think of cities of the Northeast, but the drinks have significantly slowed my synaptic firings.

“Delaware?”

She turns to me, and between the rumble of the band and her intoxicated slur, I can’t understand a single word. I takes wild stabs of guesses as to the topic, responding with insightful observations and questions I assume would be appropriate were I correct. She doesn’t seem to notice any conversational drift, and sloppily scans the crowd at intervals.

Eventually, she migrates over to talk with Sean while Charlie and I shoot the shit about writing, but returns shortly to begin grinding against me, ass against my crotch, face toward the crowd.

Yes, I was that guy. The guy that some girl is pretending to hook up with so some other guy, some guy who doesn’t really care what she does if he even knows she exists, some guy who’s probably out of her league, some guy she’s sublimated to nobility in her drunken fantasy, will see the impending loss of his siren and immediately rectify the situation. Yes girls, both This Guy and Other Guy know when you’re doing this, we see it all the time, this bartering frotterism for attention. We let you do it anyway.

I continue my conversation with Charlie while she arches her back in front of me and pushes hers into mine, gyrating and pulling my hand to her side.

After a few minutes, she guides me closer to the wall, body tight against mine. I wonder if these displays ever work. As her mouth opens and our tongues explore, I have my hand on her ass. It’s past last call. I’m kissing her, wondering if her ploy is working, imaging a seductive-sports bookie, some X-Games spinoff, taking odds. I know she doesn’t want me, but I wonder how far she’s willing to go.

We’re parted as they kick the last patrons out into the turbulent mesh of people congregating outside the door, hailing taxis, stumbling home, raucous conversations of subsequent destinations. Reconvening with Sean and Charlie, I see New England, in the embrace of some other guy, hopefully Other Guy, mid-kiss.

Sean winks. “How old are you again?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Yeah, so you’ve been around. You know she was just working you.”

“Yeah. So what’re we doing tomorrow night?”

“Don’t know, but third time’s a charm.”

I was pissed. I didn’t want to go to the football game. We never payed attention; our high school had been on a losing streak since my sister had attended CHS. We’d sit, do nothing, apathetic, biding time until the parties started. I’d rather blow time in front of my computer, learning, doing.

But I was faced with four adamant friends wanting to pick up two girls they’d met from the prep school. It was early sophomore year, and I was one of the first to get a license, and had access to my mom’s Jeep Cherokee.

Fuck. Another night carting my drunk friends around, watching them slobber over reticent females, as I wish I could. But I was out of the loop, and outsider, sober.

As always, after many excuses and much cajoling, they convinced me. I turned her over and pushed in Faith No More’s “The Real Thing” more violently than necessary.

“Dude, not this shit. This shit’s old.”

He was right. It’d been released at least two years prior, and was old. Passe, even. But I loved it.

I turned the dial delicately, appreciating each notch of resistance, the apprehension, subtle grinding, pulling it the length of my nerves into my stomach.

I smile for the first time since my friends showed up – wickedly. They know I have a habit of driving too fast, bordering on recklessly.

They all reach for their seat-belts simultaneously. If they’re going to have fun drinking with the two girls shoved in the back seat on laps, I was going to have fun driving. Fast.

When we arrive at C’s house, I step out, leaning against the fender smoking a Camel, letting the other boys deal with extricating C and M from C’s parents. I wasn’t in the mood.

Two and a half cigarettes later, they emerge.

I nod nonchalantly to the newcomers, attempting to disguise my immediate attraction to M. Stubbing out my cigarette, I pause: “Better buckle up.”

The rest of the way to the game, I can’t hear the conversation over my music, my radio, my thoughts. I do not participate.

As my passenger tumble out, horsing around, inexpertly flirting with C and M, I resume my position against the fender, lighter suspended before smoke, flame bristling. M slides onto the hood, my eyes involuntarily follow her, flame still heating the flint.

“I fucking love that album.”

I challenge her with my eyes: unbelieving, not in the mood for insincere small talk despite her looks, to be used as a foil to her true interest, to have my album defiled. I challenged: inaudibly: prove it. You may be hot, but this ain’t free. Prove it.

“Faith No More. The Real Thing. Mike Patton. ‘89. Still rocks.”

I lean over and light her cigarette, smiling.

She was the first, the first one to destroy me, with help from myself of course.

We were born on the same day, and that would haunt my birthday for years.

I’ve been a skier for over twenty years, although I’m usually not able to get in more than a week in any given year. As a remainder of a dying breed, particularly in my age group, I’ve been forced to befriend many boarders. There’s some low-grade friction – don’t chop up my moguls and I won’t steal your powder – but after hours, at the lodge, we’re all bound by a common love of a good day on the slopes. We warm the chill in our bones with Jagermeister and the replace the lactic acid in our legs with Sierra Nevada Pale.

It was early in the evening, and I was talking to Kelly, a petite red-head that hit jumps and rails better than most of the guys on the hill. She was good, sponsored even. Her boyfriend was a cool guy as well, but in terms of skill, her aerials surpassed his even on his best day.

In walks M, and many of the wool-clad heads turn to follow the click of her heels. She’s definitely not a skier or a boarder: not a spot of gore-tex on her, slender, lithe, draped in a loose black dress, intentionally uneven hem and plunging decolletage. She’s the only one in the bar in stilettos. She saunters up to Kelly and give her a familiar hug. Kelly sees me eyeing M, and performs the introduction before disappearing to hang with her boy.

M models for G—— off and on, but for the time being, is just trying to stay local and avoid work at all. She lives with four other girls, including Kelly, sleeping in late and getting fired from various mundane jobs. And she’s blazingly gorgeous. Tall and slender with dark eyes and a skin tone on the light side of olive. Her teeth gleam white and her eyes sparkle when she laughs, tiny, intense points of light in a sea of almond and black, she is young and her skin is firm and she cocks her head to the side for a three-quarter profile when she’s talking to you.

We make plans for the next weekend, same place, I’ll pick her up at her place at ten. When I arrive, she’s splayed languidly out on her bed, barely awake. Late night last night, she says, wine? We sip wine and she whines elegantly about having to work, and earn money to live, and how that’s bullshit, and that she should have to do such a thing. She floats halfway into the closet change, allowing me to catch glimpses of her bare shoulder and upper back as she slides into a new outfit.

Tonight is going to be hell. She has no drive, no motivation, a complete disdain for working for anything, an overwhelming sense of narcissistic entitlement. She has no respect anything she has, as she’s only ever been given things and never achieved them. Although she wasn’t like this the week before, I can see in retrospect I voluntarily overlooked the indicators, choosing instead to focus on her beauty.

As we stroll into the bar, those I know fire suggestive grins, didn’t know you had it in you, B, she’s high caliber smiles, before letting their eyes molest her for a precious few seconds. Soon after our first round of drinks, she’s off talking to other friends, other guys, already halfway to drunk, the martini mixing with something else previously ingested, inducing a inexpert tongue and slightly lolling eyes. I let her go, chatting with with some of the boys, getting knowing slaps on the shoulder.

She returns, and pulls me out to the patio.

“So you know, when we were talking the other night, how I liked how you said you don’t judge what other people do?” She slurs the so_ and _said.

“Well, I don’t know about that – I definitely judge peoples’ actions, but but I’m not about to step in and stop them from doing whatever they want unless it affects other people, like me or my friends. I mean, I don’t smoke weed, but if you want to, more power to you, I’m not going to give you shit about it. Have a ball – it doesn’t make you a bad person.”

“Right, well, so, I wanted to ask your a favor.” Looming puppy dog eyes.

“Shoot.” I have a pretty good feeling my answer will be ‘no.’

“I’m out of coke, and my connection here doesn’t have any.”

Funny how I just used drugs as an example … perhaps I was picking up on something. “I see. And?”

“I know another guy, but he’s not here.” She spills some of her martini without noticing. “Downtown.”

“So you want me to drive you downtown, a half hour into a date, do pick up coke?” Her face curls down, hurt. Somewhere down deep I hit a nerve.

“You’re judging me. You don’t have to do it, you know.”

“I know I don’t. I just want to know if you’re going to try to drive down there if I say no. If you want to get all coked up, that’s your call, but that doesn’t mean I’ll help. But I’d rather drive you myself than have you go alone, particularly in your state.”

“Lissen, I’m sssorry I brought it up. I juss thought, you know, that you’d do it, because, you’re nice and you don’t judge people.”

“There’s a fine line between nice and pushover. What you want to do affects more than just you. It affects me if I go, and everyone else on the road if I don’t. If you want to go, let’s go. But know the reason I’m doing it is I don’t want you to put yourself into more of compromising position that you’re already putting yourself, and I don’t want you driving, for your sake and others. If you want to go, let’s go.”

“Do you think I’m a bad pershun?” The question rises in inflection and intensity at the end, she’s armoring herself.

“You want judgement? Fine. No, I don’t think you’re a bad person, but you have some issues. And what pisses me off is not that you want to snort up, but that you could have taken care of this beforehand, or not done it this one night, or even waited until late in the evening. But you waited until I picked you up and bought you drinks, and you wander off to talk to other people, and only come back when you need a driver. How about some courtesy? Yeah, you have issues, but no, you’re not a bad person. Just inconsiderate.”

I’ve spoken too strongly, at some point, I injured her, and she’s burying it, beginning to apply a mask of indifference.

“Okay, whatever. Less juss have another round and you can take me home.”

“Okay. Fine.”

Not my kind of snow.

Several of my friends and readers have remarked that some of my most entertaining and revealing posts are those in which I recount my Entirely True Stories of Dating and Date-Requesting Purgatory, or as one friend so aptly put it, “messcapades.” Truly, I’m pleased that my hours of boredom, fear, antipathy, and (hopefully) undeserved deceit are amusing to others as well as myself. (Note that I most frequently receive comments from on these posts from my married and coupled friends, rarely from the singletons. As a further aside, most of you either end up commenting in person or via email – I’m curious as to why people rarely use the “comments” thingy – is the interface sucky or something? Let me know.)

On this tip, I resolve to begin dating more, if only to gather seeds for more self-effacing posts. Look, see how I sacrifice for you, my audience! I will drown myself in this SoCal orgy of miserable evenings and stilted conversation. I will gorge on faltered introductions, blind dates, and yes, I may even respond to Craigslist ads. I’ll take a girl to Turf Club for dinner before finding out that she’s vegan. I’ll endure public beratement for suggesting the Zoo as an outing while with the PETA activist, at which point I’ll find out she’s a PETA activist. I’ll go out with a fundamentalist Christians.

Well, I don’t know about that last one.

But I will do this, for you, for my writing, and through it all, I will not compromise myself – and most importantly, I’ll actually try to make the dates work. I’m not trying to trick or deceive anyone, and will not be revealing identities, but I hereby resolve to date more, and find something interesting, amusing, insightful, or otherwise blog-worthy in each encounter.

To kick off this renewed conviction, I’ll relate a short snippet of a conversation from a few nights ago, not from a date, but phenomenally indicative. I’d gone to the pub after teaching for a beer and a salad, and ended up running into with a former student and some of his co-workers. They all work together, so periodically I zone out as they enter discussion of inter-office politics, but it’s generally lively and tangential conversation, and everyone’s laughing and smiling. I notice there’s a very lovely Japanese woman in the group, but unfortunately for me, she has a rock the size of Hawaii on her hand. C’est la vie.

Skip ahead an hour – and hour longer than I planned on staying at the pub – and they’re trying to figure out how a some of them are going to get home. I’ve only had a couple beers, so I offer to drive them if they’re close, but they’re trying to get to North County. I actually received this backhanded compliment from the Japanese girl: “I like you … but you have nothing to contribute.”

Wow.

Then she gave me a high-five to soften the blow.

So how will I begin this misanthropic adventure? Well, a friend of mine wants to hook me up with several of her friends, although she’s trying separate the wheat from the chaff, or in her words, find the ones that “aren’t psychotic.” I say, give me the crazy ones, it’ll make for more interesting tales. It’ll be like that move 20 Dates, but hopefully, you know, not shitty.

And who knows, I might just meet someone.

Shilo walks in to the bar casually, carrying his eternal smile and expressive eyes. He has the composure of a surfer fresh out of the water on an overhead day, but he manipulates his face as though a seasoned dramatist.

After the perfunctory introductions, Ron mentions Shilo has quite a story to tell, and experience in profound elegance. Shilo capitulates, holding up an open palm indicating dramatic pause while he whets his tongue with a sip of beer. We fall silent.

“So Ron and Tracy and I were hanging out at the pub the other night, just grabbing a late dinner and celebrating the end of a long week. I notice there’s this pretty cute girl camped out at the bar with two total tools, and I’m sitting there thinking, what the fuck? What is she doing with the ‘tards? So I walk up to her, wedge myself in, and eventually she ends up coming over to our table and drinking with us.”

He nods at Ron, and Ron node back in confirmation.

“So it turns out this girl is pretty down, and hot, and we hit it off pretty well. She lives just down the street from me, and surfs, and I’m thinking this is damn convenient. Before you know it, it’s last call, everyone’s a little drunk, people are milling about and catching cabs home, so of course I offer to walk her home.

“We start out the door with my hand on her back, then we’re holding hands, and by the time we’re halfway home, we’re completely making out, you know, like up against the random fence and whatnot. We finally reach the backyard of her apartment complex, one of those generic ones they have all over down here, and my shirt’s already off and somewhere in the alley, and we’re stripping down to our skivvies. It’s getting pretty hot and heavy, you know, so I’m like ‘So, uh, before this goes farther, we should get a condom.’ I was just out with friends you know, so I wasn’t boy-scout prepared and all that, so I’m like, ‘Do you have any in your apartment?’” His eyes twinkle.

“Now she’s just in her bra and panties, and I’m just in my boxers. She trots upstairs and disappears into her apartment. A couple minutes pass, and I’m thinking, ‘What the hell? What am I doing out here?’ I’m a little fucked up myself, so it took me a couple minutes to come to that conclusion.”

He takes another sip and snaps a grin into place.

“Anyway, I walk up to her place in my boxers – my clothes in her yard, the alley, wherever they came off, whatever – and I walk into her place, and there’s these two guys sleeping on the couches. I poke my head into one of the bedrooms, one that has a door cracked a bit, thinking maybe she just passed out, but there’s just some other guy sleeping. I’m sitting there thinking, first, ‘Where the fuck is she?’, and second, ‘How many fucking guys does she live with?’ I mean, there’s only so many rooms in this place.

“So I’m standing in her living room in my boxers, just kind of scratching my stomach, and she comes barrelling out of the bathroom – one of those bathrooms off a hallway – and slams the door. The sound wakes up the guys on the couches, and they see me standing there almost naked, and they’re like, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ I’m looking at this chick like, ‘What the fuck do I do? Explain this shit to your roommates,’ but she’s just staring at these guys, and suddenly blurts out, ‘Who the fuck are you?’ All the commotion wakes the guy in the bedroom, and he bounds out, angry, puzzled, staring at a half naked man and woman in his living room, and shouts, ‘Who they fuck are you two?’

He pauses amidst an assortment of questions of from the peanut gallery, holding his hand up again, motioning for quiet.

“I decide this shit’s just getting too weird for me, so I bail, grab my clothes on the way home, and hoof it the half block home. This shit was so bizarre; I just cracked a beer and plopped down on my porch for a smoke. A few minutes later, I see this chick in a bra and panties haul ass down the street with a bundle of clothes under her arm, and she runs right past me on the other side of the street, and runs straight into another apartment complex. You know, another one of those generic looking ones.”

Everyone’s doubled over in laughter. This shit’s too funny to make up.