ALL ABOUT WOMEN

The other day I kindly offered to go over and talk to someone else's female companion, so that she would flee the cigar bar and he could finally revert to his normal persona.
He declined the offer.

I am well-known at that place for attempting to treat people as if they actually have brains, opinions, and tastes. Which scares women, and goes right past a lot of the men who make that nurturing smoke-friendly environment their home away from home.
Women just aren't used to the concept of thinking at all, and most men have such a narrow range of interests and conversational subjects that thought-processes are never part of their lives. Regurgitating sports-related nonsense, or Fox-news criticism of the president, is about all many of them are capable of. Plus waffling on a bit about stocks, bonds, and business law.

There are exceptions. Of both genders.

Unfortunately, at the cigar bar the exceptions tend to be middle-aged and peculiar men, rather than young female college graduates.


Later that same evening someone encouraged me to make a play at an unattached feminine individual sitting by herself at the bar.

"Hey, you won't get lucky if you don't at least try!"

"What makes you think I want to get lucky?"

He pursued the conversation, once it was clear that I wasn't going to even touch the person in question with a ten-foot rhetorical pole, by asking whether there were, or had been, ever, any women in the place that I might, or would have wanted to, briefly "know better".

To which the answer, naturally, is 'no'.

"What kind of woman you like then?"

"Petite, dark-haired, reads hardcover books"

And that, you will agree, says it all. It describes both her physical attributes (an important consideration for all men), as well as her character and personality.
The woman who habitually reads hardcovers does not, usually, even touch Elle, Cosmopolitan, People, US Weekly, or Seventeen. Unless she's in a waiting room at the doctor's office.
Neither make-up nor tattoos are the be-all and end-all of her self-expression or her individuality. Though she may know who some of the famous shoe designers are, she can't remember why she knows, and does not intend to ever use that knowledge.
She's an avid and open-minded diner.
Stubbornly self-assured.

San Francisco does not have many such.

Yes, there are petite dark-haired women here, but a great many of them are conversational disaster zones, and though a few are rather nice (mild and unobjectionable), like their bigger paler sisters they are vacuous and superficial. As well as rapacious and materialistic.
The only hardcover they've likely read is either 'Statistics For Accounts Payable', or a bound collection of Modern Bride Magazine back-issues.
Even the concept of being immersed in books for several hours does not appeal to today's American womanhood; they would far rather go to Macy's, and afterwards experiment with flavoured vodka.
Fashion is, for many, the exact equivalent of football.
Breathlessly and brainlessly entertaining.

The term 'vapid' comes to mind.

My simple-minded interlocutor at the cigar bar could not understand what I was trying to say, and did not grasp that getting involved with someone who was not worth getting to know would be a monumental waste of time (much like watching football or shopping for handbags, but far more trying).

There is no casual sex in my world.

At fifty three, I'm too old and cynical, and not desperate enough.
I know exactly what I want, and will not compromise.


Childlike yet mature, and a super brainiac.
Independent, and insightful.
Very real.


I'm pretty sure I'll never meet someone like that.



"But aren't you tempted, just a little?"

"Nope. There's nothing tempting."




==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================