Ahhh...the Toothbrush Purchase

This past Wednesday, I noticed I needed a new toothbrush. Normally, I just go to 'dollar store' and pick up whatever they have available, not concerned with much, other than it comes with bristles. Well, that all changed after watching television Friday night.

Is it just me, or is the proportion of toothbrush commercials way out of whack for the importance that toothbrushes play in our society? Maybe it was just me 'noticing' these commercials because I needed one at the time. But I swear, it seemed every program I watched had at least one commercial for toothbrushes. I can understand the numerous commercials for food, cars, beer, shampoo, deodorant, and tampons (another rant in the making), but why are there so many for toothbrushes?

It’s not like the commercials are merely about brushing your teeth. No, that's ‘too’ simple. Every toothbrush commercial has to show off the latest new-fangled toothbrush handle and toothbrush head. I suspect, since toothbrushes basically consist of a handle and a head (bristles), the ad companies don't have much to work with; so we get these commercials where all they tout are "ergonomic handles", and such. What the hell? Is there an epidemic at Emergency Room Wards of people who have carpal-tunnel syndrome from brushing their teeth? Do you really need your toothbrush handle to fit every curve of your hand? Like who in the world gives a ‘poopie’ about the 'ergonomics' of the toothbrush handle when the whole 'brushing' experience takes less than 2 minutes…three times a day?? Yet, in some mysterious way our 'lemming based' society swallows the techno-jargon of these advertisers and buys this crap. As if style trumps function in ensuring a cavity free experience.....riiiggghhht! Oh, and did I mention these ‘innovative’ designs can go for as much as a ‘sawbuck’!!

Also, they brag about what the handle is made of…"Super-NASA-space-age-rubber-Kevlar-Nanotube coating!" Okay, a slight exaggeration of fact, I admit; but you get my point. Since when was there a problem with just plain plastic, that we all are being sold to migrate to these newer composite materials? Do I really need my toothbrush to be able to stay in my grip even if I'm willing to execute cartwheels on my living room floor? I can't imagine brushing so briskly that friction should play a part in protecting me from heat buildup. You want to protect me from heat buildup; how about designing a Kevlar condom? Now that I can buy into!

And what about the toothbrush head and bristles? How many different angles can you set those bristles and still be able to ‘wow’ people thru a commercial. "Look! Bristle angles at 37.5 degrees for the ultimate clean!", how pedestrian does it get folks! How about offsetting, compound bristles with little plastic nubbins that massage the gums for the whitest teeth and freshest breath! All of them are very multi-colored too...with the helpful addition that when the color rubs down to halfway, it's the signal to buy a new toothbrush! How convenient. Thanks so much to all the toothbrush companies for coloring the bristles with something that rubs away after about 10 brushes. What, time to buy a new toothbrush already?? Wow, that was fast...but the toothbrush is telling me so, so it must be right?!?

Okay, so I’ve digressed into a ‘black hole’ of ‘ad infinitum’ from what this antidotal is all about, purchasing a new toothbrush.
Anyway, instead of going to Dollar Store to purchase a replacement toothbrush, I went to Walmart this past Thursday, instead. Yep, you’ve got it, I’m looking for these toothbrushes touted in the commercials. Curiosity kills the cat, right? Living in Fort Walton Beach, Walmart is the only place in this town that carries a 'full line' of anything; so if there’s a cutting edge toothbrush to be had, it would certainly be at Walmart!?!


It didn’t take long before the sober reality of it all brought the virtual world of toothbrush advertisement to reality. Okay, it’s true, dozens of toothbrushes lined up shelf upon shelf. It's absolutely insane. Never mind just ‘brush-heads’ with offset bristles at 37.5 degrees; it doesn’t stop there. Many more are convex, concave, bell-curved, cross-hatched, zigzag, etc. For $5.95 you can get one that has a handle that lights to the rhythm of your stroke! Then you have an assortment of electric toothbrushes! Check out the ones that have brush-heads that spin clockwise and counterclockwise, ones that move up and down, ones that spin and move up and down, ones that use "sonic" power. Sonic power?? Sheesh! What the hell is that all about? I suppose that as one strokes back ‘n’ forth in the brushing motion, the bristles make a distinctive high pitch whistling noise; the faster the stroking action the more superior the airflow in the mouth cavity. Hmmm….I bet with a little bit of practice you could ‘perfect pitch’ to the following lyrics sung to the tune of ‘The Old Oaken Bucket’:

‘How dear to my heart is the old family toothbrush
The old family toothbrush that hung by the sink
The old family toothbrush, the moss-covered toothbrush
The old family toothbrush that hung by the sink.

First it was white Then it was yellow, now it's just dirty and covered with slime.
First it was father's, then it was mother's,
Then it was brother's, AND SOON ‘TWILL BE MINE!’

I suspect with a little imagination you could justify purchasing these electronic marvels for their ‘multi-use' potential. If I opted to purchase one of the electric models, I'd opt for one that you can stick dildo attachments to and offer it to any girlfriend I might have as an addition to her 'pocket rocket' collection.

I guess I'm too practical for the masses buying into the hype with the new technology toothbrushes. I'll stick to a medium bristle model at dollar store and be happy!:). C’ya later Walmart!

C'ya next week, folks!

Wednesday Night…El Villa Style

It’s Wednesday, early evening at El Villa. Not sure why I came this night, maybe a tinge of boredom, yah think? When you’re single and disenfranchised from friends and places from what seems like another lifetime ago , you seek places like El Villa. It serves well as a social center in a life that otherwise would feel meaningless and empty. Oh, I don't mean that in a literal sense, just that a good local bar has its place in the social schema, don’t ever kid yourself otherwise.

I remember entering the Villa with no particular agenda, which is just about 'any' time I patron this establishment. Sometimes just being alone in quasi-solitude can do wonders charging your battery, one doesn't need to have an agenda. Hey, who's kidding whom. At my age 'agendas' are as simple as soliciting a passer-by for information on a lost 'pet' Chihuahua from a droll snapshot of a sign on a tree. Yep, life for me is as banal as banal can get, yet nonetheless, remains interesting. Hmmm...sounds oxymoronic?? Okay, okay let's get on with it. A stool was available next to the video-game kiosk adjacent to the waitress station; I belly up to the bar, have a seat, order my drink; the Modus Operandi here. The execution is simple, the results definable. Kind of wish the workday would be so effective. The only external interruption of note was a soulful rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven’ playing rather mutely in the background.

The bar clientele was rather ‘light’ this night. Not unusual, after all it was a Wednesday. Even so, there were at least a couple of women at the bar and a couple of guys talking sports and other inane subject matter. None of which interested me to a point of wanting to join the discussion. I do, however, remember vividly the well-dressed, attractive woman at the end of the bar just short of exit ‘stage left’. Yep, right by the fire-exit sign. Not sure why the sign is of any consequence to this antidotal recollection of the evening, but it is. My mind wanders almost inexplicably at times, pardon moi. I noticed as well, she was in a very contemplative mood; easily observed by her quiet demeanor. Sometimes one can't help but become intrinsically involved in the 'people watching' game; intrigued with the psychology behind it all. What I find indisputably addictive is that when it comes to people watching or human communications; however it manifests itself, it's almost universally interpretable. I remember enjoying watching the whole process of this particular lady at the end of the bar inhaling and exhaling on her cigarette, blowing those cathartic, poetic swirls of smoke with her chest rising and falling like a metronome keeping beat to the music. It was as if she was making love to the process, savoring the cigarette’s aroma and manipulating it between her fingers as if she was suggestively fingering a man’s genital region. She definitely gave out the message of defiance, daring and excitement. "Eroticism in cigarette smoking", I'm thinking? Probably.
As much as I would have loved to have made conversation with her, I abstained from walking over and introducing myself. She looked damn nice, and like a damn nice vase, one puts it on the shelf to be admired. She was as she is, beautiful, alluring, and in a sultry quiet way, mysterious. ‘Sex’, raw and unbridled, emanated from her, at least for me it did. I remember thinking to myself not to interrupt her karma. To do so would only break the vase. Some things are just left to be alone. Take in the beauty of the moment and archive it in the memory banks. By the time I finished my 2nd beer, she left. 'People watching' for me, this night, went out the door with her.



C’ya next week, folks!

Observation after Two Killians

Hi folks,

I’m constantly amazed by seemingly endless peculiarities and affectations individuals’ present when in environs outside of their normal routines.

For example, I'm really getting tired observing the opposite sex in their native element...dimly lit bars, tight fitting jeans, 3 layers of foundation. All this punctuated with a toothy artificially whitened smile. Women sure have become proficient in the art of hunting...hunting men, that is. Where did I fall off the boat that I missed the fact a women's role is to be the 'gatherer', not the 'hunter'? I'm thinking, "Not anymore, kiddo, the 'weaker' sex has metamorphed into something I'm not familiar with anymore". Roll reversal, you bet! I'm convinced that I've become more passive the older I get in my relationship with the opposite sex, the ‘gatherer’, if you will. I surmise this 'condition' is more a result of diminished testosterone, than some behavioral change. What the hell else could it be, right? In any case, my alpha-male persona of 'yesteryear ago' seems to have found an untimely death.

C'ya next week

Realities of Being 62

Hi Twitters,

It's Friday...again! Pretty much a ‘down’ day at work, so decided to get some of the ‘less than’ desirable chores completed. Finished grocery shopping for my mother and I, so that chore done. I even managed to do a bit of Christmas shopping; stopping by PJs to pick up a Byers’ figurine, something I get my mother every Christmas, since my dad died in 2002. The ladies there, know me by my first name, I go there so often. Kinda nice, especially this time of year, when the heart is full of good tidings and regard for your fellow man. Lest I forget, included in my daily rounds was a quick trip to the local Goodwill Store, where I bought some toys to place in the ‘Toys for Tots’ box located at our local Walmart . Hey, what the heck, I’m a ‘softie’ when it comes to children, especially those that ‘want’ for just the meager of things.

I finished my domestic chores checklist around 4p.m. so had plenty of time to get ready for my routine Friday night out, dancing and ‘whatever’?!. When I got home, my mother was up and indicated she was hungry, so like I usually do, made dinner for her. I suggested I go over to Walmart to get a steak for us to grill outside, along with a couple of potatoes to bake and a freshly baked Apple-Strudel pie. I'm thinking....... life is good, and we both, blessed.

We finished the meal around 7pm. I volunteered to do the dishes and of course my mother took me up on the offer. She didn't know my ulterior motive was that by me doing them, I could get out of the house earlier than the normal 9pm. Anybody taking care of elderly parents knows that the name of the game to have any personal life of your own is to learn how to ‘schmooze’! Anyway, I’ve got this ‘schmoozing’ technique down pat with my mother, so it makes an otherwise untenable relationship, somewhat less untenable; if you know what I mean. Translation….another Friday night ‘pass’ without ‘guilt’ associated with leaving an aging parent alone for a few hours. Schmoozing done, I managed to clean the table off, seal the leftovers and wash and put away the dishes in 20 minutes time, not a record, but close. Glancing at the clock it was about 7:45pm, time for my shower.

"Okay, tonight I'll be lucky at the bar", I'm telling myself, while looking in the bathroom mirror. Okay, so I talk to myself sometimes….WTF? Narcissist, maybe? Misogynistic and Neanderthal, perhaps? Hell, I don’t know…never one much into ‘psychological’ or ‘behavioral’ profiling. I am who I am, and by last account, pretty much still in the hunt on figuring out just ‘that’.. ‘who I am’ or, in a more metaphysical sense, ‘Who Am I’?? Pretty sad commentary, especially when you’re 62.
I'm actually feeling pretty good tonight as I take stock of the challenge getting this old body and face ready for the evening's gig. It’s the same ‘ritual’ I go through every Friday night, damn the plight, and the rudiments of preparation. The face in the mirror needs some improvement, a shave to start. Okay, what about the hair? Having ‘some’ hair to ‘no’ hair is a bummer let me tell you. Yeah, folks, the 'emperor has no hair', what can I say. I shave it pretty close to the scalp now, something I never would have dreamed of doing just a few scant years ago. I just decided to hell with it, at 62 years old I can't be embarrassed by it anymore. God only knows how being bald has screwed up my love life over the years, a real test of one's self esteem, trust me. I thought about using Rogaine for the longest time, but just didn't see the sense in it. What I need is a 'sod transplant', not a topical rub. The final ‘kabash’ on the whole thought, was when I was warned by a friend that if taken with Viagra I could look like Don King! Not in this lifetime, I'll stick with what I have...nothing!
Anyway, forget the hair. Wipe it down with a washcloth and a little antibacterial soap and call it a day. My mustache looks pretty good, just a little bit of trimming and another 'color wash' should do it. The question is, "what color do I want this week? How about ash-brown, nah", I’m thinking. It didn't work for me last week. Maybe dark brown will do the trick. It'll blend well with my beige slacks and dark green Hilfelger Polo shirt. Coloring done!

They say preparation is 99% of success. I'm beginning to wonder if this 'self-absorption' and narcissist preening is all that necessary just for a chance meeting of the opposite sex. Afterall, I'm 62, why give a crap what I look like. Take me for what I am, right? Yeah, right! If only, life was so fair.

I've been in the bathroom now for 20 minutes and still haven't taken my shower. I’m thinking, this self-assessment process is going to have to come to an abbreviated halt if I'm to get a decent seat at the bar. With that, I turn to enter the shower when I catch a glimpse of my 'portly' profile in the mirror. I stop just for a second to power-pose in the mirror and discover that no matter the pose, I look like sh**; I really need to lose 15 lbs. 2 lbs off my boobs, 5lbs off my middle. Gawd, I hate my body this time of year! My boobs probably need breast-reduction but it's just not in my budget now. Besides, any reduction in their size would probably mean a 'rerouting' of my golf swing. Heaven forbid that should happen. I empathize with women when male golf announcers make claims that big boobs restrict a woman from making a great golf swing. Actually, I take comments like that just as personally. Unfortunately, going on a low-carb, high protein diet over the holiday season is a self-defeating exercise in futility…not when party calls are text’d me every 3 hours! This ‘body makeover’ crusade will just have to be made into a ‘New Year’s’ Resolution.

It's starting to push 9 p.m. as I get into the shower lip-syncing to some Van Halen..."I love the way you look at me, I love the way you smack my ass, I can't control you, you're not the one for me, I'm getting horny bitch, Turn me over and gimmie a kiss...not on the lips....yadda, yadda, yadda.." .

The warm water feels great as it rolls off my head and streams down my body and over my genitals. My sexual hardware is a bit weather-beaten, but fortunately still works without any drug enhancement or help of a prosthetic device . I have to admit my penis has served me well. I just take two high-potency multi-vitamins daily and give it 'stretching exercises' periodically, with hopes mother nature will keep the ole ‘tally wagger’ functioning til the bitter end. I love sex, pure and simple…like, duh…who doesn’t?? Just because I haven’t had any for the past 11 years, since my divorce…doesn’t make me forget just how wonderful a roll in the hay can be. Just as immediate a concern while we're on this subject, is all the grey pubic hair sprouting! Damn, too late to go to Walmart and get a box of 'Soft and Curly Pubie Color Gel" by L'Oreal. I'd use my moustache color kit but I'm afraid it might give my pubies that 'frizzie and coarse'look, not good! You never know when you'll be asked to take your underwear off, right? Ah, the vagaries of getting old.

Well, I made it to the bar.....FINALLY! It's almost 10p.m. In this town, especially non-tourist season, this is the optimum time for running the bars. Doug is bartending tonight, that's good. I'm impressed by the number of women seated at the bar tonight. However, I find almost all the women are early thirties or younger...damn the luck. Not that I have anything against young women, I’m ‘always’ attracted to them…but at my age, any ‘hookup’ with this demographic, is all but impossible. I order my usual, Michelob Ultra draft, it's cold, it's good.

I've got a good seat tonight, so have easy access to what's coming and going. Doug's at the opposite end of the bar entertaining one of his clientele. Doug's great at what he does, I envy his ability to assess individual personalities so readily, and by it, always seems to find the 'sweet spot' with his customers. His tips at the end of the night reflect his success.

The band is on break and it looks as though everyone is pretty much 'taken', as they say. I'm relegated to just 'observing again', something of an art-form for me lately with this bar scene. Doug remains busy, so I'm left with my own devices for entertainment until the band starts its last set for the night. My bi-polar personality is slowly giving way to mild depression, as I realize it’s another 'strikeout' tonight. Let's face it, average looking guys like me; old, fat and bald; looking like a cross between a Neanderthal and Homer Simpson, just can't compete. The 'bar scene' is still a youth oriented activity, mostly participated in by healthy, young, great-looking people. Another thing, you look closely at the clientele matchups and find it almost axiomatic the best looking guys get the best looking women. I presume the women are attracted mostly because a good looking symmetric face suggests healthy genes. The phenotype represents the genotype. What you see is what you get. Who knows, my hypothesis is probably flawed, but certainly there must be something valid in this personal assessment. It's amazing the kind of sh**t you think about when your self-esteem begins to sink with the number of drinks consumed. "Doug! I'll take another beer, please", as I mull over how much longer I'm going to stay here before calling it a night. I'm thinking, I'll stay through the band's last set of the night.

I see a couple of 'over 50' women on the opposite side of the bar, one of them Doug was talking to when I first came in tonight. They look about as bored as I am, although they do seem to have a rather vigorous discussion going. Animated to say the least; lots of 'finger pointing' to each others' body parts, as if describing physical ailments or enhancements? Could it be they're comparing notes about how they're going through a physiologic climacteric together? Hmmm, lots of facial expressions between them. It's starting to get interesting. They're now looking down at each other's crotch, interceding 'looks' with 'verbal' interplay, as if discussing some sort of 'condition'. I can only imagine. Over 50, you know they're talking about some pre/post-menopausal issues. No? Okay, lemme guess, "maybe atrophic vaginitis? How about Cystitis? Yeah, that's it. They're describing how their reduction in clitoral size, stress incontinence, and an increase in facial hair is screwing with their dating marketability!! Gawd, I'm so smart! I'm 'so smart' it hurts that I'm so damn insensitive. Bemused by my self-absorption to the worst in human-kind, I slam down the rest of my drink.

Ah, the band is starting its final set, thank god. My mental incant nations are going from the sublime to the ridiculous. Okay, time to stop the internal rhetorical bantering between my ego and id. What the hell is going on with me? Maybe I'm the one going through menopause, male menopause? I know I'm going through some kind of physiological change and I'm not liking 'how I feel' or 'what I am' at the moment. I know one thing; I'm really doing a good job of internalizing the negative stereotypes of older women as desexualized invalids or, at the opposite extreme, as "over-the-hill old bags", take your pick. It's painfully obvious I'm showing prejudice against the over-40 ladies' group; refusing to associate with them; rejecting them as potential partners; all the while attempting to appear unreasonably and inappropriately young. Hmmm…again, shrugging off my own superficiality…I’m such a phoney!

In any case, I'm still not ready to accept the notion women over 50 is the 'only game' in town for me at this juncture of my life. Making 'that shift' continues to be a struggle for me. It may be I'll just 'drop out' of the gene pool altogether rather than compromise, who knows. Perhaps I'm too aware of my aging and the reality of a waning sense of potency. It just may be that clinging to the prospect of finding a young woman to partner with keeps the whole thing safely ensconced at the ego level, particularly since the possibility of real connection offered by a relationship with a mature woman has its own set of fears for me. Unlike Narcissus, I'm not one to reject ANY woman that might fall in love with me, so let's not end the journey for companionship from ANY age group just yet!

Good Nite, Doug ? I leave a tip and depart as I arrived, alone and disconsolate.

C'ya Twitters next week!

One Is The Loneliest Number

No, this isn’t a prelude to the Beatle’s Anthology of Hits – just a prelude to another issue demonizing me lately – that is – the state of loneliness.

For whatever reasons, the Christmas holiday season is just another big hurdle for me to get over. There’s something about the celebratory commercialism of the season and good will (ugh!) toward man that makes me want to shoot myself in the head. I know that because of the lack of a better, more fulfilling option, I’ll be forced to spend another holiday season preoccupied with lamenting past mistakes and lost friends; greater still, not being able to sip warm eggnog with a good woman, while making love in front of a roaring fire; worshipping her ‘Shakti’ with every sip we take, every tantric ritual performed.

So, what’s a guy to do? Yes, you guessed it – head for my local bar, El Villa. I’m driven to it, especially during holidays, because I know a smile and a cold beverage will always be there to greet me as I sit down. At that instant, I could ask for nothing more. I am familiar at El Villa, my name and preferences are known, it is a good welcoming feeling. El Villa for me is a refuge from the world where I can rest quietly in the cool darkness and listen to talk, gossip and general philosophizing on life by men and women that know it well. How quickly my loneliness is replaced with a warm acknowledgement of my existence. It is at these moments for me ‘one is not the loneliest number'.

Merry XMAS folks! May you and yours have a happy and fulfilling holiday season!

Next topic: My encounter with a ‘lazy-eyed’ Lesbian?

The Pleasure Of Women Friends

The implacable, unvarnished truth of the matter is; I believe ‘pleasure’ is one of the most important elements to find in life. I’m a firm believer of ‘Epicureanism’. Pleasure brings happiness, and life is not worth living if you are not happy. Okay, so what’s my number one pleasure? No, it’s not ‘twittering’..lol! For me, what gives me pleasure is befriending women…smart, successful and intoxicatingly exciting women; women that not only have a passion for life but have an element of ‘spontaneity’ that gives them a certain allure that can’t be easily dismissed. Both of these characteristic traits in women stimulate my ‘adrenaline’ highs. Women that ‘get’ and ‘hold’ my attention are frothy, marvelous creatures – nothing in life can displace their ‘essence’. For me, women are the untouchable assets to mankind that make life worth living, worth getting up in the morning, the ‘life force’ in my existence. When I’m down, the women I befriend buoy me up and carry me through; which is something else I never would have guessed all those years ago, would be so important to me now. I can’t imagine living life without women, just as I can’t imagine enjoying the sheer majestic physical beauty of this planet without the benefit of eyesight.

CrabShack Blues

Hi Folks,

It’s 'happy hour' at the ‘Crab Shack’ and I’ve made a gallant effort to arrive early enough to grab a good seat and ‘tip a beer’ before the ‘regulars’ converge on the scene.

The previous week I met four or five of the regulars and it turned out to be a pretty good evening. I introduced myself to the group and while we didn’t have all that much in common, a few jokes and witticisms were exchanged and that was enough to meet the initial threshold of acceptance. For the most part these folks are self-indulgent boors with only one solitary interest, yachts and the bikinis clad women that accompany them. So why am I hanging with these folks? For one, the bikinis clad women aspect may be something to explore! At any rate, we exchanged e-mails and phone numbers with promises that ‘they’ would contact me and let me know what was on the agenda for ‘this Friday’ and that we’d all meet at the Crab Shack and go from there. Regretfully, I never received an e-mail, so was hoping they’d be here tonight.

Okay, I’m here…..where are they? Not to be folks, I’ve been stood up. I felt like Charlie Brown when things go wrong, grab the blanket. Only, I had no blanket to grab. Another ‘wasted’ Friday night I’m thinking. Fortunately, there was a new female bartender working this night. She served me promptly without any fanfare or even a ‘howdy’. Peculiar for a bartender since most are arguably quite social. At least you should be sociable if you want to make a buck. That observation aside, I decided to ‘hang around’ rather than make an early exit. Maybe a bit of ‘small talk’ with her might cheer me up and salvage something of my ‘only night out’ of the week.

Physically, she was ‘okay’, somewhere in the neighborhood of 5’6”, 120 lbs in what looks like a well ‘toned’ body. Admiringly, in a pejorative way, her demeanor and body language suggests ‘body obsession’ rules her life. I’m sure her physique would probably be the envy of many sweaty bodies at the gym. For me, I have a more cognitive approach, a more realistic view of my appearance. ‘Body morphing/sculpting’ and for that matter any ‘highly disciplined’ physical activity that requires an inordinate amount of time and commitment isn’t for me. Let me have my well-earned ‘paunch’ and gravity-displaced pecks, I earned them! God knows, to keep ‘svelte’ and ‘lean’ like she is she probably suffers from some form of dysmorphic disorder. Laugh all you want, there are more women than you think who suffer eating disorders just to get the kind of look she has managed to acquire.

Denigrating comments aside, she does have great eyes. You know, those eyes that communicate that ‘who me?’ look. They were deep-brown in color and exposed a kind of softness about her, a disempowering quality that would indicate she’s ‘approachable’. I hope so. I’m about ready for my next beer, so now is as good a time as any to introduce myself.

She saunters by as I interrupt a request by a ‘waiting’ and ‘wanton’ hostess for a ‘Manhatten’. A rare request, haven’t heard of that drink since the early 60s. “Excuse me, ma’am, I blurt out as she whisks by, may I have another Ultra draft?” I quickly follow with, “Don’t rush, I’m still working on this one.” She acknowledges with a nod of the head. Waiting, I scan the bar area for anybody that may have passed by me without my knowing. Nada…not one person has come into the bar area since my arrival more than 30 minutes ago. I’m still at a loss as to where any of the ‘yacht club’ members might be. The weather is exceptionally nice today so I’m betting there was some ‘last minute’ planning to ‘bar-hop’ by boat in lieu of the regular routine of coming to this bar. What the hey….don’t blame them, right?

“Excuse me, here’s your beer, sir”, the bartender quietly advertises to me. She follows with “I apologize for the delay, it’s just kind of busy on the restaurant side tonight”. Awoken out of my mental malaise, I said, “no problem”. By the way, my name is Rick, what’s yours?” “I’m Jennifer. Are you new here?” she asks. “Pretty much so”, I replied. “I was expecting to see some of the folks I met here last week, the ‘yacht clubers’ as I like to refer to them. Kinda disappointed none of them showed up.” She responds, “I know who you’re talking about and I believe they’ve all gone to Pensacola over the weekend, the weather is so nice and all.”

I’m thinking now the ice is broken. One question leads to another until we got to a point where I had a pretty good picture of her status and goals in life. Hey, once on a roll I’m quick to the point. And here I thought I would be intimidated by her. I can say with honesty, women this attractive can be intimidating. Especially, for an old goat like me that looks ‘the part’ yet still has the ‘howl at the moon’ yearning to copulate with someone half my age. In any case, the last thing I want is to be too forward, especially not knowing her very well, nor she of me. I’m still thinking, even with all our conversing, she may still have some kind of dysmorphic disorder. It would be my luck I should piss her off and she engages in some sort of trichotillomanic contest with me. As if I don’t have enough problems in my crummy life! Fortunately, none of the above occurred, nor do I believe she’s so afflicted.

“Jennifer, can I ask you something personal?”. She responds, “No, go ahead”. “Do you have a boyfriend”, I brazenly ask. I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth, that I asked her this question; not after only knowing her for 30 minutes! How crude of me, I thought. How desperate it must sound. I’m thinking, I’d probably be offended if someone I hardly knew asked me such a question. But I did. “Yes, I do Rick”, she responds. No note of hostility from her, thank god. I really felt dumb at this moment. Anyway, she continues, “His name is Joe Smith, he’s a biker and a lot of fun. I’ve dated otherwise ‘nice guys’ but they just don’t have the ‘risk/reward’ attitude I like in the men I date. He’s been to jail a couple of times but I think he’s straightened out.” “Oh, I say”, rather condescending. She doesn’t seem to notice the deferential response. She bends over to fill the ice-bin and I notice a ‘skull ‘n’ bones’ tattoo on her lower back, just above the crack in her ass. All the while I’m thinking, “what in the hell is she thinking going out with an ex-con?” Then again, I’m looking at the crack of her ass; question answered. She finishes filling the ice-bin, then asks me the same question. Not only the same question but compliments me on being a seemingly “nice” guy with “nice” manners that would make someone a ‘nice’ boyfriend. I responded that, “I’m divorced and looking, thanks for the compliments”. I’m not sure why I replied to her this way because I’m “not” looking. Maybe my answer was a shield to protect my ever-ebbing desire to find a partner. To admit ‘not looking’ would be an affront to my masculinity, whatever the hell all that means. I’m sure there’s some neuro-linguistic programming theory at work in all this. Whatever, I certainly don’t have enough time in my life to figure it all out.

So what we have here folks is a dismal attempt to make ‘something’ from ‘nothing’ in terms of establishing a potential relationship. Let’s face it, old man time is taking it’s toll on me. I’m just becoming an anachronistic artifact with only a limited amount of redeeming value to the breeding stock of the human species. My ‘y’ chromosome pairs are becoming fragmented and diluted with ever diminishing levels of active DNA strands. It’s just so depressing, getting old. That, and being ‘nice’, it’s all a plot against me.

Even a ‘nice’ guy can’t help but think Jennifer would certainly be fun to be with on occasion. But, in her words ‘nice’ guys finish last. I often feel like womankind has a perverse craving for jerks, while nice men are handled best with six-foot poles and sterilized gloves. And I know that in the treacherous World of Dating, I suffer from a frightful natural disadvantage.

I think I must have been born nice; I certainly don't recall choosing to be this way. Half the time I can't even explain what being nice means. I understand it is related to politeness, empathy, honesty, and other such calamitous behaviors. How did I ever inherit these mediocre traits? An evolutionary regression is my best guess, a defiant recessive gene disinclined to remain hidden in my chromosomes. Or perhaps I was corrupted during my excruciatingly long and happy childhood. Whatever the case, I fear pursuing the question is futile.
What I do grasp with utter clarity is that nice guys must fight a bleak battle to stay off the endangered species list. To be nice can be a man's ruin. Few things can damage one's reputation as thoroughly as the indictment, 'Oh, he's so nice.' Other women besides Jennifer have been callous enough to say this to my face (they meant it as a compliment, of course), consigning me with those miserable words to the dreaded friend bucket-a fate akin to involuntary early retirement. Being good enough for friendship, and endowed with endearing niceness, apparently disqualify me from romantic considerations.

Wherefore this cruel paradox? I've frequently toyed with perfunctory explanations. The ingenuous answer is to blame the misguided stereotype that all nice guys are boring geeks who have to be agreeable if they want to meet women-as well as its corollary: men who are witty and audacious aren't nice because they don't have to be. But I like to think most women don't fall for this fallacy. Perhaps, instead, they assume nice guys are too good to be true; surely some evil secret is lurking beneath that tranquil surface.

And why do women tolerate the stellar treatment they receive from jerks? I just know by conversing with Jennifer that ‘her’ ‘Joe Smith’ doesn’t give crappola about her in any way, shape or form. Maybe, like Jennifer, they believe it’s too compelling a tradeoff to resist? Good sex, witty conversation, fancy dinners followed by thrilling nightclubs, biker orgies, all this and more in exchange for a barrage of lousy manners, thoughtless insults, and daily arguments about nothing. Not a shabby arrangement. Not when one adds other incentives, like the ecstatic thrill of his inconstancy. Or the delightful suspicion of being on the receiving end of his crafty deception. Maybe they think the jerks are going to change. Women, like Jennifer, will play a waiting game, wagering their jerks will turn nice before they turn eighty. Even with all the ‘negatives’ I conjure up being a ‘jerk’, the profile remains somewhat alluring.

I think after tonight’s conversation with Jennifer becoming a jerk may be a sound strategy to save me from a lonely middle age. The beer is kicking in now. Self-absorption is giving in to the ‘Walter Mitty’ world of make believe. I love it. I’m going to make a pledge: no more mister Nice Guy. No denying, it will be a daunting task. I have been hindered from the outset by a string of innate defects. I find it difficult to lie; I generally prefer to be forthright. I'm protective and caring. I tend to anticipate needs and fulfill them. I have the annoying habit of listening well. Chivalry is my mother’s tongue. I have concluded, grudgingly, that to be a jerk may be unachievable. The competition I will be facing is formidable. I'd be a feather-weight learning to fight in a land of three-hundred pound giants. Jerks have been training to be jerks since they were toddlers. They looked up girls' skirts in grade school. In junior high they had one girlfriend at school, one in the neighborhood, and they were playing home-physician with their cousin in her parents' walk-in closet. At twenty, they had managed every trick in the portfolio. Lying, cheating, scheming, seducing. By the time they reached thirty they had refined their skills to a cruel art. I knew a guy who broke up with his girlfriend because she developed a nasty rash on her forearm. How am I ever going to top that?

How best can I convert from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’? I’ve got a Books a Million discount card, I’ll devour self-help books on the subject. I’ll watch countless French films to bring out the colder, more cynical me. I’ll start a Nice Guy Association (NGA). I’ll be the first to sign up. My introductory speech will be brief and to the point. ”Hello”, my head bowed and my eyes on my matching socks, “My name is Rick and I have been a nice guy since 1946.” I could also pursue more desperate measures. I will avidly follow the progress of the Human Genome Project, praying they'll soon discover a cure for the filthy gene accountable for my wretched state.

Who am I kidding? I know this retransformation from ‘Mr. Nice’ to ‘Mr. Jerk’ is just an irrational pursuit of unobtainable results. Walter Mitty sucks! An inner voice tells me I must accept who I am and be content. Pursuing any noble crusade to find my egocentric, brutish side is pure folly. I am who I am. I’m ‘hardwired’ to be Mr. Nice til my last breath.

Better pay my bar bill, time to go. “Jennifer, it was nice meeting you, here’s a ten-spot, keep the change…see you next Friday”. I’m thinking on my way to the car that Jennifer is really pretty nice but now that I know her a bit better, I just can't seem to get too excited about her anymore. I don't know...if only she weren't so damned nice.

C’ya later folks.