The Weekend, Part I: Two Conversations

My most recent bout of being single (I enjoy the term "bout" in this case. A "bout" is a boxing term for a contest, of couse, and you can come down with a bout of plague. It occurred to me that I actually don't know the definition of "bout". According to dictionary.com it is:

1. A short period of intense activity of a specified kind.
2. An attack of illness or strong emotion of a specified kind.

While "bout" might be an enjoyable term, I'm not sure that it will be a "short period". We'll see...) is much like my previous stint sans a SO (stint: another interesting word choice by my stream-of-consciousness... often associated with hearts and jobs): one of semi-soul-smashing loneliness intermingled with hope and punctuated by little adventures.

(How's that for a first sentence to start off a blog?)

This past weekend was the first one in quite some time that I'd gone out three nights in a row. With the demise of Chopstix-as-I-knew it (new ownership removed the dance floor, which means that there will be fewer women dancing, which means that there will be fewer women to admire and/or lightly mock, which means that there is little reason for me to go there) and my work and relationship stuff I had going on, I just wasn't motivated to go out on Thursdays like I once was.

This past weekend, though, I decided to head out for three nights in a row, just to see what would happen. Nothing amazing happened, but enough transpired for me to write a blog about it. Or two.

This one will focus on two conversations I had on Saturday night, and the other one (should I write it) will examine some sketches I made with a new app on my phone as I consumed rum and observed life around me. Generally, as it turns out, the blogs will be written in reverse chronological order.

Talkin' Ball

It was Saturday night. Or, more accurately, it was Sunday morning. Ozzie's was closed and I was standing outside, waiting. Not waiting for anything in particular, but waiting for everyone to go home so I could, too... or waiting for something to happen. Or both.

It was both, this night.

Somewhere on my blog, there's an entry about my first night at Ozzie's. The entry is about a girl I met and how I managed to talk her up (and eventually go on a date with her) in spite of her being escorted around the bar by a guy. I can't find that blog entry (the search feature on Blogger isn't all it's cracked up to be) but that guy has remained a regular at Ozzie's. I'm not sure (actually, I doubt) that he remembers that first night, but he's always seemed like a nice guy. I will call him First Night Guy.

In spite of seeing him (probably) literally dozens of times at Ozzie's, I've never had a conversation with him. Until this night.

Now, before I get into (my recollection of) the particulars of the conversation, I wanted to give a couple of pieces of background info:

1. First Night Guy does a bit of a schtick when he sings karaoke. He has a drink in his hand (who doesn't?) when he signs up, but he is cogent and (usually) quite sober. When he takes the mic, though? He starts staggering. He leans this way and that. He belts out his song beautifully, but he sandbags it. It's odd but funny.
2. I do my fair share of drinking and have been known to have diminished articulation capabilities after doing so. I don't claim to remain perfectly lucid after lots of rum, and I'm pretty used to talking to drunk individuals.

My conversation with First Night Guy had the lowest signal:noise ratio I've ever experienced. It was, quite literally, three minutes of him talking where he said almost nothing. As drunk as I was, I knew enough to let him go, because I was witnessing something amazing.

Let me try my best to reconstruct the conversation. We were talking about the NBA, for some reason, before it all went downhill (in a good way!):

FNG: So, I tell you...
Me: Yeah... ?
FNG: I see guys ... you know.
Me:... ?
FNG: From Seattle.
Me: OK.FNG: Jason Terry. Man, Jason Terry.
Me: Went to Arizona, drafted by the Hawks. Sure.
FNG: He... Jason Terry.
Me: ... ?
FNG:  I mean, I was preseason McDonald's All-American, but--
Me: Wow. Cool.
FNG: --Michael Dickerson, I mean, he...
Me: ... ?
FNG: You know. They talk about it being rough. But this is Seattle. It's not.
Me: It's not... what?
FNG: Doug Christie? He's serious. But.
Me: Well, he went to Pepperdine and his wife is kind of crazy.
FNG: He went to Ranier Beach.
Me: Yeah ... ?
FNG: [eyes kind of roll back into his head] ...
Me: You OK?
FNG: I mean, the A-T-L? That's serious.
Me: Uh, yeah.
FNG: ...
Me: ... ?
FNG: ...
Me: Um, sooo...

FNG: I think I'm gonna take this taxi.
Me: Good idea.

There were about four spots in there where I wanted to laugh. Four other spots where I wanted to find a bucket of ice water to splash on him to wake him up. I hope he made it home safely. I look forward to seeing him stagger around (either legitimately or not) again soon.

Unsolicited Advice

I like to change things. I don't like to change my place of residence or my place of employment or my friendships or anything else important, so I'm left to changing which video games I play and how I look.

It's fun to wear different outfits and have different facial hair and hair styles. I know that my visage is not really not an important part of who I am (other than, perhaps, my lack of attachment to it), so I'm willing to wear pants that most (straight) guys wouldn't wear. I'm willing to part my hair on either side, depending on my mood. I'm willing to let women I don't know give me advice on how I ought to present myself in public.

This interaction started as so many others have: I drank lots of rum and was wandering around Ozzie's, waiting for my next turn to sing. Someone started to talk to me, so I stopped. In this case, there were two "someones". They were both from Austin, Texas, as it turns out.

The first woman was dark-haired and seated to my left at the bar. The second woman was slightly older and was wearing glasses.

Other than what she said, I don't remember much about the First Austin Chick ("FAC"). She had darker hair and might have bit a bit heavy. The Second Austin Chick ("SEC") had glasses on. She was slightly older. And she had a ... very weird stare.

What do I mean by that? It looked like she was looking at the back of my skull when she looked at me. I don't know how to explain it other than by putting together a magnificent chart:

This is a top-down view of a normal person's gaze (the top one) and her gaze (the bottom one). It was weird.

Somehow, my age came up. I made FAC guess my age (she guessed 26; I'm slipping a bit) and showed her my license to prove that she was way off. At this point, this conversation (or something like it) occurred:

FAC: You do look a lot younger. It's your pores.
Me: Thank you--what?
FAC: I work with skin, and you have great pores.
Me: Um, OK.
SAC: I do hair. I like your hair, but ...
FAC: Yeah, you've got a good look.
Me: Um...
SAC: But you should... your part isn't working.
Me: Uh, OK. [I pushed my hair around a little bit.] What about now?
SAC: Yes. YES! Keep it like that and you will definitely get laid tonight.
Me: Uh. Yeah. OK.

Another time, another place, another woman? I would have said something along the lines of, "Is that an offer?" or "Are you writing checks you won't cash?" or "My hair isn't the reason I'll definitely get laid tonight." or ... something equally ridiculous/crappy/charming.

But she was who she was, and I was where I was, and so... I said, "Uh. Yeah. OK."

At that point they became semi-distracted by someone else, and I took my pores and slipped away.

It wasn't exactly the flawless feet compliment I received in Las Vegas in 2007, but I'll take it.