Self-Aggrandizement: Dating Archives

Just the Fax
Filed June 8, 2010 3:05 PM.

In the wake of yesterday's post about the magic (to me, at least) of the fax machine, Jess reminded me that, early in our courtship, we actually flirted by fax.

Below, a cover page I made up for the Newman / Gold Paint-by-Numbers Gallery, an inside joke I can no longer recall nor explain:

And then, a good illustration of why we ended up together. Inexplicably, Jess apprended this to one of her counter-faxes, with the caption "I couldn't leave this out. I just love a good mugshot."

Print 2.jpg

Just My Type
Filed April 20, 2009 12:39 PM.

As Jess is a Libra, and I a Cancer, it's not entirely clear that we're a good match, horoscopically speaking.

However, also according to my horoscope, as a Cancer I should be quiet and withdrawn. Which pretty much blows my faith in the whole thing.

On the other hand, I do put real stock in the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, which nails me to a 't':

ENTPs are quick to see complex interrelationships between people, things, and ideas. These interrelationships are analyzed in profound detail, resulting in an in-depth understanding of the way things and relationships work, and how they can be improved. To the ENTP, competence and intelligence are particularly prized, both in themselves and in other people.
ENTPs are frequently described as clever, cerebrally and verbally quick, enthusiastic, outgoing, innovative, flexible, loyal and resourceful. ENTPs are motivated by a desire to understand and improve the world they live in. They are usually accurate in sizing up a situation. They may have a perverse sense of humor and sometimes play devil's advocate, which can create misunderstandings with friends, coworkers, and family. ENTPs are ingenious and adept at directing relationships between means and ends. ENTPs "think outside the box," devising fresh, unexpected solutions to difficult problems. However, they are less interested in generating and following through with detailed plans than in generating ideas and possibilities. When ENTPs are used correctly on a team, they offer deep understanding and a high degree of flexibility and problem solving ability. The ENTP regards a comment like "it can't be done" as a personal challenge, and, if properly motivated, will spare no expense to discover a solution.

So I was particularly interested when Jess took a Myers-Briggs test herself, and came up an INFJ:

INFJs are conscientious and value-driven. They seek meaning in relationships, ideas, and events, with an eye toward better understanding themselves and others. Using their intuitive skills, they develop a clear vision, which they then execute decisively to better the lives of others.
INFJs are quiet, private individuals who prefer to exercise their influence behind the scenes. Although very independent, INFJs are intensely interested in the well-being of others. INFJs prefer one-on-one relationships to large groups. Sensitive and complex, they are adept at understanding complicated issues and driven to resolve differences in a cooperative and creative manner. INFJs have a rich, vivid inner life, which they may be reluctant to share with those around them. Nevertheless, they are congenial in their interactions, and perceptive of the emotions of others. Generally well-liked by their peers, they may often be considered close friends and confidants by most other types. However, they are guarded in expressing their own feelings, especially to new people, and so tend to establish close relationships slowly.

INFJs tend to be easily hurt, though they may not reveal this except to their closest companions. INFJs may "silently withdraw as a way of setting limits," rather than expressing their wounded feelings--a behavior that may leave others confused and upset. INFJs tend to be sensitive, quiet leaders with a great depth of personality. They are intricately and deeply woven, mysterious, and highly complex, sometimes puzzling even to themselves. They have an orderly view toward the world, but are internally arranged in a complex way that only they could understand. Abstract in communicating, they live in a world of hidden meanings and possibilities. With a natural affinity for art, INFJs tend to be creative and easily inspired.

Also dead on.

Which is particularly good news, because, though we may be astrologically star-crossed, according to Myers-Briggs analysis, ENTP and INFJ types are instead 'natural partners', as strong a fit as you can find.

If you're similarly self-fascinated, take a fast Myers-Briggs inventory yourself, and see where you end up.

Big News
Filed November 15, 2007 7:23 PM.

She said yes.

With Love
Filed November 11, 2007 11:39 PM.

Jess, on reading that I'd be posting regularly again:

"They're all going to be about me, right?"

If I'm smart, yes.

4 C's
Filed October 1, 2007 5:55 PM.

Ring shopping.

Holy crap.

Chicken Soup
Filed July 9, 2007 1:18 PM.

[I am a story repeater. Mainly because I have terrible, terrible memory for what I've said, when, and to whom. But also because some stories are too good to give up.

So, though I briefly blogged it in the past, though I recounted it on the first episode of my and Sarah Brown's podcast, when Chicken Soup for the Twenty-Something Soul contacted me for a submission, I had no choice but to retell my infamous beans-throwing date.]

Shortly after I moved to New York City, I met a girl at an art gallery. She worked for the gallery, I was there for the opening of a friend's show, and we hit it off making jokes about the snottier-looking patrons.

I asked her out on a first date. To play things safe, I pushed for early evening drinks. That way, if the date went badly, I could keep it short; if it went well, I could *still* keep it short, end on a high note, and leave her wanting more.

Fortunately, the first date - at a Gatbsy-esque bar in Midtown - went off without a hitch. So it was with high hopes that I headed to our second date, dinner at a trendy Mexican restaurant on the Upper East Side.

That date, too, started strong. Until the waiter didn't bring us our basket of chips quickly enough.

"This is ridiculous," the girl exclaimed. Ridiculous? We were talking about *chips*. No big deal.

But to her, apparently, it *was* a big deal. So, after two or three more chip-less minutes, she got up, found the waiter, and yelled. Then, for good measure, and at ever-escalating volume, she found the manager and yelled at him, too.

By this point, it was immensely clear that my date had absolutely zero relationship potential. I had somehow found the highest maintenance girl in all of New York City. But I vividly remember thinking, "I'm out of college, I'm an adult now; I should at least be civil, and make it through the rest of the evening."

I thought, perhaps, that a round of margaritas might help calm things down.

I was wrong.

By now, of course, the waiter hated us. My date had yelled in his face, had gotten him in trouble with the manager. So, not surprisingly, he was a bit rude. To which, in response, my date was even ruder. Over the course of appetizers and a few more drinks, the situation continued to devolve.

The waiter delivered our main courses with a snide comment. My date said something in reply. Back and forth they went, until something he said crossed her final line.

My date picked up her plate of beans. And threw them at the waiter.

She was seated on my left, the waiter stood to my right. So the beans flew, as if in slow motion, right in front of my face.

I remember wondering, beans mid-air, what might happen on impact. Would the waiter punch her? Punch me? Throw something back, leaving me smack in the middle of a giant food fight?

With a splat, the beans hit, and the world caught up to speed. The waiter, however, didn't. He stood there in shock, a mass of pintos slowly dripping down the front of his shirt.

My date stood up.

"Well, I never!" she declared. And she walked out.

This was a small restaurant - maybe twenty tables. By this point, every single patron was staring at me.

"Get out!" the manager bellowed. "And never come back."

Mortified, I backed my way slowly across the floor, apologizing profusely - to the waiter, to the manager, to anyone still willing to make eye contact.

I opened the front door, stepped outside, and found the girl standing there, fuming.

"Well," she said, "where are we going next?"

At which point, I turned, and started running down Lexington Avenue as fast as I could. And I still remember thinking, finally looking back over my shoulder a few blocks later, "well, at least she doesn't have my phone number."

Ode
Filed April 17, 2007 10:07 AM.

Jess: I read your post for yesterday.

Me: And?

Jess: [Shrugs]

Me: I know. I'm having trouble coming up with good topics to write about.

Jess: You should probably just write all your posts about how beautiful I am.

Cupid
Filed February 14, 2007 5:16 PM.

Despite her protestations that - beyond even its apparent commercialization - Valentine's Day is a Christian Pagan holiday in which a couple of Jewish kids such as ourselves have no part, and despite her having to live with me (which, honestly, I couldn't imagine doing either) for the past month or two, Jess has nonetheless agreed to be my Valentine.

On our evening docket: a play, a home cooked dinner, and perhaps some serious floor scrubbing (both of us being just OCD enough to consider that an oddly delightful and gratifying pursuit). All of which sounds just perfect to me, and reminds me of some great advice I once received: the secret to a happy relationship is less finding someone with no baggage, and more finding someone with whom your own makes a nicely matched set.

Home Alone
Filed December 27, 2006 10:10 PM.

Over the past few months, as I found myself spending more and more time with Jess, I also found more and more of her stuff migrating its way into my apartment. My shower - which formerly contained one shampoo, one face wash, and one body wash - exploded with a proliferation of indistinguishable bottles, tubs and tubes. Dresses, shirts and shoes began to crowd my closet. Books and books and more books and magazines began to appear bedside and on shelves and windowsills.

All of which, actually, made perfect sense - my bed being more comfortable than hers, we were spending pretty much every night together in my place, and it seemed silly for her to head back continually to hers just to pick up clothing and other odds and ends.

So, when we determined that her lease was ending at the end of this month, we decided to simply cut to the chase and move in together.

I repeat: we are moving in together. Or, rather, we more or less already have; after countless duffel bag trips by taxi throughout December, nearly everything she wants to keep is now here in my / our apartment.

Nonetheless, the point of this entry isn't Jess moving in, but rather her (temporarily) heading back out. As her sister is home from college, Jess trained up yesterday to Boston to spend time with her family for the week. And I, in turn, with my parents in from California, am staying here in New York to wrangle my own kin - immediate and extended.

So, now, my apartment is back to the way it was before - just me. And as much as it's the moving in together that seems like it should be a big deal, should be totally freaking me out, it's the being here by myself that actually seems strange, not quite right.

Which, when I think about, is probably an excellent sign.

Meet the Parents
Filed November 21, 2006 7:15 PM.

Far and away, Thanksgiving is the most important day of the year. Or so it would seem from the weight placed upon the holiday by my mother. Skip heading home to California for nearly any other event, and she won't bat an eye. But my brother or I miss Thanksgiving dinner? That's a hanging offense.

So, per usual, I'm off to San Francisco to eat turkey. This year, however, I'm dragging Jess in tow. Because while I've met her parents a few times (due to their proximity in nearer Boston), she's yet to meet mine.

I've gone back and forth between thinking that this week is a wonderful or a terrible time for that first meet-up, unsure whether the collective preparatory push of cooking and cleaning and table-setting will give us something to focus on other than the inherent weird awkwardness, or simply leave everyone even further on stressed-out edge, compounding the mess of it all.

Whichever it is, however, we land in SFO in about an hour; it seems I'll soon find out.

Cohabitation
Filed October 17, 2006 6:22 PM.

Rob Barnum, who heads up Cyan's West Coast office, arrives in town early early early tomorrow morning via JetBlue red-eye, with his fiance Sophie in tow.

On past such trips, with both of us decidedly more single, and with our company equally bastardly cheap, Rob opted out of hotel booking, instead taking over my living room's fold-out couch.

So, out of old habit, we didn't book him somewhere to stay at the time he booked his flight for this trip, about a month or so back. We thought nothing of it, until late last week, when we realized that wedging a nearly-married couple along with me into my Manhattan-size apartment would, in short, be remarkably, awkwardly cramped.

So, for the balance of the week, I'm essentially gifting my home to those two crazy kids, and invading Jess' instead. It will be, by far, the longest contiguous stretch of nights she's had to put up with me; I give it four nights, tops, before my insisting on alternative pronunciations of words like 'equinox' leads her to punch me in the face.

Update: Jess texted to say she wouldn't punch me in the face. She'd kick me instead.

GF
Filed October 11, 2006 11:04 PM.

As I haven't blogged about it for several weeks, a handful of readers have written in to ask if I was still seeing The Girl, who I'll henceforth call Jess, mainly because that's her name.

And, in short, yes I absolutely still am. In fact, for her birthday last Friday, I gave her a small, metal Eiffel Tower, redeemable for a long weekend trip to Paris. So, yes, still dating, and, yes, still serious. But, at the same time, and contrary to my brother's strongly held belief, I absolutely, positively, 100% will not be proposing while in Paris, or at any point in the near future. A long-standingly commitment-phobic tiger can only move so fast in changing his stripes.

Also for her birthday, I gave her a cake. About two weeks before the day, she told me that she didn't really like birthdays, and didn't really want any presents. The next day, she pointed out that perhaps she'd like a cake. The day after, it was a cake from Carvel. Then a vanilla ice cream Carvel cake. Then, day by successive day, one with some chocolate ice cream at the bottom, and a layer of oreo crunchies, a round cake, one with a ring of blue frosting and rainbow sprinkles and "Happy Birthday Jess!!" in pink icing on top.

On the morning of her birthday, I went to pick up the pre-ordered, pre-specified cake, and discovered that, while almost perfect, it was instead emblazoned with "Happy Birthday Jeff!!" in pink curlique. And though, in the end, I had them fix it, lest her friends think I was a total moron, I was sorely tempted to keep it Jeff-ed, as I was rightly sure she'd think it was uproariously funny.

Which is, in short, why she's exactly my type.

Logistics
Filed September 13, 2006 4:57 PM.

As long-standing readers of this site know, I've done more than my share of dating since moving to NYC five years back. And, in that time, I've even had a slew of several-month stretches of exclusivity. But, in each case, the exclusive girl and I would still dutifully obey a tacit 72-hour rule - seeing each other, say, twice a week, tops, and never even considering multiple consecutive nights together.

So it is with some confusion and little practical experience that I now face liking this girl enough that I kind of want to see her all the time. Fortunately, it seems she's both equally happy to see me, and equally out of her depth, leaving us, in turns, thrilled and totally freaked out by it all.

How much time should I spend with her? How do we do this without derailing each of our overbooked calendars? How often can I call before crossing the fine line between sweet and creepy? How does this all work?

In short, I have absolutely no idea. But, day by angsty day, I'm slogging ahead, as I think she might be worth trying to figure it out.

Taken
Filed September 5, 2006 6:09 PM.

I've been getting emails of late asking for more blog posts about disastrous dates. And, sadly, I don't really have any to share.

It's not that I haven't been going on dates. I have. They've just been good. And all with the same girl.

Which, I realize, is somewhat out of character. I haven't blogged about it, ostensibly because I didn't want to freak her out, but, really, because I didn't want to freak myself out. Once it's on paper (or, more accurately, screen), there's no denying - even to myself - that I actually really like this girl.

But, after having spent the weekend with her in Boston, and having totally not been sick of her by the end, which is weird, because I get sick of everybody and usually need far more time to myself, I'm biting the bullet, and coming clean.

I think I have a girlfriend.

Until I get yelled at for putting this online and then figure out how much I should really be sharing or not, the only description you get is one emailed along, strangely enough, by her mom: smart and intuitive and maybe sometimes a little weird.

Which, basically, is exactly my type. Fingers crossed.

Bediquette
Filed August 24, 2006 6:40 PM.

First, there's the issue of side. Which, if I'm sleeping alone, is the left. But I'm flexible on that one. Either side of the bed works well enough for me, making the choice an easy first concession.

Then there's pillow selection, which I'll also happily give up, for the good karma, and the illusion of being accommodating.

The trouble sets in with sleep position. Left to my own devices, I'm largely a stomach sleeper, with occasional side forays. Most girls, however, seem to covet the shoulder/neck nook as pillow, which necessitates back-sleeping. Or, rather, back-not-sleeping. Because, as comfortable as the position actually turns out to be, I can't really sleep in it. Spooning's a bit better, though I'm never quite sure where to keep my bottom arm.

Sooner or later, it's some slightly separated yet leg-intertwined position. Which works well for the most part. Except that a surprisingly large percentage of girls seem to kick involuntarily while deep in REM. Some, the former soccer or field-hockey players the worst amongst them, kick hard. All deny it once awake.

And, of course, all girls steal the blankets, somnolently bunching comforters with reckless disregard for their co-coveree.

A large percentage, too, are total insomniacs. Or, perhaps, just a large percentage of the ones I like, given my prodigious ability to develop crushes on smart yet totally neurotic girls. They can't fall asleep. They toss and turn. They wake up in the middle of the night, then wake me up to announce that they're awake. Or they steal my computer and respond to their work emails from three until four in the morning. Or they do both. The same girl, night to night, is utterly unpredictable.

Or, at least, seems so at first. But, inevitably, there's (some) method to the madness. Which is what bed-sharing - and, perhaps, relationships in general - is really all about: spending enough time with someone to figure out their idiosyncrasies, to determine how those line up with your own, then compromising, practicing. All in the name of somehow finding that comfortable, sustainable, "I could sleep like this for the long-haul" groove.

Correlation, Causation
Filed June 13, 2006 10:32 AM.

A large survey conducted by Esquire magazine, on "the state of the American male", determined that liberals have 60% more sex than conservatives (3.9 hours a week versus 2.4), and that atheists and agnostics have 20% more sex partners than those who believe in God (10.7 versus 8.8).

Most people would likely assume that's because agnostic liberals like myself have lower moral standards, and therefore more sex.

I, however, contend that causation runs the opposite direction: there's nothing like dating / sleeping with a lot of women to shake your belief in God, or to cause you to support your right to marry men.

The Looking Glass
Filed May 1, 2006 10:27 PM.

`Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'

`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.

`I don't much care where--' said Alice.

`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.

- Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

I've long been fascinated by the neurobiology of attention - the interactions of parts of our brains like the hypothalamus and the reticular activation system. Each day, all day, we're bombarded by sensations; yet, somehow, we filter out the vast majority, letting through a select few. Reading a book, we lose ourselves in the pages, blocking out completely the world around us. Or, talking at a cocktail party, we tune down others' conversations, focusing in on just the words of our conversational companions.

I'm reminded of that particularly when I buy something new. I remember, in college, purchasing a Toyota Celica, and suddenly finding myself passing hundreds of other Celicas on the highways and streets. Not because, of course, people had suddenly rushed out to lease similar cars; but, rather, because my brain decided the ones that had always been out there were, for the first time, interesting enough to pass through to my conscious mind.

All of which is to say that I believe the brain is largely cybernetic. Not in the computerized sense of the word, but closer to it's Greek root, 'kybernetes', which means something akin to 'steersman'. It begins with an end in mind, then focuses us on and readjusts us towards those things that bring us closer and closer to that goal.

Which leaves us floundering, then, when the target isn't clearly locked; without somewhere we want to end up, like Alice, it doesn't much matter which way we go.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately, mainly in the context of dating, of big city romance. With so many potential partners - an embarrassment of riches - we urban singles are weighed down by the tyranny of choice. There are so many people who might be right, and so many more who might be just a bit righter still than whomever we're currently with.

But most of us, at a very basic level, don't have any idea of what 'right' looks or feels like in the first place. We drink our way from date to date, trying to guess, hoping our hearts or guts or friends or mothers, or even the Cheshire Cat, will somehow jump in to tell us when we've found it.

So, for weeks, I've been brainstorming my way through my own sense of 'right', my own list of qualities I think I'm looking for. I've been quietly analyzing the long happily married couples I know, squaring that with my own experience, adding ideas, crossing off items, and boiling things down to the bare essentials: things I can look for that, alongside the requisite lightning bolt, would leave me happily ever after. In short, a target, an end in mind that my subconscious might, day by day, guide me towards.

And while my list is still brewing, certainly not yet ready for public consumption, I did, earlier this week, find at least one item that seems sure to make the final cut. Dr. Dan Gottlieb, a quadriplegic psychologist and guest on NPR's Fresh Air, related the story of a young woman who he'd seen in his practice. "I feel like my soul is a prism," she told him. "But everybody sees just one color. Nobody sees the prism."

As someone too long practiced at playing social chameleon, I find her concern hits particularly close to home. Which is why, among anything else, I can see the appeal, or perhaps the necessity, of ending up with someone with whom I could always be my full, garishly multi-colored self.

Old School
Filed April 9, 2006 8:45 PM.

Over the past few months, I've increasingly discovered that, in flirting with women, everything funny back in second grade is now funny again.

Thumb wrestling, rock-paper-scissors, faux magic tricks; phrases like 'dillhole' and 'dickweed'; offering your hand to a girl apologetically after you make fun of her, then, when she takes it, slapping her on the wrist and laughing hysterically at her having fallen for it.

I was taught this last one by the chatty, articulate eight-year old girl who lives down the hall from me, a girl who, since my discovery of the power of second-grade-inspired pickups, has essentially become my personal Hitch.

Just last weekend, for example, she passed along a gem I successfully field-tested at bars throughout the week: mouse races.

Imagine three mice, she explained to me: a deaf mouse, a dumb mouse, and a blind mouse. A mouse race, then, involved me putting out my upturned palm, then letting her draw lines representing each mouse up along my arm, as far as I thought each mouse would go before it stopped.

She did the blind mouse first, and I let her draw about half-way across my hand before I stopped her. Then the dumb mouse, which I let get just past my palm and onto my wrist.

Finally, the deaf mouse. Stop, I said, when she was again just passing my wrist. But, of course, she kept plowing ahead, it taking me two more ignored 'stops' before I got the joke.

After which, my little neighbor dissolved into paroxysms of gasping laughter; as, in fact, have I, the two times I've since pulled this off on others.

But, the odd thing is, rather than being appalled at the stupidity of it all, women apparently find this fun and charming, even want you to write your phone number on their arms alongside the three lines.

Which, previously, I totally would have done. But, now, having increasingly reverted to my second grade self, seems like a rather dangerous idea; after all, those girls are probably covered with cooties.

Dirty Booty Tricks: The High Bridge
Filed January 3, 2006 5:14 PM.

[As I tend to write more regularly if I have a theme to blog around, I'm today setting out to help those looking to get an early jump on spring romance, with a series applying cheap psychological tricks to the world of sex and dating. Tactless, perhaps. But, as they say, all's fair in love and war.]

I've been nervous all afternoon. And, after several hours of trying to figure out why, I finally pinpointed the cause: after several weeks off of morning coffee, today I downed two double espressos before noon.

Which makes sense in the context of work by 19th-century researchers William James and Carl Lange. The pair turned emotion theory on its head by suggesting that feelings are largely determined by attribution. Common sense dictates the opposite: feel nervous, and your heart pounds, your mouth goes dry. But James and Lange insisted things work the other way around: we get the palpitations and dry mouth first, then sub-consciously determine nervousness is the emotion that fits.

Over the years, a slew of psychologists have elegantly proved the theory, but my personal favorite - and the one most applicable to our lecherous cause - is Aron & Dutton's classic High Bridge Study.

In it, an attractive female researcher asked male passersby to fill out a brief research survey about a nearby long, narrow footbridge spanning a deep ravine.

The survey, in fact, was meaningless. But the researcher also gave each male subject her phone number, in case they wanted to 'follow up with any questions about the survey'. Half of the men got the survey (and phone number) just before the bridge, the other half just on the far side. And the real dependent variable was how many of the men actually called the researcher to ask her out.

The conclusion: about 15% of the pre-bridge interviewees called, while about 50% of the post-bridgers did. In other words, 35% of the men confused enough of their bridge-driven adrenaline with genuine attraction to tactlessly dial the dame.

Which, in short, explains the perennial effectiveness of the ordinarily disdained 'gym pickup', where potential dates are likely to confuse post-treadmill windedness with your having taken their breath away.

Of course, even having booked the date in less heart-pounding settings, you can still sneakily help your cause. Taxi rather than subway, as the requisite reckless speeding is sure to have her adrenaline pumping. And head to the scariest movie you can find, where your date won't be sure herself if she's grabbing your arm because an axe murderer just popped out from around the corner, or because, well, you're hot enough to die for.

Up next time: for the love of a giant paper bag.

Exactly
Filed August 24, 2005 5:43 PM.

Let the Games Begin
Filed July 27, 2005 1:21 PM.

A few weeks ago, I blogged about a night on the town with Rob Barnum, who heads up Cyan + Long Tail's West Coast office, and who had ostensibly come to New York to get some film-related work done.

Instead, that week our best work took place out of the office, on Friday night, at a succession of West Village bars. There, we spun variations on a yarn about being blimp racers that was so over-the-top I couldn't believe it consistently and repeatedly worked in picking up women.

Sure, I'd long believed that the secret to the bar scene is quickly and positively differentiating yourself from the slew of generic lotharios working their best "come here often?" lines. But I had never before pushed so deep into the realm of the ridiculous in the process, and never before seen such effortless results.

So, in the middle of last week, I decided I'd take things up yet another few notches. Which led me, at a bar near Gramercy Park, to instigate and referee a rock-paper-scissors tournament between two groups of attractive women.

I tried it again in Boston this past Friday night, with girls so jadedly halter-topped as to preclude nearly any other approach, and was stunned to find the ploy again worked flawlessly.

At a subsequent bar, I inked out a tic-tac-toe game on the back of a napkin, and requested the waitress deliver it to a group of girls at the far end of the bar. I told the waitress to deliver it circuitously, though, and to bring the napkin back and forth, between moves, surreptitiously enough to keep my identity as anonymous challenger secret as long as possible.

Which worked, in short, even better than rock-paper-scissors, and culminated in numbers not only from two of my amused adversaries, but from the intervening waitress as well, who tucked hers in alongside the bill.

Still, I'm not sure if I'll have the chance to give any of them a call; I'll be too busy working up my Yahtzee game and Rubik's Cube skills. If tic-tac-toe works well, then either of those should absolutely kill.

Blimp Pilots
Filed June 27, 2005 12:49 PM.

I spent most of last week with Rob Barnum, a new hire who'll be managing the West Coast office of Cyan Pictures + Long Tail Releasing, who was in town to get up to speed on both companies. While still in college, Rob served as an exec at EscapeHomes, helping to take the company through several large venture capital rounds and a recent merger. He then started a production company to escape from the world of tech and into the world of film. Plus, he screenwrites, and blogs, and drinks heavily.

So, in short, I hired him because, in true narcissistic style, I like people like myself.

It wasn't until Friday night, however, that I realized how dangerous having both of us in the same room would be. Because Friday night, we headed down to the West Village, hit the first crowded bar off the subway steps, and decided it was imperative that we spend the evening picking up random women.

Now, picking up women in bars is a chump's game. It puts you into competition with every single other guy in the bar. Worse, it puts you on par with every single other guy in the bar, makes you the sketchy sort of guy who spends Friday night hitting on random women.

Sure, the girls are ostensibly there because they want the attention, having layered on makeup and cocktail dresses. But, deep down, every girl would much rather date a guy she'd met at the park or through a friend or in the yogurt aisle of the supermarket. The Fat Black Pussycat just lacks tell-your-grandkids-about-how-you-met charm.

So, if you're looking to meet women at a bar, the main thing is to not be like all of the other sketchy guys surrounding you. You've got to be different, in a good way. You've got to think outside the booty box.

Rum and Coke's in hand, Rob and I sat down at the first bar to discuss that conundrum, and to scope out the options. To our immediate right was a group of three girls, sitting together, dutifully brushing off a chain of successive hopefuls coming over with their smoothest entrances. They seemed as good a choice as anyone else.

Before I had the chance to reason my way out of it, I excused myself from Rob and headed over. "I'm sorry to interrupt," I said, receiving icy stares. "But I was wondering which you think are cooler: blimps or hot-air balloons."

"What?", one of them asked.

"Blimps or hot air balloons - which is cooler. You." I pointed to the one in the middle.

"Blimps, I guess," she said, slightly confused. I got another blimp vote, then one for hot-air balloons.

"Thanks," I said. "That's all I needed." I walked back to Rob, sat down, and checked my watch.

Thirty-four seconds later, the most intrepid of the three walked over.

"Now we're curious," she said. "Why did you want to know that?"

"It's not that important," I replied, and went back to talking with Rob.

"You can't just ask us that," she continued. "You have to tell me why you wanted to know."

"Well," I started, then looked to Rob, who nodded approval. "We're going to be racing from New York to Chicago. Either in blimps or hot air balloons, and we wanted to see if one was cooler than the other."

"Racing to Chicago?" the girl asked, dubious.

"Well," Rob jumped in. "My grandfather passed away recently, and gave me an old hot-air balloon in his will. I was thinking about repairing it, and then I thought, if Josh buys one too, we could race."

"Right," I continued. "But I figured Rob could probably get some trade-in value on the balloon if we wanted to switch to blimps and race those instead."

Rob and I nodded nonchalantly, like that pretty much summed it all up.

"You have to come with me to tell that to my friends," the girl said. We were in.

Over the course of the evening, at several bars and with several groups of women, we worked our way through variations on the theme. Perhaps Rob was going to be in a hot-air balloon and I'd be in a blimp, and did they think that would put one of us at a disadvantage? Or, we had already bought the blimps, but we were in town to see if Blimpie would be a corporate sponsor of our race.

While we'd come in totally deadpan, we tried to slowly edge the story over the top, to let the girls in on it. The good ones got it, and played along, happy to be inside a shared joke. The slower ones never seemed to catch on, but remained credulous and interested.

Either way, after a while, we'd excuse ourselves, bow off invitations to join them at subsequent bars, decline phone numbers. We weren't really there to pick up women. We just wanted the thrill of the chase.

Which, I would guess, is almost as exciting as racing hot-air balloons.

Lindsey Tucker: Incompatibility
Filed March 29, 2005 9:38 AM.

Continuing the new 'guest blogging' trend, a quick story courtesy of my wonderful Boston-based friend Lindsey, about the speed dating event she was dragged to last night:

background: 18 guys, 18 girls, 4 minute match-ups, a whistle blows and the guys rotate to their right. no last names, no numbers, just circle Match, N/F (networking/friend) or NO on your score card.

very cute boy, david. very exciting, since very cute boys were not so
plentiful among the 18. he sits down, all business, none of this 'so, what are your hobbies' bullshit.

his question: what's the worst case scenario boy for you?

my answer: um, a right-wing, bush-loving, evangelical christian republican.

him: i'm pro-life.

me: you like my CHOICE bracelet?

him: if i got a girl pregnant, i don't think i could let her have an abortion.

me: and, we're done here.

(3 minutes, 30 seconds of staring at each other)

Matchmaking
Filed March 22, 2005 11:28 PM.

Tallying in a recent revelation, I'm now up to six.

Six girls I've dated, that is, who, in the last twelve months, have gotten married or engaged.

Apparently, a few months with me, and you can't possibly wait to get out of the singles scene for good.

But, on the plus side, as my mother points out, I could likely leverage that into a solid side-business: dating unhappily single New York women, who could then move on and rather instantly get hitched.

hooked
Filed February 14, 2005 8:41 PM.

More ammunition for my family and friends' ongoing ribbing:

As she's been spending more evenings at my apartment in the last couple of weeks than there's even vague precedent for in my dating past, for Valentine's Day, I gave The Girl a toothbrush.

Now, seeing it sitting next to mine in the sink-side cup, I alternate between smiling like an idiot and thinking that if I turn into the kind of guy sappy enough to not just grin at a toothbrush but actually blog about it that I'll basically have to kick my own ass.

life imitates "art"
Filed February 6, 2005 4:51 PM.

As the last few posts have led friends and readers to question whether I'm losing my sanity, or at least my asshole edge, I should add briefly that, despite any of many upsides to this girl and her friends, last night also did leave me feeling even deeper entrenched in a ten-years-younger reenactment of a Sex and the City episode.

Which is, perhaps, unavoidable if the girl you're dating is paid by an online magazine to write (in great detail) about her dating life, but even moreso if, when you meet her closest friends, you discover that they consist of a confident go-getting Samantha, a shy, conservative Charlotte (who, in at least one photo snapped late in the evening, rather strikingly resembles Kristin Davis), and a cynical gay best-friend Stanford (who, fortunately for the real life version, is far better looking than the television equivalent).

I suppose that, in turn, makes me rather inevitable; every Sex-in-the-City story needs an (interested yet historically completely emotionally unavailable) Mr. Big.

first impressions
Filed February 6, 2005 4:38 PM.

My long-standing friend Josh Lilienstein is in town for the weekend, leading up to a med school interview this Monday. And, bucking the common wisdom of a quiet weekend of preparation, he instead spent yesterday rocking New York, beginning shortly after his arrival by Jet Blue red-eye from San Francisco when we headed into Central Park at 9:00am with a bottle of Hennesey and some Starbucks paper cups.

The day went happily downhill from there, with the two of us slurring through a slew of topics; one of the brightest people I know, Josh also has an exceedingly broad range of interests and knowledge, allowing us to - in the course of fifteen minutes - somehow skip from women to adipose biochemistry to Italian liquors to political theory. And while, at varying points of the day, we were more sober than at others, I don't suspect we ever crossed below the legal blood-alcohol limit for safe driving. Thank god for New York's subway-centric life.

So it was still not entirely sober that we headed uptown to Morningside Heights at 10:00pm, to meet the girl I've been blogging about, along with one of her college best friends and her literature PhD cohorts. Needless to say, I was a bit freaked out, as meeting friends is a crucial moment in any nascent relationship. Inevitably, at some point down the road, you'll do something to make a girl really, justifiably pissed off with you, and having her friends either rooting for or against you almost always decides your fate.

While I normally wouldn't much worry, as more than a few of my friends have pointed out, this was essentially our fourth date in just over a week - about the same tally that I usually hit in the first month of dating. So, basically, I really didn't want to screw it up.

The grad student party we first collectively hit was, admittedly, a bit short of the Platonic college party form (which ideally includes such elements as 'chug! chug! chug!'-shouting keg-stands and someone dancing on a table with a lampshade on their head), though I spent most of the first hour or two less concerned about the surroundings, and more concerned about just-starting-to-date etiquette. Within the larger party, she and I were privately carrying out the ritual of a middle school dance: slow progress from furtive across-the-room smiles and eye contact, to adjacent leg-brushing sitting to, finally, eventually, standing naturally next to each other, slightly intertwined, hand on back, arm around waist, or (most adventurous of all party stances!) hand in back pocket.

Through it all, it was actually her friends that saved me, as, fortunately, really liking people is far easier than simply pretending to. With each conversation, I eased back towards my natural self, as I discovered that literature PhD students are pretty much exactly my favorite sort of people: intelligent, neurotically over-analytic ones passionately pursuing some relatively obscure topic of interest. As the girl's closest friends turn out also to be attractive, articulate alcoholics, by the time we left the grad party to head to a nearby bar, I was happily convinced that I'd actually look forward to spending more time with them all.

And, mainly, I realized that I'm looking forward to spending more time with her. So when, a little after 3:00 in the morning, Josh and I finally bid the group adieu, as I kissed the girl goodbye on the stoop of the bar and she asked what I was doing Monday night, although I said I'd have to check my calendar to see, I was pretty sure, whatever it might be, I could probably rearrange my schedule.

getting it out of the way
Filed February 1, 2005 11:17 AM.

Since, if I don't write something about it, I'm going to get about fifty emails asking:

The second date was even better than the first.

[Further details once I figure out what to say that won't come across like a thirteen-year old girl's gushing IM's to her friends.]

back to basics
Filed January 30, 2005 6:53 PM.

Came up to Boston for the weekend, to see one of my closest friends and his wife and to squeeze in a quick investor meeting. And, on the train up Friday afternoon, I started to write a post about the trip that also obliquely referenced my date the night before. What I started writing was short on detail because, I told myself, I didn't want to kiss and tell. But, in fact, it was short on detail because I was worried what my date would think if I wrote what I was really thinking, and worried what other people would think if I wrote what I was really thinking.

Realizing that's a long, long way from the sort of damn-the-torpedoes full-speed-ahead radical honesty I've been trying to stumble my way through for the last year, I instead - wisely or not - scrapped that post and decided to just lay it on the line. So:

I went on a drinks date Thursday evening that was good enough to become a breakfast date Friday morning and good enough to justify me totally violating my usual rule for minimum time between first and second dates by asking to see her again this Monday night. I've spent the weekend sort of secretly terrified that she's going to cancel the second date, which, on the one hand, I'm pretty sure she isn't, but, on the other, probably means I'm far more interested than my commitment-phobic conscious brain would otherwise acknowledge. And while, obviously, after just one date it's impossible to say where this might go, it's the first date I've been on for a while where I'm at least exceedingly excited to find out.

thinking of you
Filed January 23, 2005 4:12 PM.

Read Strunk & White, Poynter or Zinsser, and you'll emerge with at least one common tip for improving your writing: know your audience.

Which, for most documents, is undoubtedly good advice. Penning a Sunday Style article (seriously, Barbara, it's almost finished), a business proposal or a birthday card, it helps immeasurably to keep the eventual reader firmly in mind.

With this blog, however, audience-focused writing is a much harder trick to pull off. Not solely because I have absolutely no idea who most of the thousand or two people who float through this site daily are, but also because the groups of people who I do know about are all looking for such divergent things.

Based on the posts that get linked on other blogs, or del.iciou.us bookmarked, it's pretty clear s-a's readership is composed of several, fairly distinct groups. There are the 43Folders-ites, thrilled by any mention of productivity hacks and Getting Things Done; there are the startup wonks, looking for entrepreneurial insights and tech business ruminations; there are the film folks, hoping to pitch Cyan (and now Long Tail) and looking first to unlock the secret that will get them cast or hired, or launch their screenplay into production; and then there are the large number of generalist voyeurs, the people hoping to live a bit of the disastrous New York dating life through my vicarious misadventures.

Since I know no single thing I write could make them all happy, I essentially don't even try. I don't balance out the flow of postings to make sure I cater regularly to each group, or even neatly section off one kind of writing from another. Instead, as they do in my brain, the thoughts all simply jumble up on the front page, intermixed, sometimes even within a single post.

But while I'm able to block from my mind (wisely or not) the varying groups of readers, I occasionally find myself writing to one single reader. I write, in short, knowing that I'm being blog-stalked by a potential date.

In my prior post, I said that I don't seem to have a type, a regular pattern that emerges from my dating past. Which, in fact, is only partially true. When I last tallied my kissing count, I re-discovered something that I've long, at least subconsciously, known: I tend to like writers, especially those that self-reflect mercilessly, that pour their inner life onto paper (or screen). Which makes me, in short, remarkably good at developing crushes on fellow bloggers.

I say this all to preface admission of my own potential-date blog-stalking. In the world of business, I tend to obsessively research investors, clients and hires. Which has carried over to my personal life, where, especially in the case of other bloggers, I tend to follow along with new postings, to pore over bits of the archive, looking less for the what and more for the underlying why.

And, projecting perhaps, I tend to imagine that potential dates are doing the same thing. The contents of my archives are fairly immutable. But new postings - over that I have some control. So I tend to second guess my own ideas, question topics on which I might typically hold forth. I look at potential posts and wonder how they make me sound. Too dorky? Too neurotic? Too excited about the companies I'm trying to build?

Fortunately, I rarely pause long, as, in fact, I'm at least as dorky and neurotic and excited as my writing might imply. That's just who I am. And while trying to hide that, even in the off chance that I could pull it off, might help me score a first, or even third, date, it certainly wouldn't bring me to the the thiry-first or seventy-third.

Frankly, that's a whole lot of work for a rather brief-lived payoff. So much of New York dating - the posing, the game-playing - it only works for that brief stretch when you have the interest and energy to put in the effort. Which is why, even during those stretches that I'm sure (rightly or wrongly) someone I'd really love to impress is reading along, I fall back on the same strategy for writing as I've gradually come to for real-world dates: stop trying so damn hard, stick to the truth, and hope for the best.

While, short-term, it's probably not the most effective strategy (either for keeping readers or for getting laid), in the long run, it's the only hope I've got.

typifying
Filed January 21, 2005 2:16 AM.

Though I may, through this site (or, plausibly, in real life) come off as an insensitive prick, in fact, one of the few things I do well is empathize.

I don't mean empathize as a synonym for sympathize, as in sharing someone else's pain, but rather empathize in its purest sense, as in divining what other people are thinking, seeing things from other's perspectives.

Tailoring a sales pitch on the fly to an audience, or searching out the perfect birthday gift, I'm grateful for this knack of putting myself in other people's heads. But, like most things in life, it cuts both ways. Given the weight I put on what other people are thinking, I inevitably end up worrying about what other people are thinking of me.

This manifests itself in small, bizarre ways. Hearing female friends mock the wall-eyed guy at the end of the bar, for example, I'll start to convince myself that perhaps I, too, have some horrible lazy eye and yet have never been told as much, even though it's been secretly discussed for decades by friends and family behind my back.

I can usually cast aside such fears with a moment of reflection. I've seen countless pictures and videos of myself, and I'm sure that in at least the majority of them both of my eyes are looking more or less in the same direction.

Which leaves me to fixate instead on the things I hear and deduce on a regular basis. Some of them ("has anyone ever told you that you look like Matthew Broderick?") don't imply much beyond their surface content (I apparently look kind of like Matthew Broderick). But others I can't keep from analyzing, from tearing apart for their loaded meaning.

One I've heard a lot recently is, "I'd be really, really curious to see who you end up marrying." I've gotten this one, even in just the last month, more times than I can count. I think what this actually means is, "you seem like a judgmental asshole with bizarre and inscrutable dating criteria that make it nearly impossible for me to figure out your 'type'".

I must give off this impression in spades, because if I comment on liking a girl I've just met, friends usually react with, "really? I thought you didn't go for [taller / shorter / thinner / curvier / blonde / brunette / smart / dumb / etc.] girls." As I don't think I say such things directly, I'm curious as to which obliquely snide comments or quirky reactions lead people to those strong impressions. Whatever it is, it's powerful stuff. When people make such comments, there's almost an air of helpful reminding. "Actually," they seem to say, "despite the comment you just made to the contrary, I'm pretty sure you don't like her after all."

Hearing this from enough people, I start to suspect they're right. Maybe I don't like smart girls. Or stupid girls. Or tall blondes or short brunettes. I have absolutely no idea. Looking back through the wreckage of relationships past, I can't quite make sensible patterns emerge.

Which is exactly the point. Perhaps the reason people so quickly rule out possibilities for me is that I'm so slow to categorically rule them out myself. My dating life, taken together, is an enigmatic, jumbled mess. Not a clear shape, but a muddy splatter.

Which makes what people tell me I am (or, more frequently, am not) looking for far more interesting, gives me license to listen carefully to friends' constructive critiques of my crushes. Not because it's likely to yield clues in my own search, but rather because it might give me a glimpse into theirs. Given the spattered mess of my own love life past, I seem to have inadvertently become a walking relationship Rorschach blotch.

pick me up
Filed January 3, 2005 1:31 AM.

My friend Yoav is moving back to San Francisco tomorrow, so he and our mutual friend Colin met up for a last drink. As I stood outside the bar, waiting for them to arrive, an attractive young woman came over and started up a conversation.

A few minutes later, when Colin and Yoav arrived, Lina somehow invited herself to join us. And, when I left the bar, two or three pitchers shared between us all, I had lipstick on my collar and a phone number scrawled on my hand.

Which, frankly, struck me as more than a bit worrisome. Perhaps it's a sign of living too long in New York, where distrust of strangers runs a close second to public urination as a grand tradition. Or perhaps it's the the general effect of living in a society where guys are normally required to be the pursuers rather than the pursuees. Either way, as Colin's girlfriend Carrie later pointed out, if someone came up to me on the street to offer a free pizza, I'd similarly be a bit hesitant about taking a first bite.

an admission
Filed October 24, 2004 12:42 PM.

Due to a recent conversation with visiting out-of-town friends, I sat down to make a list of all the girls I'd kissed in my life. And, while I was moderately disturbed by the vagueness of a fair number of listings ('UCLA volleyball player at Devin's beach barbecue - possibly named Sarah'), I was even more disturbed to discover the high percentage of bloggers on the list. With a bit of reflection, however, that made good sense - as long as I can recall, I've always instantly developed a crush on any girl who writes unusually well.

time capsule
Filed September 4, 2004 6:02 PM.

In the messenger bag I lost earlier this week, along with my phone and iPod, was a little leather Filofax book I use to jot down notes. Yesterday, looking for a temporary replacement, I pulled out an old bound journal from a year back that still had some blank pages left, and tossed it in another bag that was in my closet.

I headed out with the journal in tow last night, when I met up with Sarah Brown for drinks in Brooklyn. And, on the subway back, I started thumbing my way through, reading over the array of entries made by an earlier me.

One of the pages, about halfway through, was a list of quirks of the girl I was dating at the time - how she scrunched her nose when embarrassed, over-pronounced the word 'literally', placed a piece of ginger atop each piece of sushi, or shook her head slightly to free her ponytail each time it got caught up in the collar of her jacket.

Just a few days before, I had been thinking about that very girl, trying to remember why I was so desperately in love with her, why I had set out on a relationship that anybody could have said (and often did) was doomed from the start. And, as I made my way through the list of idiosyncrasies, thought back on how she looked down, embarrassed, when laughing too hard, how she closed just one eye when she needed to concentrate, it all made perfect sense.

meeting up
Filed July 26, 2004 1:11 PM.

As post-graduation celebration, my parents are now en route to Ischia, Italy, the site of their engagement some thirty-three years back.

And, certainly, engagements are important - particularly now, when "how did he do it?" supercedes even "can I see the ring?" But meeting stories, I've always felt, are what really count.

My grandparents, for example, met at a baseball game - my grandfather, who played catcher, had forgotten his lunch. My grandmother, a cheerleader for the other team, offered to share hers. With that beginning, how could they have weathered less than their seventy years of happy marriage?

My parents, on the other hand, ended up in Ischia in a more round-about way. Both were students at New York City's Queens College. My mother ran the college newspaper, my father the radio station. He appeared on my mother's doorstep two hours early for a joint media meeting being held at her house. He was on his way back from Jones Beach, wearing a tank top and short cutoffs. Depending on whose version you rely upon, he may also have had some nameless girl in tow.

My father, apparently, was instantly smitten. My mother, on the other hand, was instantly convinced my father was a jackass. Still, with a bit of persistence, he managed to drag her out on a date, and then another. He was serious. She continued to see other guys. But they dated, on-again, off-again, from that point.

Towards the end of their senior year (during, I believe, an 'off' rather than an 'on'), my father asked my mother if she had any post-graduation plans. Actually, she did: having never traveled abroad, she was setting off for the summer to tour Europe and Israel. My father, with absolutely no summer plans, jumped on the chance: he was intending to do exactly the same thing - perhaps they could go together?

Somewhere in the extensive pre-trip planning, off became on, and when their flight left JFK, my father's mother famously turned to my mother's mother to ask if she had renewed her passport. Renewed her passport? Yes, just in case their children decided to hold the marriage abroad. After all, my father had decided that they were getting engaged, and he was particularly good at getting what he wanted.

And, in fact, he did get what he wanted - though the wedding wasn't until the following fall, they sent back news of the engagement via telegram.

My brother and I, to this day, give my mother a hard time about their story. Growing up, nearly every pet we ever owned, we bought on the trip back from ski weekends up in Bear Valley. Take her out of her environment, we knew, and she'd come back with all kinds of housemates she'd never have agreed to back at home. My father, it seems, new exactly the same trick.

signs of aging
Filed July 18, 2004 2:40 AM.

Re: really hot girls with brains of toothpaste:

Now, once I know I could, I no longer have to.

periodicity
Filed May 4, 2004 10:16 AM.

A girl I recently started seeing (inevitably) discovered this site, and spent some time skimming through the archives. She emailed to say, "you appear to have various recurring patterns in your life in this order: sleeplessness, illness and the avid (drunken) pursuit of women."

To which I can only respond: it is, indeed, a vicious cycle.

helpful note
Filed April 26, 2004 8:31 AM.

If you have a female caller on a weekend evening, and she finds a business card on your desk with a different female's name and phone number scrawled on the back, she likely will not be terribly amused.

glass slipper
Filed April 1, 2004 12:52 PM.

Sunday evening, direct off the plane back from Denver, I headed to the Tribeca Grand, to screen I Love Your Work for Stellar Network, a young New York filmmakers networking group. After the screening (and a brief Q&A session), I headed up to the bar where a small group of attendees had congregated. Among them was a very attractive redhead, and I smoothly sidled over to strike up a conversation. Not just attractive, it turned out, but smart as well - a screenwriter who spent her days working at the Legal Aid Society. Before I had the chance to ask for her phone number, however, I was pulled away briefly by the event's organizer, who wanted to thank me for screening the film. A few minutes later, when I turned back around, the redhead was gone.

Despite the Cinderella act, I realized there was at least some chance she'd be materializing again for Stellar's monthly bar party, which happened to fall yesterday evening. I had a dinner meeting (with an OSU undergrad who also serves as publisher and CEO of the highly successful brass|MEDIA finance magazine - we wunderkinds try to stick together), and hoped to head down directly. Post-dinner, however, I realized I didn't have the address on me, and so called a friend from Kentucky who works at Miramax and belongs to Stellar. Did she know where the party was? Absolutely, she drawled back; she was headed there herself, and she was fairly sure it was at some bar on 9th between Avenue A and Avenue B.

As my cab turned onto 9th, however, it hit me that, unless the party was a barbecue, the address she had given couldn't possibly be correct; between A and B, 9th St becomes Tompkins Square Park. By that point, however my Miramax friend had apparently already ducked into the bar, as she was no longer picking up her phone. After dialing through the list of all the people I knew who might be at the event as well and wandering a bit through the surrounding blocks hoping I'd see someone I knew outside the correct bar, I finally gave up and stopped in at Doc Holliday's for a drink.

As I was walking back to the subway to head home, I got a call from one of the other attendees I had tried to track down. On 9th between A and B? No, the bar was on 9th between 3rd and 4th. I hoofed it over a few blocks and headed in. By that point, however, the party was on its last legs, with everyone jacketing up to head home.

Still, a bit of detective work yielded that the girl had, in fact, shown up briefly earlier in the evening. Further asking around even turned up her name. So, armed with that, and the bits of biography recalled from our initial conversation, the Google search is on. Once again, blurring the fine line between charmingly determined suitor and crazy internet stalker guy.

triple fail-safe
Filed February 27, 2004 12:30 PM.

Apparently in high demand for the purpose, I've not only pinky-sworn into a backup marriage at 35, but also another with a different girl (assuming the first backup falls through) at 40.

Yesterday evening, asked to serve as a backup for yet another female friend, I informed her that, sadly, I was already twice taken. So, in response, she proposed we agree to wed should we both marry other people, yet have our respective future spouses both kick the proverbial bucket.

As I always say, It never hurts to have a backup. Or three. Just in case.

archetyping
Filed February 26, 2004 1:20 AM.

This past weekend, watching the last Sex & the City, part of me was thinking: "Thank god this thing is ending; the show's gone so far downhill this is basically a mercy killing. And clearly Carrie's ending up with Big. I could have called that from the first episode." Yet, another part of me was thinking: "Thank god Carrie's ending up with Big, because if she doesn't, I'm utterly fucked."

Truth be told, from that first episode, I identified with Mr. Big. Or, rather, I identified with his archetype, the broader class of Bigs who show up in film after film: Jack Nicholson's Harry Sanborn in Something's Gotta Give; Pierce Brosnan's Thomas Crown in the remade Thomas Crown Affair; any of cinematic history's laundry list of men who too late discover the same traits that made them moguls led them, in their personal life, to push people away, to end promising relationships abruptly, to bounce from fling to fling with no apparent end destination in mind, finding increasingly little joy in each.

While I may only be starting out on the route to mogul, I'm already well seasoned in ending good relationships for bad reasons. Which is why I'm always secretly thrilled by the redemptive endings Hollywood inevitably lays out for these characters. It's an odd relief to find one somehow changing his spots, reconciling his romantic streak with his inability to actually sustain that romance. The happily ever afters let me tell myself: if that's the path I'm heading down, at least it ends up somewhere good.

long-term potential
Filed February 11, 2004 5:51 PM.

Fortunately, an evening spent holding a bag of frozen broccoli to my forehead countered Monday's headbutt melodrama, and I headed into my date last night relatively unbruised and certainly in prime form. I must admit to having been more than a bit drunk when I first met the girl, however, and so braced myself for the potential aftermath of a serious case of beer goggles.

In fact, there was no need for bracing, as my date was even more beautiful than I had remembered. In fact, she was great on all counts - smart, funny and articulate, as well as attractive. But throughout the date, a small voice in the back of my head continually objected. Some part of me, for whatever reason, knew that the relationship wouldn't work, long term. Which, frankly, is true about the vast majority of relationships I've embarked upon; were I to have sat down and thought carefully about them at the get-go, I'd have known they had no possibility of going the distance.

Still, in years (or weeks) past, I'd never paid any heed to that small warning voice. Hearing it insistently last night was, frankly, a new and rather disquieting experience. Was this the first sign of impending emotional maturity? Would suddenly having a conscience weighing in keep me from wreaking my standard horribly messy trail of love life havoc?

In short, I'm not certain. So in this specific case, if she's willing, I'd love to at least go on a second date; until I get used to listening to that little voice, I'd hate to think I killed off something potentially promising due to poor communication within my own head.

murphy's law
Filed February 9, 2004 10:16 PM.

It is, of course, the evening before a rather promising first date that I manage to take a headbutt to the forehead, raising a lovely welt above my left eyebrow.

I'm both thinking I need to find a new sport, and hoping she's into beat-up looking guys.

betwixt and bewildered
Filed February 8, 2004 11:35 PM.

Several months back, I spent a fair amount of time (arguably too much) thinking about the right sort of dog to get, should I decide to get a dog. As I don't suspect I'll be so doing at any point in the near future, that may seem an odd line of pursuit. But, to be honest, it was a question that had plagued me since moving to New York; if nearly all dog-owning New Yorkers look eerily like their dogs, was there a sort of dog that looked like me? More importantly, was I supposed to find a dog I looked like to begin with, or to find one somewhat similar and then hope it or I would evolve towards the other over time, until, perhaps, our relative appearances met in the middle, somewhere between where we both began.

Recently, however, I've begun to think the same rule also applies to people in relationships. Not necessarily that couples begin to look like each other (though, certainly, they sometimes do, especially if stooping to the faux pas of all faux pas: matching outfits), but that, over time, people become increasingly similar, in terms of interests, opinions and activities, to their significant others. A quick review of relationships past certainly bears the theory out at least in my own life. From swing dance to indie rock, socialist political views to dubious mental health, I've been swayed in all sorts of directions by girlfriends. And while some of the changes were rather temporary (leaving me, post-breakup, thinking things like: "you know, I'm much more of an indoor person than the last six months of hiking might have led me to believe."), others have stuck with me permanently.

Which, with a handful of dates on the immediate horizon, is sort of a scary thought. Not only am I now looking for a girl I like, a girl who likes me, a girl with whom I can imagine a shared future, but also a girl who evolving towards over the course of a relationship won't leave me scarred for life.

buy a teddy bear
Filed February 2, 2004 2:42 PM.

I woke up this morning thinking that, despite my complete and total lack of free time, perhaps it was time to start seriously dating again, because I'd really like someone to hold onto while I sleep. This, of course, just highlights the gap between action and intent, because in reality I'm a horrible bed sharer; I sleep wildly, tossing and turning, with a tendency to hog the blankets.

policy change
Filed January 28, 2004 8:04 PM.

Based on conversations with several friends, I've decided to start requiring letters of recommendation from potential girlfriends.

a very bad date
Filed January 27, 2004 2:13 PM.

Shortly after moving to the City, I went on a date with a girl I had picked up at a gallery in SoHo. Naively, I had reasonably high hopes, as it was a second date, and the first (a safe early evening drinks date) had gone remarkably well.

We went to Zocalo, a trendy Upper East Side Mexican joint, and the evening actually started off fairly smoothly. Until, that is, the waiter didn't bring chips quickly enough. (Shock! Horror!) The girl proceeded to not only bitch out the waiter, but actually yelled at the manager as well. The manager. Over chips.

Clearly, there was no relationship potential with a girl this incredibly high maintenance. But I figured I could be mature and polite and make it through an otherwise relatively pleasant dinner. Wrong. Things went from bad to worse, as apparently a few margaritas were not a good way to calm the girl down. By the end of the evening, we were actually asked to leave the restaurant. That would be a first - I had never been thrown out of a restaurant before.

Of course, I had also never been at a restaurant with a girl who threw a plate of beans at the waiter's face. Dating in New York is never dull.

in praise of smart women
Filed January 13, 2004 3:06 PM.

Last night, still in Palo Alto, I headed out with a friend to grab coffee at University Café. After, walking back to my car, I ran into a high school girlfriend heading down the street to a local bar. We chatted briefly on the street, and, seeing I was headed home, she invited me to come along with her friends to grab a drink. The ensuing hour or two was rather surreal - we hadn't really spoken since graduating high school, and spending time with her here in Palo Alto left me feeling I'd somehow time-warped back into the 16 year old version of myself.

While I had fun, by the end of the evening, I'd concluded two main things: One, she still looks really, amazingly good - better even than when we had dated. Two, she apparently has the brains of toothpaste. Perhaps that's a bit hyperbolic, but I certainly left the bar thinking, "wow, this girl just isn't that interesting of a person." Was she that dull in high school? Did I not notice? Did I somehow will myself to ignore it? Or had my taste in women simply changed significantly over the intervening years?

Quickly running through the mental list of past exploits, I realized it was indubitably the latter. Over time, I've increasingly become interested in smart, complicated women, slowly losing my ability to appreciate beauty without the brains to back it up. What tragedy! Working in film, I finally fulfill my adolescent fantasy of being constantly surrounded by actresses, models, and other vacuous hot women, and by now I simply can't will myself into pursuing them.

Ah, the ironies of life.

umm... ahh... umm....
Filed October 2, 2003 1:10 PM.

Normally, I'm a reasonably articulate guy. Even in the presence of an exceedingly attractive girl - kryptonite for many men - I can be (at least moderately) charming, smart and funny. Yet, every so often, I meet a girl who, for whatever reason, completely confounds me. In her presence, I'm absolutely unable to complete grammatical sentences, much less to convey anything endearing through them.

When I was in ninth grade, I had a huge crush on such a girl: Steph, a tenth grader directing a play in which I was acting. And though I was (inarticulately) smitten through much of high school, I hadn't seen her since she had graduated, some eight years back. So I was particularly surprised when, one evening just a few months ago, she materialized at the New York City house party of an (apparently mutual) friend.

Sure, previously her mere presence had turned me completely imbecilic. But I had changed and matured immensely over the intervening near-decade. Frankly, I wasn't even sure if I was still attracted to her.

Or, at least that's what I was saying to a group of friends as she made her way across the room. Yet, as soon as I turned to greet her, smiling confidently, what actually came out of my mouth was something along the lines of: "Are how you going?"

I write this mainly because, in the next week or two, I'll be heading out on two dates - one with a charmingly complex bloggeress, the other with an actual Rockette - both of which threaten to similarly send me into semi-retardation. Sure, I'll be hoping to maintain my conversational best. But this weekend, as a backup plan, I'll also be polishing my most charming silent body language. Just in case.

breaking up
Filed September 29, 2003 12:14 PM.

For years, I thought that 'love' was just the far end of the 'like' spectrum. If I was dating a girl and really enjoyed spending time with her, really liked her a lot, I would start to ask myself, "am I in love? Is this enough 'like' to push me all the way into 'love' territory?"

Then, about a year back, I fell in love. I mean, Love with a capital L. And I realized that 'like' and 'love' were two completely different things. Getting emails from this girl would knot my stomach. I'd lie awake at night thinking about her. Whole poems, whole songs worth of lyrics, suddenly seemed relevant and personal and amazingly true.

Six months later, due to age difference (she was reaching the point where we'd walk by a Baby Gap and she'd unconsciously veer towards the door) and geographic distance, we broke things off. Which, while sad, was the right thing to do.

But now, when I go out on a date, I'm looking for something completely different than I was before. Not a girl I really, really like. Not a girl I can try and convince myself could be the one if I would just stop being so selfish or commitment-phobic or whatever else. But a girl I could love. Really love.

Which, frankly, makes dating in New York rather tough. The Big Apple is a lonely city, one with an overwhelming singles scene that makes the comfort of 'really, really like' a hard thing to give up. Even if, in the search for Love with a capital L, it's the right thing to do.

proper proposition
Filed September 21, 2003 5:39 PM.

With marriage apparently now on my peer group's horizon, I'm faced with a double dilemma: first, finding the right girl; then, coming up with an exceedingly charming and original way of proposing. Increasingly, it seems, any potential fiancé's friends would no longer be impressed by merely gawking over the size of the rock; instead, they'd immediately ask how the question was popped.

Which, frankly, puts a lot of creative pressure on us young guys. Wasn't it hard enough already in the good old days, when all that was expected of men was the ritual selling of a kidney to afford the ring?

dilemma, defined
Filed September 3, 2003 12:09 AM.

Just as I'm celebrating the nearing end of the intensive ballroom dance course into which I'd rather unwittingly been dragged (a grueling three hours, twice weekly), a lithe and remarkably attractive young French woman in my class asks if I'd consider continuing on in private lessons as her partner.

one degree of separation
Filed August 3, 2003 7:44 PM.

There are few exercises in psychology so perversely fascinating as meeting your ex-girlfriends subsequent boyfriends (or, as in at least one case, subsequent girlfriends); it is, inevitably, a wonderful glimpse into the workings of both her mind and your own.

i should have rode the short bus
Filed July 22, 2003 11:14 PM.

Earlier this evening, having dinner with an about-to-be-wed friend, I repeated a scene that's become distressingly common over the last twelve months:

Her: You know, back in high school, I totally had a crush on you.
Me: Wait, really? In high school I totally had a crush on you.

I mean, what the hell, fifteen-year old me? How were you so entirely clueless? How did you possibly drop the ball on so many prime booty opportunities?

Just the Fax Filed June 8, 2010 3:05 PM.

Just My Type Filed April 20, 2009 12:39 PM.

Big News Filed November 15, 2007 7:23 PM.

With Love Filed November 11, 2007 11:39 PM.

4 C's Filed October 1, 2007 5:55 PM.

Chicken Soup Filed July 9, 2007 1:18 PM.

Ode Filed April 17, 2007 10:07 AM.

Cupid Filed February 14, 2007 5:16 PM.

Home Alone Filed December 27, 2006 10:10 PM.

Meet the Parents Filed November 21, 2006 7:15 PM.

Cohabitation Filed October 17, 2006 6:22 PM.

GF Filed October 11, 2006 11:04 PM.

Logistics Filed September 13, 2006 4:57 PM.

Taken Filed September 5, 2006 6:09 PM.

Bediquette Filed August 24, 2006 6:40 PM.

Correlation, Causation Filed June 13, 2006 10:32 AM.

The Looking Glass Filed May 1, 2006 10:27 PM.

Old School Filed April 9, 2006 8:45 PM.

Dirty Booty Tricks: The High Bridge Filed January 3, 2006 5:14 PM.

Exactly Filed August 24, 2005 5:43 PM.

Let the Games Begin Filed July 27, 2005 1:21 PM.

Blimp Pilots Filed June 27, 2005 12:49 PM.

Lindsey Tucker: Incompatibility Filed March 29, 2005 9:38 AM.

Matchmaking Filed March 22, 2005 11:28 PM.

hooked Filed February 14, 2005 8:41 PM.

life imitates "art" Filed February 6, 2005 4:51 PM.

first impressions Filed February 6, 2005 4:38 PM.

getting it out of the way Filed February 1, 2005 11:17 AM.

back to basics Filed January 30, 2005 6:53 PM.

thinking of you Filed January 23, 2005 4:12 PM.

typifying Filed January 21, 2005 2:16 AM.

pick me up Filed January 3, 2005 1:31 AM.

an admission Filed October 24, 2004 12:42 PM.

time capsule Filed September 4, 2004 6:02 PM.

meeting up Filed July 26, 2004 1:11 PM.

signs of aging Filed July 18, 2004 2:40 AM.

periodicity Filed May 4, 2004 10:16 AM.

helpful note Filed April 26, 2004 8:31 AM.

glass slipper Filed April 1, 2004 12:52 PM.

triple fail-safe Filed February 27, 2004 12:30 PM.

archetyping Filed February 26, 2004 1:20 AM.

long-term potential Filed February 11, 2004 5:51 PM.

murphy's law Filed February 9, 2004 10:16 PM.

betwixt and bewildered Filed February 8, 2004 11:35 PM.

buy a teddy bear Filed February 2, 2004 2:42 PM.

policy change Filed January 28, 2004 8:04 PM.

a very bad date Filed January 27, 2004 2:13 PM.

in praise of smart women Filed January 13, 2004 3:06 PM.

umm... ahh... umm.... Filed October 2, 2003 1:10 PM.

breaking up Filed September 29, 2003 12:14 PM.

proper proposition Filed September 21, 2003 5:39 PM.

dilemma, defined Filed September 3, 2003 12:09 AM.

one degree of separation Filed August 3, 2003 7:44 PM.

i should have rode the short bus Filed July 22, 2003 11:14 PM.