Wrong 'Em Boyo--

Just when you think you know somebody/ yourself, you realize you don't. Which can be unnerving when fighting the dragons on the dating trail. I'm not above the fray in the least which became clear when I got into a bit of a philosopical strop with a couple of homebiscuits...

Last Monday I fired a bacchanalian flare into the darkness of cyberspace via an e-mail missive with no subject heading and a one-word phrase in the body of the text: "The Colorado?" The Colorado's a "dive-ish" bar near PCC/ Art Center and is tucked up next to Guitar Center on the street with the same name. I was initially lured to check out the spot under the auspices of getting an earful of the eclectic music on the resident jukebox -- according to my tour guide it has one of the best jukes on this side of the 5 Freeway which put the hook in me. On our maiden voyage we sucked down about 3 pitchers of Heffewiezen (I laced my pints with shots of Absolut) while we shot the shite, a few holes of pool (@ which I got schooled) and, yes, threw quarters into the music box. Suffice to say we had more fun than we should've in the middle of a work week and as we folded up our tents and headed for our base camps, I vowed to return.

In the weeks that followed, I'd been tempted more than once to pull a "Bigfoot" by dropping in on the regulars with an impromptu solo visit but never really got around to it because of other things (more later?) but as I sat stewing in my juices that Monday morning I decided to nix the 1-man flight plan and put my truncated missive on the wire -- later that day a reply landed in my in-box: "How does Wednesday sound?" It was on like popcorn.

I met up with the homes over at the Colorado and we sallied forth with pitchers of New Castle and kicked it loose. About an hour in, the Cardinal Richlieu made the scene and everything shifted gears from there. We waxed philosophical, literary, political and musical in varied proportions while rounds of pool were played and pints were emptied. As all of this took place, I starting chatting with this bird who seemed very interested in what I had to say (a yellow card to the introspective writing type because it raises questions like: Why me? What's her angle? Where's my wallet?). She wore a "provocative" little outfit -- her jean skirt was so tight I could read the dates on the quarters in her back pocket. Mic, the Card and I jumped right onto the topic when I returned to our corner for a couple of ringside slaps on the face and to spit in my bucket.

"Women who wear outfits like that are saying something to the world," sniffed the Cardinal in that heavily accented Franco-specific way which imbues everything he says with a hint of sarcasm -- even when he's being sincere. "She came here to do something with or to somebody, wearing an outfit like that," He continued. "I beg to differ," I replied. "I think women like this are either A) Defying some authority figure in their lives ie: an overbearing/ abusive significant other, B) Wilder than a sack full of weasles on crack or C) Just cruising for a piece of unfettered booty/ meaningless sex, as most men do (and get away with) without all the "Scarlet Lettering." In any case, the ploy keeps the opposite sex guessing about how much of either of the latter pertains to her which, in turn, provides her with the emotional upper hand while she flips him around the dojo with a couple of pyschological body blows" because he's too preoccupied by the shape of her arse.

"You're both retarded in equal proportions, a person unable to trust others is, himself, unworthy of placing trust in," MicPhisto said coldly to the two of us as he stared across the room in her direction while stroking his beard 'n 'stache like Confuscious standing on Tea Ceremony. "I've noted that while you [both] point the finger at the woman in question, not once did you ever question yourselves or motives: what your stereotypes and, at best, uninformed judgements, might be doing to your objectivity," he pointed out. "She seems like a pretty nice woman to me and although I've seen her around, I can't say that I've heard anything that seems to point to the Glenn Close Rabbit Boiling cookbook -- you both sound like a couple of fishwives, " he stated with mock contempt and threw back the remainder of ale in his glass. "So please...do me a favor..." In the black and white world of self righteous/indignant, barley and hops soaked finger wagging and tut-tutting, MicPhisto's words seemed very prescient...sage-like -- in a resolute, "don't forget Poland," coalition-of-the-willing-sort-of-way but that shite ain't the truth, at least not my truth.

I've lived in cities all over this country and the steps to the "Nookie Waltz" in New York City are essentially the same as those for the Hollywood Hook-up; from Atlanta to Alhambra the moves don't change, just the types of people executing them -- each with varying degrees of proficiency and their own selfish set of motives for picking their partners. Some establish lasting relationships, some result in a short series of trysts and/ or dinner dates and still others don't amount to anything at all, just a number scribbled on a bar napkin
that leads to an ansering machine that doesn't take messages -- whatever. I'm no James Brown/ Fred Astaire when it comes to any of this. I cut my contributing analysis short and eased on back over to the bar and sat down beside the straw-haired julie to "close the deal" which yielded a mixed bag of results.

I scored the Blonde Bird's phone number and promptly lost it between the bar and the Denny's we went to absorb all of that fermented wheat we'd sucked up. In an odd turn of events, MicPhisto had it also, she'd given it to him to give to me (I think) while I was in the can spending a penny. I called him (that night, no less) and got it and if memory serves me correctly I pulled a "Favreau" and left my info on her machine (like Jon Favreau's character in Swingers often did) but I'm more than sure I stepped in it by doing so. In the days that followed I hadn't heard hide nor hair from "the cracking julie with the tig ole bitties" but, to be honest, I'm also thankful that she hasn't because I really don't remember what it was that got me so close to the wall of
sugar in the first place. Sometimes the gods are merciful. The only thing you can be certain of in life is uncertainty. Sounds like a self defeating prophecy, I know but my 3.03 decades in this
world have proven time and again that once I think I have a handle on a situation, I really don't know dick. I can live with that because denial isn't just a river that flows past the pyramids, Sonny Jim.

Most of us don't have a clue and admitting it would be akin to taking a red pill while firmly ensconced within the little matrices of self-perception that they've constructed around themselves -- I know I'm not the only one guilty of this, so stand up and be counted. In that spirit, I'd imagine that the few who do know aren't telling the rest of us -- guess that's one nut you've got to crack on your own -- so, with all of that in mind, I'm not going to sit around weeping and gnashing my teeth while waiting for the answer to that particular enigma to reveal itself in some burning bush (not a pun)...Harboring regrets is for suckers and life's too fuggin' short, yo...Laters.