Hero Seeking Vigilante


This blog now serves as a historical log of my quest for love. A collection of stories and articles more than blog posts, I hope that it can continue to amuse and entertain beyond it's active lifespan.

An adventurous young computer nerd/ gaming geek travels into the world looking for love in all the wrong places. And posts the terrible terrible consequences right here.

Monday, January 30, 2006

Ice Cream Has No Bones

Oh my god. My mouth is full of bones.

Don't Panic. "A quail is a lot like a chicken, but with a cute plume," I said. I thought. I was wrong. A quail is full of bones. Tiny bones. Secret bones.

The beautiful woman across from me speaks, and I watch her attentively, doing my best to disguise the fact that my attention was suddenly elsewhere. *CRUNCH* My Mouth, is full of Bones.
Okay. Options.
I can swallow these bones.
I can spit these bones out.
That's it. That's all I can do, my mouth is full of bones.

She's clever and intelligent, and I act entertained as I pretend to listen to her.
She watches me as she speaks. Oh god, my mouth is full of bones. Pretend that nothing is wrong. Go ahead and chew. *CRUNCH* Oh god, it tastes like bones.
Yes, you enjoy both listening and eating your food. Smile. Nod a little. Good boy.

Oh god.
I remember distinctly that it is bad for dogs to swallow bones. It's probably a bad idea for me to swallow these. The last thing I want is to end up in the ER with a punctured esophagus while on this date. *CRUNCH* mmmm, Bones.

I should spit them out. Politely. Yes, Politely regurgitate a small mouthful of bones. Like an Owl.
When you find a way to do this, please let me know.

A distraction is what I needed. She had to turn not just her eyes, but her attention away from me. What can I do?
Remember TV. This thing happens all the time. What would Jesse Do?

Perhaps I need to remind my audience that while I learned everything I know about women, from the TV, I learned it in the mid 90's; before I gave up the Boob Tube as a form of entertainment. That means that my primary resource for on the spot etiquette comes from none other than Full House.

A Distraction.
I could kick her under the table.
That could work.

I play the scenario through. I kick her. My polished steel toed boots collide with her pale shin, protected only by the thin fabric of a beautiful dress. Maybe she will get a bruise. Maybe I will hit the bone right on, and just cause severe pain. Either way, she looks at me like I am an asshole, with eyes that say "why did you just kick me?" "Why did you just kick me?" she may ask. And then where would I be?
Right here, needing to speak, with a mouth full of bones.
No good. That is something Dave would do if he were on a date. Be like Jesse, not like Dave.

As I considered feigning a sneeze, She turned her attention to her ravioli. Victory. Thank you, food! I quickly raised my napkin to my mouth, and regurgitated my foul load. She looks up, and I smile. Think polite and you will be polite.

Once again, I delicately take a cut of my side of quail. I am a gentleman. I try to behave as though this is not the first time I've paid $23 for half a pigeon. I successfully transfer meat to my mouth.

"This came as quite a surprise to me a moment ago, but this bird is full of bones!" I say. I mentally kick myself in the head. I just can't help it. Spam is not a suave person. I say what is on my mind, and terrible things come of it. This is how I go from day to day. At least I am not putting up veil of lies by pretending eloquence and etiquette.

I cut a green bean in half. Polite eaters eat their veggies with forks, I assume.
"I'm not actually very good at eating," I admit, and take a bite of my green bean.

My mouth is empty. The green bean was gone. It had fallen off my fork. She saw the whole thing happen.
"See."

She laughed.

After dinner, we split chocolate cake and icecream.
Chocolate is always a good idea, and Icecream has no bones.

All in all, the evening went well.

Saturday, January 28, 2006

Tick Tock

27 minutes.

Tonight I have my date with the Woman in Red.

I believe that I have everything ready.

Our reservations are set for Firefly Bistro, and for the Ice House.

I made myself pretty. I showered, I shaved. I put on deodorant.

The wrinkles in my tie are hidden.

My car is clean.

All I need to do is wait until she gets here.

I'm not nervous, I'm excited.

21 minutes left.

Monday, January 23, 2006

What's Good for the Goose...

According to the Classic Text "How to Catch a Husband," a girl should never call a boy. Now, normally I'm a fearless rebel who never plays by the rules, not even my own, but this time, I feel like playing things by the book. Sure It's written for women, and sure it's a little dated... But what's good for the Goose is good for the Gander, right? Since I have faced nothing but sharp criticism and neglect from the women of my past, I think this time I'm going to handle these fragile social interactions more directly. With phone calls. Does it cheapen the whole thing to have it posted on the internet like an exotic reptile behind glass? Yes. Yes it does.

With the burden of contact as solely my responsibility (thank you (read as: fuck you) Ms. Manners), the question arises: When should I call her? When is it appropriate? If I call her too soon, it will suggest that perhaps I have too little to do. Also it will suggest that I am desperate. I am not desperate. If I call too late, she may lose interest, or think that I am not interested. I am, in fact, interested. (But not desperate). Ms. Manners would say that I should wait 4 days, and make arrangements for a Friday Night no later than Tuesday.
But that Bitch would also suggest that females turn down the first 3 date requests from any male, so as to weed out the weak.

So I asked a few people for their input on this situation.



The sample pool was 14 individuals chosen at random due to IM availability. There is a fairly even representation of girls and boys, and all persons interviewed are from the pertinent age group.

As you can see, the majority of persons interviewed suggested that I wait two days. One suggested that I bring Flowers, another suggested that I Not write about it Online, so as to avoid almost certain disaster. Both are excellent pieces of advice.
Since I didn't even ask the question until day two, I suppose I'm in pretty good shape. (Not Desperate.) Since I'd like to ask her out for Friday, I think a Monday or Tuesday night call is appropriate.

I still have some comedy club tickets in my wallet, so I think this would be a great opportunity to get them some use.

Sunday, January 22, 2006

How the Walrus got it's Groove

"Would you like to go out for coffee sometime?" I looked at something else so I wouldn't need to see the truth in her eyes.
She answered immediately, without terror or awkwardness. "Yeah, but I'd take a Tea or something. I don't really like coffee."
That was a yes. Don't act suprised. You're cool. You expected a yes. That's right. Cool guys Expect a yes.
"Me neither, actually. I'm more partial to cocoa. But coffee is the convention, so I stuck with that."
"Want to go some place now?" she asked. She was serious. "Do you know any places that are open besides Conrads?"
Oh my god. What is happening?

My mind cruised the streets of pasadena. All of them at once. I started On Orange grove, then immediately split down Walnut, Colorado, Del Mar, and California. There has got to be an all-night Diner. Dear GOD, there has to be an all-night Diner.
What's on Fair Oaks? Why don't I know every little place on Fair Oaks? It's North South. I don't know North South streets. DAMN IT. Then my little mental voyage ended. As soon as it begain, I was finished. At the end of Pasadena, on Coloado just across from The Guitar Center, is a Denny's.
"It's on par with Conrad's, but there's a Denny's near by." Since it was the only place that came to mind, it was what I had all my chips (see also: hopes and dreams) riding on.
"I can work with Denny's." She said.

And that's how I got a date with The Woman in Red.


When I dance with her, I feel like I'm the only guy in the room. The way she looks at me makes me feel like I'm doing something wonderful. Technically, part of your job as a social dancer is to make your partner feel like they are doing well, so my demons tell me that she is just humoring me. But sometimes she is. And sometimes she isn't. I don't think you can fake a look like that.
We danced a lot last night. Pressed close against my body we moved as if we were one unit. The balance between us formed one center of gravity that moved across the room. She dances very well.

But I don't. She wouldn't dance twice in a row with me, almost certainly because I have a relatively small library of moves. I just think that I cannot keep a dancer like her entertained for very long. I must learn to be better.
I have a strong lead, good fundamentals, and the remnant of a once prominant personal style. That helps break the monotony of my dance, but What I need to do is practice. If I dance every week, in a few months time, I will be one slick Walrus.

At Denny's, we shared an apple cobbler and talked about College, work and Earthquakes. Shr was raised in Los Gatos, and went occasionally to Santa Cruz as a child. She did marching band and color guard. It was simple small talk that just went back and forth. It was nice. After dinner, I walked her to her car and said, "Thanks for coming out with me. If you'd like to do it again sometime, give me a call." I wrote my phone number in poor handwriting on the back of my business card. This was a planned maneuver, because I didn't want to seem too prepared, if you know what I mean. Earlier that evening, I already written my phone number on a business card in my pocket, because I knew I was going to ask her out.
The feigned impulsiveness of "let me write my number down with this pen I jut happen to have," was a good call. It turns out the business card I had for her in my pocket got crushed in 4 separate ways from a night of dancing.

She gave me Her card, and we parted ways.

Monday, January 16, 2006

The Non-Threatening Male

For my entire life, I have been surrounded by beautiful and intelligent women. It's a curse.

That's a lie. I really enjoy it. "How is it, Spam, that women become so comfortable, as to be able to pass gas in your presence?" men frequently ask me. Let me address a unique phenomenon of our modern age: the non-threatening male.

This weekend I was treated to the exclusive pleasure of bearing witness to one of the last unknown domains of Man: Girls' Night Out. I earned this by being the "non-threatening male," as they called me.
What does it mean to be a non-threatening male?
While I cannot settle on a solid definition of the word, I can describe his traits, in the context of a Girls' Night Out.

The non-threatening male isn't necessarily unattractive, but it means that for one reason or another, all the women have agreed that he is undatable. Score one for Me.
This is important though. The function of a Girls' Night Out is to relax, and act however you really are, without the pretext of being attractive or demure. I don't even know what demure is, but I can guarantee that if a woman is trying to act demure, she won't tell you how proud of her poops she really is. And just FYI, some of them are really proud.

The non-threatening male isn't creepy. He may be undatable, but this is due to secondary characteristics. Perhaps he has a girlfriend in a coma. Perhaps he's gay. Perhaps he answers to "Spam." But he must be otherwise attractive. He is a person that women want to be around. They just don't want to date him.

At the Girls' Night Out, we had Tea and Scones. Tea (aka. dirt water), as previously mentioned, is not something I really like. Apparently it's an acquired taste, and like Rock Heroine, something to work towards slowly. There are "beginner" teas, I was told. Light, Fruity ones. I enjoyed a Mint Tea, and a Berry Tea. They were both brown, believe it or not. I also had a jellied scone. And for the record, I ate more chocolate than any of the ladies.

A non-threatening male is able to listen, and contribute to a conversation about non-manly activities. Perhaps he will talk about feelings. Perhaps not. That's always personal, and many women themselves choose not to discuss it openly. During our Girls Night Out, I was able to lend my wisdom on such popular topics as "morning wood," "Swing Dance Theory," and "Why all my Romances end in Tears."

In our Time together, I felt like we connected. We just sat around an attractive coffee table covered in snacks and teas, and talked. I heard a lot of new stories. I had a great time.

Maybe it's because, as they talk about uncomfortable positions and cold tools at the OBGYN, I am able to chime in with my own story about the proctologist and her plastic cone. Funny story.
I purposefully picked a female procologist. I thought "If someone's going to stick a transparent cone into my anus, it might as well be a brilliant woman." Well, the fact of the matter is that when there's a greasy cone in your anus, it doesn't so much matter who put it there, because THERE'S A GREASY CONE IN YOUR ANUS.
They shared their own proctology adventures.

I have always been the non threatening male. In highschool I cavorted with all the drama chicks, and none of teh drama dudes. I never dated any of them, but it's not for lack of trying. I frequently become infatuated with female friends. In middle school, I just remained silent, and when I got home, I would cry. In college I'd always had a girlfriend. But that didn't mean I didn't recognize the beauty of the people around me.

I find myself today, single, surrounded by beautiful women, and invited to their teas and dances. They always give me hugs, and sometimes they rub my shoulders. By any stretch of the imagination, I am popular with "the Ladies."
But it's hard to be proud of my popularity, because I know exactly why.

I am the non-threatening male.

Monday, January 09, 2006

The Woman in Red

Everyone knows the Woman in Red. She's the beautiful woman with the dark curls. She's dancing with a handsome and confident man. Someone much larger than you. Someone better than you. Every step she takes is sexy, and every thing she does looks practiced. She's on the floor, dancing perfectly.

Last Night, she was dancing with Me.

Here's a quick look into the past. in 1998, I was an avid Swing Dancer. I went out every weekend, often twice. I was a leading member of my campus' Swing Club. And I was really good. I had a steady dance partner, and I've never been the sort of person to brag, but we were good. I was in love with her. She knew, and I knew that I could never have her, but we still danced. Then she left. Then I stopped Dancing. For three minutes at a time, I had the only thing I'd ever known that was worth having. And after that, dancing never meant as much to me as it did. So I stopped.
Sure, I danced every now and then. Last Week at my reunion. A couple times at a Campus event. But all I've done for five years is forgotten how to swing.

But I guess I remember enough. Making my way around the room, dancing with all the women I'd met in the lesson beforehand, I slowly recovered my skill. I taught them how to follow (stiff arms), and I practiced my basic moves. I made some friends, and I got a little attention. "You've done this before, haven't you?" They would always say. "A Long Time Ago," was my sheepish response.

I'm walking an old woman back to her seat, when I turn around to find The Woman in Red looking up at me. "Want to Dance?" She asked.

She has been dancing for six months, and she's excellent. She has her own personal style, and dances with a confidence that makes me cower. On the inside.

I remember three dances with her that night, but there were many more.
Our first dance went alright. She had a diverse vocabulary of turns and tricks, and was able to keep up with me, but I fell out of time a couple times. She was a little bored with my limited library, and a little frustrated by my errors. There is nothing worse then looking over at your partner, and seeing in her eyes that she isn't completely involved in the dance.

"Can I use you for a terrible experiment?" I asked her before our second dance. "What?" She was clearly alarmed, but I already held her by the hand. There was no escape. "I'd like to try Lindy again," I said. We danced, and we spun, and we danced some more. My Lindy skill was always pale in comparison to my East Coast Skillz, but after so much time, they are equivocable. I danced with confidence and flair, and never fell off beat. I must have impressed her, and I certainly showed her a good time, because afterwards, she smiled looking at me and said "You should experiment more often."

With a broad smile, she took my hand for the last dance. I started off with a clockwise lindy turn, then threw her out into a clockwise doubleturn, and with all of the momentum, she laughed. We danced a combination of lindy and East Coast, which is the best I can do, but I was spot on, and she was perfect, and for those three minutes we were the only two people in the room. I danced with her, and she looked at me. She looked at me through her dark curls, and smiled in such a way. She smiled at me and told me with her eyes that she was really, honestly having a good time.

I've been living on that look ever since.

I never asked out Star Gazer. It seemed like a bad idea at the time. I've forced myself into too many holes by sticking to bad decisions. By "Putting my balls on the table, infront of the man with the Hammer," as I frequently say. On the night in question, I went to the game store, and we talked. Star Gazer, myself, and an acquaintance/ customer of hers. We talked for no less then an hour about 80's Sci-fi, and I demonstrated that I am clearly deficient in my knowledge of Star Trek. AND Star Wars, which blew my mind. I wanted to wait until we were alone, then I thought, screw it, this is good enough, then I thought "this isn't a good idea." I wasn't feeling suave, I wasn't feeling attractive, and I really wasn't feeling like having my balls smashed with a metaphorical hammer. So I wrote a compliment on her new store layout, said good night, and went to the dance.

Saturday, January 07, 2006

MANDATORY BONUS FUN

I think it's safe to say that I have an inexhaustible supply of tiny microwave pizzas. Like my love, these pizzas are available at fifty cents apiece to anyone who walks into Ralphs. However, unlike my love, these pizzas are tastey and desirable. I bought sixteen.
Tonight, I am going to hit the town. Paint it red. With blood. Probably my own. My agenda tonight consists of a trip to the Game Store in Pasadena, where I will pick up a copy of the Paranoia MANDATORY BONUS FUN card game, and ask out Star Gazer. "Want to go out for cocoa when your shift ends?" I will ask. After she turns me down in one of many humorous ways, I am off to the Pasadena Ballroom Dance Association Saturday Night Swing Dance. Where I will recover my confidence by dancing with ladies. After the dance, when her shift ends at 10pm, perhaps Star Gazer will meet me in old Town.
Star Gazer is the woman who works at the Game Store on Tuesdays and Saturdays. I first ran into her with Geoff and Emily, and have talked with her three times since. She is an avid gamer, with what I can only infer to be a passion for old school Werewolf roleplay. She is in the market for a $400, 3D modeled Settlers of Catan set, which is a bit extravagant, but just about the best boardgame I've ever played.
In preparation for this evening, I have shaved my beard.

When you have a beard, you are a part of a special club. A man (or woman, god willing) can walk down the street, make eye contact with another person, also with beard, and share something. "Yes, shit grows out of my face too." They seem to communicate. It is indeed a magical bond. A man with a beard is a Man of Action. But, it's action tembered with responsibility. Like a Fireman, or someone's dad. I am no longer a member of this community, but on account of the itching, maybe I never really belonged.
I only grew the thing because I had enough time away from work to get it growing, and I thought Someone else might like it. Someone else never saw it, so I'm tired of the itching, not to mention my unfamiliar reflection. My beard is gone.
I thought it would help my confidence if I felt pretty again. It didn't. Today is one of those days where I feel fat. And Geoff says I am getting a bald spot where I cannot see.