בשוק סמייא צווחין לעווירא סגי נהור

"In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king."

(This post's name is a similar, early phrase, meaning, "In the street of the blind, the one-eyed man is called the Guiding Light".)

I'm sure we all know what this means. Even as we recognize it as ableist, we recognize the truth of the gist of the saying.

Things are relative. I am tall relative to some standard (my basketball team, or my peer group, or the Lollipop Guild). There are objective standards, but even those have built-in assumptions. I am tall relative to the average population of humans, for example.

Personally, I think that we have evolved to normalize. We don't get too happy when things go well, because the earlier human-ish folks who thought everything was going well were more likely to get wiped out by the early frost or the tribe in the other valley that wasn't hungry but was sure as fuck not going to get wiped out by the early frost.

So, within limits, we acclimate to what our condition is. We generally are cool with moving at any speed--it's the acceleration that gets us. Of course, as you move closer to the speed of light, even a constant rate of motion becomes an issue as subatomic particles might mess up your body (I can't find a link; trust me).

This explains (to my basic monkey brain) why someone who hits the lottery can be unhappy. Or why someone who has almost nothing in her life can find joy in a sunrise. We get used to stuff, and we find pleasure and displeasure in different things.

My life is pretty cushy. I have a great, healthy family that is close to me (emotionally, if not geographically). I have reasonably good health, hair, teeth, shoes, and vocabulary. My bed is comfortable and my friends are fun and my cats are snuggly.

Life is good.

But, because my brain is telling me that I don't want to be wiped out by the early frost, I get irked by things. Even as I recognize my frustration over these things, I am able to see that these problems aren't a big deal. That helps me keep an even keel in the intermediate (and, I hope, long-) run, but I still feel a flash of irritation at them. And I'm still going to blog about them.

Here, then, are some the "one-eyed men" of problems in my "land of the blind" good life.

Unfortunately, I can experience all three of these on one commute home from work.

Umbrella/Overhang 

I live in Seattle. Seattle has rain. Being rained on generally sucks.

Much of downtown Seattle has overhangs where folks can walk along the sidewalk without being drenched.

Some folks here also have umbrellas. Which I get. I don't use them, but I don't have hair that I can't get wet. And I'm not a pussy (cat).

The source of my irritation is when folks with umbrellas don't pay attention. Don't pay attention to the overhang. Don't pay attention to other folks, like, me, without an umbrella.

This is a life-like computer-generated simulation of how this situation should work:

See how nice that is? You can see the smiles on both of their faces as the water, ever the destroyer of happiness, is foiled in its efforts to make them miserable.

Unfortunately, this sort of commonsense heaven on earth doesn't occur to everyone. Instead, we get this:

Stupid people (I know "stupid" is ableist--I'm sorry) keep their umbrellas up, walk under the overhang, and force me (at risk of getting my eyeballs poked out) to edge out, under both the rain AND the overhang drip.

That. Annoys. Me.

Waiting at the Bus

I like order. I like being in a line and making steady (even if slow) progress towards my goal. Whether it's at the grocery store or waiting for a restroom or a drink or a prostitute, I don't want to feel like I'm getting skipped over.

In certain situations, a strict line is just not realistic. Which is fine. I don't require a line. But when a line exists, I want people to play by the rules.

Whenever the bus pulls up at a busy stop, there is some uncertainty. The buses often pull up to slightly different spots, so there's no clear "perfect" spot to wait (trust me; I've tried to find it). Additionally, buses allow riders off before the folks waiting can get on, so there's always a bit of swirl.

With that being said, order usually asserts itself to a certain degree. People wait, people exit, and people then start to sort themselves.

Often into (yay!) a line. Or lines.

If there are multiple lines, the zipper merge method should be used. One person from line A, one person from line B, one person from line X, another from line A, another from line B, etc.

It's very simple and people should do it.

I get, though, that some people are incapable of understanding this logic and/or inconsiderate. So I don't expect the zipper merge to be perfect.

What I do expect, though, is for people to not come from outside any of the lines and start to walk right up to the door. It drives me nuts, and I do my best to obstruct people who do that. I recognize that they have their own stuff going on, but they can wait in line like everyone else (to be slightly more fair, I do a quick scan of the person... if it's someone who obviously needs to sit down more quickly, then I will get out of the way; if it's some dude who's obviously just stolen five collared shirts from Ross, I'm not going to let him get around me unless I fear he'll stab me if I don't).

I like order. Adults who act worse than first graders in terms of waiting in line really tick me off.

Backpacks on the Bus

People are different sizes. Heck, I'm a different size than I was a year ago. I respect personal space, and if someone is a bit bigger, then I am going to do my best to give them their space.

This is not a rant against heavy/bulky people on the bus. This is a rant against this:

Actually, it's even more specific than that. It's when fuckers wear them like that on a crowded bus.

Few of us know that someone is standing right behind us but then choose to pivot into that person... we have a sense of how much space we take up, and (in the interest of everyone's safety and sanity) we avoid unnecessary collisions.

That is... unless you're one of those fuckers that wear a backpack on a crowded bus.

I'm not the first person to complain about backpacks on public transportation. I even saw a sign on the bus (which I took a pic of, but it has been lost in the massive amount of photos on my phone), asking folks to place their backpacks near their feet to reduce the assholedry (my word).

Gawker has this nice summation:

You think you are out of other people's way, but your backpack is still in other people's way. This is profoundly annoying to other people. 

Get your backpack out of everyone else's way.

It's obvious, and that it is SO obvious makes it all the more annoying that so few people actually do it.

Grrr.

FOMO? More like GINT (or, "The Grumpy Old Man Post")

FOMO is a noun. It is fear of missing out. It means, according to Urban Dictionary (sort of a modern France's Académie for American English these days) as:

A form of social anxiety - a compulsive concern that one might miss an opportunity or satisfying event, often aroused by posts seen on social media websites.

I never, never get FOMO.

(What, never?)

No, never.

(What, NEVER?)

Well... hardly ever.

(He hardly ever gets FOMO!)

Whether it's because I'm extremely confident in who I am as a person, because I am extremely egocentric, and/or because I quote Gilbert and Sullivan lyrics while I'm writing a blog, I almost never see pictures on social media and think, "Dang, I wish I had been there".

Instead, I noticed last night that, instead, I more often experience GINT.

Glad I'm not there.

Which is funny, perhaps, because lots of research and opinions indicate that people often curate and distort real life when they post on social media, which causes envy amongst many of us who see it. It causes FOMO, in other words.

But me? It causes GINT. Even if I am happy that the people appear to be having fun, I usually am happy that I'm wherever I am when I'm seeing them having fun.

As I thought about the notion of GINT, I wondered what, specifically, I feel that over and I came up with a few things.

Boat Parties

I don't know these people

Listen, bikinis are great, especially when a woman is wearing one. I'm all in favor of drinking and having a good time and having adventures and doing group activities.

When I see pictures of what I'm referring to in this post as "boat parties", it is usually women in bikinis with big smiles on their faces (and often big sunglasses, of which I am also a fan) enjoying the sunshine and/or an adult beverage.

This should, given my predilections, cause me FOMO. Instead, it causes me GINT. I remember that I don't like being in the sunshine that much. I remember the times where random women have asked me if I have a boat. I remember the times where guys who do have a boat used it as a carrot to attract women.

I totally acknowledge that boats can be fun. I recognize that my friends aren't just using, in the case of men, their boat to lure women and, in the case of women, the men to get their boat. Or maybe they are and it's not malicious.

Or maybe it's malicious. I don't know. I just know I am glad I'm not there.

Burning Man

Listen: I am what I like to think of as "Burning Man Adjacent". I attend fundraisers for Burning Man camps. I have attended a decompression or two. I have literally dozens of friends or friendly acquaintances that have attended Burning Man (it's a low number of dozens, but still...)

I admire so much about it. The creativity and the openness and the sense of community and the women wearing little clothing.

So much good stuff.

I don't know these people

But I don't like getting dusty. I don't like big crowds. I don't do drugs (other than booze and the occasional caffeine-rich soda pop). I don't like the idea that if I'm not having a good time I can't just disappear, whether to my home or to a hotel room or whatever.

My friends post beautiful pictures of their time at Burning Man. I'm not sure that they capture being on the Playa--in fact, I'm quite sure they don't--and I can't discount the possibility that I will go som day. But I look at the posts and the pictures and I don't feel any sense of missing out or longing to be there--I feel GINT and pleasure that I can't get Playa foot in my living room.

Twitter

I'm pretty active on social media, and I have expectations for each of the primary platforms:

• Instagram: Inspirational quotes, food, and female butts.
• Facebook: Baby pictures, political nonsense, memes.
• Snapchat: First-person driving videos with music on the radio, pot smoking.
• TikTok: Hypersexualized under-age girls lip-syncing songs I've never heard.
• Twitter: Angry blow-hard opinions, racism/anti-semitism, SJW nonsense.

(With TikTok [at the time, Musical.ly] it took me about an hour before I determined it wasn't for me and uninstalled it. Enough said about that.)

I really don't like this

I limit my time on Twitter almost as severely. I really, really don't like it.

I've maintained an account since 2007 (although I rarely post), and while I acknowledge its importance to some folks, I believe it's one of the worst things to bubble out of the Internet. 

I don't like how the artificially low number of characters allowed (originally so you could text in a post) change how people spell and form thoughts. I don't like how certain users are deemed to be "blue check-worthy". I don't like, you know, the racism and anti-semitism and group think and tribalism and stupidity and rage.

Soooooo... while it's not a specific type of social media content, whenever I hear people talking about Twitter arguments (which is almost always the case, since Twitter exchanges are usually either yelling at someone or agreeing to dogpile on someone) I nod and feel a strong sense of GINT.

Remembering Angel

I went to bed early because I had stayed up late the night before and the presence of football caused me to avoid taking naps in order to see if I would win in the two fantasy football leagues where I had a chance to make the playoffs and even after it turns out that I did win, in both leagues, I ate leftover pizza and messed around with a new computer game until, suddenly, it was 10:30pm and I was utterly exhausted.

I brushed my teeth and, after repositioning the cats that enjoy my soft bed even more than I do (two of which are mine to go with a third, a beautiful Russian Blue named Frey [pronounced like what a piece of cloth does, rather than an allumette-cut deep-fried potato], that I am cat-sitting) I did a bit of reading on my phone until I started falling asleep mid-sentence.

I rarely dream dreams that I can remember unless, as presumably is the case with most people, I wake up in the middle of dreams, and I usually wake up in the middle of a dream when I want to wake myself up from that dream, and I usually want to wake up from a dream when the dream is unpleasant.

I closed my eyes and, at some point, I started dreaming about being back in my childhood home (in the living room, specifically, with the same orange/rust-colored semi-shag carpet that I remember we had in the final days of my time there) surrounded by people I recognized but could not name upon awakening and to whom I knew I was not related.

I was aware that I had not been these in some time and I was enjoying being back again, talking to the other occupants of the childhood living room in my ming, marveling at how much had changed in my life as time had gone by, when I was approached by our family dog (well, our third family dog of four, if my memory serves, although I didn't go detail as I dreamed my dream).

I kept trying to talk, in my dream, to the other folks, although I have little recollection of what I was saying and although I was distracted by Angel, our third family dog (of four), who sidled up next to me and licked my face and ... stopped with her tongue on the bottom of my jaw (which would be called the wattle if I were a bird and/or predisposed to having caruncles on my neck).

I found myself at a loss for words and I felt my eyes tearing up and I thought about, while I had never really forgotten Angel, I hadn't thought about her in years because, to be honest, she has been dead and gone for years and we'd gotten another family dog and I've had two dogs myself that have all been such good dogs and, I suppose, my brain only has room for remembering so much at any given time.

I hadn't forgotten Angel, but that I hadn't remembered her made me sad so I wanted to wake up.

I woke up and stared at the ceiling, in the dark, for some time.

We Met...

Most of the people I’ve met in my life, I’ve met incrementally. By that, I mean this: I’ll see someone, then later I’ll exchange a few words and maybe get a name, and then later our meeting will “stick”… but by that time I don’t remember our first interaction. This is especially true of women and how I meet them. With some, I feel like I’ve just known them for a while. With others, I remember specific incidents that led friendship, sexy-times, and/or nowhere.

I never considered being a writer for vocation. I have experienced bursts of activity where I have written stuff down/typed it up, but I lack the discipline to ever do it as more than a dilletante. With that being said, I have been interested in writing something that is structurally different—a book with a series of story endings, for example, rather than a beginning, a middle, and an end. This blog entry is a slight nod to that insofar as it is 20 beginnings. Some of these beginnings blossomed into friendships that I still value today, and one led to my heart being broke, while at least one of them went no farther than what I write here.

Here are 20 beginnings. They're not the 20 most important beginnings, and I have other memorable ones in my life, too. They’re not in any particular order and I’ve left out details intentionally to reduce the chances that acquaintances will recognize the person (although the person herself should have no problems). They include, though, some important people in my past and present.

We met in a laundry room at a hostel. 
My buddy was ironing my shirt and you walked in with a bag of laundry. I asked you about the design on your bag and we talked about international currency.

We met at a party before a theme party.
You had been invited by my friend but had never met him in person before, either. We ended up posing in costume together as we waited for an Uber.

We met at karaoke.
Your friend was meeting my friend for a date after meeting online. I remembered you from the same website, but after I asked you about it you denied you were on the site at all.

We met at a club where you worked.
After you got off of your shift, we talked about how the spaceships were named. We were both pleased and surprised that we were able to have such a real, nerdy chat.

We met in school.
At some point class had to pair off and do some mini group exercise … I don’t remember the particulars of the schoolwork, but I remember your smile and the mischief in your eyes.

We met for dinner after connecting online.
We had dinner and at some point in the conversation discovered we used to be neighbors, and that it was you and your ex-bf that were always arguing so loudly I could hear it.

We met at your birthday party.
It was actually a co-birthday party, and the other birthday girl was the only other person I knew there. You knew EVERYONE there but still took the time to get to know me.

We met at a fake bachelorette party.
Your friends had rented a limo and I was invited because I knew one of your friends. I was dressed in a costume and we had three different types of cinnamon whiskey.

We met at a fashion show.
I was attending by myself and you were with a friend. You sat right across the runway from me and my efforts not to stare at your legs led you to believe I actively disliked you.

We met at a club.
I was waiting to get a drink and you were in “no-man’s land” in terms of not getting served. When the it was my turn, I deferred to you but it turns out you had just been served.

We met online.
I was looking for someone else with the same first name but thought you were cute and sent you a message. I must have said something funny/interesting/something because you replied.

We met in a casino.
It was late and you were with your girls when you saw me and called me over. You called me Edward Cullen and bought me Patron and we ended up getting lost in the hotel.

We met online.
We exchanged a series of drunken (from my side)  messages as you waited for your plane to depart Sea-Tac airport. I remember standing in a club, wondering how you were willing to put up with me.

We met walking down the street.
You were just out of prison and I was in a good enough mood to focus on your obvious, uh, assets. We texted a bit that evening and I got really freaked out by your life.

We met in a bathroom line.
I was right near the front, and you scrambled up to me, asking to cut. I said you could, but that you’d have to hurry. You urinated faster than I knew was humanly possible.

We met on Pride weekend.
I was dressed up for it and you weren’t, but you still looked good. We sang karaoke and drank alcohol and had some very intense conversations about some heavy stuff.

We met on Halloween. 
Although promo girls get hit on by everyone, and you were on the clock as one, I managed to make a good impression even as you thought I was bald under my wig.

We met at a dueling piano bar.
My friends and I were regulars there for Ladies Night, and I definitely noticed you. We had an interesting conversation about how you wanted to be on the Amazing Race.

We met just as we were about to get onto a boat.
I was dressed up and you complimented me. I saw you a bit later on the boat and you let me know that you’d added more swag to your outfit.

We met when you were on a date.
I was singing karaoke with friends and you gravitated towards our group… much to the dismay of your date. He left shortly thereafter but you didn’t regret it at all.

Want to Be Ed O's Facebook Friend? You'll Never Believe These Simple Tricks!

I have been on Facebook for a while, and I am on it quite regularly. It is one of the few websites I check every day, and it's one of a handful of apps I use every day. 

In the social media world, I really don't care for Twitter, I only sporadically use Snapchat and Instagram, and (unfortunately) don't write as many blog posts as I used to. Facebook is "good enough" for me--I can post and review pics (like Instagram), stories (like Snapchat and Instagram, albeit with a much smaller audience since fewer Facebook folks use that aspect) and news/posts/whatever written word pops up (like a blog).

The thing is, as much as I'm on it, I can be rather finicky with regards to who I want to be Facebook friends with. I currently have 224 Facebook friends, and I try to keep it between 200 and 240. Because I go out a fair bit and meet many people, if I want to keep the number in that range, it means cutting people.

Why do I want to keep the number relatively low? I want to care about everyone I'm friends with... and if I don't care about them as people, I at least want to care about what they're posting. I also don't want to give things away for no reason. Much of my stuff on Facebook is absolutely worthless to anyone other than me, but I'd like to think that I'm generally pretty funny and I post some embarrassing things about myself... so I want to keep the circle tight in order to feel comfortable.

I've been asked (by other people, not just my inner voices) about the reasons for me unfriending someone and I have had a few parameters. This blog entry is an effort to (only slightly tongue-in-cheek) examine the factors that go into a decision. In spite of the specificity (I use numbers and everything!) I don't use this much logic, and sometimes it just comes down to my mood or my booze consumption. 

With that being said, here is my Facebook Friend Score Sheet:

Family

If you are my parent: +1000 (points)

If you are my sibling: +500 

If you are my grandparent: +500

If you are a first cousin, aunt, or uncle: +250 

If you are a more distant relation that I've met in person: +150 

Note: Basically, you get big points by being related to me. 

Living Status

If you died while you are my Facebook friend: +500

If you died while you are my Facebook friend while being a total asshole: -475 

Note: I've had two relatives die while they were my Facebook friends and it's painful. I don't think I could intentionally remove anyone "in good standing" at the time of their demise. Since I plan on living to be 253 years old, I suppose this means my friends list will eventually grow. Also, the "total asshole" penalty here has not been invoked yet.

Hotness Status

If you are an attractive female human: +50

Past Relationships

If you have lived with me and we've had sex: -350

Note: I've only had a pair of these, and our Facebook relationships went sideways faster than our real relationships for some reason.

Length of Relationship

If we have known one another for more than ten years: +100

If we have been Facebook friends for more than five years: +75

If we have been Facebook friends for less than six months: +25

If we have been Facebook friends for less than three months: +25

Note: Nostalgia and newness are both things that get you extra points.

IRL

If we see one another once a month or more: +25

If we see one another once a week or more: +25

If we don't at least say "hi" when we see one another half the time: -50

If we don't talk when we see one another at least half the time: -25

If we currently work together: -100

If I doubt I'll ever see you IRL again: -50

If I don't remember meeting you IRL: -25

If I don't remember meeting you IRL but you're a cute female: +50

Notes: 

• Real life contact matters.

• I prefer to generally keep "Work Ed O" and "Non-Work Ed O" separate.

• I get that some people are more comfortable virtually or in real life, but it's irritating when someone who is friendly online ignores me IRL.

Friendship Genesis (Current Facebook Friendship)

If you Friend-requested me: +25

If I Friend-requested you after you called me out for unfriending you: +10

Note: I am occasionally Unfriend-shamed by someone and if I invite them to re-friend me, then I feel bad and they get a score bump.

Quality of Posting

If you post funny stuff: +10

If you post interesting stuff: +10

If you post sexy stuff (of yourself and/or your female friends): +25

If you invite me to events: +10

If you invite me to events at Monkey Loft: -20

If you post one-sided political stuff: -10

Note: I like Monkey Loft, but getting invitations to events I can't attend there gets a bit old.

Frequency of Posting

If you post on your wall frequently: +25% points from Quality of Posting

If you post on your wall REALLY frequently: -50% points from Quality of Posting  

If you post on my wall: +10

If you post really weird stuff on my wall that makes me wonder what's wrong with you: -15

Responding to My Posts

If you Like and/or Comment on more than a quarter of my posts: +25

If you Like and/or Comment on more than three-quarters of my posts and aren't my mom: -10

Note: My mom is the the only one who doesn't get dinged for being TOO into me on Facebook. Although I've definitely enjoyed when some FB friends have been in the past...

Chatting

If we chat every day: +50

If we chat every week: +25

If you initiate chats: +25

If you do not respond to my chats: -25

Note: Facebook chat is a distinct but important part of my Facebook existence.

And that, gentle readers, is my unscientific and not 100% accurate, in spite of its specificity, Facebook Friend Score Sheet!

Ed herO (with footnotes)

I live in an apartment building. There are about forty units or so, and it's a older, rather intimate (in proximity terms, not emotional) environment. I've lived there for almost a year and a half, and I think I've said about ten words to everyone else who lives in the building during that time, half of which have been complimenting dogs going for their walks.*

It's not that I dislike any- or everyone in the building. I just do my own thing.

We have (as many apartment buildings do) a mailroom where we get (shocking, I know, and this is really where my blog adds value to your life) our mail.

The other day I got home from work and was checking my mail (including looking for any of the near-daily Amazon packages I seem to get) when I noticed that someone had left their keys in their mailbox. I looked around to see if there was anyone near, but I was alone with this stranger's keys. The mail key was in the mailbox lock, and there was another key on the chain... which was obviously the apartment key. And obviously the key to the apartment that was numbered the same as the mailbox.

As I stared at those two keys, dangling from the mailbox, I was conflicted.

On the one hand, I didn't want to meddle. What if the person was coming down one (of the two) stairwells to retrieve their keys, even as I walked up the other stairs to return them? What if the person walked in right as I was taking the keys out of the mailbox? While I am sure I could talk around these things, it would be awkward... and while awkwardness is inherent in who I am, I don't always seek it out. (It's sort of like the thug life in that respect.)

On the other hand: what if the keys fell into the wrong hands? What if something terrible happened and I could have prevented it by simply scooping up the keys and safeguarding them until I placed them securely into the hands of their rightful owner? I might not get a parade out of it, but maybe I would sleep a little better at night, knowing I did a good deed.**

The other hand won out in this case (as it should occasionally so it doesn't feel left out of the decision-making process). I took one last furtive glance about me (which probably looked shady as fuck to anyone observing) and grabbed the keys. I marched up the stairwell and straight to the door, where I knocked.

No answer.

Of course there was no answer. It was impossible that my worry over trying to do the right thing would be ending so quickly.

I knocked again, and then went to my apartment, plotting my next move. After staving off after-work cat affections, I grabbed a stack of post-it notes and a pen and started to write.

Unfortunately, I wasn't exactly sure what I was going to say. That fact, coupled with my very sloppy penmanship, resulted in me blasting through five post-it noted before finally settling on a (rather sloppy, but not VERY sloppy) note that encouraged the apartment-dweller (who was on my floor, but not next-door) to retrieve his/her keys.

After knocking (no response) and leaving the note (it was sticky enough, but I considered using tape to help it stay (I did not)) I went back to my apartment, plotting my next move.

The cats needed attention, but I had to close the loop on the key situation. I considered leaving a note in the mailroom, but decided to email the property manager, hoping she would alleviate my concern and let the rightful key owner know what was up.

Fortunately, she emailed me back shortly thereafter, thanking me and letting me know she'd reached out to the apartment dweller. I was relieved that the odds of me getting into trouble and/or someone having to pay for being locked out of their apartment just went way down.

The person didn't pick up their keys that evening, but the next morning the property manager sent out an email letting the building know that the mailroom had been burgled*** the night before. Which is weird and coincidental and I wish it tied into my keys story a bit better, but it doesn't.****

What it did, though, was justify me being a good person. Justify me overcoming my fears of being perceived as stepping on toes in the pursuit of justice. Even if the criminals would not have gone up to the third floor and used the apartment key for further burgling...***** even if someone else would have grabbed the keys before the criminals saw them... I know that my actions helped prevent that person being more exposed than they otherwise would have been.

Plus, I totally went into their apartment and looked through their nightstands.******


*Actually, I think I had a long conversation with a woman who lives in her building late one night. I was quite intoxicated, though, and I have little recollection of the chat other than that I learned that she was married.

**Actually, I sleep quite well at night. I don't actually need anything to help me sleep any better. That's not bragging... it's a straightforward admission that a sleep aid might result in me spending the better part of a week snoozing.

*** I use the verb "burgle" and all its conjugative forms as often as I accurately can. I love that word. Burgle.

**** Wouldn't it be cool, and a much more interesting blog post, if someone had stolen all of the keys as part of an elaborate heist, and they were using me as a scapegoat for the caper? I mean, it would suck for me to be framed for a crime, but it would be a better story for me to type up from prison.

***** See?

****** Just kidding.

Some Sherlock Holmes Shit

Earlier this week I was on the bus on the way to work. As they tend to do, people got on the bus and I glanced up from my phone long enough to ensure that no very old, very young, or otherwise challenged people were boarding. Not because I wanted to make fun of them (I rarely do that unless I'm in a very bad mood...) but because I wanted to be a mensch and give up my seat for someone who might need it more than I do.

A second advantage of doing the quick new passenger scan is that I have an opportunity to spot attractive women. (For some reason, as I typed that, I envisioned myself with my hands poised under a barbell as a hot chick lifts weights.)

Every woman, of course, is beautiful in her own way. They are all founts of strength and life-bringing awesomeness that have provided light and stability to every corner of the known universe.

Some women are more beautiful than other women, though, when it comes to me being interested when they get onto the bus.

My admiration of these women, when they magically appear from the sidewalk, doesn't go anywhere. I am loathe to talk to strangers generally, and I believe that the last thing a person wants on the bus is for me to be chatting her up. Maybe I'll smile at them but generally I just bury my nose back into my phone. I'm still marginally happier knowing that there is a cute girl in my vicinity, in any event.

As I was saying, earlier this week I was on the bus on the way to work. On the ride there was no cause for me to give up my seat (yes!) and an attractive woman sat next to me (yes!). After giving her a quick (but hopefully subtle) once-over, I looked back at my phone. Facebook occupied my time, and I noticed, especially, a pic of my friend GG in her new work outfit. As I tend to do, I dropped her a quick chat letting her know that she looked great and that I hope her new job was going well.

After a short time and a few stops, I glanced up from my phone and looked at her phone. I have good eyesight and am curious, and unless I did something stupid like get caught and/or blog about doing so, who would ever know how invasive I was being?

She was looking at Facebook, as well, my eyes spied. And as she scrolled down, what did I see? I saw the same pic of GG in her feed.

Part of me was really close to poking her on the shoulder and asking her how she knew GG. But the rest of me was chastising that dumbass part, because, "Hey! I was just visually eavesdropping on you and I noticed we have a friend in common!" is not the best first impression a guy can make... partly because "visually eavesdropping" is an awkward phrase, but also because, you know. It's weird.

So I didn't talk to her. I looked back at my phone and, after I departed the bus and was walking to work, GG chatted me back. She thanked me for my compliment and general well-wishings, and I told her about what had just happened.

What happened next was one of the most startling chats I've had in a while. Here it is, as it happened, with only the names changed:

GG: Hahahha, I wonder who is was.
GG: That's funny!!

Me: I wonder, too... she's hot!
Me: haha
Me: dark brown hair. Nice chest. Pretty eyes
Me: white

GG: Brunette? 

Me: that's not a lot to go off of, I know 

GG: Her name is [redacted]. 

Me: :)
Me: I guess it IS a lot to go off of! haha

She then sent me a picture. And it was the correct person. I still am not quite sure how she did it so quickly and accurately... it was some Sherlock Holmes shit.

Hard/Not Hard for Me to Say Sorry/Not Sorry

I often wonder if I apologize too much, too little, or just enough.

Maybe it's that I've been watching a ton of Curb Your Enthusiasm, where Larry David spends about a third of every episode apologizing, but "I'm sorry" has been on my mind a lot. It is a phrase, along with a few others ("I love you", "Can I get a pitcher of water?") that I spend a lot of time considering the meaning and impact of.

In the interests of getting this out of my head and of hopefully getting into the habit of writing more, I'm going to lay out some different semi-apologies that I have done, continue to do, and refuse to do.

The Faux Pas-logy

Towards the end of my previous life, as my marriage was ending, I relied on the most dreadful of all apologies.

"I'm sorry you feel that way."

I wasn't saying it to be hurtful, but while it was an accurate representation of how I felt, I think it hurt. Or at least irked. The things I was doing were not something that I felt I should apologize for, and it was (understandably) perceived by the recipient as dismissive of her feelings. I knew this as I was saying it, but I did it anyway. Why? I don't know why I did it then... maybe it was because I felt a placating apology would be insincere and it's that I was willing to offer (some modicum of) sympathy, but I was not accepting responsibility.

I also think that I was afraid of feeling less powerful or something... in any case, I don't say, or hint at, this phrase these days.

In the Line of Duty

Part of my job is to make people happy. I make them happiest when I deliver on-time and on-budget, but short of that I try to make expensive and/or late things less painful to deal with. And that, my friends (and/or enemies... whomever is reading this) involves a lot of apologies. I never want to blame a coworker or a boss or the client themselves, so I fall on the sword a fair bit: I wasn't clear, I overestimated, I underestimated, I let something fall through the cracks, I dropped the ball, I misinterpreted, I was confused... so many things that I did to prevent success. So many things that I could do--and will do!--better. So many things. I say these things entirely sincerely in order to diffuse situations and to get past the frustration of failure and lay out solutions and re-set expectations.

I've thought about why I do this so easily and (I think) effectively at work but I was unwilling or unable to do it at the end of my marriage. I've determined two things:

1. It's just work. Nobody is gonna die. I have been fired. I have quit. I have loved clients and disliked them. I have overdelivered with no praise and been chastised for doing what was asked of me--and the opposites of both of those. I like my work and I want to do it well, but ... it's just work. I don't define myself by my occupation in the same way I think I did with my marriage back in the day.
2. You always find something in the last place you look. "I'm sorry you feel that way" is not how I apologized to my ex when we first started dating. Or five years after we were together. Or even ten years after we were together. It was only towards the end, and I suspect it was a manifestation of my own unhappiness that I was being stubborn (and maybe of her unhappiness that she was expecting me to apologize for things she never had before?).

As it turns out, occupational apologies are good for business and don't hurt my soul. So I'll keep doing them, even as I work to reduce the number of times I have to do so.

In a Line

My only super power is my ability to be the weak link in a line of people... there can be ten or fifty people standing in a line, and if there is perpendicular foot traffic, folks will locate me and target me as the person who will stand aside as they break through.

On the bus, I am consistently (unintentionally, presumably) battered by dumbasses who have terrible spatial awareness vis-à-vis.

And on a dancefloor, when I am drunk enough to venture onto one, I usually spend more time dancing out of the way of being touched by other dancers than I do, you know, dancing. 

What do I say in all of these situations? "I'm sorry." I do it automatically... mechanically and without thought.

Why do I say it? Again, I have thought about it. I think there are two main reasons, and it's usually a mix of these two things rather than a singular explanation.

1. I am genuinely sorry for causing you distress. I know you need to get where you're going. I know you need to pack half of your worldly possessions on your person when you're on the bus. I am quite sure you didn't appreciate feeling my crotch on your hip.
2. I know my sense of space is different than yours, but please acknowledge me.

OK. Maybe those two things are closer to one thing, now that I look at it that way.

Inconclusion

I believe that I very rarely expect apologies from other people, and I can count on one hand the number of times in my life that I have refused an apology... but I have to use two hands to count the number of apologies (not counting the types in this blog earlier) I've sincerely given this month. I even apologize on the internet sometimes (I think I'm one of the three people that do that).

When I don't feel like giving a sincere apology, I feel justified in declining (of course... who doesn't?). When I hope for an apology, I feel it's uncommon enough to warrant consideration. When both of those things happen at the same time and the other person disagrees, shit hits the fan.

So, yeah. I often wonder if I apologize too much, too little, or just enough. Maybe I'll start worrying when I think I know the answer.

Hanging Out on the Street

Occasionally, in spite of my socially toxic mix of shyness, aloofness, and oddness, I meet girls. Usually these meetings are in dark public places and alcohol is involved. I am lead to believe that sometimes people meet in other locations: grocery stores, libraries, and laundromats all seem to be places that folks smile, joke, and exchange stuff... like phone numbers and potentially, eventually, bodily fluids.

With rare exceptions (a chance laundry room meeting still reverberates in my life), that's not me. It's clubs and bars and such for me.

I think the perception of this is that one meets a certain type of person in places like this. I will admit that the perception has some grain of truth--a drunk or high woman is less likely to actually respond to me the next day, even if she seems very interested at the time we meet. With that being said, awesome people are everywhere... and meeting someone in the light of day does not guarantee sanity or responsibility.

So... you might guess what I'm going to type about.

The other day I was walking down the street in downtown Seattle. I was just off of work and walking to social engagement. The sun was shining and I was dressed in a rather dandy outfit, the crown jewel of which was a very pink blazer.

I was enjoying my walk, half-assedly playing Pokemon Go and making sure I didn't bump into anyone else.

At some point, the foot traffic had thinned and I noticed a woman talking to a guy. Even though I didn't slow down, I was able to admire her pleasant, uh, figure.(1) I don't think that I stared, but self-awareness is always a challenge for me.

Also a challenge for me? The sunglasses I was wearing. They were sort of retro and pink-tinted. And loose on my face.

I am lucky enough not to need glasses. My vision may not be 20/15 anymore, but it's still good enough to do stuff like half-assedly play Pokemon Go, not bump into other pedestrians, and not-stare at a woman's rack.

What I am not lucky enough to do is to deal with loose sunglasses without feeling self-conscious. I know it's ridiculous that I was walking down the street in a bright pink jacket and pink sunglasses but I was worried about how I looked when I pushed the glasses farther up the bridge of my nose.

As I walked, then, I glanced over at the building on my right to see my reflection--to see if the glasses looked silly enough for me to have to feel silly by nudging them up.

Much like the Fonz, I looked good ("Heyyyyy!"). Much like the Ed O of one minute before, I saw the aforementioned woman, and her well-filled-out tanktop caught my eye again. This time Tanktop was walking about six feet behind me and to my left, and I couldn't help but look at her in the glass.(2) It was a reflex in a reflection.

Unlike before, though, where she seemingly was unaware of me (and my roaming eyeballs), this time she said something.

"WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU STARING AT MY TITS?!?," was not what she said, fortunately.

It was something more along the lines of, "Ahh... checking yourself out, I see."(3)

Normally I don't talk to people on the street... but that's because the people on the street who talk to ME are drunk and/or drugged up. Which I suppose is not THAT different than the folks who want to talk to me in bars and clubs. Maybe it's a matter of how recently they've showered. I dunno.

In this case, I had little choice but to reply. Tanktop and I were walking rather closely together and there was no one else in our proximity.

I looked over my left shoulder, took especial care to maintain eye contact, and replied, "Of course. I definitely wasn't checking you out."

Which wasn't mean. Maybe it was a light neg, but I had a sparkle in my as I said it.

She laughed and said, "OK, good to know."

And then she sped up to catch up with me(4) and we walked some blocks, southward.

It was a fun little conversation. Highlights/lowlights included:

• Tanktop was going somewhere (where? I didn't catch it and I didn't want to admit I didn't hear her, so I just nodded, knowingly) to get her phone. 
• She mentioned her "guy".(5)
• We talked about where we lived and that my view of the Space Needle used to be better. I made the logical "just the tip" joke. She laughed.(6) 
• She said that I should put her number in my phone. I didn't do so because I thought she was joking. And that she has a guy.(7) 
• She discussed a building we walked by, and that she used the back door once. I laughed. She stared at me for a second and then laughed, too.(8)
• We approached her destination (whatever it was) and she said, again, that I should get her number. In spite of my general lack of wits, I decided to do so this time and she said we'd have to get a drink or something.(9)
• I told her I'd text her and she said she'd get back to me when she got her hands on her phone.

OK. Cool. So I got to the social engagement and I got a drink and I was talking to a friend. I couldn't help but bring up that I'd talked to a real, live, human stranger in the middle of daylight. My friend admitted that it seemed unlikely but seemed to take me at my word.

She asked if I had texted the woman yet, and I said that I had (making a joke about how I was the guy in the pink jacket who'd been sexually harassing her on the street), but that she hadn't gotten back--so maybe it was the absent phone causing the delay, or maybe I had the number wrong, or maybe she otherwise changed her mind about responding. I wasn't too worried about it.

I did tell my friend, though, that perhaps the woman thought I was gay. I was, after all, wearing a pink jacket and pink-tinted sunglasses. She stared at me for a minute, pointed at my cheeks and their weak efforts at growing a beard (which, honestly, is simply lack of effort at shaving), and said, "She knows you're not gay. Look at your facial hair."

(Friends are awesome, huh?)

After thirty minutes or so, she txted back, "lol"-ing like a pro and saying it was unfortunate that she was not my type (see? I KNEW that was gonna happen!).(10) I responded with the question of who it was unfortunate for, and that with her sense of humor and the way she looked in her tanktop that she seemed my type.

(I'm obviously much bolder over texts.)

Our text convo went something like this:

• She apologized and complimented me. 
• I complimented her back. 
• She complimented me again.(11)
• I sent her a pic of the event I was at (which had a great rooftop view).
• She said that she should have come with me.(12)
• I told her that she was right, and that I obviously need to step up my "Talking to Random Cute Girls on the Street" game.

And this next part, loyal reader(s), is why I wrote this blog entry. I am going to reveal the actual text of the, uh, texts. Not because I want to be mean or to judge, but... well, because I want to.

Tanktop: Lol yeah i was on a just got out of jail high
Me: Ah... that explains the prison aroma I was picking up
T: Lol it wasn't anything all super crazy with accusations and it sounds worse than it really was I have a husband that's very jealous and very afraid of losing me and said that I ran him over with my car and I didn't 

Second time I've every been in jail first time was a DUI when I was 20 LOL

I just don't want you to think I'm some crazy weirdo(13)

I thought she was joking, which is why I said what I said (I wasn't close enough to smell her, for the record). But I get the sense she's not.

There's nothing wrong with a DUI, and going to jail/prison is not the end of the world. Having a jealous significant other is relatively common, I gather.

But all of those things together in a text from a person I'd met on the street a couple of hours earlier... it was enough to remind me that I don't need to go to a bar or a club to meet hot, potentially crazy women.

Epilogue

You might have noticed bolded numbers peppered throughout the main post. These are points during this experience where I wanted to document two things: (a) how interested I was in Tanktop, and (b) how I judged my changes for hanging out with her.

A few notes:

• My interest over time seems to be a combination of (a) getting a better look at her, and (b) the interest she was exhibiting in me. Typical dude, I guess.
• I probably should have said that my interest dropped at (5)... and I suppose it did, but not enough to move the needle. Typical dude.
• (10) was a mixed bag. She got back to me, but she thought I was gay. Typical chick.
• I intentionally left off (13). I asked two friends about the situation and one said, "I bet she's kinky... maybe she'll run you over with that ass" and the other said, "No. No. No. Leave her alone. Lol." I can see great wisdom in the position of each.

Implants

"Implants" is a surprisingly sensitive word. Dental implants are a pretty safe topic of conversation, but two other types of implants are a conversational minefield.

The first one, which is less salacious than the second, and so will get short shrift in this space, is cochlear implants. A cochlear implant is "a surgically implanted electronic device that provides a sense of sound to a person who is profoundly deaf or severely hard of hearing in both ears." (Definition by Google.)

Why are cochlear implants a conversational minefield? Why did Time ask whether it was "A Cure or a Genocide?" Why were they deplored by many in the Deaf community, and considered by some to be child abuse?

To a person like me, who has excellent hearing (in spite of way too much time in karaoke bars and house clubs), cochlear implants seem amazing and a godsend and lots of other great phrases and adjectives. But I am not Deaf, I am not of that world and I have not been invested in the unique Deaf culture... so it didn't occur to me that there would be resistance to it (although, over time, that resistance is dying down).

If and when I have an opportunity to discuss cochlear implants (which I generally try to squeeze in on the second Wednesday of each month), I am no expert, and I don't even know what I don't know, but I know there is stuff that I don't know, so I know to tread lightly.

Another topic I know to be careful about is the other type of implants I wanna write about: breast implants. Breast augmentation. Boob jobs.

While I have next to no experience with cochlear implants, I have managed to accumulate some first-hand (haha) knowledge of breast implants. And, being the aspiringly enlightened man that I am, I make every effort not to discriminate against boobs on the basis of origin...

As long as they make the woman feel better about herself? Go for it. That it turns out that she looks better in a bikini or a dress (or out of either) is something that I appreciate. I know that it's not about what I think, but I still am gonna think what I'm gonna think, and if it's up to me then I'd like to think good things.

Even as I've typed the last few paragraphs, my inner perv has been wrestling for control of the narrative with the aspiringly enlightened me. I know that someone, somewhere might read this and I want to be respectful but honest, and fortunately I can keep the perv under wraps as I type away in my apartment.

It is markedly more difficult when I am discussing the topic with a female friend in a bar after I've had a few drinks. Difficult because (as with Deaf culture and cochlear implants) I can have an opinion and I can witness things from the outside, but any opinion or (heaven forbid!) advice I'd give on either type of implant would be hopelessly awkward.

For better or worse, though, I recently had a conversation with a friend about her chest and potential upcoming augmentation procedure. The rum was flowing in my system and I was REALLY trying to be a good, gentlemanly, supportive friend, but I had the perv devil on my shoulder and I could hear my alternate response every time I replied. It went something like this (this is dramatized for effect):

Her: So I went to see a doctor last week.
Gentlemanly Me (GM): Oh, yeah?
Pervert Me (PM): *yawn*
Her: I got a consultation on getting my boobs done...
GM: Oh, really?
PM: What? Really? Sweet...
Her: Yeah, since I've lost all this weight and started running more, I've lost my curves.
GM: Hmm... I guess so, but you look great!
PM: Your butt looks great!
Her: And I don't like that I am so flat now.
GM: It happens when you lose weight. You're so slim now.
PM: I've noticed. I miss the girls.
Her: I mean, I don't feel comfortable wearing a tank top, let alone a bikini.
GM: Really? I bet you look great. Not to tell you what to think, but...
PM: So are you really getting those boobs done?
Her: So I think I'm gonna get them bigger.
GM: I'm sure you've thought a lot about it.
PM: How much bigger?
Her: Yeah, I have. I am looking forward to it.
GM: Well, I think you look great now, but if it makes you more comfortable then I look forward to seeing the results.
PM: I am looking forward to the pics as soon as the bruises go away.

Please know that I was Gentlemanly Me throughout the conversation. Not because I didn't want to be flirty or naughty or funny or whatever, but because I understand enough to know that it was a sensitive thing for her ... and because I don't want to spoil the potential for checking out the goods when the dust clears.

Random Baseball Dream Leads to Random Blog Post

It's not very often that I dream, and even less often than I bother to write down what I remember. Last night, I had a dream, and today I am writing it down. What does it mean? Almost certainly nothing. Why am I writing it down? Maybe because I like to hear myself type. But here it is.

The scene took place at my high school baseball field. As an FYI, I played four years of varsity baseball in high school, and played something like 11 of 12 years I could play growing up. I wasn't ever amazing, but I was pretty good.

In the dream, we had guys on second and third base and I was at bat. A couple of specifics:

- I'm not sure who "we" were. My team, presumably, but I don't think I recognized anyone on my team outside of my brother.
- I was batting right-handed. I hit left-handed for almost my whole time playing baseball in spite of being right handed overall (throwing, writing, slappin' the ho).
- It was daylight, but the evening. Presumably about the time that we played baseball games after school.

As I was at bat, the umpire threw the ball back to the pitcher (as he might do in the case of a muddy or scuffed ball) but he made a bad throw. The throw bounded past the third baseman and both of my teammates came around to score. I remember telling the second one to slide (although he didn't).

For those non-baseball fans reading this: runners can't advance on a bad throw by the umpire... even one as spectacularly bad as in my dream.

After the errant umpire throw, I was still at bat but an extended discussion (about what? I don't know/remember) occurred in the field and I was standing there, bat in hand, as it became super-dark, super-fast. It was agreed that the game was over. I was upset that I didn't get to bat.

And... it ended. I have no idea why I remembered this dream, given that I almost never do.

(The only other recent dream I recall was more brief and more horrific; I was sitting in a small room, alone, and someone yelled something. I saw smoke coming through the keyhole of the only door of the room, which I could not open. I decided (why?!?) to look through the keyhole but the smoke kept coming. I couldn't breath. I felt myself weaken. And I awoke, panting heavily, very frightened.)

Because I severely doubt my clairvoyant capabilities, I don't look at the baseball dream as prophecy. Instead, I'll look at various things in my life that might have contributed to the la-la-land melange:

- I don't get to see my brother (and the rest of my family) as much as I'd like, but my siblings and I have been ironing out Christmas plans this year and I think we settled on the parameters of a vacation, which excites me.

- I haven't watched any baseball this year. None. I have played in a long-term fantasy baseball league dating back to college, but the league ... went away and I didn't sign up for another league. While I plan on seeing the Mariners after the weather gets better (it seems like a fun, if overpriced, way to trick girls into hanging out with me), now that I don't have my old-school AL-only roto league to cheer, I just haven't had the inclination to follow or watch baseball.

- I am reading a series of books that start with The Three Body Problem. The books are by a Chinese science fiction author and one of the motifs is rapid/chaotic sunlight/darkness changes, so maybe that was part of it. (I'm on the second book now, by the way; it's excellent.)

- I signed up for kickball and I am on a team, although my attendance has been terrible. The first game I played in (about a month ago) we only got to play three innings before it was too dark to continue. Summer kickball signups are occurring, but I decided that while I liked my teammates I am not going to sign up again because (a) work makes attendance tough, and (b) the fields are going to be farther away, and as a non-car owner that makes it more difficult. I still feel like I might be making a mistake by not playing again. I also have an aching shoulder (which I think might be from kickball a couple of weeks ago) and maybe I was sleeping on it wrong.

The good thing about dreams is that they don't matter unless you think they matter, and even then they probably don't matter. My brain

Looking back, looking forward

I've had friends that have "Web logged" (what the kids call "blogging") for some time now, but I've always considered it too... self-indulgent? intellectually masturbatory? (If you're a friend and you're reading this, I'm of course not talking about your stuff!)

An alternate explanation for my absence from the world of blogging is the (a) lack of content that anyone would ever want to read, and/or (b) anyone that would ever want to read anything that I would want to write.

But I bumped into some old friends this past weekend that are on MySpace and I can always zap this later if I come to my senses and realize that maybe the world was a better place before I tried to make a blog. We'll see how this works out...

That is from my first blog entry, dated May 16, 2006. I typed it into MySpace shortly before midnight (according to the timestamp on Blogger, which I think is accurate if I imported the entry into this system properly) in a little apartment that featured three cats and almost no windows. I had made my public karaoke debut eleven days prior, I was attending classes at night working on my MBA, and I was waiting for my divorce to finalize.

My world was different, but I suppose it would be odd if things had stayed the same.

My early blog was random and rarely read--ok, so maybe things have stayed the same--and it was on MySpace. I spent some time a couple of years ago exporting those entries and then bringing them into this platform, starting with the May 16, 2006 entry, but I lost interest at some point and most of 2007's (genius, I'm sure) posts aren't available to be read. I'm sorry/you're welcome. Maybe someday I will delve into my exported file and start to slug those back in. I'm sorry/you're welcome.

In the meantime, though, I want to start writing again. The process of creating has value in and of itself and I feel the need to do something deeper than Snapchat or Facebook statuses (although presumably I'll continue to do those, for better or worse).

I might think that (a) I lack content that anyone would ever want to read, and/or that (b) anyone would ever want to read anything that I would want to write, but I've written some pretty good stuff before and so it's time for me to give it another whirl.

Social Media and Real Life and Confused Mothers

I've read articles about how social media distorts the perception of one's own life. Looking through one's friends' feeds or walls or whatever, one might see lives filled with 

• amazing summit views after challenging but satisfying hikes in ideal weather
• fit young women in bikinis lounging on boats in ideal weather
• smiling babies in ideal weather

Or maybe all three. Or maybe just ideal weather.

Like weather, though, lives aren't ideal. (I know... newsflash.)

I sort of take pride in being more open with my Facebook feed than most tend to be... it's true that I keep my friends list small, but when people are on that list, they  might see my life filled with

• drunken ramblings about chats I'm having with friends after drinking too much rum
• my (seemingly inexplicable) selfies featuring the latest lightsaber purchase I've made
• amazing summit views after challenging but satisfying hikes in ideal weather

OK. Not that last one. I was just seeing if you were paying attention.

So I try to be open. I try to paint a real picture of my life both because I think it's interesting enough to be, uh, of interest, and because I enjoy looking back at what happened a couple of years ago and shaking my head at how dumb/awesome/uninteresting my past self was.

One of the aspects of being open is the inclusion of my family in my friends list. Not just my siblings and their spouses, but my aunts and uncles and cousins and grandmothers. And my parents.

I don't expect that most of it makes sense to them--it doesn't make sense to people with whom I share the experiences about which I am posting all of the time, I'd bet--but I know they know I'm a bit of an oddball and put up with it.

So, too, do the friends whom I have known for a long time.

A trouble spot is with new friends. These friends might be real life friends I've known for a while, in which case I'd anticipate they'd "get" it relatively quickly, or they might be brand new friends. 

Of these brand new friends, some might be women.

Of these women, some might be individuals I have interest in dating.

That is the most delicate population of all, and that is really the only population I worry about offending.

I say all of this because I had a terrible dream the other night. In this dream I'd met a woman that I liked and we became Facebook friends. I didn't even know her well enough to give her a blog codename, but I was looking forward to doing so. We'll call her No-Codename.

We had been texting (in the dream, I mean; yeah, in the dream!) and we'd set up an evening for a date. Unfortunately, I was out of the state and so we had to schedule it about a week later. In spite of that, we managed to have pleasant txt exchanges.

Then, as people tend to do, she posted a few pictures on Facebook. I liked one or two and commented in a silly fashion on one. She liked my comment and ... all was well. All was on track. I went to sleep, in my dream, feeling like I was in a decent position with the date about three days away.

I awoke the next morning (in the dream, not from it) and checked Facecbook and my mom had commented on my status, she'd liked a couple of my pictures, and she'd... liked No-Codename's picture. And she'd commented on No-Codename's picture.

Facebook can be confusing. It can be tough to determine who's posting what. And I love my mom to pieces and am glad that she contributes to my Facebook existence. 

But I was not pleased. I was concerned that No-Codename might think that I was talking to my mother about her. Which would be less than ideal before a first date.

I got my mother on the phone and walked her through undoing what she'd done. She apologized about a million times and I know she didn't mean anything by it, but... ugh.

I txted No-Codename, laughing off my mother's mistake. No response.

I txted her the next day to see if we were still on for our date, scheduled for the next night. No response.

My dream continued for some time, as I strained not to txt again, knowing she'd either been freaked out or she was too busy to reply. Or she won the lottery and moved away. Or [insert a million other possibilities here].

I woke up before I found out the answer.

He'll fight for freedom wherever there's trouble. And then he'll bug me about it.

There are a few reasons that I like the club that I’ve frequented so often in 2015. One of the key reasons is the people.

Normally, by “people” I mean women… because I usually find men boring and because I am not interested in making out with men. In this case, though, I actually enjoy it because of the gender-neutral sense of the word.

Dudes at this club tend to be more relaxed. They aren’t grinding on everything that moves. They apologize when they step on my shoes. They wait in line like civilized individuals.

I won’t go so far as to say that I actually talk to very many of them, but (unlike so many other places) I find them tolerable in general.

General. That word leads me to a remarkable exception and the topic of this blog.

A general, as we all know, is a high-ranking commissioned officer in a military branch. Here in the US of A, generals are only in the army, but in other countries all bets are off and there are generals of the marines and generals of the air force and, presumably generals of trash collection.

I’m not an expert on military matters. It’s true that I was in Civil Air Patrol in middle school, and I learned valuable lessons like how to march and how to wear silly-looking military hats… but I (unlike so many men in previous generations in my family) didn’t sign up for military duty. I’m lucky enough to have had that choice, and while I seriously considered it for a time, it didn’t work out and I’m pleased with how things are.

While I’m not an expert on military matters, I have what I believe is a healthy regard for those in the military. My grandfather served. My father served. My uncle served.

Of course, that explanation might sound like the immortal words of The Office’s Chris Finch: “How can I hate women? My mum’s one.”

What I’m trying to say is that I respect the military. I respect the choice that people make when they decide to serve. But I don’t worship the military. I know that there are lots of assholes in the military, the same way there are lots of assholes who work in digital marketing and write blog entries every six months. I also don’t find the decision inherently more noble than most other professions.

This lukewarm (or maybe lukewarm-plus… it’s not pure apathy) feeling is consistent with most of my beliefs (I tend to argue with, or at least internally disagree with, everyone I’ve discussed politics with… ever) and I would be surprised if it were one that would be warmly received by people from the military. Especially intoxicated guys who are short and chunky and see me sitting at a club with two attractive women.

That’s right, folks—the preamble is over. It’s time for the story.

So… I was at the club. There’s an open air area and I had a chance to have a seat around a table with Disco and Charmin. I’d been there a couple of hours and they wanted to have a smoke, so while I don’t smoke myself, I was more than happy to sit between two hot chicks and talk to them as they had cigarettes.

We were just starting to talk about something (I’m not quite sure what, although I was quite sure that my rum-enhanced brain was thinking I was going to be hilarious) when we were joined by a fourth person.

Which was fine. Not in the “Damn, you so fine, girl!”-fine, way, but it was OK. Disco, in particular, knows a lot of people and when a dude with a funny hat sat at our table and acted like he belonged… hey, it’s a free country.

But it’s only free for people like me to let him sit at my table because of people like him.

(Everything past this point is not entirely verbatim, but I’ll try to keep it real.)

The dude sits down. I expect him to say hello to one of the ladies because I didn’t know him. He says something nondescript and …

Me: Hello, sir!
Sergeant Slaughter: What?
Me: I said, “Hello, sir!” [I might have snapped off a salute there.]
SS: I’m no officer, I … [I joined in at this point because I could somehow sense it was coming]
Me: … work for a living.
SS: What?
Me: Yeah. You’re not a CO. I get it.
SS: Are you sassing me, boy? [Note: he did NOT say that, although it would have been amazing if he did; he said something less colorful but just as angry]
Me: I was just saying hi. And I like your hat. [It was a Federal Civil War-style soft cap.]
SS: [His stare intensified. Shit was getting real.] I spent four tours in Afghanistan … 

At this point, I was a bit dazed. I didn’t understand how things had gone so off the rails so fast. I tried to respectfully maintain eye contact with the dude, but I could see out of the corner of my eye that both ladies had shifted their seats and their bodies, giving him just about the worst possible body language. Unperturbed, he continued his diatribe…

SS: I had a bullet miss my head by this much… [He indicated the distance by speading his hand and the distance was about five inches from his pinky tip to his thumb tip… it seemed like an efficient, if convenient, distance.]
Me: I am glad you’re here. Well… not literally here. [I don’t think I said that last part.]
SS: …
Me: … ?

He then placed both of his hands on the table in front of him and took a deep, cathartic sigh and uttered, “I can’t do this right now. I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

He stood up and went over to the restroom and closed the door. Charmin, Disco, and I looked at each other in shocked silence for a moment. And then I asked for confirmation that the man was acting crazy. And they confirmed it.

Maybe it would have made sense to get up and leave the table, but before we knew it, he was back. Back in his seat and back to chastising me for, as far as I could tell, not appreciating how much he had done for me, personally.

In the spirit of human companionship—and in the interests of ending the conversation from Hell—I let him know that I didn’t come to the club to get hassled and I didn’t intend to offend him.

We all stood up. The ladies (understandably) fled and I got his name and shook his hand. I thought we were cool, but he had one more gem:

SS: You want to really make it up to me?
Me: Uh… make what up to you?
SS: You want to make this right?
Me: Uh… I guess. How?
SS: You can do me one thing.
Me: What?
SS: Get me some pussy.

Carry on, soldier.