The Numbers Game

2 Orders of Garlic Fries:
$15.00

2 Beers:
$14.00

Cab Fare To and From SBC Park:
$26.00

Amount Foolishly Paid to Unscrupulous Homeless Guy for Counterfeit Tickets to Game:
$40.00


Number of Future Dates I'll Get, After Five Hours of Me Bitching About How Expensive 'This Dating Thing' Is And--to top it all off--Having Garlic Breath All Night:
None.


Dating.

Everybody's doing it.

Well, at least all those people who aren't already married; and all those people who aren't already blissfully courting their soulmate; and all those people who already found their soulmate but, in a fit of selfishness and/or myopia, let her slip away, and ultimately into the arms of some dork who sends her flowers after every date, and who doesn't curse as much as you did, and who is willing to talk 'marriage' after only three dinners with your ex-soulmate.

Like I said, everybody's doing it. Everyone except, it seems, me.

Well, it's about damn time I throw my tattered hat into the ring!

The grapevine recently informed me that one of my exes (in addition to Living In Texas) has re-entered the dating scene. This did not come as a huge shock to me, and I wish her the best of luck (not really-- I wish utter failure upon her dating endeavors, and secretly hope she someday comes crawling back to me), but hearing this news was definitely a wake-up call for me to, well, wake up and shower and apply moisturizer and go talk to the opposite sex.

But where do I begin?

Bars? Easy enough, but that means I will have to become one of the most despised and castigated forms of life on earth: That Guy. That Guy who goes to bars only to meet chicks. That Guy of whom we've always made fun... I might escort a girl to a bar, or spend the entire night at a bar to avoid spending it with Conan O'Brien (again!), but I never actually meet girls at bars. That's not my style. I cannot be That Guy!

Church? Not exactly. If you piled up all the luggage that Southwest Airlines loses at Midway Airport in one day (i.e.: tons), you would still not equal the amount of baggage that some of these "church girls" carry with them. All girls, whether affiliated with bars or churches, have the same unseemly loads of issues, the only difference being that "bar girls" don't bring Guilt and Shame along to breakfast in the morning.
Besides, I've been blackballed out of most church-dating circles anyway...

So what is left, but that new standby: online dating.

Before you say, "Paul, stop, don't do it! You'll do fine in the real-life dating world! You have a job! You're halfway cute, and (perhaps most importantly) you don't even have a computer at home!" please realize that I've already considered these possible deterrents and found them to be mere speedbumps on my (Information) Superhighway To Love.

Granted, my 680-square-foot rat hole is sorely lacking in the area of 1990s-era technological advances (no internet connection), but besides that, I think I posses all of the requisite qualities for entry into the 2005 Dallas Singles Scene:
I have a steady job (if by "steady" you mean that if I don't show up at work for a week, my co-workers begin asking about me on Thursday afternoon), and I am relatively good-looking (relative to, perhaps, the group of homeless men who congregate outside the downtown library every night, or relative to the cast of Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome), and I know a few jokes. What more could a lonely, computer-savvy woman want? Why should I not give it a try??

I have absolutely nothing left to lose (except for my dignity; maybe $80 for dinner and cocktails; and a streak of celibate nights that is now numbering in the high 3-figures).

Dating, in a big city like Dallas, is essentially a numbers game. And just look at the numbers; they don't lie: On a good night ("good" meaning "no pimples"), I could make the rounds at The Old Monk or Cuba Libre and swap small talk with seven or eight girls. By contrast, in 2004 alone, 25 million women cruised the internet looking for love, lust, or just an electronic pen pal (any of which beats Conan O'Brien any day). Of course, I fully expect that 90% of these 25 million women are logging on from China, and are chained to a sewing machine, and thus, are not very date-able. But that still leaves me with considerably more than my 7 or 8 girls from Henderson Avenue.

I'm not a betting man, but with odds that good, I had to test my luck.

First, I registered with perhaps the best-known online dating service, match.com. This company bills itself as the "proven leader" in the industry. What exactly they're claiming leadership in is not clear: are they the leader in facilitating the most pre-arranged, unattached, semi-random sexual encounters among singles ages 21-45?? If so, is that something to brag about? Are they the leader in marriages resulting from their cyber-help (with today's divorce rate holding steady at 50%, could anyone really claim to lead in that area)? Or, maybe I'm wrong, and match.com's marriages--that are founded on a completely anonymous computer survey and 15-year-old Glamourshots--are inherently more successful than those of the "general population" (Mormon sunday school-arranged marriages notwithstanding, of course).

Next, I tried eharmony.com, a service that claims to be responsible for "more marriages than any other" online hookup service. After spending 1,430 hours on their website, I found this claim unfathomable: their much-hyped "32-point Personality Profile" is supposed to find the perfect match for me, presumably by asking thousands of probing questions about everything from past relationships (go ahead, I love bringing up that subject) to "List 20 Things That Make You Happy." 20 things?!?! Should this question have depressed me?? I thought about it for an hour, and I could only come up with three (the San Antonio Spurs, the new Glade Extra Outlet scented oil, and avocados); find a match for that!

Now almost suicidal, I tried one more: Okcupid.com. These guys boast that their formula for finding you a mate was "designed by Harvard math scholars." Wow! Say no more, I'm sold! I may be new to this singles thing, but the first guy I run to when I need dating advice has not always been a math scholar.

Now that I'm registered and official, all I can do is sit back and wait for the offers to start pouring in. I'll keep you posted on my progress.

Or, perhaps we can skip all of this nonsense and head straight for the altar: If you or somebody you know is Asian, and skilled in the art of making 40 Banana Republic shirts in one hour, reply today.

Bike-riding Blues, Part II

In an environmentally and fiscally-conscious effort to conserve gasoline, I recently decided that, instead of driving my car, I will walk or bike-ride whenever possible.

I live in a centralized location, just off of (as irony would have it) Central Expressway in the center of Dallas. This great location affords me the opportunity to complete most of my errands without ever turning on my sedan. The neighborhood pub, the chain drugstore, the ice cream shoppe, the dry cleaners... everything is within walking or riding distance of my apartment!

And now that we in North Texas are in the middle of our 14 days of autumn, pedestrian travel is even more appealing to me.

On my way to work earlier this week (I must still drive to work, as my school is 12 miles across town and smack dab in the middle of an unsightly barrio), I dropped off a pile of dirty laundry at the $2.19 Dry Clean Supercenter on the corner of Fitzhugh and Travis.

Yesterday afternoon it came time to pick up my dry cleaning.

Since the Supercenter is no more than a mile from my house, I determined that I should ride my bike to retrieve my load of clean clothes. The weather was crisp, traffic was light, and I needed the exercise.... What better time to run some errands on my bicycle?! The only problem I could imagine arising was what method I was going to employ to successfully transport my bundle of freshly-pressed button-downs and flat-fronts from the Supercenter back to my apartment while simultaneously trying to navigate Knox Street on a bicycle at 5pm.

"Minor details... I'll figure it out when I get there," I thought to myself. I mounted my MeanMachine and off I went.

The ride there was uneventful. It was so mundane that I even decided to perform some light sketch comedy, by utilizing the drive-thru lane on my bike. I succeeded in making the counter women chuckle (though the other cars in line were less than amused, as evidenced by their incessant honking and the unusually high number of dirty looks shot in my direction), but that's when the comedy routine took an unfunny turn.

The moment of truth had arrived. How would I carry home my laundry?? I first tried riding with my right hand on the handlebars and my left hand carrying the clothes. This did not work, due to the strain that holding 20 pounds of lightly-starched fabric put on my arm, and the inherent danger present in trying to steer and brake with only one hand.

I tried draping the clothes over my shoulder while riding slowly and carefully. This was also unsuccessful; the bundle repeatedly slipped off and forced me to stop. I was running out of options... Just that second, I reached a moment of clarity: Years of scolding children to "use your brain!" and "solve it yourself!" had apparently paid off. Eureka, I figured it out!!

I removed my helmet and slid the 14 hanger hooks through one of the slits at the back/center of the helmet. I then put the helmet back on my head and tightly fastened the chin strap. The clothes were securely attached to the back of my helmet, and both of my hands were free to safely operate the bicycle. If you were cruising the northern edges of Uptown yesterday afternoon, you undoubtedly saw me. For those unlucky few who didn't, I'll try to describe what I must've looked like:
With the helmet re-applied on my head, the dry cleaning actually fit rather well. The hangers fit perfectly into the back-center slit (too perfectly, as it would turn out) and, with my head held high and my neck outstretched, the plastic wrapping bags rested a good two inches above the chain mechanism.

The only problem (that I could foresee) was the sheer absurdity (Ok, stupidity) of my appearance: Riding slowly, with back and neck super-erect, with the helmet's chin strap cutting into my neck, with 5 pairs of pants and 9 shirts wrapped in plastic dangling from the back of my helmet, blowing in the wind like some not-so-superhero's cape.

Why was everybody honking and pointing???

Whatever. They're just jealous...
I was nearly halfway home by now, and--truthfully--rather enjoying the attention I was getting. Everything was fine and dandy until I approached the intersection of Knox and McKinney, just past the Apple Store and before I got to Chuy's. In the middle of the intersection I felt a sharp tug on my helmet. My head instantly snapped back and my bike immediately stopped.

(i experienced that phenomenon in which you have a hundred different thoughts in a span of .03 seconds, and you don't realize all of the thoughts you had until you look back and analyze what just happened...)

As my head jerked back and I was pulled off my bicycle in the middle of the street, I remember thinking:
"Did somebody sneak up behind me and yank my dry cleaning?" then:
"That's not funny. Who would have the nerve to do such an act?" then:
"I'm about to crash, and now I surely have to fight whoever it is that pulled me down." then:
"Damn, do I fight in the middle of the street?" then, as my arm and butt and legs skid on the street and the moment sinks in:
"Now I really have to beat up whoever did this. I hope he is not much bigger than me."

I am fully prepared for a tussle, but when I turn around, nobody is there.

I immediately glance up at the traffic light, and it is still green (for me). I look at my bike laying prone in the middle of McKinney Avenue, and one of my shirttails is tangled in the chain!! The plastic bags holding my designer cargo were ripped to shreds, hangers were tossed to and fro, shirts were strewn up and down the intersection, and I'm just sitting there on the street, wishing one of these honking cars would hit me and put me out of my misery.

As I start to rise, the car two feet from my head starts to honk. The light had turned. Now I was holding up traffic on McKinney.
"I hope they saw this whole ordeal unfold, and they are a bit understanding of my predicament," I thought. But all I got was horns and screams. I was humiliated.

I started gathering my shirts, but they were literally all over the intersection. This was going to take a while. My pants remained in their bundle, but I still had to gather them up, pick up my bike, collect my shirts, and limp to the curb while carrying all of my disheveled payload. The cars were going to have to wait at least one light-cycle for me to get out of the way.

I couldn't look up. I was too ashamed to even acknowledge the Jeep-load of girls cheering for me. I could not even muster a self-deprecating smile. Not only was I embarrassed beyond belief, but I was in physical pain also. My entire left side was scraped, my arm was numb, and my chinstrap had almost decapitated me.
My lightly-starched shirts were soiled with asphalt and dirt and wrinkled beyond recognition.

I staggered to the curb and a family entering Chuy's offered assistance. They seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, and even invited me to eat with them. I knew they were just being polite, and would rather be enjoying their salsa and margaritas, so I declined their help. How badly I wanted a shot of Cuervo and a stack of hot buttered flour tortillas, but what could that nice family have done, anyway?? FEMA, OSHA, and the NTSB could not have helped me. The physical and emotional damage was done.

After closer inspection, it seems that 13 of the 14 hangers were operating correctly. But one of the shirts somehow became dislodged, slipped off the helmet, and its hanger snagged onto the front of another shirt. This started a chain reaction in which the tail of the wayward shirt dropped low enough to get caught in the chain/gear thingy. This pulled the shirt, which pulled my bundle, which yanked my head, which caused the Great Spill.

I called my friend with an SUV to come and pick me up, he laughed at me and, yes, he will let me hear about this for the next 15 years.

If anything good came of this, I guess two important lessons were learned in this whole episode: Always use your car when picking up your dry cleaning, and never--ever--turn down an offer of tequila and tortillas.

Redemption

Due to the controversial subject matter of my John Mayer post, I feel it is necessary to redeem myself:
I don't like John Mayer anymore.

I like SPORTS.

And not just any ol' sissy sports, either.

I like BOXING.

But since I have not actually watched a boxing match since Holyfield vs. Bowe in 1993, I reckon I should just talk about the next closest subject: Boxing nicknames.

It's a funny thing, the idea of applying a nickname to somebody. What you're actually doing is telling someone, "The name given you at birth is inherently flawed, and I am taking it upon myself to remedy that flaw by assigning you a new name--a better name, if you will--and this new name will exaggerate a possibly shameful character trait you possess (Lazy), or poke fun at something you cannot control (such as red hair, or a club foot), or serve to remind you of the horrible facial disfigurement you've worn since that childhood car accident (Halfnose; or OneEar)."

But who am I to judge?? In fact, most sports-related sobriquets are not cruel at all. They are simple and funny. The problem is, boxing seems to be the only sport (besides pro wrestling, which does not count, since the nicknames are created in some corporate boardroom, and are as contrived as the characters to whom they are attached) that cares about nicknames anymore.

This must change! We need more ear-catching monikers. And not just in boxing...

Consider the NFL: this league has not seen a good nickname since Steelers tight end Big Eric Green quit in the mid-1990s. A nickname like that is timeless and elegant in its simplicity: this guy was, quite frankly, big. He was so big that his name on Madden '94 actually read "Big Eric Green." Classic. Before that, you have to go way back to Mean Joe Greene, who apparently had an anger problem; or Ed Too Tall Jones, who was, in fact, too tall.
Maybe the NFL wouldn't be so damn boring if they could brainstorm some new nicknames...

And the NBA is just as pathetic. I challenge you to name someone playing today who sports a cool nickname. Impossible. Not since Earvin Magic Johnson contracted AIDS, and Vernell Bimbo Coles retired has the league seen anything remotely cool. I know... what about Kenny Sky Walker, or John Hot Rod Williams, or Greg Cadillac Anderson, or Anthony Spud Webb, or Wayne Tree Rollins, or The Microwave Vinnie Johnson, or Walt Clyde Frazier, or Iceman George Gervin?? My point exactly: none of those guys have played in 15 years.

But we still have BOXING. My favorite sport, by the way...
In order to be successful, a boxer needs a good nickname. Sometimes they succeed in finding that special alias. And sometimes, much to our amusement, they fail.

Consider boxers who must have sat around for minutes trying to think of a nickname that would scare the pants off opponents, but who could come up with nothing more than a name we hear 20 years later that makes us chuckle to ourselves:

John The Beast Mugabi
Mitch Blood Green
Hurricane Peter McNeely
Ray Boom-Boom Mancini

Mitch Green once got his ass kicked by Mike Tyson in an alleyfight; "The Beast" is just plain humorous; and "Boom-Boom"?! Are you kidding--Boom-Boom?!! Say that 3 times and try not to laugh (though Mancini did once knockout some Korean guy, and the Korean guy died of brain trauma a few days later). "Boom boom" is still damn silly.

Some fighters decided that their nicknames should exaggerate some quality of their personality, and demonstrate other aspects of their persona, besides the ability to bash in the brains of other angry, sweaty men. These include:

Hector Macho Camacho
Marvelous Marvin Hagler
Terrible Terry Norris

Only in boxing could "Terrible" and "Marvelous" supposedly convey the exact same message.

Then there are the Naturals. The nicknames are so good that they became one with the boxer's real name. If you remove the nickname from these, the fighter seems incomplete, like something is missing:

Sugar Ray Leonard
Donovan Razor Ruddock
Ronald Winky Wright
Irish Mickey Ward

Still other aliases do not succeed in making an opponent fearful of an impending butt-whipping. Rather, these nicknames make people question how these men got into boxing in the first place, with names so ill-suited to the task at hand (namely-- kicking someone's ass):

Pernell Sweet Pea Whitaker
Pretty Boy Floyd Mayweather
Prince Naseem Hamed

Getting beat up by a man named "Sweet Pea" is infinitely more shameful than having a crush on John Mayer. But that's just my opinion...

Evidently, some years ago there was a problem with boxers not actually believing that their scheduled opponent was who he claimed to be. Maybe there was an Imposter Epidemic in boxing, or a screw-up at the licensing office that enabled look-alikes to fight in place of the actual participants. Whatever the cause, two pugilists took it upon themselves to remove any doubt as to their authenticity:

Carl The Truth Williams
Evander The Real Deal Holyfield

Now to one of everybody's favorites, the enigmatic James Bonecrusher Smith. Growing up in the early 1980s, James Smith faced a dilemma: he needed an intimidating nickname, one that would instantly let others know that he was dangerous, that he was wicked, that he would--if given the chance--crush your bones. Scary stuff, indeed. But it was probably not his first choice... You see, there was another James Smith making a name for himself at that time, and young Bonecrusher (before he was christened Bonecrusher), when he got wind of this other James Smith's alias, was probably horribly disappointed and finally settled on branding himself Bonecrusher.
Alas, the other guy had already claimed Ladies Love Cool James Smith as his own!!! So Bonecrusher took up pugilism as his pastime and left the rapping and romancing and going back to Cali-ing to LL Cool J. And the rest is history.
In retrospect, Bonecrusher made the right choice. If a man is cool and confident and smooth enough to gloss himself "Ladies Love," you should probably just go ahead and let him do it...

Boxing is a dangerous career choice. But a few other occupations are more sinister. Fighters who nickname themselves after murderous lines of work are among the most feared (and among the all-time greats):

Bernard The Executioner Hopkins
Thomas Hitman Hearns

These two names would have been at the top of the list, if not for the great James Toney. James Toney (before he tested positive for steroids and was unceremoniously stripped of his title belt) added two simple words to his name, and with these two words, he let you know what sordid fate awaits if you dare step into the ring with him.
Ladies and gentlemen, the greatest boxing nickname of all time:

James Lights Out Toney



(i bet he could kick the crap out of john mayer, too)

I (heart) John Mayer

I have a crush on John Mayer.

And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Maybe I have too much idle time on my hands... Sitting around the house every night with your foot immersed in a bucket of ice water will do that to a man. When 23 hours of your day (the remaining hour is spent performing various 'bathroom tasks') are wasted on brainstorming creative ways to successfully execute a do-it-yourself-pinky toe-amputation using only an orange peeler, a corkscrew, and dental floss, your brain is inevitably going to drift off into areas that--for the previous 30 years and 5 months of your life--you never thought possible.
Most notable among these formerly taboo daydreams: same-sex crushes.

Am I delusional, or is it safe for a man--secure in his heterosexuality to the extent that I am--to admit that he is harboring a schoolyard crush on a male pop singer?? I don't think it's a big deal at all.

I don't want to physically be with John Mayer, I simply have a crush on him. It's perfectly normal, I believe. I am still attracted to girls, but lately I've noticed my mind drifting away to that special place, where it's just me and John (where, if I stay too long, I'll probably break down and cry...). But this is not a hit Guns-n-Roses song from 1987, this is real life... So what's the problem?! It's just a phase, right??

As Mike Piazza once said: "I date women."

And I do date women. And just because I bring a heaping serving of misogyny and a 100% failure rate to the dating table, that doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly stop liking women and start liking silky-voiced balladeers with dark eyes and careless hair.

Sure, I am counting down the days until his next CD hits the stores (early 2006?), but it's not like I want to date the guy (though I would not object to sharing a nice, quiet dinner with John, maybe in the corner booth at La Duni, he pouting his lips and lithely strumming his guitar, while I sip expensive wine and peruse the dessert menu, all the while both of us waist-deep in our intimate conversation, discussing everything from life to love to whether or not Jimi Hendrix should be mentioned in the same breath as Clapton or Page or even Stevie Ray).

[he should not]

I just want to meet John Mayer, maybe exchange some repartee, maybe have him teach me a few chords.... No big deal... What's so strange about wanting a free guitar lesson?

This was weighing on my conscience for weeks; I had to get it off my chest. So if you are having serious doubts about me, and questioning who I am and everything you thought I once stood for, fear not... My next post will be about SPORTS.

Foot Joy

Now that I am 30, my body has started to deteriorate.
Gray hairs on my head, pain in my knees when I wake, new hairs on my back, longer recovery time after a night of wine... these hardships are tolerable and somewhat expected.

Some things, however, are intolerable:
Last March, I endured the pain and suffering (not to mention, the catheter!) of hernia surgery in my "groin area." This slicing open of my abdomen in 3 places, the mandatory two months of physical inactivity that followed, and turning 30 two weeks later all conspired to lead me down the sordid path to atrophy and obesity.
I finally got off my fat ass (literally) this past summer, bought a bike, and began the long road back to abdominal respectability.
Two weeks ago, just as I was about to cross the threshold from "fat, broken down, and old" into "halfway mediocre" physical shape, I shattered my foot into hundreds (ok, maybe tens) of pieces.

Granted, "shattered" may be an overstatement... I didn't quite get my foot run over by a Hummer. Nor is the path from my backdoor to my barbecue grill booby-trapped with landmines... But you wouldn't know that from looking at my right foot.

While horseplaying in my apartment, I crushed my foot against--unironically--a footstool. Within seconds, my toes were blue and black and purple and swollen as big as an eggplant. Now I spend every minute of my day writhing in pain and I've been limping around like a pirate for two weeks.
My pinky toe is broken and the crack team of doctors at Medical City Dallas is powerless to repair it. They say that the toe is too small to do any kind of 'procedure' on it. And that the mind-numbing, constant pain may be caused by 40-or-so pieces of broken toe pushing against a nerve.

Doc: "All I can do is give you some painkillers."

Me: "That'll work."

So my struggle to stay under 180 pounds is lost for sure.... I'm hovering around 190 now, and since I am hobbled indefinitely by this crippling malady, I will inevitably balloon to 200+ pounds, lose what little I have remaining of a social life, be even more ostracized by the opposite sex (except for those women on the Montel Show who stalk fat men), and resign myself to a lifetime of Sansabelt slacks and pleated (for that 'slimming' effect) Dockers.

It was suggested by a doctor that I wear some kind of wacky wooden "shoe-brace" that he allegedly patented, to make sure I don't re-injure the toe and also to ward off any possible pain in the rest of my leg that may result from 6 weeks of pirate-limping. Great, I say. A wooden shoe is exactly what my life needs....

If you would like to be on the Montel Show, and are predisposed to date overweight men who wear Sansabelt slacks and wooden shoes on their right foot, please reply to this post.

I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere.

Jet fuel

On the TV news this morning, I saw that Delta Airlines is canceling some of their flight schedule because of rising fuel costs. In order to lower costs, they're not raising fares (they've already done that); nor are they cutting back on "amenities" like in-flight meals and comfy pillows (already done that, too); they are just flat-out canceling flights.
If you have a ticket on one of these canceled flights.... too bad. Find another flight. Rearrange your schedule. Delta is trying to save money, and your convenience (or the minor detail that you purchased a ticket with the intention of actually flying on the date and time you'd planned) is not very important.

If they can use the "fuel cost" tactic without regret or consequence, why can't I??

Me: "Uh, fuel is too expensive this week. To save gas money, I'm only gonna be able to make it in on Tuesday and Thursday."
Boss: "I don't think you can do that."
Me: "Well, I apologize for any inconvenience..."