Several of my friends are distressed at my singleness. My solitary bachelor life, and the occasional evidence of frustration and loneliness, makes them feel sad on my behalf.
I am not distressed.
Yeah, occasionally frustrated and lonely.
But not distressed.
Or sad.
I've seen what's out there.
The San Francisco singles world is a replay of Night of the Living Dead. Mixed with an unhealthy helping of SantaCon.
There's little worse than nasty elves.
Oh, and many women are artists, creative and vibrant, and experienced world travelers who DESERVE a financially stable enthusiastic non-smoking athlete. Who shares her passion. Whatever that is.
Either that, or shoes.
This blogger may not be prime relationship material. I smoke and drink, have a fondness for bakeries in Chinatown where something flaky may be found as well as a hot beverage, and own far too many books, many of which are NOT high-literature or high-minded.
I put hot-sauce on many things.
No, I don't go to clubs or all the latest fancy restaurants.
For the occasional alcoholic beverage I prefer quiet places where I can hear what the person that I am in conversation with is saying, and the music is neither painfully loud nor excessively unique and hip.
No music at all would be best.
My favourite restaurants are relatively cheap, but do good stuff. The ambience is more real world than high-fallutin' chic. No pretentious or nouveau in-spots, and if they've spent a fortune on ambiance and décor, they've already made me dread the experience.
My idea of dating is dull and boring. Let's do coffee, then browse at a bookstore, and have a quiet dinner in a while. I will walk you to your door, and we'll agree to meet again in another day or two. Please bring a book, and we'll find a café that looks like it would be fun to sit for a few hours just reading.
Care for some beef chow fun? How about some roast pork?
There's a place on Waverly with superior congee.
On Clay we can have chicken wings.
The Caffe Trieste is always noisy, and the Roma appears not to exist anymore (it's now the Colosseo). But the latte at both Puccini and the Greco is decent, and they are usually not jam-packed, except near evening.
We can go there after not buying a book at City Lights.
Let's have an early supper at the Washington Café afterwards, then we can stroll over the hill back to your place. Do you mind if I smoke my pipe while we walk?
See? That's almost impossibly unexciting, and damn well guaranteed to make any woman yawn. It just isn't appealing in any way.
Stodgy, unimaginative, and depressingly settled.
Plus I don't have a cell-phone and do not text or tweet.
I am a rather unsuitable man.
Which is ok.
So yes, still quite solitary and single, and also occasionally somewhat frustrated by that condition. Bachelorhood is not a grand experience.
But I am quite happy that I am not an enthusiastic non-smoking athlete.
Being an ideal man sounds like it might be a drag.
And vibrant, creative, and artistic world travellers, as all single women are, would very probably not be my cup of tea.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Showing posts with label Dating and romance (or a complete lack of that). Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dating and romance (or a complete lack of that). Show all posts
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Saturday, December 14, 2013
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO ON SATURDAY NIGHT?
Chances are that when you read this, I'll be somewhere smoking a pipe. Or happily slurping a cup of Hongkong-style milk-tea. Seeing as I am very much a creature of habit. Not sedentary, just self-indulgent.
Good pipe-tobacco. Hot hot tea. And someone else.
The third element is missing at present.
Eventually, though.
What would you rather do on a Saturday Night?
Well, many Saturday evenings I end up where there are other smokers. Mostly cigar aficionados, but given how few places allow smoking indoors, a man should not be picky.
Unfortunately, there is a lack of milk-tea there.
It is a baffling oversight.
They also lack comfy chairs, sofas, and loveseats, as well as low tables on which one might place a tea-tray, having opted instead for standard-issue bar-furniture and two large televisions. Which may explain why nice women who could be interested in a pipe-smoking single-man of ready wit and foxy profile -- such as, as just a totally hypothetical example, myself -- avoid the place in droves.
Trust me, not a single one is there.
NICE WOMEN?
Nice women require tea. And a warm comfortable place to sit. Or to recline. As well as clean and convenient surfaces for cups, saucers, handbags, a trenchcoat flung with casual elegance to dry somewhere, and also a spot where they can put their feminine man-purse in which they keep a Peterson or Dunhill for indulging in a bit of Greg Pease's Westminster -- medium full Latakia, precisely what an old-fashioned English pipe-tobacco should be -- when their parents or disapproving colleagues, or even heaven forfend their younger siblings, aren't around to protest.
Plus cookies; nice women love cookies.
Sure, you smoke elsewhere. But it's a furtive puff. A furtive half-hour. Of puffing. Which in this weather is a miserable experience unless you are bundled up. See aforementioned trenchcoat, now add a thick muffler.
Being a hot-blooded middle-aged Dutch-American man (imagine all the hyphenating I could do!), I would offer you a place to do that in peace and quiet, but seeing as my apartment mate is a fervent non-smoker of conviction, the best I can manage at present is an arm to lean on, as we both shelter in an abandoned doorway somewhere along Polk Street. You with your quirkily pungent Latakia mixture, I with my mature Virginia flake. There's probably someplace where we can get warm afterwards. Bob's Donuts isn't too far away. Although it's presently filled with young drunks, barely post-college and fully twitterized.
Might be fun. Nice to be with someone. Still, the weather.
I can bring a big knitted throw, and then we can freeze our toes off, very discreetly huddling just outside the ruined church. I'm sure that the resident raccoons wouldn't mind. They can be bribed.
All they need is pizza and beer.
Rather like frat-boys.
Alternatively, screw up your courage and drop by the aforementioned place sometime where the cigar-smokers are. I'll protect you from the middle-aged British sex-maniac, as well as the "date anything that moves" smuggler of Cuban cigars, plus the "Why Hello There!" creepazoid wearing dubious clothing.
They're easily dented.
And don't worry, I know how to get lipstick off a pipe-stem.
I'll make sure to have extra pipe-cleaners.
And loads more hyphens.
This post is a perfectly clean obscene proposition.
Except for the tobacco odour that adheres to it.
Burnt-leaf fragrances are part of the deal.
Milk-tea. A bite to eat. And Latakia.
Perspicacity is a requirement.
Raccoons are optional.
NOTE: over two dozen hyphens were harmed in the writing of this post. Sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Good pipe-tobacco. Hot hot tea. And someone else.
The third element is missing at present.
Eventually, though.
What would you rather do on a Saturday Night?
Well, many Saturday evenings I end up where there are other smokers. Mostly cigar aficionados, but given how few places allow smoking indoors, a man should not be picky.
Unfortunately, there is a lack of milk-tea there.
It is a baffling oversight.
They also lack comfy chairs, sofas, and loveseats, as well as low tables on which one might place a tea-tray, having opted instead for standard-issue bar-furniture and two large televisions. Which may explain why nice women who could be interested in a pipe-smoking single-man of ready wit and foxy profile -- such as, as just a totally hypothetical example, myself -- avoid the place in droves.
Trust me, not a single one is there.
NICE WOMEN?
Nice women require tea. And a warm comfortable place to sit. Or to recline. As well as clean and convenient surfaces for cups, saucers, handbags, a trenchcoat flung with casual elegance to dry somewhere, and also a spot where they can put their feminine man-purse in which they keep a Peterson or Dunhill for indulging in a bit of Greg Pease's Westminster -- medium full Latakia, precisely what an old-fashioned English pipe-tobacco should be -- when their parents or disapproving colleagues, or even heaven forfend their younger siblings, aren't around to protest.
Plus cookies; nice women love cookies.
Sure, you smoke elsewhere. But it's a furtive puff. A furtive half-hour. Of puffing. Which in this weather is a miserable experience unless you are bundled up. See aforementioned trenchcoat, now add a thick muffler.
Being a hot-blooded middle-aged Dutch-American man (imagine all the hyphenating I could do!), I would offer you a place to do that in peace and quiet, but seeing as my apartment mate is a fervent non-smoker of conviction, the best I can manage at present is an arm to lean on, as we both shelter in an abandoned doorway somewhere along Polk Street. You with your quirkily pungent Latakia mixture, I with my mature Virginia flake. There's probably someplace where we can get warm afterwards. Bob's Donuts isn't too far away. Although it's presently filled with young drunks, barely post-college and fully twitterized.
Might be fun. Nice to be with someone. Still, the weather.
I can bring a big knitted throw, and then we can freeze our toes off, very discreetly huddling just outside the ruined church. I'm sure that the resident raccoons wouldn't mind. They can be bribed.
All they need is pizza and beer.
Rather like frat-boys.
Alternatively, screw up your courage and drop by the aforementioned place sometime where the cigar-smokers are. I'll protect you from the middle-aged British sex-maniac, as well as the "date anything that moves" smuggler of Cuban cigars, plus the "Why Hello There!" creepazoid wearing dubious clothing.
They're easily dented.
And don't worry, I know how to get lipstick off a pipe-stem.
I'll make sure to have extra pipe-cleaners.
And loads more hyphens.
This post is a perfectly clean obscene proposition.
Except for the tobacco odour that adheres to it.
Burnt-leaf fragrances are part of the deal.
Milk-tea. A bite to eat. And Latakia.
Perspicacity is a requirement.
Raccoons are optional.
NOTE: over two dozen hyphens were harmed in the writing of this post. Sorry.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, October 10, 2013
I AM ANYTHING BUT UN-IMPRESSED WITH MY OWN SASSY SELF
Honestly, I do not know why I even bothered to sign-up for OKCupid. Maybe it was desperation. Or boredom. Perhaps just ill-advised curiosity about the other species.
OKCupid is a dating site. Years ago, when for laughs I joined as Borat Sagdiyev, I didn't expect that he would prove so popular among their subscribers. I had answered the questionnaire in character, assuming that no woman would be smitten by a crude sexist vulgarian.
I was wrong. No sane woman would.
Hundreds of others were.
Desperate times.
About a year ago I joined up again. As myself.
Desperation, boredom, & curiosity.
Crazy move, I know.
I am not Borat.
OKCupid insists on trying to link me up with people who are 100% perfect. Which their profiles take pains to make utterly and completely plain, so that even the densest of males will be astounded by their awesome wonderfulness.
Herewith a sampling of the most recent candidates.
"I am creative, devoted, and always up for trying new things. Current events, current movies, current books my interest"
"I'm physically active, secure, financially & otherwise and non-judgemental if you are interested in sharing my grand passion for authentic experiences"
"I am witty, kind and incredibly loyal, I'm also adventurous, well traveled and well read"
"I have done a lot of great things but I would love to share these experiences with someone special"
"I’m really good at writing singing playing guitar languages listening understanding designing and being spontaneous"
"I am charming, athletic, artistic, and driven. I love muscle cars, art, sports, and outdoors. I'm looking to meet someone who has a strong interest in sports"
"I am a pretty happy accomplished girl who loves traveling, camping, and finding new places to explore. I like being around people who are being spontanious, adventures and extraverted like me"
"I love photography, artistic things, acting and fashion"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about how to make a difference"
"I'm enjoy cooking, baking, cleaning, riding bicycle, playing music"
"I'm reading, singing, walking, looking forward to adventuring in Africa"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about why Africa moves so slowly, tofu, biogas"
Well now. Aren't they just.
I am flattered that OKCupid thinks they would be suitable for me.
But really, they deserve someone special.
Which I am decidedly not.
I am not creative, devoted, grandly passionate, adventurous, designing, spontaneous, charming, athletic, artistic, driven, accomplished, riding a bicycle, singing, or in any way looking forward to Africa.
I seldom think of biogas.
I am unworthy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
OKCupid is a dating site. Years ago, when for laughs I joined as Borat Sagdiyev, I didn't expect that he would prove so popular among their subscribers. I had answered the questionnaire in character, assuming that no woman would be smitten by a crude sexist vulgarian.
I was wrong. No sane woman would.
Hundreds of others were.
Desperate times.
About a year ago I joined up again. As myself.
Desperation, boredom, & curiosity.
Crazy move, I know.
I am not Borat.
OKCupid insists on trying to link me up with people who are 100% perfect. Which their profiles take pains to make utterly and completely plain, so that even the densest of males will be astounded by their awesome wonderfulness.
Herewith a sampling of the most recent candidates.
"I am creative, devoted, and always up for trying new things. Current events, current movies, current books my interest"
"I'm physically active, secure, financially & otherwise and non-judgemental if you are interested in sharing my grand passion for authentic experiences"
"I am witty, kind and incredibly loyal, I'm also adventurous, well traveled and well read"
"I have done a lot of great things but I would love to share these experiences with someone special"
"I’m really good at writing singing playing guitar languages listening understanding designing and being spontaneous"
"I am charming, athletic, artistic, and driven. I love muscle cars, art, sports, and outdoors. I'm looking to meet someone who has a strong interest in sports"
"I am a pretty happy accomplished girl who loves traveling, camping, and finding new places to explore. I like being around people who are being spontanious, adventures and extraverted like me"
"I love photography, artistic things, acting and fashion"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about how to make a difference"
"I'm enjoy cooking, baking, cleaning, riding bicycle, playing music"
"I'm reading, singing, walking, looking forward to adventuring in Africa"
"I spend a lot of time thinking about why Africa moves so slowly, tofu, biogas"
Well now. Aren't they just.
I am flattered that OKCupid thinks they would be suitable for me.
But really, they deserve someone special.
Which I am decidedly not.
I am not creative, devoted, grandly passionate, adventurous, designing, spontaneous, charming, athletic, artistic, driven, accomplished, riding a bicycle, singing, or in any way looking forward to Africa.
I seldom think of biogas.
I am unworthy.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Monday, September 02, 2013
NOISES! I HEAR NOISES!
One of the extremely dubious benefits of an apartment-mate situation is that you get to hear the other person cooing sweetly on the telephone to the romantic interest in his or her life.
In this case, her life. The apartment-mate is a female, and there's a boyfriend somewhere out there. Telephonic cooing, if one is not personally involved in same, is an altogether silly and rather nauseating thing.
This blogger cannot remember the last time that he himself did any telephone cooing. I am a rather dry and insectoid individual at times, quite uninvolved with anything at all that might constitute cooing.
And consequently, cheerful coo-sounds emanating from the teevee room -- where the shared land line terminates in a device -- are an altogether lousy way to wake up.
Coos. And cooing.
Ick poo.
The first cup of coffee ALWAYS tastes better when there are NO coos.
Or giggles. Or chirruping and twittering.
It's like living with a flock of birds.
Well, only one bird.
Happy bird.
They're eating together today, lunch over at his place. Apparently beer-marinated something. Ribs, I think. But that marinade would probably be better on fowl.
The downtown should be nice and quiet later on, what with the bridge out and no office workers about. A perfect time to seek the colony of crows which I know live somewhere in the bureaucratic canyons. Possibly in the copse of redwood trees at Trans-America, or down at Ferry Park.
Crows do not coo. They are very civilized.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In this case, her life. The apartment-mate is a female, and there's a boyfriend somewhere out there. Telephonic cooing, if one is not personally involved in same, is an altogether silly and rather nauseating thing.
This blogger cannot remember the last time that he himself did any telephone cooing. I am a rather dry and insectoid individual at times, quite uninvolved with anything at all that might constitute cooing.
And consequently, cheerful coo-sounds emanating from the teevee room -- where the shared land line terminates in a device -- are an altogether lousy way to wake up.
Coos. And cooing.
Ick poo.
The first cup of coffee ALWAYS tastes better when there are NO coos.
Or giggles. Or chirruping and twittering.
It's like living with a flock of birds.
Well, only one bird.
Happy bird.
They're eating together today, lunch over at his place. Apparently beer-marinated something. Ribs, I think. But that marinade would probably be better on fowl.
The downtown should be nice and quiet later on, what with the bridge out and no office workers about. A perfect time to seek the colony of crows which I know live somewhere in the bureaucratic canyons. Possibly in the copse of redwood trees at Trans-America, or down at Ferry Park.
Crows do not coo. They are very civilized.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, July 04, 2013
A FAIRLY QUIET MAN
Adventures on the dating sites of the world continue! There's gold in them thar hills!
Meaning, of course, that this blogger's attempt to connect with live human beings has taken a backseat to his computer.
I love my computer. It seems so... responsive!
Petite. Cute. Full of life.
Possibly even female.
And multi-lingual.
As you may recall, I mentioned signing-up on OkCupid a while back. One of my readers had spoken of it, and it sounded like an interesting concept. I remembered when strictly for laughs I signed up on E-Harmony pretending to be Borat Sagdiyev, answering all questions in that precise persona (as detailed here). For several years afterwards, I received lovely romantic messages from hundreds of women who where desperate, utterly crazy-desperate, to meet mr. Wrong.
I had no clue that someone like Borat was so desirable.
Consequently, OkCupid seemed promising.
And at least better than a crap-shoot.
I may have been mistaken.
Most of the women on OkCupid are totally perfect. Not my type at all. I have no idea why they aren't all in the bestest and most rewardingest relationships ever.
Well, other than the grandmother of seven, who has named her dogs after the days of the week. She has three Sundays. Whether it's the dogs or the grandkids, rabies is a looming problem. Given that she lives in a trailer park out in the foothills.
Apparently she's a 95% match, 86% friend, and 8% enemy.
That last percentage is crucial. I betcha it's the smoking.
Despite what her profile says, she probably huffs two or three packs of Lucky Strikes per day. How else can she put up with seven grandkids and ten dogs?
And the looming threat of rabies.
It's hard when you have to shoot a grandkid.
But all the other people that OkCupid thinks would be in my ballpark have so much to offer.
Profile quotes:
"I explore my creative parts..."
"I live in America because I like the weather"
"I am living in the present and planning for the future."
"Living out of a camper, skydiving and then scuba"
"I'm like the girl next door!"
"I'm great with knives, knots, locks, cooking, massages"
"I like staying at home watching my SF Giants..."
"Scoring reservations at a time later than the normal senior citizen"
"Indignant about the lack of decent sushi"
"I enjoy making connections and I am well-traveled"
Judging by their profiles, they are all intelligent, alive, likable, active and involved, socially polished, adaptable, agreeable, perky, and nice.
I'm not really looking for nice.
What I'm looking for is a woman who might describe herself like this:
"I'm a post-graduate still living at home, perfectly happy not going to bars or nightclubs. I like staying up reading until the wee hours -- not only books by real authors, but also trashy novels, reference books, and crap I found at a rummage sale. Not into high-fashion, though I do dress nicely when I feel like it.
I'm looking for someone to eat with; that way I can order more interesting things at restaurants. My job is rather boring and mundane, but I enjoy my coworkers, and quite a few of them are fascinating and intelligent. "
See? She's utterly perfect. Someone who is at ease with herself, down to earth, and evinces a keen culinary vibrance.
The only things that I would add are:
"I have a thing for pipe-smokers, I prefer sensible shoes, and I only wear my Hello Kitty panties ironically!"
Someone who also likes Chinese and Indian food, warm beverages, hot sauce, and cookies, would be truly splendid.
REALITY BITES
The question you might ask at this point is what she would get out of a relationship with me. What's in it for her?
Other than someone with whom she could to go to restaurants and order the interesting things.
As well as a man who thinks she looks cute wearing Hello Kitty underwear ironically, and comfy flats.
I'm afraid I'm not good at filling out a profile (except for the time I was channeling for mr. Borat Sagdiyev).
Basically, I'm a normal guy who speaks Dutch, as well as a little Cantonese, Yiddish, German, and bits of other languages. I used to cook a lot more than I do now, and I would like to do so again.
I like being around other people, but not crowds.
I don't skydive, scuba, jog, work out at the gym, develop my creative and spiritual sides, or read self-help books. Lord knows I don't watch sports; anything with big butch men in tights makes my eyes glaze over.
Yeah, I read a lot. My living quarters are a fire-trap, what with cases and stacks of books everywhere.
My friends are all decent intelligent people with quirky interests and senses of humour.
They probably need that last characteristic, as they're all rather kind.
See? Hardly a description of Don Juan, an ideal daemon lover, the dark romantic stranger of a girl's dreams, or even Burt Reynolds. More like Sean Connery, considerably younger and with far less fat, a more intelligible accent, and a pipe. Sort of okay, I guess.
Food! She'd get food! And the recurring aroma of pipe-smoke!
That, plus occasional bursts of wit!
And beverages!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Meaning, of course, that this blogger's attempt to connect with live human beings has taken a backseat to his computer.
I love my computer. It seems so... responsive!
Petite. Cute. Full of life.
Possibly even female.
And multi-lingual.
As you may recall, I mentioned signing-up on OkCupid a while back. One of my readers had spoken of it, and it sounded like an interesting concept. I remembered when strictly for laughs I signed up on E-Harmony pretending to be Borat Sagdiyev, answering all questions in that precise persona (as detailed here). For several years afterwards, I received lovely romantic messages from hundreds of women who where desperate, utterly crazy-desperate, to meet mr. Wrong.
I had no clue that someone like Borat was so desirable.
Consequently, OkCupid seemed promising.
And at least better than a crap-shoot.
I may have been mistaken.
Most of the women on OkCupid are totally perfect. Not my type at all. I have no idea why they aren't all in the bestest and most rewardingest relationships ever.
Well, other than the grandmother of seven, who has named her dogs after the days of the week. She has three Sundays. Whether it's the dogs or the grandkids, rabies is a looming problem. Given that she lives in a trailer park out in the foothills.
Apparently she's a 95% match, 86% friend, and 8% enemy.
That last percentage is crucial. I betcha it's the smoking.
Despite what her profile says, she probably huffs two or three packs of Lucky Strikes per day. How else can she put up with seven grandkids and ten dogs?
And the looming threat of rabies.
It's hard when you have to shoot a grandkid.
But all the other people that OkCupid thinks would be in my ballpark have so much to offer.
Profile quotes:
"I explore my creative parts..."
"I live in America because I like the weather"
"I am living in the present and planning for the future."
"Living out of a camper, skydiving and then scuba"
"I'm like the girl next door!"
"I'm great with knives, knots, locks, cooking, massages"
"I like staying at home watching my SF Giants..."
"Scoring reservations at a time later than the normal senior citizen"
"Indignant about the lack of decent sushi"
"I enjoy making connections and I am well-traveled"
Judging by their profiles, they are all intelligent, alive, likable, active and involved, socially polished, adaptable, agreeable, perky, and nice.
I'm not really looking for nice.
What I'm looking for is a woman who might describe herself like this:
"I'm a post-graduate still living at home, perfectly happy not going to bars or nightclubs. I like staying up reading until the wee hours -- not only books by real authors, but also trashy novels, reference books, and crap I found at a rummage sale. Not into high-fashion, though I do dress nicely when I feel like it.
I'm looking for someone to eat with; that way I can order more interesting things at restaurants. My job is rather boring and mundane, but I enjoy my coworkers, and quite a few of them are fascinating and intelligent. "
See? She's utterly perfect. Someone who is at ease with herself, down to earth, and evinces a keen culinary vibrance.
The only things that I would add are:
"I have a thing for pipe-smokers, I prefer sensible shoes, and I only wear my Hello Kitty panties ironically!"
Someone who also likes Chinese and Indian food, warm beverages, hot sauce, and cookies, would be truly splendid.
REALITY BITES
The question you might ask at this point is what she would get out of a relationship with me. What's in it for her?
Other than someone with whom she could to go to restaurants and order the interesting things.
As well as a man who thinks she looks cute wearing Hello Kitty underwear ironically, and comfy flats.
I'm afraid I'm not good at filling out a profile (except for the time I was channeling for mr. Borat Sagdiyev).
Basically, I'm a normal guy who speaks Dutch, as well as a little Cantonese, Yiddish, German, and bits of other languages. I used to cook a lot more than I do now, and I would like to do so again.
I like being around other people, but not crowds.
I don't skydive, scuba, jog, work out at the gym, develop my creative and spiritual sides, or read self-help books. Lord knows I don't watch sports; anything with big butch men in tights makes my eyes glaze over.
Yeah, I read a lot. My living quarters are a fire-trap, what with cases and stacks of books everywhere.
My friends are all decent intelligent people with quirky interests and senses of humour.
They probably need that last characteristic, as they're all rather kind.
See? Hardly a description of Don Juan, an ideal daemon lover, the dark romantic stranger of a girl's dreams, or even Burt Reynolds. More like Sean Connery, considerably younger and with far less fat, a more intelligible accent, and a pipe. Sort of okay, I guess.
Food! She'd get food! And the recurring aroma of pipe-smoke!
That, plus occasional bursts of wit!
And beverages!
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Saturday, June 29, 2013
OK, CUPID, WHERE'S WALDO?!?
Just like all the other single men in the entire world (meaning: San Francisco), I have subscribed to OkCupid. Which is a dating site.
Not everyone there looking for the man or woman of their dreams is single, please understand, and some of them don't actually exist in real life. In some ways it's Creep Central with a few natural barriers built in, so a measure of caution is advised.
I seriously doubt that I'll find anyone there -- and I suspect that my animal magnetism does not carry over the internet at all -- but it is, nevertheless, both interesting and educational to browse.
Some people read books, some spend all day thinking about art.
There are far too many people who jog or exercise.
Many people love their dogs.
They don't smoke, rarely drink and then only socially, are Christians or not, and have six things they couldn't live without.
And they never do drugs.
This blogger definitely does drugs.
Caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined white sugar.
Consequently, you may spot me occasionally lurking in huge crowds, wearing my inconspicuous red and white striped jersey and matching beanie, looking quizzically stoned through my black rimmed bottle-bottom glasses, mere moments before I strip naked and start doing a merry dance to Spring. While singing about Joe Camel, the Marlboro Man, Mrs. Olson and her bottomless pot of Java oh sexy lady I want you as my grammar school mama, and pure cane shuga from Hawaii that's the one.
Or, if you're lucky, the 1970's jingle for Vaseline Intensive Care.
"Working hands! Working hands! Whatever the work you doooo; Now the working lotion, is working harder for you! New Vaseline! Intensive Care! Is working harder, for you!"
If you're in the mood, I'll follow up with the 'Welcome To Miller Time' song. After which we will recline upon our disreputably stained couch and watch black and white Sci-Fi movies from the fifties till four o'clock on the morning.
Now that's where the caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined white sugar come in. They're study aids. You cannot stay up till four o'clock in the morning without their help. Caffy, nicky, shuga, babe.
These three are key to upping productivity and remaining human.
They also make plain why the couch is so stained.
We're jittery, and we spilled our beverages.
In fact, I'm using all three of those things RIGHT NOW.
Coffee, with a spot of cream and spoon of sugar. It's strong-bodied.
Blonde Virginia flake tobacco, fully rubbed out, in a Savinelli pipe (shape no. 101, made for the Golden Gate Pipe Club), at perfect cruising speed. Sweetly tinglesome down the tip of the tongue.
It's all good. Exceptionally good. Utterly and divinely good.
The breakfast of champions, at any time of day.
I'm high as the proverbial kite.
You should be here to share all this.
You should message me if:
You want to meet the man you've been warned about.
You need someone weird for the family picnic.
You. Are. Legend.
Your brow needs wiping, you're about to faint.
Foggy nights make you want to take a walk.
You wish to paint the town a nice shade of mauve.
You need help with that lobster bisque.
You Jane, me British anthropologist.
You want an impartial observer.
The search for the best milk-tea is finally over.
Ob-gyn? Add ob-vermouth and ob-liv for an ob-martini!
You can't remember what your sign says about you.
Your nurse fantasies involve lime jello and wheel chair races.
Suggestive vegetables bring out the cleaver in you.
You think I have something of yours.
Your life isn't surreal enough.
The lab burned down and you need a place to hide.
It's very lonely out in the desert, Gringo.
The entire family went to Vegas and you've got lots of coffee.
You've seen 'My Neighbor Totoro' several times.
You've used your bra as a slingshot for conkers.
You'd like a man to look deep into your eyes and whisper "let's eat".
Everyone mind their own business! It's delicious, okay!?!
You want some cookies, please.
Oh, and honk if you ran over Jesus.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Not everyone there looking for the man or woman of their dreams is single, please understand, and some of them don't actually exist in real life. In some ways it's Creep Central with a few natural barriers built in, so a measure of caution is advised.
I seriously doubt that I'll find anyone there -- and I suspect that my animal magnetism does not carry over the internet at all -- but it is, nevertheless, both interesting and educational to browse.
Some people read books, some spend all day thinking about art.
There are far too many people who jog or exercise.
Many people love their dogs.
They don't smoke, rarely drink and then only socially, are Christians or not, and have six things they couldn't live without.
And they never do drugs.
This blogger definitely does drugs.
Caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined white sugar.
Consequently, you may spot me occasionally lurking in huge crowds, wearing my inconspicuous red and white striped jersey and matching beanie, looking quizzically stoned through my black rimmed bottle-bottom glasses, mere moments before I strip naked and start doing a merry dance to Spring. While singing about Joe Camel, the Marlboro Man, Mrs. Olson and her bottomless pot of Java oh sexy lady I want you as my grammar school mama, and pure cane shuga from Hawaii that's the one.
Or, if you're lucky, the 1970's jingle for Vaseline Intensive Care.
"Working hands! Working hands! Whatever the work you doooo; Now the working lotion, is working harder for you! New Vaseline! Intensive Care! Is working harder, for you!"
If you're in the mood, I'll follow up with the 'Welcome To Miller Time' song. After which we will recline upon our disreputably stained couch and watch black and white Sci-Fi movies from the fifties till four o'clock on the morning.
Now that's where the caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined white sugar come in. They're study aids. You cannot stay up till four o'clock in the morning without their help. Caffy, nicky, shuga, babe.
These three are key to upping productivity and remaining human.
They also make plain why the couch is so stained.
We're jittery, and we spilled our beverages.
In fact, I'm using all three of those things RIGHT NOW.
Coffee, with a spot of cream and spoon of sugar. It's strong-bodied.
Blonde Virginia flake tobacco, fully rubbed out, in a Savinelli pipe (shape no. 101, made for the Golden Gate Pipe Club), at perfect cruising speed. Sweetly tinglesome down the tip of the tongue.
It's all good. Exceptionally good. Utterly and divinely good.
The breakfast of champions, at any time of day.
I'm high as the proverbial kite.
You should be here to share all this.
You should message me if:
You want to meet the man you've been warned about.
You need someone weird for the family picnic.
You. Are. Legend.
Your brow needs wiping, you're about to faint.
Foggy nights make you want to take a walk.
You wish to paint the town a nice shade of mauve.
You need help with that lobster bisque.
You Jane, me British anthropologist.
You want an impartial observer.
The search for the best milk-tea is finally over.
Ob-gyn? Add ob-vermouth and ob-liv for an ob-martini!
You can't remember what your sign says about you.
Your nurse fantasies involve lime jello and wheel chair races.
Suggestive vegetables bring out the cleaver in you.
You think I have something of yours.
Your life isn't surreal enough.
The lab burned down and you need a place to hide.
It's very lonely out in the desert, Gringo.
The entire family went to Vegas and you've got lots of coffee.
You've seen 'My Neighbor Totoro' several times.
You've used your bra as a slingshot for conkers.
You'd like a man to look deep into your eyes and whisper "let's eat".
Everyone mind their own business! It's delicious, okay!?!
You want some cookies, please.
Oh, and honk if you ran over Jesus.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 01, 2013
DON'T DO IT, DON'T DO IT, THEY WILL ALL SCREAM
Sometime, just for the hell of it, I should accompany a woman shopping for shoes or handbags. I've talked about it often enough, and even slagged it ferociously. Nothing, in my mind, can be as toxic and soul-destroying as spending several hours on a perfectly good weekend-day, tortuously pursuing the perfect piece of ridiculously overpriced leather.
And doubtlessly people who do so are stark-raving mad.
In all fairness then, I should give it a shot.
Rather than dismissing it out of hand.
Men, you know, never shop. At least not willingly. Most of us males find our clothes and stylish accoutrements lying by the side of the road, already broken-in and acclimatized to the beer-swilling burger snarfing football hooting gender for which they were made. Several decades ago. By mysterious gnomes in the Antarctic. We don't buy our habiliment, we inherit it. From a long deceased fratbrother whose uber cool dude fashion sense would have awed us endlessly, if we were actually ever aware of it.
We still worship him as a god.
We just don't shop.
Women do.
It's a flaw in their otherwise lovable characters.
One which drives men to frustration and sixpacks of beer.
.....
How bad can it be? Honestly?
Given that sex and sports bore most women senseless, this might be the chance to see a beautiful face wreathed in smiles. Closer than most men will ever get. On that note alone it's worth a shot. Why, she'll be all sparkly and vivacious for hours, and too tired for dinner afterwards. As well as entirely distracted. All she'll want is a long hot bath.
I'll say goodbye at her door, then go merrily skipping down the road to the nearest junk-food palace, not a care in the world. Because, gentlemen, I saw a young lady at her very best. And she was ecstatic!
It's what all men dream of.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
And doubtlessly people who do so are stark-raving mad.
In all fairness then, I should give it a shot.
Rather than dismissing it out of hand.
Men, you know, never shop. At least not willingly. Most of us males find our clothes and stylish accoutrements lying by the side of the road, already broken-in and acclimatized to the beer-swilling burger snarfing football hooting gender for which they were made. Several decades ago. By mysterious gnomes in the Antarctic. We don't buy our habiliment, we inherit it. From a long deceased fratbrother whose uber cool dude fashion sense would have awed us endlessly, if we were actually ever aware of it.
We still worship him as a god.
We just don't shop.
Women do.
It's a flaw in their otherwise lovable characters.
One which drives men to frustration and sixpacks of beer.
.....
How bad can it be? Honestly?
Given that sex and sports bore most women senseless, this might be the chance to see a beautiful face wreathed in smiles. Closer than most men will ever get. On that note alone it's worth a shot. Why, she'll be all sparkly and vivacious for hours, and too tired for dinner afterwards. As well as entirely distracted. All she'll want is a long hot bath.
I'll say goodbye at her door, then go merrily skipping down the road to the nearest junk-food palace, not a care in the world. Because, gentlemen, I saw a young lady at her very best. And she was ecstatic!
It's what all men dream of.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 28, 2013
THE IDEAL WOMAN
Two weeks ago I wrote a blog-essay charmingly appelled "slagging the female of the species", which excited the ire of some of my readers.
In it, I listed several things which are very wrong about women, most particularly those of a reasonably spring-like age. I averred that the majority were shallow superficial opinionated shopping freaks, with ridiculous vampire - gangster - hello kitty fetishes.
No, this is by no means an apology.
It was, more or less, the truth.
Most women are like that.
Some aren't. Those are rather hard to find.
I am not the kind of man who obsessively searches for needles hiding in haystacks. If that needle cannot be found, then burn the entire damned stack down and be done with it.
WHAT IS THE IDEAL WOMAN?
One of my readers in particular took exception to what I had written anent the search for a possible romantic equal for yours truly. She may have been the person I meant when I said "One of my friends confesses herself distressed at the absence of a romantic element in my life, and has resolved to at some point find me a girlfriend.".
I indicated that doing so might be a waste of her time, given my sour old grumpiness and picky petty cynicism about the concept of ever seeing another woman again.
What, me womanize? Heaven forefend, I don't even like the creatures!
Most of them.
She commented: 'Fine. Fine. I'll stop. Maybe I'll just find you a perky little dachshund instead. Believe me, it will be easier. Unconditional love. You know you want it. And short stubby legs. What could be better?"
Perky little dachshund? That sounds good, as dachshunds are remarkable.
With avidity I sought to reassure her that it was a splendid idea.
"A dachshund between fifteen and thirty five , please, who reads more than just romance or vampire fiction. And somewhere between four foot eleven and five foot five.
Thanks.
Dachshunds are incredibly intelligent creatures!"
Then someone else pointed out that the age range I specified was problematic ("no 15 year old dachshunds -- only legal dogs"), and I agreed for reasons of my own.
"You're right. They probably don't even seriously read until they're in their twenties anyhow. So, correction: a dachs-hund between 21 and 35, who reads at a post college level, within certain key height parameters."
And there you have it. That describes the ideal woman. A sleek and wriggly hunting animal with a nice personality who is curious and intelligent, and reads at a post-college level.
And is short enough that one can kiss her forehead.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In it, I listed several things which are very wrong about women, most particularly those of a reasonably spring-like age. I averred that the majority were shallow superficial opinionated shopping freaks, with ridiculous vampire - gangster - hello kitty fetishes.
No, this is by no means an apology.
It was, more or less, the truth.
Most women are like that.
Some aren't. Those are rather hard to find.
I am not the kind of man who obsessively searches for needles hiding in haystacks. If that needle cannot be found, then burn the entire damned stack down and be done with it.
WHAT IS THE IDEAL WOMAN?
One of my readers in particular took exception to what I had written anent the search for a possible romantic equal for yours truly. She may have been the person I meant when I said "One of my friends confesses herself distressed at the absence of a romantic element in my life, and has resolved to at some point find me a girlfriend.".
I indicated that doing so might be a waste of her time, given my sour old grumpiness and picky petty cynicism about the concept of ever seeing another woman again.
What, me womanize? Heaven forefend, I don't even like the creatures!
Most of them.
She commented: 'Fine. Fine. I'll stop. Maybe I'll just find you a perky little dachshund instead. Believe me, it will be easier. Unconditional love. You know you want it. And short stubby legs. What could be better?"
Perky little dachshund? That sounds good, as dachshunds are remarkable.
With avidity I sought to reassure her that it was a splendid idea.
"A dachshund between fifteen and thirty five , please, who reads more than just romance or vampire fiction. And somewhere between four foot eleven and five foot five.
Thanks.
Dachshunds are incredibly intelligent creatures!"
Then someone else pointed out that the age range I specified was problematic ("no 15 year old dachshunds -- only legal dogs"), and I agreed for reasons of my own.
"You're right. They probably don't even seriously read until they're in their twenties anyhow. So, correction: a dachs-hund between 21 and 35, who reads at a post college level, within certain key height parameters."
And there you have it. That describes the ideal woman. A sleek and wriggly hunting animal with a nice personality who is curious and intelligent, and reads at a post-college level.
And is short enough that one can kiss her forehead.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, March 17, 2013
SLAGGING THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES
One of my friends confesses herself distressed at the absence of a romantic element in my life, and has resolved to at some point find me a girlfriend. This is both reassuring, and almost certainly a waste of her time.
I don't really like females, you see.
Oh sure, as a heterosexual man, I do "like" them.
But the majority of women are not people I would wish to know.
I've never had much patience for Hello Kitty. Nor with the shopping district, make-up, and fashion accessories. Conversely, those people who absolutely reject the value system by eccentricities like tattoos, piercings, drug use, and weird hang-ups also completely repel me.
Anybody who watches more than one or two hours of television per week has probably been brainwashed; there are several teevee shows (and shopping channels) that shrivel the souls of their female fanbase down to the size of a tiny dessicated blob of canine excrement.
Most women in this world are flighty, silly, and irredeemably spam-brained. Repulsive, shallow, and well-nigh unbearable for any length of time. Readers of self-help, celebrity gossip, fashion magazines, and trashy fiction, whose fantasies revolve around sexual interludes with vampires, gangsters, football players, and hobbits.
Unless they are from Hong Kong or the Philippines, in which case they obsess about rich men who will provide them with unlimited funds for handbags, shoes, designer clothing, and Hello Kitty.
Which indicates that those women are Japanese at heart. Or would like nothing better than an all expenses paid shopping trip to Paris, Milan, or Tokyo.
There are exceptions.
Of course.
And naturally, they're all in relationships already. Women of wit and intellect are so rare that they attract without realizing it.
Anyone who has found such a person inevitably wishes her to be happy, and worries about not being special enough to engineer that result.
Doing so seldom involves handbags, shoes, Hello Kitty, designer shmatte, tattoos, piercings, meds, or shopping orgies in Paris, Milan, or Tokyo.
OFF-KILTER GENERALIZATIONS
European females rather despise much about America, without actually knowing anything about the place. They think inside the Eury box, and pooh-pooh anything different.
American women worship the Real Housewives, and haven't read anything since Bridges of Madison County or a diet book. They are unimaginative, and their tastes are pedestrian.
Asian women have no opinions, never read, obsess about their pale skin, and refuse to walk anywhere because it might firm them up. They're rather dim and they complain a lot.
Latinas are conceited and unbearable, and consider themselves "hot stuff". Frequently they evince impatience with men who are not sufficiently impressed, and act out in a vulgar fashion.
French women tend to sneer and patronize, and often flirt embarrassingly with every Jean-Paul, Jacques, and Philippe who looks hotter than the man they are with.
English women are cold and unpleasant, often worse snobs than their men, with horrible taste in food, clothing, entertainment, and friends. They also need too much validation.
Hong Kong women are needy shopaholics with gold-digger tendencies, who wish life were a perpetual whirl of other people trying to make them deliriously happy.
Japanese women are adept at hiding what they think, and actually have no thoughts whatsoever. Their lives revolve around Hello Kitty and exclaiming "kawaii!"
German women are appallingly bourgeois, blessed with little or no sense of humour, nor any linguistic capacity. They are somber consumerists, and wrong about everything.
Spanish women: unhygienic know-it-alls, and less intelligent than they think.
Phillippinas are superficial, shallow, and extremely judgemental, though often charming. They know every fashion label there is, and have a calculator in their brain.
Asian American women: bigots and Barbie-wannabees, frequently crazier than batshit.
San Francisco women are into drugs, tattoos, veganism, yoga, and wealthy lawyers. There is absolutely nothing there. Their conversation revolves entirely around themselves.
Bay Area women are politically opinionated and remarkably ignorant. Yet unaware of how stupid, vain, and arrogant they sound. Good lord, they just won't shut up.
Southern California women are completely fake, besides being upstuck, pretentious, and crass.
Taiwanese women always are insufferably whiny and full of themselves.
Southern women more often than not are complete dingbats.
Icelandic women tend to be small and smelly.
Australians are often drunk.
Scots are grim.
The following types are completely repulsive: Slavic blondes, Turkish women, Arabians, Brahmin women from Gujarat, the Panjab, or Uttar Pradesh, Persians, Norwegian women, Vietnamese, Greeks, Serbians, Albanians, Slovenes, Swedes, Siamese, Irish, New Englanders, Danes, Greeks, Koreans, Malaysians & Indonesians, Uzbekis, Philadelphians, Bostonians, Marinites, and damned well anyone from Daly City.
In fact, most women are perfect company for football fans, pinstriped Republicans, grease-stained motorbike afficinonadoes, gun-collecting survivalists, frat boys, Texans, up and coming members of the sales and marketing departments, wife-beating hicks, Ashton Kuchner, Christians, soccer players, socialists, real-estate agents and speculators, SUV owners, sports-obsessed yobbos, yoga instructors, Serbians, Southerners, drunken suburbanite meatballs, pierced and tattooed artists and musicians, bankers, European pretendeurs, Mormons, pizza-eating beer-swilling game-watching subliterate corporate monkeys, and junior stockbrokers.
Which is a very fortunate circumstance!
There are plenty of those.
I'll just hide out with a cup of tea and a pipe-full of English tobacco, reading a book by an author whose name you probably cannot pronounce, and enjoying the pleasant company of my stuffed armadillo.
He doesn't say much.
Nor is he cognizant of Prada or yoga.
But at least he doesn't talk about shopping or sports.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I don't really like females, you see.
Oh sure, as a heterosexual man, I do "like" them.
But the majority of women are not people I would wish to know.
I've never had much patience for Hello Kitty. Nor with the shopping district, make-up, and fashion accessories. Conversely, those people who absolutely reject the value system by eccentricities like tattoos, piercings, drug use, and weird hang-ups also completely repel me.
Anybody who watches more than one or two hours of television per week has probably been brainwashed; there are several teevee shows (and shopping channels) that shrivel the souls of their female fanbase down to the size of a tiny dessicated blob of canine excrement.
Most women in this world are flighty, silly, and irredeemably spam-brained. Repulsive, shallow, and well-nigh unbearable for any length of time. Readers of self-help, celebrity gossip, fashion magazines, and trashy fiction, whose fantasies revolve around sexual interludes with vampires, gangsters, football players, and hobbits.
Unless they are from Hong Kong or the Philippines, in which case they obsess about rich men who will provide them with unlimited funds for handbags, shoes, designer clothing, and Hello Kitty.
Which indicates that those women are Japanese at heart. Or would like nothing better than an all expenses paid shopping trip to Paris, Milan, or Tokyo.
There are exceptions.
Of course.
And naturally, they're all in relationships already. Women of wit and intellect are so rare that they attract without realizing it.
Anyone who has found such a person inevitably wishes her to be happy, and worries about not being special enough to engineer that result.
Doing so seldom involves handbags, shoes, Hello Kitty, designer shmatte, tattoos, piercings, meds, or shopping orgies in Paris, Milan, or Tokyo.
OFF-KILTER GENERALIZATIONS
European females rather despise much about America, without actually knowing anything about the place. They think inside the Eury box, and pooh-pooh anything different.
American women worship the Real Housewives, and haven't read anything since Bridges of Madison County or a diet book. They are unimaginative, and their tastes are pedestrian.
Asian women have no opinions, never read, obsess about their pale skin, and refuse to walk anywhere because it might firm them up. They're rather dim and they complain a lot.
Latinas are conceited and unbearable, and consider themselves "hot stuff". Frequently they evince impatience with men who are not sufficiently impressed, and act out in a vulgar fashion.
French women tend to sneer and patronize, and often flirt embarrassingly with every Jean-Paul, Jacques, and Philippe who looks hotter than the man they are with.
English women are cold and unpleasant, often worse snobs than their men, with horrible taste in food, clothing, entertainment, and friends. They also need too much validation.
Hong Kong women are needy shopaholics with gold-digger tendencies, who wish life were a perpetual whirl of other people trying to make them deliriously happy.
Japanese women are adept at hiding what they think, and actually have no thoughts whatsoever. Their lives revolve around Hello Kitty and exclaiming "kawaii!"
German women are appallingly bourgeois, blessed with little or no sense of humour, nor any linguistic capacity. They are somber consumerists, and wrong about everything.
Spanish women: unhygienic know-it-alls, and less intelligent than they think.
Phillippinas are superficial, shallow, and extremely judgemental, though often charming. They know every fashion label there is, and have a calculator in their brain.
Asian American women: bigots and Barbie-wannabees, frequently crazier than batshit.
San Francisco women are into drugs, tattoos, veganism, yoga, and wealthy lawyers. There is absolutely nothing there. Their conversation revolves entirely around themselves.
Bay Area women are politically opinionated and remarkably ignorant. Yet unaware of how stupid, vain, and arrogant they sound. Good lord, they just won't shut up.
Southern California women are completely fake, besides being upstuck, pretentious, and crass.
Taiwanese women always are insufferably whiny and full of themselves.
Southern women more often than not are complete dingbats.
Icelandic women tend to be small and smelly.
Australians are often drunk.
Scots are grim.
The following types are completely repulsive: Slavic blondes, Turkish women, Arabians, Brahmin women from Gujarat, the Panjab, or Uttar Pradesh, Persians, Norwegian women, Vietnamese, Greeks, Serbians, Albanians, Slovenes, Swedes, Siamese, Irish, New Englanders, Danes, Greeks, Koreans, Malaysians & Indonesians, Uzbekis, Philadelphians, Bostonians, Marinites, and damned well anyone from Daly City.
In fact, most women are perfect company for football fans, pinstriped Republicans, grease-stained motorbike afficinonadoes, gun-collecting survivalists, frat boys, Texans, up and coming members of the sales and marketing departments, wife-beating hicks, Ashton Kuchner, Christians, soccer players, socialists, real-estate agents and speculators, SUV owners, sports-obsessed yobbos, yoga instructors, Serbians, Southerners, drunken suburbanite meatballs, pierced and tattooed artists and musicians, bankers, European pretendeurs, Mormons, pizza-eating beer-swilling game-watching subliterate corporate monkeys, and junior stockbrokers.
Which is a very fortunate circumstance!
There are plenty of those.
I'll just hide out with a cup of tea and a pipe-full of English tobacco, reading a book by an author whose name you probably cannot pronounce, and enjoying the pleasant company of my stuffed armadillo.
He doesn't say much.
Nor is he cognizant of Prada or yoga.
But at least he doesn't talk about shopping or sports.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, March 14, 2013
A QUESTION OF TASTE
Some things are just too lady-like for a man. Irrespective of his gender-preferences. This has little or nothing to do with praeconceptions about 'male' behaviour or the habits of the typical masculine entity -- which allegedly include big bloody steaks and strong beer, along with chomping cheroots while watching brass-pole dancers cheer on the Patriots in their epic battle against the Dolphins (and who the hell cares about baseball anyway?), or setting fire to garbage cans in the middle of the night while stealing the Axe (this is a gratuitous Berkeley reference), plus hooting animalistically -- but rather with a sense of balance, justice, and everything right with the world.
There are two unsmoked pipes in my collection which would be perfect for a lady. They are a little unsuitable for me. Both of these items are extremely handsome, but my face just doesn't look right for them.
However a sparkling young lady smoking them would look very nice.
They would flatter her face, and emphasize her femininity.
Either that, or perhaps a fresh-faced young lad.
They are flawless. High quality briar. But, alas, too civilized in appearance. Aesthetically they appeal to me, but I learned a long time ago that I should stick something a little bolder and more commonplace in my mouth.
It is a question of facial structure, hand size, and glowing skin.
No matter how hard I try, no one will ever mistake me for a lady. And if I wore pearls, it would not highlight how beautiful the skin near my neck and collarbones was, or any haunting delicacy of features, but instead suggest to people that I secretly vote the gun-nut ticket.
Some things just aren't suitable for a foxy middle-aged Dutch-American.
Those two fine pipes will have to wait for a suitable person. And while a fresh-faced young fellow would be quite perfect -- someone like Leslie Cheung, for instance -- a young lady would be far more suitable.
If a person who resembled that beautiful boy Leslie Cheung were to hang around me, people might justifiably doubt my commitment to the Patriots OR the Dolphins, along with big bloody steaks and strong beer, or even heaven forefend whether I really wished Berkeley to seize the Axe (and damnation to Stanford, yay), whereas the adjacency of a brightly vibrant woman would say "this crusty old fart must have something, even if it's only black magic and good habits". It would also state that she's strong-minded, stubborn, and definitely a force to be reckoned with.
These are all good things.
Besides, good briar, if properly taken care of, will last an entire lifetime. That's a key concept.
She'll look ever so lady-like when she's silver haired, smoking either of those pipes, as the light glints off the strand of pearls which emphasizes her delicacy and femininity more glowing than ever.
It's an aesthetic thing.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
There are two unsmoked pipes in my collection which would be perfect for a lady. They are a little unsuitable for me. Both of these items are extremely handsome, but my face just doesn't look right for them.
However a sparkling young lady smoking them would look very nice.
They would flatter her face, and emphasize her femininity.
Either that, or perhaps a fresh-faced young lad.
They are flawless. High quality briar. But, alas, too civilized in appearance. Aesthetically they appeal to me, but I learned a long time ago that I should stick something a little bolder and more commonplace in my mouth.
It is a question of facial structure, hand size, and glowing skin.
No matter how hard I try, no one will ever mistake me for a lady. And if I wore pearls, it would not highlight how beautiful the skin near my neck and collarbones was, or any haunting delicacy of features, but instead suggest to people that I secretly vote the gun-nut ticket.
Some things just aren't suitable for a foxy middle-aged Dutch-American.
Those two fine pipes will have to wait for a suitable person. And while a fresh-faced young fellow would be quite perfect -- someone like Leslie Cheung, for instance -- a young lady would be far more suitable.
If a person who resembled that beautiful boy Leslie Cheung were to hang around me, people might justifiably doubt my commitment to the Patriots OR the Dolphins, along with big bloody steaks and strong beer, or even heaven forefend whether I really wished Berkeley to seize the Axe (and damnation to Stanford, yay), whereas the adjacency of a brightly vibrant woman would say "this crusty old fart must have something, even if it's only black magic and good habits". It would also state that she's strong-minded, stubborn, and definitely a force to be reckoned with.
These are all good things.
Besides, good briar, if properly taken care of, will last an entire lifetime. That's a key concept.
She'll look ever so lady-like when she's silver haired, smoking either of those pipes, as the light glints off the strand of pearls which emphasizes her delicacy and femininity more glowing than ever.
It's an aesthetic thing.
TOBACCO INDEX
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, February 17, 2013
STUPENDOUS EYE CANDY
One of the people I see occasionally at the cigar club has a beautiful wife. They got married back in September, and have taken each other out of circulation. At some point they may enter the gene pool. Which I recommend. They're both intelligent, and the kids will be extremely pretty.
Most men are hung up on appearance. I would be lying if I said that such things didn't mean anything to me. But what a woman looks like is only part of the deal. Imelda Marcos was a beauty queen, and given what we know about that woman now, getting hitched to her was either the worst thing Ferdinand ever did, or, cynically speaking, the best. She had a keenly honed talent for strong-arm robbery and political savagery that made the Borgias look amateurish.
I certainly wouldn't want to be attached to such a person.
And you, dear masculine reader, will upon reflection conclude that you do not want someone like that in your life either.
ADVICE ABOUT THE FIRST DOZEN DATES
It need not be twelve, it could be as many as twenty or thirty. But what you MUST remember is that it is not about sex. It never should be. What both of you are doing is getting acquainted, and figuring out what the other person is like. Is she or he someone you can respect? Does that person have a decent brain? Are there profound similarities?
Is she crazier than a peach-orchard boar?
Again, imagine yourself married to Imelda.
The first ten, twenty, or thirty dates should be about conversation, eating out together, and discovering the things you like doing with each other. Stuff that makes being with that particular someone much more enjoyable than experiencing it alone or with your colleagues from work.
If it's just sex, think Ben Affleck and J-Lo.
FEMALE PERSPECTIVE
Now, suppose you are a woman. Stranger things have happened. Do you trust him? Is he the kind of man who will get you home safely if you've had one glass of champagne too many? Does he respect the waitstaff at restaurants?
Would you let him anywhere near your sister?
If the answer to ANY of those questions is not an unqualified 'yes', you might well ask yourself why you are even in the same room as him.
At the very least, ask yourself whether he's better than a handbag.
What all this means is that for either gender, lots of effort and imagination are required. Discovering cozy little restaurants, quiet parks in which it is pleasant to stroll, coffeeshops where both of you can read for hours, fun adventures, nice parts of town, interesting antique stores.............
Thirty dates. That may take three or four months. Call each other up after work sometime, just to listen. And if you're eating lunch together during the week, DON'T talk about work. Do NOT waffle on about tobacco, sports, handbags, or beanie babies.
Both of you will need a sense of humour. If it does go well between the two of you, that sense of humour will stand you in good stead.
Especially if you end up living together.
Above all, eat.
This blogger, in case you didn't know already, is currently single, and likely to remain so. Obviously NOT the person to go to for any advice about dating.
For all I know, courtship in the modern era involves large amounts of alcohol and energy drinks, plus studs, piercings, shared tattoos, and mental abuse.
So just consider all the above well-meaning avuncular poofle.
Or waffle from a fossil.
My friend who has the lovely spouse probably did not meet her over thrash-dancing at a club, however. They've known each other for years, possibly since college. And I seriously doubt that either of them is into stupendous acts of misbehaviour and tastelessness. I rather suspect that they started off with caffeinated beverages, conversation, and perhaps dinner.
Followed by hand-holding, and walks around town.
Maybe some flowers, and a movie.
She tolerates his smoking, and often joins him when he needs to visit the cigar club for his mental health. So clearly she has his best interests in mind, as I sincerely hope he does hers.
They're a nice couple.
Cute together.
I'm thinking about taking up butterfly collecting. That should be a relatively stress-free hobby for my declining years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Most men are hung up on appearance. I would be lying if I said that such things didn't mean anything to me. But what a woman looks like is only part of the deal. Imelda Marcos was a beauty queen, and given what we know about that woman now, getting hitched to her was either the worst thing Ferdinand ever did, or, cynically speaking, the best. She had a keenly honed talent for strong-arm robbery and political savagery that made the Borgias look amateurish.
I certainly wouldn't want to be attached to such a person.
And you, dear masculine reader, will upon reflection conclude that you do not want someone like that in your life either.
ADVICE ABOUT THE FIRST DOZEN DATES
It need not be twelve, it could be as many as twenty or thirty. But what you MUST remember is that it is not about sex. It never should be. What both of you are doing is getting acquainted, and figuring out what the other person is like. Is she or he someone you can respect? Does that person have a decent brain? Are there profound similarities?
Is she crazier than a peach-orchard boar?
Again, imagine yourself married to Imelda.
The first ten, twenty, or thirty dates should be about conversation, eating out together, and discovering the things you like doing with each other. Stuff that makes being with that particular someone much more enjoyable than experiencing it alone or with your colleagues from work.
If it's just sex, think Ben Affleck and J-Lo.
FEMALE PERSPECTIVE
Now, suppose you are a woman. Stranger things have happened. Do you trust him? Is he the kind of man who will get you home safely if you've had one glass of champagne too many? Does he respect the waitstaff at restaurants?
Would you let him anywhere near your sister?
If the answer to ANY of those questions is not an unqualified 'yes', you might well ask yourself why you are even in the same room as him.
At the very least, ask yourself whether he's better than a handbag.
What all this means is that for either gender, lots of effort and imagination are required. Discovering cozy little restaurants, quiet parks in which it is pleasant to stroll, coffeeshops where both of you can read for hours, fun adventures, nice parts of town, interesting antique stores.............
Thirty dates. That may take three or four months. Call each other up after work sometime, just to listen. And if you're eating lunch together during the week, DON'T talk about work. Do NOT waffle on about tobacco, sports, handbags, or beanie babies.
Both of you will need a sense of humour. If it does go well between the two of you, that sense of humour will stand you in good stead.
Especially if you end up living together.
Above all, eat.
This blogger, in case you didn't know already, is currently single, and likely to remain so. Obviously NOT the person to go to for any advice about dating.
For all I know, courtship in the modern era involves large amounts of alcohol and energy drinks, plus studs, piercings, shared tattoos, and mental abuse.
So just consider all the above well-meaning avuncular poofle.
Or waffle from a fossil.
My friend who has the lovely spouse probably did not meet her over thrash-dancing at a club, however. They've known each other for years, possibly since college. And I seriously doubt that either of them is into stupendous acts of misbehaviour and tastelessness. I rather suspect that they started off with caffeinated beverages, conversation, and perhaps dinner.
Followed by hand-holding, and walks around town.
Maybe some flowers, and a movie.
She tolerates his smoking, and often joins him when he needs to visit the cigar club for his mental health. So clearly she has his best interests in mind, as I sincerely hope he does hers.
They're a nice couple.
Cute together.
I'm thinking about taking up butterfly collecting. That should be a relatively stress-free hobby for my declining years.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
TOAD PETTING TIME
Under pressure from friends I joined an internet dating site.
This, as you no doubt understand, was a really bad idea.
As well as a glimpse into the pit.
All the likely dates in my ballpark are either sixty plus grandmothers with dogs, descendants, and Jesus in their lives, OR non-smoking non drinking saintly virgins who watch Snooky and America Has Got Talent.
Women I would never want to meet.
Some of them list the DaVinci Code as their favourite book.
How utterly ghastly.
What I want to find is someone who is rather like me.
But smaller, and without the beard and moustache.
Badger-like.
Not the best person in the world.
[* BEARD AND MOUSTACHE: a trim goatee, very dashing. Collegiate, yet devilish.]
A solitary type with a social streak.
Tolerant of stubborn men.
Fond of pipe-smokers.
As well as hot beverages and furry creatures.
I'm guessing all such women already miraculously found their ideal. That being a five foot eight and a half tall grumpy 52 year-old Dutch-American who speaks mediocre Cantonese, veers towards Nabokov and Dunleavy as authors, and smokes a pipe.
There were probably two other such men in the Bay Area, they're married now, and deliriously happy.
Bastards.
I'll admit it. I'm not interested in single women my own age. They're usually clapped-out alcoholics, neurotic, and too eccentric by a wide margin. This is San Francisco, so most of them are also unbearably creative and unique.
No, not interested in grandma with her dogs and spoiled infant relatives either.
This decrepit old fart is looking for someone notably younger than himself but more mature, who can be encouraged in her fondness for all the trade goods of yore: coffee, tea, tobacco, highly refined white sugar, and incorrigibly decadent authors.
Someone who gets along well with stuffed animals.
And likes noodle soup.
If you've wasted your time on mediaeval studies or Elizabethan literature, so much the better.
As just two examples of non-business related fields.
Absolutely no dogs or Jesus.
Period.
FYI: this is as close to an obscene proposition as I'm ever likely to make.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
This, as you no doubt understand, was a really bad idea.
As well as a glimpse into the pit.
All the likely dates in my ballpark are either sixty plus grandmothers with dogs, descendants, and Jesus in their lives, OR non-smoking non drinking saintly virgins who watch Snooky and America Has Got Talent.
Women I would never want to meet.
Some of them list the DaVinci Code as their favourite book.
How utterly ghastly.
What I want to find is someone who is rather like me.
But smaller, and without the beard and moustache.
Badger-like.
Not the best person in the world.
[* BEARD AND MOUSTACHE: a trim goatee, very dashing. Collegiate, yet devilish.]
A solitary type with a social streak.
Tolerant of stubborn men.
Fond of pipe-smokers.
As well as hot beverages and furry creatures.
I'm guessing all such women already miraculously found their ideal. That being a five foot eight and a half tall grumpy 52 year-old Dutch-American who speaks mediocre Cantonese, veers towards Nabokov and Dunleavy as authors, and smokes a pipe.
There were probably two other such men in the Bay Area, they're married now, and deliriously happy.
Bastards.
I'll admit it. I'm not interested in single women my own age. They're usually clapped-out alcoholics, neurotic, and too eccentric by a wide margin. This is San Francisco, so most of them are also unbearably creative and unique.
No, not interested in grandma with her dogs and spoiled infant relatives either.
This decrepit old fart is looking for someone notably younger than himself but more mature, who can be encouraged in her fondness for all the trade goods of yore: coffee, tea, tobacco, highly refined white sugar, and incorrigibly decadent authors.
Someone who gets along well with stuffed animals.
And likes noodle soup.
If you've wasted your time on mediaeval studies or Elizabethan literature, so much the better.
As just two examples of non-business related fields.
Absolutely no dogs or Jesus.
Period.
FYI: this is as close to an obscene proposition as I'm ever likely to make.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, September 14, 2012
A CLEVER STRATEGEM!
Two days ago I posted that I could very well see myself solving my dating problems by positioning a box trap somewhere with a book as bait. Depending on the book, the ideal woman would, without a doubt, be promptly caught.
Hah! No longer a solitary single man!
At the time it was meant in jest.
But several of my readers (well, only two people), stated that I had screws loose for even suggesting it, and proffered counterarguments.
The plan, they said, could not possibly succeed.
What was I? Some kind of idiot pervert?
I beg to differ. The more I think about it, despite their bitterly vociferous contestation, the more convinced I am that it is probably the best idea I have ever come up with.
Utterly brilliant.
Fail-safe.
The scene below may soon be coming to a park near you.
Such as Washington Square park.
Right around teatime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Hah! No longer a solitary single man!
At the time it was meant in jest.
But several of my readers (well, only two people), stated that I had screws loose for even suggesting it, and proffered counterarguments.
The plan, they said, could not possibly succeed.
What was I? Some kind of idiot pervert?
I beg to differ. The more I think about it, despite their bitterly vociferous contestation, the more convinced I am that it is probably the best idea I have ever come up with.
Utterly brilliant.
Fail-safe.
The scene below may soon be coming to a park near you.
Such as Washington Square park.
Right around teatime.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES
Each man is different. All of them will have something peculiar to them alone. And everyone has different moods, tastes, interests, and peccadilloes.
I realized this while in the elevator today next to a gigantic woman who could probably toss me against the ceiling while kicking down a steel door.
She wore a wedding band.
Her husband is probably one of these three types:
1. Unnaturally short and weasely.
2. A big glandular freak.
3. Normal.
I've always preferred women who are shorter than me. The angle is just right, you see. You cannot admire a nice forehead and an intelligent face when you're looking up at her chin (or if her bosom is at eye level).
Part of it is the lazy man's approach to female appreciation, part of it is sheer practicality and aesthetics.
Intelligent women are so much more wonderful when they aren't threatening.
THE PERFECT LADY
The ideal woman has a sense of humour, curiosity, and perspective. These three are key tools for getting through life and dealing with society, especially men.
Imagine, for instance, that a momentary lapse of all three of those faculties hitched her to an individual who lazes around the house on weekends in his raggies, watching sports and drinking beer.
Naturally, the logical thing to do is file for divorce.
The marriage was clearly a stroke of insanity; now it's time to move on.
However he might actually be a decent bloke with a keen interest in literature and philosophy, and not realize that his chosen method of relaxation is rather numbnuts. A good man, albeit 'misguided'.
Redeemable.
The woman with a sense of humour, curiosity, and perspective will instinctively grasp that blasting him with a firehose is the best thing to do. Not only will it wake him up to alternative relaxational methodologies (and get him to change his clothes), it will counteract the deletorious effect of that six-pack, and distract him from the big heaving gorillas on screen, however briefly. Done often enough, it becomes Pavlovian in its power.
What will he do? Will he change his habits? Let us find out!
Full of scientific curiosity, she turns the water on full blast.
A noble experiment.
Worst case scenario: he takes off his wet clothes and mows the lawn.
Your neighbors needed a goodly dose of realism anyway.
He actually looks kinda splendid in the sun.
All throbbing muscles and sinew.
Except for the beergut.
Wobbly-gobbly.
In the interest of full disclosure, I must inform you that the scenario above is purely hypothetical, and not something of which I have any experience. It is wholly imaginary.
I am not married, I never watch sports, don't ponce around in raggies (nude, yes, raggies, no), seldom drink beer, and I frequently change my clothes, even on the weekend.
Neither a lawn nor a firehose are among my possessions.
I am unthrobbing, and ungutted.
Other than the three characteristics mentioned above, the ideal woman is kindhearted, and courteous toward strangers. Gallant, and sincerely considerate of other people.
A woman of valour, whose worth is beyond rubies.
Exceptionally rare, too.
Unfortunately.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
I realized this while in the elevator today next to a gigantic woman who could probably toss me against the ceiling while kicking down a steel door.
She wore a wedding band.
Her husband is probably one of these three types:
1. Unnaturally short and weasely.
2. A big glandular freak.
3. Normal.
I've always preferred women who are shorter than me. The angle is just right, you see. You cannot admire a nice forehead and an intelligent face when you're looking up at her chin (or if her bosom is at eye level).
Part of it is the lazy man's approach to female appreciation, part of it is sheer practicality and aesthetics.
Intelligent women are so much more wonderful when they aren't threatening.
THE PERFECT LADY
The ideal woman has a sense of humour, curiosity, and perspective. These three are key tools for getting through life and dealing with society, especially men.
Imagine, for instance, that a momentary lapse of all three of those faculties hitched her to an individual who lazes around the house on weekends in his raggies, watching sports and drinking beer.
Naturally, the logical thing to do is file for divorce.
The marriage was clearly a stroke of insanity; now it's time to move on.
However he might actually be a decent bloke with a keen interest in literature and philosophy, and not realize that his chosen method of relaxation is rather numbnuts. A good man, albeit 'misguided'.
Redeemable.
The woman with a sense of humour, curiosity, and perspective will instinctively grasp that blasting him with a firehose is the best thing to do. Not only will it wake him up to alternative relaxational methodologies (and get him to change his clothes), it will counteract the deletorious effect of that six-pack, and distract him from the big heaving gorillas on screen, however briefly. Done often enough, it becomes Pavlovian in its power.
What will he do? Will he change his habits? Let us find out!
Full of scientific curiosity, she turns the water on full blast.
A noble experiment.
Worst case scenario: he takes off his wet clothes and mows the lawn.
Your neighbors needed a goodly dose of realism anyway.
He actually looks kinda splendid in the sun.
All throbbing muscles and sinew.
Except for the beergut.
Wobbly-gobbly.
In the interest of full disclosure, I must inform you that the scenario above is purely hypothetical, and not something of which I have any experience. It is wholly imaginary.
I am not married, I never watch sports, don't ponce around in raggies (nude, yes, raggies, no), seldom drink beer, and I frequently change my clothes, even on the weekend.
Neither a lawn nor a firehose are among my possessions.
I am unthrobbing, and ungutted.
Other than the three characteristics mentioned above, the ideal woman is kindhearted, and courteous toward strangers. Gallant, and sincerely considerate of other people.
A woman of valour, whose worth is beyond rubies.
Exceptionally rare, too.
Unfortunately.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, April 26, 2012
THE WRONG SET OF RULES
When I left the office yesterday, a young woman was signing in her guest at security.
He had brought her a six pack of beer.
She was a bright pink-faced girl wearing a lovely pale blue summer frock, and, amazingly, the six pack of beer perfectly matched the hue of her dress.
Great combo. Pink and blue.
Very romantic.
I must confess, I never thought of courting a woman with suds.
But seeing how happy she was that her young man was visiting her at work, perhaps I should have.
I'm rather unimaginative in that regard. You know, flowers, good chocolates, a sumptuous array of dimsum.
A nice book, perhaps, or a brand new scarf that feels soft against the skin.
Warm cups of milky tea, and a plate of cookies.
Didn't consider bottles of beer.
Or even pizza.
Nothing says affection to ladies as well as cheese pie and alcoholic beverages.
I'll have to remember that; many relationships begin with these.
It's useful data that I might need someday.
Just in case of 'romance'.
Flowers, nice chocolates, snackiepoos?
Silky softness against the skin?
Hot tea and cookies?
Totally unimaginative!
Gotta grow up.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He had brought her a six pack of beer.
She was a bright pink-faced girl wearing a lovely pale blue summer frock, and, amazingly, the six pack of beer perfectly matched the hue of her dress.
Great combo. Pink and blue.
Very romantic.
I must confess, I never thought of courting a woman with suds.
But seeing how happy she was that her young man was visiting her at work, perhaps I should have.
I'm rather unimaginative in that regard. You know, flowers, good chocolates, a sumptuous array of dimsum.
A nice book, perhaps, or a brand new scarf that feels soft against the skin.
Warm cups of milky tea, and a plate of cookies.
Didn't consider bottles of beer.
Or even pizza.
Nothing says affection to ladies as well as cheese pie and alcoholic beverages.
I'll have to remember that; many relationships begin with these.
It's useful data that I might need someday.
Just in case of 'romance'.
Flowers, nice chocolates, snackiepoos?
Silky softness against the skin?
Hot tea and cookies?
Totally unimaginative!
Gotta grow up.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, March 02, 2012
SINGLES IN THE CITY
Immensely cheering news! It turns out there are women out there who don't have a clue!
The other evening I was enjoying my pipe nice and quietly at the cigar bar when a bridal shower came in.
Out of over a dozen women, ONE was getting married.
The others were skeep out of luck.
No, none of them were my type. These were professional women. Law personell, office managers, and high-level secretarial slash management types. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties, unmarried, unattached.
They were all looking for boy-friend material of the low to mid six figure variety.
And lamenting the horrible absence of same.
This city sucks. Sucks!
Ladies, my piles bleed for you.
I overheard you talking. You want a kind considerate man who is well-read and cultured, likes going out to eat, has calm habits and good taste, and isn't into sports or drinking beer on Sunday.
Problem is, you also want him to buy you a house. As well as vacations in Cancun and a beemer.
I've looked at you, as well as heard you, so I am wondering what on earth you have to offer him.
Carefully plucked eye-brows.Well-chosen expensive designer shmatte. Foundation and rouge.
And a keen interest in shoes, handbags, diamonds, and frippy crap.
With a vocabulary that isn't very impressive.
Combined with a sneering distaste for the male of the species.
The beer-swilling gut-scratching sportsfiend male.
Insensitive and not rich. Ergo unworthy.
However, if there are any men out there who meet your list of requirements, they might do well to avoid you like the plague. You are yourselves as shallow as you think most men to be.
The one or two junior-level office-bitches among you - why you even included them, seeing as they'll never earn as much as you, or aspire to as high-quality husband material - were if possible even more toxic and intolerable. I've worked with people like them (as well as your type), and given the lack of any stimulating interests or conversational abilities, the only thing they're suited for is your amorous hand-me-downs.
Some of my friends have told me that there are many unattached women out there who are looking for boyfriends. I'm sure that was meant reassuringly. But after exposure to you ladies, I am taking it as a warning.
I would rather remain alone for the rest of my life than hook up with your type.
You're empty.
THE POTENTIAL DATING SCENE
Many single women in downtown San Francisco are superficial snobs looking for a free ride and a sugar daddy. Or leastways, a man who will attend to their whimsies.
There are so many of them, they've muddied the waters.
It's a carnivorous mating frenzy, all snapping jaws!
Oh horrors, they've awoken the beer-drinkers!
Real people should head to quieter streams, where the thrashing tails aren't stirring up the chum.
Women who actually have a functioning brain--complex women, curious women, witty women -- have probably given up on ever finding a companion in SF, male or female, and are simply buying books and doing crossword puzzles.
One might get the impression from exposure to the denizens of the financial district that relationships are only about sex, handbags, and various luxury products and services. Which would explain the overdone hair and make-up, and the tweezed eyebrows, as well as the vacuous expressions.
On both the attached and the unattached.
The 'professionals'.
Eyebrows, handbags, make-up, shoes, and frip!
Ye gods!
Many people of this class ceased reading entirely upon graduating college, their "education" serving merely to put them in a higher-priced group of potential partners of convenience.
Conversationally there's nothing there.
Ethically, nearly as little.
Or not even.
If those bridal-shower girls were indicative in any way of the contemporary singles scene, monasticism would not be just a goofy choice but an utterly rational alternative.
For both rational genders.
I'm feeling a lot better now.
Thank you, ladies.
Good luck shopping for clothes and eye shadow while he drinks beer and watches the game.
Oh, and my congratulations to the lucky bride.
I hope some day she finds happiness.
And a much nicer handbag.
Not much she can do about the eyebrows, unfortunately.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
The other evening I was enjoying my pipe nice and quietly at the cigar bar when a bridal shower came in.
Out of over a dozen women, ONE was getting married.
The others were skeep out of luck.
No, none of them were my type. These were professional women. Law personell, office managers, and high-level secretarial slash management types. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties, unmarried, unattached.
They were all looking for boy-friend material of the low to mid six figure variety.
And lamenting the horrible absence of same.
This city sucks. Sucks!
Ladies, my piles bleed for you.
I overheard you talking. You want a kind considerate man who is well-read and cultured, likes going out to eat, has calm habits and good taste, and isn't into sports or drinking beer on Sunday.
Problem is, you also want him to buy you a house. As well as vacations in Cancun and a beemer.
I've looked at you, as well as heard you, so I am wondering what on earth you have to offer him.
Carefully plucked eye-brows.Well-chosen expensive designer shmatte. Foundation and rouge.
And a keen interest in shoes, handbags, diamonds, and frippy crap.
With a vocabulary that isn't very impressive.
Combined with a sneering distaste for the male of the species.
The beer-swilling gut-scratching sportsfiend male.
Insensitive and not rich. Ergo unworthy.
However, if there are any men out there who meet your list of requirements, they might do well to avoid you like the plague. You are yourselves as shallow as you think most men to be.
The one or two junior-level office-bitches among you - why you even included them, seeing as they'll never earn as much as you, or aspire to as high-quality husband material - were if possible even more toxic and intolerable. I've worked with people like them (as well as your type), and given the lack of any stimulating interests or conversational abilities, the only thing they're suited for is your amorous hand-me-downs.
Some of my friends have told me that there are many unattached women out there who are looking for boyfriends. I'm sure that was meant reassuringly. But after exposure to you ladies, I am taking it as a warning.
I would rather remain alone for the rest of my life than hook up with your type.
You're empty.
THE POTENTIAL DATING SCENE
Many single women in downtown San Francisco are superficial snobs looking for a free ride and a sugar daddy. Or leastways, a man who will attend to their whimsies.
There are so many of them, they've muddied the waters.
It's a carnivorous mating frenzy, all snapping jaws!
Oh horrors, they've awoken the beer-drinkers!
Real people should head to quieter streams, where the thrashing tails aren't stirring up the chum.
Women who actually have a functioning brain--complex women, curious women, witty women -- have probably given up on ever finding a companion in SF, male or female, and are simply buying books and doing crossword puzzles.
One might get the impression from exposure to the denizens of the financial district that relationships are only about sex, handbags, and various luxury products and services. Which would explain the overdone hair and make-up, and the tweezed eyebrows, as well as the vacuous expressions.
On both the attached and the unattached.
The 'professionals'.
Eyebrows, handbags, make-up, shoes, and frip!
Ye gods!
Many people of this class ceased reading entirely upon graduating college, their "education" serving merely to put them in a higher-priced group of potential partners of convenience.
Conversationally there's nothing there.
Ethically, nearly as little.
Or not even.
If those bridal-shower girls were indicative in any way of the contemporary singles scene, monasticism would not be just a goofy choice but an utterly rational alternative.
For both rational genders.
I'm feeling a lot better now.
Thank you, ladies.
Good luck shopping for clothes and eye shadow while he drinks beer and watches the game.
Oh, and my congratulations to the lucky bride.
I hope some day she finds happiness.
And a much nicer handbag.
Not much she can do about the eyebrows, unfortunately.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
OLD-FASHIONED ROMANTIC
One of my acquaintances, familiar with the loss of romance in my life, suggested I use social networking sites to advertise my availability.
He went on to recommend several options I had never heard of.
In addition to Facebook.
Facebook I've heard of.
On what planet do people use Facebook to find dates?
YEAH MAN, FACEBOOK IS MY PIMP!
While I am usually open to zany suggestions, I have to turn this idea down.
My Facebook friends, overwhelmingly, are not the kind of people I would date.
No offense, guys.
If I were a single Jewish woman with a college degree, some of them would be very tempting prospects, lovely trimmed beards and all.
Heck, quite a number of them even have smicha!
[No, that isn't a disease, it simply means that they are musmachim.]
But that tells you what the problem is right there. None of my Facebook friends are in my ballpark. And the prospect of saying "hey baby baby baby" to someone electronically is not nearly as tempting as the idea of stuttering like an idiot and blushing fiercely while shooting myself in the foot during a disastrous face to face conversation with a real person, who is actually female, in real life.
I'm fairly certain that none of those bearded gentlemen on FB is a female, in real life.
I think I would know.
Their internet honesty is commendable.
Unhelpful, but utterly commendable.
The other problem is that my Facebook persona is also..... unhelpful.
I use Facebook to jot down notes or warehouse amusing clips, as well as to comment on other people's situations.
What impression could a potential date get from a series of eccentric music clips and superficial comments?
"This man listens to funky stuff and can't hold a conversation"
"This man has ADD and really strange friends"
"This man loves frogs"
Any woman who feels herself attracted to that may need help.
I would be far more likely to consider someone who reads my blog. But given that I've gibbered here about cooking zebras, smoking a pipe, and eating noodles, plus dumping hot sauce or rivulets of ghee on everything and everyone, that, too, might be an iffy proposition.
Irrespective of their thoughts about my own (lovely) trimmed beard.
It would almost certainly have to be someone with a high tolerance for interesting foods, smelly tobacco, and ghee.
Hot sauce, and ghee.
Much ghee.
So far no one has taken the bait.
Nor is it likely that anyone will.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
He went on to recommend several options I had never heard of.
In addition to Facebook.
Facebook I've heard of.
On what planet do people use Facebook to find dates?
YEAH MAN, FACEBOOK IS MY PIMP!
While I am usually open to zany suggestions, I have to turn this idea down.
My Facebook friends, overwhelmingly, are not the kind of people I would date.
No offense, guys.
If I were a single Jewish woman with a college degree, some of them would be very tempting prospects, lovely trimmed beards and all.
Heck, quite a number of them even have smicha!
[No, that isn't a disease, it simply means that they are musmachim.]
But that tells you what the problem is right there. None of my Facebook friends are in my ballpark. And the prospect of saying "hey baby baby baby" to someone electronically is not nearly as tempting as the idea of stuttering like an idiot and blushing fiercely while shooting myself in the foot during a disastrous face to face conversation with a real person, who is actually female, in real life.
I'm fairly certain that none of those bearded gentlemen on FB is a female, in real life.
I think I would know.
Their internet honesty is commendable.
Unhelpful, but utterly commendable.
The other problem is that my Facebook persona is also..... unhelpful.
I use Facebook to jot down notes or warehouse amusing clips, as well as to comment on other people's situations.
What impression could a potential date get from a series of eccentric music clips and superficial comments?
"This man listens to funky stuff and can't hold a conversation"
"This man has ADD and really strange friends"
"This man loves frogs"
Any woman who feels herself attracted to that may need help.
I would be far more likely to consider someone who reads my blog. But given that I've gibbered here about cooking zebras, smoking a pipe, and eating noodles, plus dumping hot sauce or rivulets of ghee on everything and everyone, that, too, might be an iffy proposition.
Irrespective of their thoughts about my own (lovely) trimmed beard.
It would almost certainly have to be someone with a high tolerance for interesting foods, smelly tobacco, and ghee.
Hot sauce, and ghee.
Much ghee.
So far no one has taken the bait.
Nor is it likely that anyone will.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Friday, January 13, 2012
ADVICE FOR ROMANTICS
Further to what he calls my 'dating crisis', one of my readers has kindly forwarded "an advice column".
In fact there is no crisis. Because there is no dating.
If there were dating, there might be a crisis.
My life at present is frustratingly crisis-free.
Anyhow, he states that I could do worse than to imitate a male pisauridian, conveniently overlooking the disturbing dietary preferences of the female.
A WORTHWHILE EXAMPLE
QUOTE:
"Researcher Maria Jose Albo of Denmark's Aarhus University told Live Science in November that the spiders typically obtain sex by making valuable "gifts" to females (usually, high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk), but if lacking resources, a male cleverly packages a fake gift (usually a piece of flower) also in silk but confoundingly wound so as to distract her as she unwraps it -- and then mounts her before she discovers the hoax. Albo also found that the male is not above playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard as she approaches the "carcass" -- only to be jumped from behind for sex. "
END QUOTE.
[Source: http://news.yahoo.com/news-weird-100002251.html.]
His suggestion is that I can learn from this.
I hate to tell him, but I am not a spider, and none of the women I would ever be interested in desires "high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk".
It does sound charming, though. I mean the silk-wrapping.....
Humans are also interested in gift-wrap.
On the other hand, playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard and approaching, while sly, seems more than a little off kilter.
A ravenous carrion-eating female should probably not be trifled with.
Perspectives may change after the zombie-apocalypse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
In fact there is no crisis. Because there is no dating.
If there were dating, there might be a crisis.
My life at present is frustratingly crisis-free.
Anyhow, he states that I could do worse than to imitate a male pisauridian, conveniently overlooking the disturbing dietary preferences of the female.
A WORTHWHILE EXAMPLE
QUOTE:
"Researcher Maria Jose Albo of Denmark's Aarhus University told Live Science in November that the spiders typically obtain sex by making valuable "gifts" to females (usually, high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk), but if lacking resources, a male cleverly packages a fake gift (usually a piece of flower) also in silk but confoundingly wound so as to distract her as she unwraps it -- and then mounts her before she discovers the hoax. Albo also found that the male is not above playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard as she approaches the "carcass" -- only to be jumped from behind for sex. "
END QUOTE.
[Source: http://news.yahoo.com/news-weird-100002251.html.]
His suggestion is that I can learn from this.
I hate to tell him, but I am not a spider, and none of the women I would ever be interested in desires "high-nutrition insects wrapped in silk".
It does sound charming, though. I mean the silk-wrapping.....
Humans are also interested in gift-wrap.
On the other hand, playing dead to coax the female into relaxing her guard and approaching, while sly, seems more than a little off kilter.
A ravenous carrion-eating female should probably not be trifled with.
Perspectives may change after the zombie-apocalypse.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Thursday, January 12, 2012
SERIOUSLY THINKING ABOUT DATING A PERSON OF THE OPPOSITE GENDER
A friend asked, pursuant my recent vitriolic comments about the female of the species, whether I was indeed determined to avoid seeing women in this new year.
To which the answer naturally is "of course not".
Should some young lady whom I would like to know come across my path, dating could be a mighty good thing.
It IS a possibility. Don't laugh.
The problem of course is getting to that point, and explaining myself.
Suppose, for instance, that her father asks me what my plans are with his precious little girl.
Yes, I know, that's a very old-fashioned idea. Most parents nowadays have absolutely no influence over their grown children's thoroughly rotten decisions, and most youthful adults consider their parents dreadful busy-bodies who only exist to bankroll the extravagances of their offspring.
Never the less, imagining this stage is a useful exercise, because it prepares one for actually communicating one's motives, as well as clarifying what one expects.
It isn't entirely unrealistic either, as many women do have parents or other concerned relatives.
[Dating orphans is probably out of the question, since I'm no longer allowed anywhere near Madame Fetiche's Home for Christian Damsels in Upper Whipping-Birch. Something about little miss Sachet returning to the dorm somewhat the worse for wear.]
So, let's say I've rung the doorbell, and while young Mathilda is putting on her best frock and pearls upstairs, her old man has handed me a glass of sherry and a cigar.
We're in the parlour, and the question is sternly posed:
"Young man, what precisely are your intentions towards my daughter?"
What on earth do I say?
"I plan to wine her, dine her, and ravish her fine young body."
No. Obviously this is a bad answer.
For one thing, many modern girls can outdrink this blogger by a fare-thee-well, and I would fear for my life should I even attempt this. Might wake up in an ice-cube filled bath tub with one of my kidneys missing.
Daddy's little girl can hold her own.
"We're going out to the drive-in, where I shall grope her in the back seat, sir."
Equally bad. Quality young ladies do NOT go to drive-in movie theaters on foot (necessitated because I do not own a car). Come to think of it, there are no drive-ins in San Francisco, so even the idea of renting a 1960's station wagon for this experiment is absurd.
"Strictly honourable, sir. Any crazy shit is up to her."
That right there shows the insanity of dating. Best behaviour and tension meet the unrealistic expectations of both parties head-on, and the terrifying results make for a zany and entertaining romantic movie comedy, but bad real life drama.
Woody Allen has already covered that territory, and it was very painful.
More reassuring answers involving reading scripture together, taking in a school play, or visiting the sick are also out of the question. Not because they're unbelievable, but because I could not possibly keep my face straight while delivering them.
WHAT DO PEOPLE DO ON DATES?
I actually haven't been on a date in over twenty years. So at this point, I haven't a clue what goes on during such things nowadays.
Back then, it always seemed so fraught, and many women relied on the man to guess EXACTLY what they wanted to do.
That still may be the case.
Left to my own devices I would suggest that we do something like go out to eat at a quiet place, enjoy good food together, then have a walk around Nob Hill and Russian Hill.
There are marvelous views there, and several lovely streets.
In particular I like the stretch of Hyde between Jackson and Vallejo, because of the trees lining it on both sides, and the friendly glow from the various eateries. Clay between Jones and Leavenworth has golden leaved Gingko trees at present, that too is very nice.
If it's still early in the evening, we could then go to the Russian Hill Bookstore and browse.
Either that, or possibly first head out to a coffee shop, then to the Asian Art Museum. There's a lovely bronze container in the shape of a rotund rhinoceros in the collection that always brings a smile to the face of whoever sees it, and a number of other fine items including some paintings by Sung masters.
After which, perhaps some dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant and a leisurely stroll home.
Unfortunately, such things do not appeal to many women.
That, by itself, tells me that dating is unlikely, as is actually finding someone worth seeing.
In this era, of course, dating involves far more alcohol and loud music.
I should also mention that when I still dated, the event left me feeling both nauseous and tense.
A date is the perfect way to establish that there is far too little in common for any further friendship, and that it was really unrealistic and ridiculous to even consider closer bonds.
I would consequently be quite surprised if there were any woman out there whose ideas in any way matched mine.
Not discounting the possibility entirely, you understand, but not planning any unrealistic adventures either.
By the way: If any of my readers have interesting ideas about what to do on dates, please feel free to leave a comment.
I'm always up for painful stomach cramps and hysterical laughter.
Thank you.
POST SCRIPTUM
So what exactly did I do to poor little miss Sachet? Simple.
I fed her the finest English food available in Upper Whipping-Birch at that time.
Made the thin little thing clean her plate, too. She looked rather underweight.
How was I to know that British cuisine was a bio-hazard?
Probably should have gone to an Indian restaurant instead, but back in the stone age proper young ladies were never seen in such places.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
To which the answer naturally is "of course not".
Should some young lady whom I would like to know come across my path, dating could be a mighty good thing.
It IS a possibility. Don't laugh.
The problem of course is getting to that point, and explaining myself.
Suppose, for instance, that her father asks me what my plans are with his precious little girl.
Yes, I know, that's a very old-fashioned idea. Most parents nowadays have absolutely no influence over their grown children's thoroughly rotten decisions, and most youthful adults consider their parents dreadful busy-bodies who only exist to bankroll the extravagances of their offspring.
Never the less, imagining this stage is a useful exercise, because it prepares one for actually communicating one's motives, as well as clarifying what one expects.
It isn't entirely unrealistic either, as many women do have parents or other concerned relatives.
[Dating orphans is probably out of the question, since I'm no longer allowed anywhere near Madame Fetiche's Home for Christian Damsels in Upper Whipping-Birch. Something about little miss Sachet returning to the dorm somewhat the worse for wear.]
So, let's say I've rung the doorbell, and while young Mathilda is putting on her best frock and pearls upstairs, her old man has handed me a glass of sherry and a cigar.
We're in the parlour, and the question is sternly posed:
"Young man, what precisely are your intentions towards my daughter?"
What on earth do I say?
"I plan to wine her, dine her, and ravish her fine young body."
No. Obviously this is a bad answer.
For one thing, many modern girls can outdrink this blogger by a fare-thee-well, and I would fear for my life should I even attempt this. Might wake up in an ice-cube filled bath tub with one of my kidneys missing.
Daddy's little girl can hold her own.
"We're going out to the drive-in, where I shall grope her in the back seat, sir."
Equally bad. Quality young ladies do NOT go to drive-in movie theaters on foot (necessitated because I do not own a car). Come to think of it, there are no drive-ins in San Francisco, so even the idea of renting a 1960's station wagon for this experiment is absurd.
"Strictly honourable, sir. Any crazy shit is up to her."
That right there shows the insanity of dating. Best behaviour and tension meet the unrealistic expectations of both parties head-on, and the terrifying results make for a zany and entertaining romantic movie comedy, but bad real life drama.
Woody Allen has already covered that territory, and it was very painful.
More reassuring answers involving reading scripture together, taking in a school play, or visiting the sick are also out of the question. Not because they're unbelievable, but because I could not possibly keep my face straight while delivering them.
WHAT DO PEOPLE DO ON DATES?
I actually haven't been on a date in over twenty years. So at this point, I haven't a clue what goes on during such things nowadays.
Back then, it always seemed so fraught, and many women relied on the man to guess EXACTLY what they wanted to do.
That still may be the case.
Left to my own devices I would suggest that we do something like go out to eat at a quiet place, enjoy good food together, then have a walk around Nob Hill and Russian Hill.
There are marvelous views there, and several lovely streets.
In particular I like the stretch of Hyde between Jackson and Vallejo, because of the trees lining it on both sides, and the friendly glow from the various eateries. Clay between Jones and Leavenworth has golden leaved Gingko trees at present, that too is very nice.
If it's still early in the evening, we could then go to the Russian Hill Bookstore and browse.
Either that, or possibly first head out to a coffee shop, then to the Asian Art Museum. There's a lovely bronze container in the shape of a rotund rhinoceros in the collection that always brings a smile to the face of whoever sees it, and a number of other fine items including some paintings by Sung masters.
After which, perhaps some dinner at a Vietnamese restaurant and a leisurely stroll home.
Unfortunately, such things do not appeal to many women.
That, by itself, tells me that dating is unlikely, as is actually finding someone worth seeing.
In this era, of course, dating involves far more alcohol and loud music.
I should also mention that when I still dated, the event left me feeling both nauseous and tense.
A date is the perfect way to establish that there is far too little in common for any further friendship, and that it was really unrealistic and ridiculous to even consider closer bonds.
I would consequently be quite surprised if there were any woman out there whose ideas in any way matched mine.
Not discounting the possibility entirely, you understand, but not planning any unrealistic adventures either.
By the way: If any of my readers have interesting ideas about what to do on dates, please feel free to leave a comment.
I'm always up for painful stomach cramps and hysterical laughter.
Thank you.
POST SCRIPTUM
So what exactly did I do to poor little miss Sachet? Simple.
I fed her the finest English food available in Upper Whipping-Birch at that time.
Made the thin little thing clean her plate, too. She looked rather underweight.
How was I to know that British cuisine was a bio-hazard?
Probably should have gone to an Indian restaurant instead, but back in the stone age proper young ladies were never seen in such places.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
Sunday, December 11, 2011
ALL ABOUT WOMEN AND BEER
Going to put off seeing the new Muppet Movie for a while, despite burning curiosity about the further adventures of my favourite frog fuelled by the two opposing reviews posted under last week’s mention of the movie.
[Both e-kvetcher and Midianite Manna commented. He was incredibly disappointed, she loved the movie. I respect both of their opinions.]
Reason being that I don't often go to movies by myself.
Which, unfortunately, means that I don't go to movies much at all.
And this movie, which caters to an audience which takes childlike pleasure in the shenanigans of a bunch of short maladjusted fuzzy raging individualists - nay, an audience that probably includes a large number of actual children taking that pleasure - is not a movie that you go to alone.
Not if you're a mature man. It looks weird.
Single male in the back of a theatre during a children's movie?
Call the cops! Clobber him with a handbag!
He's probably a football coach.
Which, precisely, is why I need a young lady to go with me.
Protection.
THE DATE
One of my friends has quite the opposite problem. He actually HAS a young lady.
I've never met her, but I fear she might be wasted on my friend.
His idea of dinner and a movie is a slaughter-fest with Schwarzenegger, followed by piles of grilled meat at a grease-pit in the Mission District. Spicy loins and ribs!
He lamented the other day that his young lady did not like barbecue.
And did I have any ideas for changing her mind?
Dude, you're asking me? I don't know nuthin' about young ladies!
I'm single! They're a purely hypothetical concept!
Nevertheless he persevered. He respected my experience, my insight, and my wisdom regarding these matters.
And most especially he esteemed my profound knowledge of food.
[Translation: he thought that a man whose one long-term involvement had evaporated was probably the worst person to ask for relationship advice (true), but he knew that food was one of the subjects on which I just cannot shut up (alas also true).]
Did I know any way to make spicy blackened beef tolerable to his woman?
Because, you see, it went so well with beer.
"What does SHE want to eat?"
"Actually, she never has an appetite after we've been to the movies. But I guess sushi."
You know, I can understand her problem. After watching a blood, guts, and gore film, I too don't have much of an appetite, but the idea of greasy burnt bovine is particularly unappealing at such times.
Also, if the young lady doesn't like barbecue to begin with, it is extremely self-centered to keep pushing it.
Same probably goes for that splatter-fest at the Roxie.
It's actually rather disturbing that he likes violent movies so, but many men do. It's a macho inferiority complex, coupled with a lack of cultural depth.
That, probably, also explains all those Sunday afternoons with greasy grub in front of the boob-tube, watching the Pittsburgh Wombats batter the Los Angeles Butterflies, or whatever those teams are called.
Hooting, beer, lots of hot sauce, and animalistic grunting.
Any time he yells "rip their heads off", whether at a war movie or while watching the game, probably does not inspire romantic inclinations.
Just guessing.
Wouldn't be surprised if his young lady dumps him within the year, once she's taken a good hard look at his typical faux-matcheau hobbies and past-times.
Go team!
Hoot, hoot, and grunt.
What he really must do is endeavor to find out what kind of movies and books she likes, what food she prefers, and what she would REALLY like to do.
It ain't a date unless she has a nice time.
Without stress, frustration, or strain.
That she mentioned sushi is a good start. There are a number of very nice sushi places which she would probably like, as well as many other eateries where a couple might have a civilized bite in a good atmosphere. And maybe, just maybe, the combination of movie and dinner is a bit much to pack into one evening. Save the movie for a matinée on a weekend, and just take her to a good restaurant, after which, instead of going to a club and getting hammered, the two of them should just walk and talk.
No problem doing it all, but not all of it at once. Showing a woman a good time does NOT mean jampacking all possible thrilling adventures into one evening.
And it should NOT include an unsuitable movie and he-man dining.
Show appreciation for what she gives, relish her company, share generously.
So all I told him was that he should listen to her. Really listen.
Because I doubt he would listen to me. Seeing as I have no food advice.
Avoid beer.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
[Both e-kvetcher and Midianite Manna commented. He was incredibly disappointed, she loved the movie. I respect both of their opinions.]
Reason being that I don't often go to movies by myself.
Which, unfortunately, means that I don't go to movies much at all.
And this movie, which caters to an audience which takes childlike pleasure in the shenanigans of a bunch of short maladjusted fuzzy raging individualists - nay, an audience that probably includes a large number of actual children taking that pleasure - is not a movie that you go to alone.
Not if you're a mature man. It looks weird.
Single male in the back of a theatre during a children's movie?
Call the cops! Clobber him with a handbag!
He's probably a football coach.
Which, precisely, is why I need a young lady to go with me.
Protection.
THE DATE
One of my friends has quite the opposite problem. He actually HAS a young lady.
I've never met her, but I fear she might be wasted on my friend.
His idea of dinner and a movie is a slaughter-fest with Schwarzenegger, followed by piles of grilled meat at a grease-pit in the Mission District. Spicy loins and ribs!
He lamented the other day that his young lady did not like barbecue.
And did I have any ideas for changing her mind?
Dude, you're asking me? I don't know nuthin' about young ladies!
I'm single! They're a purely hypothetical concept!
Nevertheless he persevered. He respected my experience, my insight, and my wisdom regarding these matters.
And most especially he esteemed my profound knowledge of food.
[Translation: he thought that a man whose one long-term involvement had evaporated was probably the worst person to ask for relationship advice (true), but he knew that food was one of the subjects on which I just cannot shut up (alas also true).]
Did I know any way to make spicy blackened beef tolerable to his woman?
Because, you see, it went so well with beer.
"What does SHE want to eat?"
"Actually, she never has an appetite after we've been to the movies. But I guess sushi."
You know, I can understand her problem. After watching a blood, guts, and gore film, I too don't have much of an appetite, but the idea of greasy burnt bovine is particularly unappealing at such times.
Also, if the young lady doesn't like barbecue to begin with, it is extremely self-centered to keep pushing it.
Same probably goes for that splatter-fest at the Roxie.
It's actually rather disturbing that he likes violent movies so, but many men do. It's a macho inferiority complex, coupled with a lack of cultural depth.
That, probably, also explains all those Sunday afternoons with greasy grub in front of the boob-tube, watching the Pittsburgh Wombats batter the Los Angeles Butterflies, or whatever those teams are called.
Hooting, beer, lots of hot sauce, and animalistic grunting.
Any time he yells "rip their heads off", whether at a war movie or while watching the game, probably does not inspire romantic inclinations.
Just guessing.
Wouldn't be surprised if his young lady dumps him within the year, once she's taken a good hard look at his typical faux-matcheau hobbies and past-times.
Go team!
Hoot, hoot, and grunt.
What he really must do is endeavor to find out what kind of movies and books she likes, what food she prefers, and what she would REALLY like to do.
It ain't a date unless she has a nice time.
Without stress, frustration, or strain.
That she mentioned sushi is a good start. There are a number of very nice sushi places which she would probably like, as well as many other eateries where a couple might have a civilized bite in a good atmosphere. And maybe, just maybe, the combination of movie and dinner is a bit much to pack into one evening. Save the movie for a matinée on a weekend, and just take her to a good restaurant, after which, instead of going to a club and getting hammered, the two of them should just walk and talk.
No problem doing it all, but not all of it at once. Showing a woman a good time does NOT mean jampacking all possible thrilling adventures into one evening.
And it should NOT include an unsuitable movie and he-man dining.
Show appreciation for what she gives, relish her company, share generously.
So all I told him was that he should listen to her. Really listen.
Because I doubt he would listen to me. Seeing as I have no food advice.
Avoid beer.
==========================================================================
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly: LETTER BOX.
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
==========================================================================
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BUT THEIR PIZZA IS EXCELLENT
Yesterday evening when I got home I found comments that can be charitably described as insane, antisocial, manic behavior on my Facebook pag...
