Most Abrupt Conclusions

Over the course of my new life, I have had the opportunity to hang out with new people, including members of the fairer sex. I have even, occasionally, been able to spend time in a more-than-friends capacity with some of them.

Were they all dates? Were we just hanging out? Were we "hanging out"?

I don't know and, most of the time, that definition hasn't really mattered.

With a pretty significant portion of those women, I have maintained a friendship. With many of the rest, we decided that it (whatever "it" was) just wasn't working, and we went our own ways.

With some, though? Things were different.

Not in a boil-a-rabbit kind of way, but in disappear-inexplicably-with-few-or-no-comments kind of way.

To this, I give you the top five most abrupt conclusions to "hang outs" I've had with women.

5. "I would rather wipe my online identity rather than talk to you again."

Background: I met at chick at Ozzie's some time ago. She was cute enough and interesting enough for me to ask for (and, fortunately (I thought at the time), receive) her number. I called her a couple of days later and we talked and actually became MySpace friends (this is dating this experience, clearly) before we went out on our first date.

And by "first" I mean "only".

We had dinner and, I thought, a decent conversation. I walked her to her car at the end of the night and made no move on her. I was (at the time, at least) a gentleman.

The Conclusion: I txted her the next day, thanking her for hanging out. No response. I noticed she'd deleted her MySpace page (not just blocked me or zapped me as a friend). I called to see if she'd like to go out again. No response.

No response. Ever.

Best Guess (my bad): I said something, at some point, about how we should do something (something specific... meet my cats? Watch a particular movie? Something that seemed to be reasonable within the context of the conversation) at my place... but I think she might have thought I meant right then. Not that there's anything terrible about inviting a chick back to my place on a first hang-out (or so I hear...) but she looked surprised and, perhaps, it freaked her out.

Best Guess (her bad): She worked as a barista, and she worked in one of the "dress-up" ones. Not a bikini stand, but one where the women dressed as nurses and maids and ... whatever. Basically Halloween every day, with the correspondingly slutty outfits (God love 'em!). She had mentioned that she had a lot of creepy guys visit her (what? No!!) and that she wasn't comfy with it, but her stand had friended her, etc., and guys from the stand were finding her that way.

So maybe she deleted her MySpace account on account of that. The timing of our dinner was purely coincidental. And I'm sure she just lost my phone number or had head trauma.

Or something.

4. "Your sense of self is over-inflated and, thus, I bid you farewell."

Background: I met a woman at the Frontier Room. She was a nice woman that I found to be attractive. The feeling was mutual enough to lead to an exchange of phone numbers and an exchange of a couple of evenings. She was my Facebook friend and she followed my blog.

At least until she wasn't and didn't.

The Conclusion: I wrote a blog that involved me with cartoonish levels of puffery (i.e., I was writing arrogantly to try to be funny) and she didn't like it. She made a comment on the blog post. She un-friended me. She stopped following my blog.

She didn't respond to the lone txt I sent her (which, unlike with most of the others on this list, I had a feeling was going to be the case).

Best Guess (my bad): I have friends who like to post things on my Facebook page. And some of these things, presumably, were viewable by this chick. One friend (Facebook and real-life) posted something about Frontier Room girls, implying that I met a lot of them (which is ... only partly true). That, I think, laid the groundwork for this chick reading my blog in a spirit in which it was not intended.

Best Guess (her bad): She was sort of inexperienced in some ways and perhaps saw hanging out as something closer to "hanging out with an option to marry". I don't know if that's her fault or my fault. I already accepted responsibility for a comment of my friend's, though, so I'm pinning this one on the chick.

3. "See you in a few minutes. Or never talk to you again."

Background: I was really drunk one night at a nearly empty bar and embarrassing my friends with my terrifically terrible dance moves. I also happened to stare at one of the approximately three women in the whole place (not including waitresses and bartendresses). Stared more than Sober Ed O. might, but not too much to stop her from offering her number (the classic, "So do you want my number, or what?", like she's annoyed at having to give me her number and/or that I hadn't asked yet).

We txted back and forth for a bit over the next few days. Chatted and got to know each other a bit. She asked me odd questions about whether I was a player and then took a "Maybe; it depends on one's definition of 'player'" as a "Yes".

We hung out a few times. The third time I saw her, I was with a couple of friends and we all agreed to meet up at another bar. We had all driven separately, and on her way out, she specifically told one of my female friends she'd see her in a couple of minutes.

The Conclusion: I haven't seen her since. She txted me about a half an hour later, saying she had to help her friend (who'd gotten into an argument with her boyfriend) and that it would be a detour. She even put a ":(" to end the txt.

I txted her right back, saying I looked forward to her arrival. And an hour later, saying we all missed her. And then the next day, hoping she got home safely.

She never replied. Not once.

Best Guess (my bad): It's possible, in spite of her protestations, that she wanted me to be a player. That she didn't want anything approaching a boyfriend, etc. She didn't say that, but it woulda been just fine with me. The last night we hung out I complimented her or something and she replied, "That doesn't sound like a player thing to say." and I shrugged. I guess, once again, I wasn't clearly enough NOT interested in a relationship, and this time the chick read it terribly.

Best Guess (her bad): Uh. She's crazy, maybe (although see #1, below... THAT is crazy). She's averse to confrontation? She was cheating on her boyfriend? I don't know.

2. "Your dream date is not dreamy enough."

Background: Way back in the dark ages, I was active on Match.com. I met this woman through the popular online dating service and we agreed to get together to have sushi. She was a lovely, if slightly larger, woman, and I enjoyed our conversation in spite of the innumerable oddities, including:

Her: Are you nervous?
Me: No. It's freezing outside and I didn't wear a jacket.
Her: You look nervous. It's OK...
Me: No. I'm totally not.
Her: I intimidate men.

Her: I am high-maintenance. I know it and I'm worth it.

Her: What are you?
Me: What do you mean?
Her: Are you Japanese?
Me: Like, ethnically?

We were sitting across a table from one another, like three feet away. I don't look that Asian.

On the walk after dinner (I walked her to her place), we agreed to hang out again. Actually, she sort of agreed. Something like this:

Her: Are we going to go out again?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.
Her: What are we going to do?
Me: I dunno. A movie, maybe...
Her: OK. Which one?
Me: I'm not sure... we can look to see what's playing...
Her: How about Apocalypto?
Me: Um... sounds good. Tuesday night?
Her: Tuesday. Yes.

The Conclusion: That seems like pretty firm plans. Nothing extravagant, but pretty clear. Well, we were exchanging Match.com mails at that point (I don't think I ever got her number) and when I tried to confirm Tuesday, she mailed me back, asking what the perfect date would be.

I got the sense that it was a precondition of hanging out again, which should not be a factor when we'd already agreed to hang out. So I replied that it would involve dinner and a night of bowling.

Match.com, as it turns out, has a "sorry, no longer interested" reply that's a form-type situation. She sent it to me shortly therafter, NOT selecting that she didn't find me interesting or attractive, but that our lifestyles didn't mesh.

Oops.

Best Guess (my bad): I should have made up some crap about flying her to Paris.

Best Guess (her bad): She should not have gone so far as to pick out a movie if she wanted me to make up some crap about flying her to Paris.

1. "Sure, I'll have home-cooked lasagna. Or not."

Background: Sometimes you don't see chicks perma-flaking on you. Sometimes ... you do. In spite of the lack of surprise with this woman, she still gets my number one most abrupt conclusion.

She was the "fuck off now" chick (I need to dig that blog up; basically I said something wrong to her at the end of a night where she was walking around topless in her apartment all night and she told me to "fuck off now" via txt the next day. We started hanging out after my blog about her charmed my way back into her good graces/crazy zone).

She was the chick who was 45 minutes late for a date with me because (she claims) she was masturbating.

She was the chick who ... well, there are other stories but they're too embarrassing to blog about. (Savor that, given the last two things I've written about her.)

The final straw? A couple of weeks after she stood me up, we agreed to have dinner at my place. I was going to cook lasagna. From scratch.

The Conclusion: How do you think it turned out?

We were txting back and forth all evening. It was about 7:00, and just when I was about to start putting the cheese/cream sauce on the recently al dente'd noodles when we had this txt exchange. It was short. It was final.

Her: Babes. I'm feeling sooo sleepy.
Me: You have got to be fucking shitting me.

I never heard from her again.

Best Guess (my bad): She was crazy. I was inexperienced as a hang-outer. In many ways, she was just fine (in spite of the insanity) but I somehow let myself get invested. Repeatedly. My bad, indeed.

Best Guess (her bad): She was crazy. Maybe autistic or drug-addled, too.

But she was pretty hot...

How Not to Sell Me a Suit

For some reason, last week I got it into my head that I needed a new suit. I own a black suit, but it doesn't fit me all that well and so I was hoping to get something new to wear for a birthday party that I am allegedly invited to and even, perhaps, for my upcoming Vegas trip.

So I got it into my head that I needed a new suit, but I didn't have any idea about my measurements.

I looked online for a suit that would be reasonable, thinking I could get it hemmed or whatever they do to make things fit better once I received it. I still didn't know my suit measurements, however.

I went into Men's Wearhouse yesterday, thinking I could get in, get the info, and get out. I wasn't eager to buy there for one primary reason: salesdudes.

Several years ago, well before the current version of my life, I went into Men's Wearhouse to get a suit. I went with my ex- and I was educated/talked to for a long time by a salesdude that seemed about 0.13% (that is about one part in 800) sincere. Maybe I read him wrong, and he was just really passionate about getting people into new clothes so they'd look better, but...

Anyway, I walked into the store I was immediately greeted. Not like a, "What's up?"-type of greeting, but a "I want to sell you a car TODAY!"-type of greeting. My distaste was ameliorated by several large signs up around the store: 50% off all suits. Hmm. Maybe I would buy something.

Or maybe not.

The guy who had pounced upon me talked to me for about 37 seconds, grabbed a suit from the rack, had me try on the jacket and then said he'd be back.

Where was he going? I didn't know. What was I supposed to do other than stare at myself in the mirror while he was gone? I didn't know.

After about five minutes, I noticed he was wrapping up a transaction with another customer... OK. Fine. He'll be right with me, right ... ?

Well. He wasn't. He disappeared again, and I was staring at myself in the same charcoal 39L jacket (which fit pretty well) and I was bored and irritated. Why the f would I want to spend that large of a chunk of my Saturday morning like that?

Further, I was not alone. I was not being actively served, but I was standing next to a salesdude. THE salesdude. After six+ years, the same guy who had helped me was still working there, and still was brimming with the pseudo-passion that he had exhibited so many years before.

After what seemed like forever (but was probably about three minutes more) of not seeing my salesdude, I removed the jacket. I set the suit down. I walked out the store.

That is definitely not the way to sell me a suit.

I Saw a Dead Man Today

Life is, in many ways, a series of firsts. The first day of school. The first kiss. The first time you see a dead person.

It's not every day that you see a dead man.

Unless "every day" is today and "you" are me. Or you are I. Or however one would state that properly.

I saw a dead man today.

It was not a funeral. It was not the Bodies exhibit. It was a guy, lying outside his apartment building, who had put a gun to his head and turned his body into meat.

We were told, afterwards, that he had purchased a gun two weeks beforehand, and that he had a box full of bullets and he had only removed one. And that one was all it took.

I don't know the man. I don't know why he had tattoos where he did or why he was wearing the hat that he was or what he had for lunch before he took his own life. I certainly don't know why he chose to kill himself.

All I know is that it was a unique experience for me. I would imagine that I will see more dead bodies at some point in my life after this (it seems mathematically probable) but I'll never see a dead body for the first time. While I don't know if the second time will be like the first or, in its own way unique, I am sure this will prove to be unique.

The first thing I noticed was the surreal nature of it. I could see the body through a window, and watched the way the police looked into the situation: they checked his pockets, they took pictures, they placed his hands in paper bags--presumably to protect GSR, although I can't be sure.

That I even know a term like "GSR" indicates why, perhaps, it was so surreal.

It was not that it reminded me of my own mortality. It was not that I felt an overwhelming sadness for a man I never met. It was not that a totally normal day had been interrupted by a unique experience.

It was that it felt a bit like television: looking through a transparent rectangular portal to a scene that was totally foreign to me.

Another odd aspect of this was... irrational happiness. I feel a bit bad even admitting this, but the fact that he was dead and I was alive made me almost giddy. Intellectually, I would have much rather been bored and a stranger be alive, but rather than blaming this odd behavior on some sort of perverted sense of right and wrong, I will call it defense mechanism.

Laughter is a defense mechanism and black humor (the Dr. Stranglove kind, not the Kat Williams kind) is an extension of that, I think... dealing with taboo and difficult situations by twisting them until you can't help but laugh. I wasn't laughing due to the corpse within eyeshot, but I wasn't reacting in the sad manner I would have predicted, either.

Further, during and following battles where people are dying, some people feel elation. This seemingly counterintuitive response may be another way of the body rejecting the possibility/probability of its death. Obviously I was in no danger, but maybe subconsciously I felt more vulnerable than normal, and my body was just pleased to still be alive.

Maybe, of course, I am damaged. Maybe, of course, I am twisted. Maybe.

But I'm alive and I'm glad that I get to keep thinking about it. And I'm not looking forward to seeing how I respond to the next dead body I see.

Sexual Bending or Comic Sans

I read this earlier today. It involves this announcement for a Wisconsin dance:

I am the last person to fight the power, but:

• Comic sans? Really?
• "No blue jeans" rules are ridiculous. I guess I can understand a blanket "no holes in pants" and/or "no underwear showing" rule, but the continued discrimination against blue jeans (whether at a prom or on a golf course) is ridiculous.
• I had never heard of the term "sexual bending" before... but I'm disappointed to learn that it's only things like "hands on knees". Maybe I've spent too much time in Capitol Hill.
• I think they meant "ensure". But when someone's using Comic Sans looking at grammar seems particularly nitpicky.
  

(-er)? Maybe. Old? Not quite yet.

I am the last person in the world who would claim to be whining-free. I like to vent/complain/bemoan/bitch/say "FML" as much as the next guy.

(Probably not as much as the next chick, though, when it comes to saying "FML". I have only seen two guys do it and both of them had their dude card revoked.)

In spite of this general lack of reluctance to whine, I think I've done a reasonably good job of accepting my advancing years with some grace. I rarely complain about the three or four gray hairs I have, and I don't find getting out of bed more difficult now than I did, say, a decade ago. I even attribute my primary physical pain to poor ergonomics, rather that Father Time's invisible hand gripping my right shoulder blade 20 hours a day.

With all of this said? I have been wondering if I've felt old the last week or so. A few little encounters have made given me pause:

On Saturday night I went with some peeps to Hula Hula. I hadn't been there in a month or so, and with my lingering sore throat I hadn't sung much karaoke recently. I had turned in a song and was having a rum and diet when I was approached by a guy I used to bump into around the neighborhood quite a bit.

You remember in school that there were kids you knew you were not supposed to make fun of, but you did it anyway? Maybe the kid was always dirty, or maybe he smelled bad, or maybe he was mentally slow, or maybe he was a girl. In any case, upon reflection as an adult you wish you hadn't mocked/bullied/mock-bullied?

Well, this guy is one of those kinds of guys. As an adult, I find him strange and off-putting. He's got several things about him that can make the kid in me giggle at him and the adult in me creeped out by him... but I try to treat him with respect and understand that if everyone did then his life would probably be better for it.

Anyway, he was there. He came over to me, as I was drinking my rum and diet, and asked how I was doing, etc., etc. Totally fine and normal conversation until he sort of stopped me with--out of the blue--this proclamation:

"You look tired."

Hmm.

It would have been easy to respond with, "You look ugly, stupid-head!" but I did not. I think I joked about how that was sort of rude.

But did I look tired, even though I didn't feel tired? Don't old people look tired when they don't feel tired?

Sunday was the NFL conference championship games. I had been up pretty late Saturday night, but given that the games didn't start until noon I was in prime position to watch both of them. I had no rooting interest, though, and ... just didn't care.

When the second game rolled around, I watched (partially, as I worked on something on my compter) the first quarter and then ... took a long nap. I woke up just in time to turn on the TV and see the Saints kick their game-winning field goal in overtime. And felt nothing. Not merely a lack of excitement, but a lack of interest.

This might be traced back to a lack of someone to root for. During the regular season, I play fantasy football and it gives me players and teams to root for each week (indeed, in most games of every week). Maybe I'm accustomed/programmed to feel that rush of adrenaline in every game, and when it's gone, the interest is gone.

I've noticed something else, though, with the one team I do root for: the Portland Trail Blazers. I made it through the close losses against the Lakers. I weathered the years where they were mocked as the "Jail Blazers". I even managed to make it through losing Greg Oden (one of the best prospects ever) to a knee injury for a year before he played his first game.

But this year? So many injuries. Greg Oden, in his third year, was lost for the rest of the year after the first part of the season, and he's been joined by over a half-dozen teammates with injuries of varying level of severity.

I still watch the Blazers. But I miss games sometimes if I forget to record the games. I don't get upset when they lose on last-second shots. I won't be disappointed if they miss the playoffs this year.

I tell myself that I will care more next year, when the team (including Oden) is healthier. But will I? Have I lost the innocence that is so often associated with sports fandom? Don't old people give up on primarily meaningless hopes that can be easily crushed through no fault of their own?

Monday, after seemingly an eternity, I finally made it back to the dentist's office. Up until this past year, when a little thing called "Funemployment" derailed me, I had gone to the dentist's office regularly. Every six months I got a checkup and an ego boost as I was reminded that, no matter what other shit had been happening in my life, at least my teeth were in reasonably good shape.

By the end of the visit, I had felt the warm and fuzzy feeling that I'd come to know and love from the dentist, but there was a point where I was (lightly) chastised by the hygienist. They do some thing where they prod your gums and can tell the health of them. Evidently I'd had merely two fours, or something, my previous visit, and this visit I had like eight fours and two fives (fives being worse, indicating early periodontal disease symptoms, or something).

Yes, it can be reversed with flossing, and yes, I haven't flossed much lately. But I never had to floss much before to avoid getting fours and fives. Don't old people have early indicators of the onset of periodontal disease?

...

So. I'm old?

I'm not willing to admit it just yet. I still have good vision. I still have all of my hair (most of it not gray). I am able to occasionally trick younger women into hanging out with me. I even get carded at the liquor store occasionally.

I sometimes joke that I'm closer to death now than I ever have been (yes, my humor is occasionally dark). But I shouldn't even be sure of that. With nanotechnology and improved nutrition and the upcoming return of Elvis, I might be farther away from dying now than I was when I was born.

So I am farther from birth than I've ever been before, but--in spite of looking tired, being apathetic to sports and having early signs of gingivitis--I am not willing to concede that I am old.

All About Facial Hair

I didn't really need to shave my face until my death was relatively close.

I didn't have to shave in high school, and I could go for a week without shaving in much of college before anything would be apparent. I still remember my sophomore year I'd decided to leave a little soul patch area under the lip, and a guy in my dorm said, extremely casually (as was Flem's way), "You have something under your lip."

My next stop was my dorm room to shave that shit off.

At some point--probably after law school, when I actually got paid to show up somewhere--I had to start shaving. Even though I could wear shorts and t-shirts much of my time at my first job, I never felt comfortable letting my facial hair grow out.

The last couple of years, however, I've evidently tried to make up for lost time with my facial hair (as I have with so much else).

Last winter, in the midst of my funemployment, my hair was getting super-shaggy and I had a mustache (just a mustache) and I felt like a freak. For over a month, I made an actual effort to maintain a mustache by shaving other parts of my face.

While it might not be the healthiest mental approach, there's something to be said for never going all-out. If you don't give your all, you do not become invested and therefore you can shrug and say that it doesn't really matter. In some ways, it probably doesn't matter. Success has the added sweetness of earned at little cost.

The downside is, of course, potential is never maximized. Opportunities are lost. Discrete failure is averted, but systemic and holistic failure is all but ensured.

When I grow facial hair, it's no big deal. I am not trying to do anything... I'm just letting it go.

Once I decide to shave part of it, though? That means that, at whatever level, I'm making an actual decision. I'm investing some of my very self into a mustache.

I am at that stage with my facial hair, as I sit and type this. I have a mustache and chin beard, and it's been growing for almost two months. The mustache is long enough that when I smile it covers part of my teeth in pictures and it's a constant threat to intermingle with my food and drink (as I consume them; not the stuff I keep in, say, my refrigerator).

So... I have to do something. I am not ready to get rid of it entirely, I don't think, but I fear that if I trim it or attempt to shape it, then I will open myself up to ridicule. To failure.

My life is so difficult.

Sometimes I Don't Want to Hear People Talk

I'm usually a pretty forgiving person. Most people who speak have nothing to say, and most people are uncomfortable with silences, so they end up saying nothing in more words than they should. I know this and I understand it and I do not begrudge most things that most people say.

A couple things this weekend, though, I heard and they rubbed me the wrong way.

"What? No Drink?"

I was chilling with Queen Bee and Politica Sunday night at my place. Some TV on DVD was watched and some red wine was consumed. We decided to take a quick walk to the grocery store to get more supplies (food, wine, etc.).

As we entered the establishment, a panhandler struck up a conversation. Here's how a conversation like this usually would go:

Him: Can I have a buck?
Me: I don't carry cash.

The end. Simple, honest, quick. Even if the person endeavors to continue the conversation, I keep walking and establish that I am not interested.

This weekend, though, following a bit of wine, I let down my guard, and it went something like this:

Him: Can I have a buck?
Me: I don't carry cash.
Him: Buy me a sandwich?
Me: A sandwich? For a buck?
Him: Nah, man.
Me: What kind of sandwich?
Him: Roast beef. And a drink. Gatorade or something.
Me: I'll buy you some Gatorade.
Him: Buy the roast beef. Get some of that ciabatta bread and they sell the (some weird brand name I'd never heard of) roast beef right there.
Me: Well, we'll see.

And I walked in. That there was no "thank you" or any sense of gratitude struck me as a bit odd, but I figured he doubted my sincerity, so I decided to get him SOMETHING to eat.

The way the purchasing worked, it fell to Queen Bee to pick out the sandwich, and she selected a $6.50 pastrami sandwich. I actually kinda wanted to eat it, myself (I rarely buy myself anything more than a $5 footlong (plus tax and tip)), but she gave it to me to give to the guy on the way out.

Me: Here you go. It's pastrami. Hope that's OK.
Him: What? Yeah. And a drink?
Me: What? Are you serious...?
Him: Thanks, man. But a Gatorade, too? [Flashes me a weak smile]
Me: No, sorry.
Him: OK.

I was not pleased on the walk back to my place, although I quickly remembered the fact that I was going back to sit on my couch with two attractive women, cuddled under a blanket drinking wine and eating delicious snacks as we watched funny shows on my HDTV. And he wasn't.

Even given that, is a legitimate "Thank you" too much to ask?

"I Had a Dream That My Whites Were Extra Bright"

After walking back from the gym today, a day I have off of work thanks to Martin Luther King Day, I took the elevator up with a pair of guys I'd never seen/met before. They knew each other and had the following exchange as I remained silent:

Guy #1: How's your day going?
Guy #2: Pretty good. Doing laundry and listening to NPR.
Guy #1: Ah... it could be worse, right?
Guy #2: Yeah. I was thinking about going to the [MLK Day] march.
Guy #1: Oh, yeah?
Guy #2: I was going to go but I had to do laundry. Otherwise I would have marched.
Guy #1: Ah.

*gag*

Setting aside whatever value I may place on marches happening in Seattle on MLK Day, I found it odd that someone else would put enough value on it to consider going... unless laundry had to be done.

That's like saying I would TOTALLY feed my cats unless there's a new episode of Fringe on.

If you want to march because it's important to you: cool. If you want to march because you want to fit in and/or pick up people of the opposite sex: fantastic.

If you want to pay lip service to the importance of the march even as you make a lame excuse for a reason you can't quite make it: that's super-lame.