"Great shot, kid, that was one in a million!"

The hours fucking CRAWLED by at work on Friday.

I had gotten the green light from my bosses to leave early to meet up with Bree in Santa Barbara. Bags were packed. Until I received an email informing me that a last minute meeting was scheduled for 4:30.

I would have to wait. Some higher power was really making me work on that whole "patience" thing.

As soon as the meeting ended, I got in my car and picked up Jack from his house. Once we got out of the Los Angeles traffic and onto the open road, we cranked up Bad Religion's "Los Angeles is Burning"; a staple song of ours we rock out to when we anticipate good things from the evening.

We pulled into the beautiful, beach side town of Santa Barbara and tried to locate the hotel. Fortunately, Jack and I were arriving in town around the same time as Bree, but we weren't to meet up until 9:30. Jack and I had some time to kill.

We decided to walk to the local 7-11 to pick up a six pack, something to calm the nerves a bit before heading out to dinner.

I sat at the edge of the queen size bed with my feet dangling and Jack sat across from me. We had an hour. At one point, we both started cracking up; the realization just hit us:

It was a Friday night, we were sitting in a dingy hotel, in a town we've never been to, sipping on Coors Light while waiting to meet a girl who I met online through blogging.

My stomach was flip flopping when it was time to walk to the restaurant. Jack and I chugged the last of our six-pack, zipped up our jackets and headed out. The restaurant was on a pier and as we walked, Jack turned to me and asked:

Jack: What are the chances we end up in one of those docked boats by the end of the night?
So@24: I don't even want to think about it.

Meeting Bree for the first time, there was nothing really surprising or shocking. I had already been talking to her for a month and I knew what she looked like. Dinner with her and her friends felt comfortable; like these are the people I would have been friends with in college anyway. She was just as pretty as she was in pictures and funny as she was in our phone conversations.

The rest of the evening coasted smoothly for the most part. Jack and I followed Bree and her friends around to various bars in Santa Barbara. Pints were downed and shots were shot.

We were having a lot of fun, but understandably her attention was divided among many people. And Bree is not a flirty person. As the drinks piled up in my 5'3" frame, Mr. Alcohol was sloppily mashing his hands on the keyboard of my overly-analytical brain.

She never brushed a hand on my shoulder, she didn't stay particularly close to me when we walked from one bar to the next. These observations are poison to a drunk, self-admitted paranoid, bastard like myself.

I began to read into her actions (or inaction, I should say) more than I should have. The idea that perhaps this was the beginning of a friendship and not something else was starting to engulf me.
At a point in the evening, after we had just taken another round of shots, Jack pulled me aside.

Jack: You're shutting down, So. What's going on?

I zipped my jacket up all the way to the top; a bad habit that surfaces when I become extremely insecure.

So@24: I don't think she's into me. I just have that feeling.
Jack: Don't shut down. You hear me? The night is young. Do. Not. Shut. Down. On. Me.
So@24: You're right, I'm not going to let this ruin the night. We're still out having a good time.
Jack: You have a fighting chance, trust me. Come on, I'll get you a beer.

I tried to push my worries aside and enjoy the rest of the evening. Jack, Bree and I got separated from her friends at some point and went to another bar to polish off a round of jager shots (or as I say "YAY!ger"). But it was closing time and we had to head back.

At this point, the weather turned to bullshit. Bree pulled out her umbrella and I held it high as the three of us huddled underneath it, sloshing our way back to her friend's house. It didn't matter, we were soaked to the bone.

Bree changed into sweats and t-shirt while Jack and I peel off our jackets to dry them by the fire. Beers and wine were handed out and we warmed up in Bree's friend's living room sharing a few more laughs. However, the little hand was close to the 3 and the big hand at the 12 and Bree's friends said their "good nights" and retreated upstairs.

My phone vibrated. A text from Leo.

Leo: Status report.
So@24: I don't think anything is going to happen tonight. She's not flirty and when a girl isn't flirty, it means she isn't interested.
Leo: You need to have patience. Unfortunately, this isn't college anymore.

Jack followed me to the kitchen while I grabbed a beer.

Jack: Are you going to kiss her?
So@24: Are you serious? I still don't think I have a chance. Besides what do I say?
Jack: How about, "Can I kiss you?"
So@24: That sounds so fucking lame.
Jack: It works for me. Just do it.

With a quick gulp, Jack finished the last bit of his Stella. He reached into his soaked jeans and grabbed his cellphone.

Jack: Ooooh, I have to take this call. I'll be back in 10.

The twinkle in his eye told me he wasn't coming back. He was Han Solo at the end of of Stars Wars, pulling the Millennium Falcon out of the Death Star trench saying, "You're all clear, kid. Now let's blow this thing so we can all go home!"

"Wahoo!"

Off he went, and with that I turned back to Bree. She held a glass of wine in her hand, her hair pulled back in a tiny ponytail while a few raindrops dripped off the longer strands. She looked radiant.

I threw back my beer and set the bottle on the coffee table. "You better be right about this, Jack," I thought to myself.

"Can I kiss you?"

* * *

And here, dear readers, is where I must bid you farewell on this tale. Perhaps further details will emerge down the road, but again, I'm still trying to do the whole Tao of the Cucumber thing. It's been extremely difficult, trust me.










* title of the post taken from a Star Wars quote. For those readers who don't share the same level of nerd-dom as me.

You said it, Kevin McCallister.

My backpack is loaded with the essentials:

• A clean shirt for Saturday morning
• A 3/4 bottle of Maker's Mark (to calm the nerves)
  
• A stick of deodorant
  
• Two packets of tangerine flavored Emergen-C for the inevitable hangover drive back to Los Angeles (the only working hangover cure in existence besides pho)
• Two bottles of Vitamin Water (again, for the hangover)
  

I pick up Jack in a few hours and we're taking the 101 straight West.


Here we go.

*














*I know I have used this before, but it's too perfect. Besides, it was written in 2007. No one remembers that.

Cucumber.

There are a couple of strict blog rules that I have followed since the very beginning.

One of them being, you never apologize for your own blog. E.g. "Well, this is kind of boring..." or "Sorry I'm going to ramble on for awhile".

That shit is rookie. Don't do it.

However, I feel like I should take a moment to explain the decline of my "regularly scheduled" programming. The few posts I've been able to barely churn out within the last few weeks have lacked their usual luster. I'm a big boy, I can admit that.

Usually when I have a hard time writing a post, I'll chug a couple of beers and stare at my blinking cursor until I can take what normally is a boring subject or train of thought and spin it like Rumpelstiltskin into blogging gold (see: something significantly less valuable than gold, but I had to use gold because that's what Rumpelstiltskin spun out of hay; see how it works?).

As I discussed in a previous post, my blog only runs on two ingredients:

1. cheap beer
2. my personal current events

I've found myself in a situation where my current outlook on the opposite sex, theories, and overall dating experiences have all revolved around a girl who actually reads my blog.

...

You can see why this might be problematic for someone who writes about subjects that I do.

In the two years I've blogged, I've never come across this problem. Where I've had to carefully watch what I say in order to not fuck shit up in my real life. That's what the blue bar is for, people. Can't be having worlds collide.

So, it's been pretty tough in this last month. Having a million thoughts and questions swimming around my brains like family of sea monkeys just waiting anxiously to get my readers' consistent and much-appreciated feedback.

Don't fear, you won't be left out of the loop for long. I have been writing posts, but for now, they sit idle in my queue; chomping at the bit to be released and read.

But for now, I gotta take care of Real Life So@24. I think for the first time in my blogging history, I am going to heed the advice of my friend Leo and keep him from having a coronary. I am going to take the path of the cucumber. Cool, collected and try my best to keep my cards close to my chest on this one.

This Friday, I'm taking off work early, and forcefully shoving Jack into the passenger seat of my sweet, sweet ride. I'm driving to Santa Barbara where I'm going to meet her face to face.

I'll whip up a good post then; regardless of the results.

Honest to blog.

Cute is Safe.

The female species (yes, species) are even more complicated and complex than I have previously conceived.

I had a conversation today with a girl friend of mine who absolutely reamed me for a single word, a simple adjective if you will, that I had used to describe Bree in a previous post.

My friend might as well have taken a shiv to my kidney in a prison yard. Because of that one word.

Apparently the word "cute" is the absolute worst insult you could ever give a girl.

Ladies, to prevent future instances such as this, can we please get a fucking Venn diagram or a damn flow chart of some sort as soon we (males) escape the womb? We really need to start reading this shit from day one, as soon as that slime is wiped from our eyes newly developed eyes; we should be studying for exams like this.

First off, I am going to bring my proposal to a higher court: my fair and shrewd jury of readers. Should we not be calling girls "cute"?

Webster's definition of the word "cute":

Main Entry:

¹cute

Pronunciation:

\ˈkyüt\

Function:

adjective

1 a: clever or shrewd often in an underhanded manner b: impertinent , smart-alecky

2: attractive or pretty especially in a childish, youthful, or delicate way

I'm going to cash in all my poker chips and say that most of are using definition 2 to describe these girls who are pleasing to they eye.

And strictly based on my pal Webby, it looks like a compliment to me. At least that's what I spent the last 25 years believing (along with the idea that someday I'd hit a growth spurt).

But according to my friend, I might as well have drawn a Hitler mustache on my upper lip and drop kicked a fluffy hedgehog like a hacky sack.

Apparently I'm also not allowed to also use the word, "attractive" either.

So I can't call a girl "cute"??

I feel like "cute" is a safe word. It's not as dull as "attractive", but not as creepy as "gorgeous" or "beautiful". I'm going to even say that the word "pretty" is border line uncomfortable.

I mean, sure, I can THINK a girl is "gorgeous", "sexy", "beautiful", "stunning", "take-my-shoe-off-and-beat-myself-on-the-head-and-howl-like-a-wolf-good-looking" to a girl I'm admiring from a distance and have never met.

But I shouldn't SAY any of those descriptors to the girl I don't really know, right? That's just fucking weird.

Please discuss. Or open MS Paint during your lunch break and bust me out some kind of chart that expkains acceptable and not acceptable compliments to give a girl.

You'll be doing my gender and me a huge favor.

Bikes and Booze

I was still working late on Friday when my coworker informed me there would be a party at her place.

I decided it would be best if I dropped my car off at home and pedaled my bike to her party.

The sole purpose being so I could get really drunk and not worry about driving home.

Doy.

Of course, there's nothing quite like making an entrance by strutting into a crowded room with a bike helmet under one arm with a Spongebob Squarepants sticker plastered to the front.

"Hey ladies."

The company at the party was a lot of fun. I ended up downing quite a few voda-crans and then joining in for a few group tequila shot rounds. Gotta get drunk and make friends sometimes.

Do you ever end up at a party and get stuck talking to someone extremely obnoxious? Someone who is way more drunk than you are? Yep, that was me toward the end of the night.

I somehow got stuck in the hallway entertaining this random party guest. My mind kept wandering and I kept fading in and out of the conversation. I think it's because she had this really high pitched voice and kept talking uncomfortably close to my face. For some reason, she felt that I was the best choice out of every person at the party with whom to have a conversation about her boy troubles with.

The only part I really remember her telling me was something about how this guy wasn't interested in her:

"And for some reason he just instantly shut off! I was like, "What the fuck?!" But then I discovered out he was a Libra and I'm a Leo, so I was like, DUH! Of course it was never going to work out! It totally made sense after that."

I smiled and nodded politely taking a sip off my alcoholic concoction, but really I was thinking:

"The reason why he didn't like you was because you're a screeching close-talker, who actually fucking believes in horoscopes."

I eventually couldn't put up that charade any longer and excused myself to play some Rock Band 2. As the evening progressed, the more I became "that guy" at the party who hogs the Rock Band. At point, when someone wanted to hear AFI's "Girls Not Grey", I demanded that someone hold the microphone up to my mouth while I played guitar so I could do both.

95% singing on Hard difficulty and 90% guitar on Medium. No biggie.

...

I wonder if I'll ever meet a girl where I can say shit like that and it will impress her.

I'm not counting on it.

This is serious shit.

When the party was winding down at around 2 or 3, I hopped (drunkenly) on my bike and put a call into Bree. She was fairly tipsy as well, but we had a pretty damn entertaining conversation for the remaining hour (or so) while I attempted to aim my bike straight riding home. So, even if she did read that post, I think I'm in a good place still.

We'll see.

* * *

It looks like I wasn't the only one experimenting with biking and boozing. A conversation with my friend Jack later that night:

So@24: So how was your night?
Jack: Pretty good. I'm pretty hammered right now though and I had to come home early to keep from going home with Ashley which was about the hardest thing I've had to do in awhile.
So@24: ...
Jack: So I chained my bike to my bookshelf to keep me from being a weak bastard and changing my mind and going over there.
So@24: That's about the saddest thing I've ever heard.
Jack: Well I'm into this other girl now and I don't want to blow it. So I called Ashley earlier today and broke it off.
So@24: Wait a fucking tick... you broke it off with this Ashley girl earlier today. You saw her at a party LATER that night and she still wanted to sleep with you?
Jack: Well. Yes I suppose, but it's not as weird as you're making it sound.
So@24: And you found it necessary to chain your bike up to keep you from having sex with this girl even though you JUST slept with her? That's like Odysseus ordering his men tie him to the mast of ship and to keep him from swimming to the Sirens.
Jack: That was LAST Friday. And I'm drunk.
So@24: I hate you.

I Think It's Time for a Zach Morris' Time Out

"TIME OUT"

Remember when Zach Morris in Saved by the Bell used to do that? Everyone would freeze and he would approach the camera, breaking the fourth wall, to give his opinion when shit was getting a little too real at Bayside High?

I need to use use one of those right about now.

* * *

Whew.

I'm beginning to see the price in having a completely, 100%, honest blog about my "dating" life. It completely drains you emotionally.

When you do a "juicy" or controversial post like the one I did yesterday, you can expect to get a spike in both blog hits and blog comments. Comments that are pretty fucking harsh. It almost makes you want to throw up your hands and not continue to write. I either read these and think to myself, "Did you even read what I wrote?" or "Why are these people even reading?"

However, these comments are also balanced by the good ones. The readers who come out from the woodwork and actually will leave an extremely heartfelt, thoughtful, constructive comment or spend time to send me an email. One with genuine concern. It's a little reminder about one of the best perks of blogging.

So, thank you.

* * *

I feel like I need to clarify some things about the voice my blog in direct relation to the response I got from yesterday's post.

I wasn't trying to ask the girl's hand in marriage.
I wasn't trying to go steady with the girl.
I wasn't trying to sleep with the girl.
I wasn't trying to fondle her lady bits.
I wasn't trying to play sleep over (although I'm confident she'd build an excellent pillow fort)
I wasn't trying to force my way into her weekend plans.

Please give me some credit here, I'm not an idiot.

I just thought she was a genuinely cool person who I wanted to meet in person. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting a lot of quality people in recent years... so when you happen to come across one: you want to see what it's all about.

I'm an average guy who has average thoughts who happens to write them down in a public forum for the sole purpose of entertainment. No, I don't get paid for it. No, I don't get laid because of it.

Leo, of course, had thoughts on his own. I won't write them all down here, but he did have this sage advice to give in a way only Leo can:

Long and the short--I think you've got to be more patient. Rome wasn't built in a day. There's that old weird science fact--you drop a frog into boiling water, it'll hop out, lightly blanched. But put it in warm water and slowly raise the temperature...it boils alive. Basically, I think you should boil Bree alive.

She will learn in due time that you are charming, funny, witty, and most of all, completely genuine and a genuine sweetheart. I can't believe I just wrote that.

Anyway, too much too fast isn't good. You always say you're not a patient man, but dude, you have got to become one.

However, an email from Jack, was something I felt held a little more weight... or at least I felt that he understood me better. I guess you can be the judge:

As much as you consult and seek opinions etc. I think deep down you usually retain the option and end up doing what ever the fuck you want regardless of what we say.

There is no one correct way to pick up and meet girls, everyone has to evolve their own process and method. The problem with game, in my experience, is that it's what one uses to finesse a pick-up/hook-up that lacks sufficient chemistry to run on it's own. One essentially acts like someone they really aren't, and the flip-side is you can't act surprised when the girl you then end up with is a bad fit/the kind of girl that would date the person you were pretending to be.

Sometimes game is useful to get past the awkward nervous parts like the initial pick-up, but at the end of the day, the more you can just be you with a girl from day 1, the better you're gonna be down the road.

I write all of this to say that you seem intent on doing it your way and I don't begrudge you that. You think you've figured out something that works, so embrace it. While I guess, statistically, you're going to meet with less broad success, maybe your targeted results will be better. Regardless, you're committed now, so might as well play this one out.

He's right. I don't keep myself up til wee hours of the morning, with a pencil tucked behind my ear, three different colored highlighters in hand, pouring over books like The Game.

I go with my gut and what I feel is right. My theory is, if the girl is "weirded out", than I filtered out the one who wasn't ever going to work out in the long run anyway.

I can only be me.

* * *

The misinterpretation from a lot of readers yesterday is rooted back to an even larger issue about my blog (or maybe my writing style isn't doing its job by being effective in communicating).

I rarely censor my blog. And I there's a part of me that's has a sense of pride about that fact. I think that's why people read it. It's unabashed and I try to stay true to that. I write about whatever comes into my head or whatever I am experiencing at that specific moment in my life as it happens; specifically about my dating life.

I don't retell stories of the past (very rarely) and I don't make up stories when ye' olde blogging material be slow (and yes, I have been directly accused of doing this).

But because I just write about whatever comes into my head, I think that people read into it and take things more seriously than I actually do in "the real world".

And maybe Leo is right. Maybe with me being too loyal to the creed of my blog, I sacrifice some of my well-being in my real life.

Time in.

So@24 VS. the Headboard

If a T-1000 from the future approached my ass 3 years ago and told me in a thick Austrian accent that I would one day be smitten with a "blogger", I would have laughed my little ass off.

And then I would have gotten the shit kicked out of me. Cyborg style.



Alas. This is where I find myself as I sip on my sixth Corona and type to you (sloppily) this evening.

Bree* was a blogger that I've been reading for a long time, almost around the same time I started writing down my dating woes for the world to read. She was one of the few I read consistently from the start, because she was one of the few bloggers who actually had me laughing out loud in my cubicle.

It wasn't until Christmas of this year, when we actually made contact outside of blog comments. I suppose I should breakdown how I'm sure most bloggy romances come about. A quick flow chart, if you will:

Flirty blog comments > An email > multiple emails > gchatting/IMing > social networking friends > phone calls

That's about as far as I've gotten at this moment and thus, a great segue way into my regularly scheduled rant about dating.

* * *

As far as I can tell, Bree and I click pretty damn well. I've found that we have so many things in common, it borders on creepy. Like, cut from the same cloth.

Quick So@24 Checklist/Shortcuts to get into Valhalla:

1. Shorter than me? Wow, not a deal breaker, but Check!
2. Cute? Check!
3. Atheist? Check!
4. Liberal? Check!
5. Career driven, but enjoys the sweet nectar of the Gods (see: booze)? Check!
   
6. Swears that pho is the cure-all for hangovers? Check!
7. Loves Strangers with Candy? Check!
8. Listens to NPR / This American Life? Check!
   
9. Knows that the original UK Office is far superior than the US version? Check!
10. She's hilarious? Check!
11. The One in a Million Question: Doesn't see what the big deal is about Flight of the Concords? Check!

Our phone conversations have averaged about an hour (at the very LEAST) each time. These phone calls range from playful drunk dials to discussing the intricacies of our families.

Yeah. Intense, right?

However, we've only been talking for a little over two weeks. I'd really like to make a trip up to San Fran to see her and see if there is any chemistry physically.

I'm not a patient man and I pride myself on my spontaneity. I don't like to wait around... what's the point?

The one quote always jumps out at me (although an extremely watered down version) from When Harry Met Sally. Billy Crystal is delivering an epic monologue to Meg Ryan on New Year's Even when he says to her, "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

Alright, alright... I'm not a complete psychopath. I'm not saying this quote fits perfectly into my scenario, but the mentality behind it is true. What's the point of waiting around when you can find out right away?

During the last few conversations, I've tried hinting that I'd like to go up and see her. Especially since it was a 3 day weekend, I figured this would be the perfect opportunity to hang out. She said that she "couldn't because she was set on putting up her headboard for her bed".

...

Did I just fucking lose out to a headboard? I'm not a smart man, but I know a sad excuse when I come across one.

Man, I thought things were going pretty well. I thought that she would be just as excited and interested in meeting up as I was. Apparently, this wasn't to be the case. Dejected and utterly confused, I confided in my blog friend Dolce.

So@24: She hates me. She fucking hates me. "I have to put up my headboard"? What the hell happened here? This is so humiliating.
Dolce: First. Calm the down. I hate when you do this to yourself. You need to be patient; 2 weeks is nothing. She's just hesitant. You have to try and understand where she's coming from.
So@24: This girl knows more about me than most people!
Dolce: I understand that, but you have to realize that you're still just "a guy on the internet"

There's some injustice to all of this.

It's totally socially acceptable for a guy who is at a bar on any given Saturday night to approach a girl and ask for her number and then to ask her out on a date. This guy knows absolutely nothing about this girl, except that she's physically attractive.

However, Bree has had full access to an extremely personal insight into my life (see: blog) and hours and hours clocked in of quality conversation. Yet, it's not socially acceptable to meet someone unless there's "more time"... just because he happens to be someone you met initially through the interweb.

Isn't this a fucked standard? With this mindset, I would have a better chance getting to meet her for a date if I were to be reeking of Crown Royale, drenched with sweat on a dance floor rubbing my boner on her thigh during the good part of J Kwon's "Tipsy" (I know I used this joke recently, but it fits so perfectly) and then asking for her number.

I thought girls liked the spontaneous guy. The one who goes with his gut, who's impulsive? Where's the romance in structured, planned-far-in-advance meet-ups?

Or was this over before it even begun?







* she has agreed to not read this post. ... what the fuck have I done...