flogged dead horse

So far, writing my first blog entry feels like a first date, except I’m not constantly worrying about drinking too much too quickly and haven’t made any profound quips about bodily functions yet.  I can’t escape the self-consciousness of striking that delicate balance between appearing unwittingly intellectual and lackadaisically uncouth.  ”Did you hear that Noam Chomsky got arrested the other day?  Apparently he didn’t know the age the manufactured consent.”   (Have your people call my people, Mr. Apatow).

The waitress takes your drink orders, and you rush through the standards:

…

[“All right, a nice softball to wam up with… I have this one down pat.”] No, I’m not from Colorado. I migrated here 3 years ago from the midwest, along with a good third of the population.  I followed a girl and as soon as I got here, it stopped working out, along with a good quarter of that third of the population.

…

[“God, I wish you wouldn’t have asked that… but of course you would ask that… who wouldn’t ask that? I’d be more worried if you hadn’t have asked that…”] I write software for a wind power company, so even though I sit on my ass eight hours a day staring at an LCD screen manipulating words and numbers and trying to distract myself from thinking about what a profound waste of carbon and resources my life is, I can still sleep at night knowing that I’m helping the planet. [“Shit, was that too dark too early?” “Yes, it was.” “Shit.”]

…

[“Don’t say masturbating, don’t say masturbating, don’t say masturbating, for fuck’s sake please don’t say masturbating…”] Oh, you know, the usual…hiking in the summer, skiing in the winter. How about you?

…

[“OK, this is a tough one. It’s alienating to rattle off the list of obscure bands on unknown labels you truly enjoy, and the Beatles makes you seem like a momma’s boy. Quick, name a few of the quasi-college-radio bands that you put on that mix CD in your car to play when you drive with co-workers to lunch that shows you vote against corporate radio and those ClearChannel fucks but also don’t listen to weird avant-garde noise music!”] Oh, you know… all kinds… I like a lot of stuff. [“FUCK!”]

…

[“Don’t say Trainspotting or Requiem for a Dream, she’ll think you’re a junkie.  Say Eternal Sunshine for the Spotless Mind, that’s the perfect answer to this question.”] Probably Trainspotting or Requiem for a Dream.

…

[“LAUGH IT OFF AND DON’T BLUSH OR FIDGET WITH YOUR SILVERWARE!”] Haha, no, definitely not, I don’t think I could ever stick a needle in my own arm.

…

[“Oh great, ten minutes in and you already have to explain the intricate subtleties of your opinion on illicit drug use. Where’s that fucking waitress?!?”] Excuse me, I’ve got to race like a piss-horse, I’ll be right back.

…

Eventually, after a beer or two, you start commandeering the conversation (as you should, because suddenly you’re this tremendously self-confident person full of passion and flailing animation, and it’s HER fault if she doesn’t like you, goddammit!). You begin relating foggy recollections of mundane stories from your past …

“During my sophomore year of college, a friend and I had a discussion about how excessive swearing and replacing internal sentence-arranging pauses with the word “like” made us ineloquent and our points easily dismissible.  In an effort to better ourselves, we decided to consciously stop saying “like” (when not meaning “akin” or stating a preference) in conversation for the entire week of spring break (quit swearing? Fuck that shit).  Did I become a more articulate, expressive, intelligible human being that week?  No.  Wednesday was St. Patrick’s day, and we found a bar that didn’t card (I was 20) nor limit patrons’ car bomb consumption.  I drunk dialed my mother (apparently) at 1:00 AM, threw up at least 3 times into a green plastic leprechaun hat on the drive home, and was not able to get up in the morning to go to work (we were in Naples, FL on a Habitat for Humanity volunteer trip).  Nowadays, I’m sure I use “like” inappropriately as much as I did then, I just don’t pay attention to it anymore.  Is that a bad thing? Probably.  But sometimes it’s, like, subconscious, you know?”

You pretend she thought that was funny, but she’s most likely on auto-pilot now, reacting not to the semantics of the words you’re saying but merely your intonations and body language, and reacting appropriately according to social standards).

Eventually, your food comes, and you feel relieved for several reasons:

1) You were wise enough to order a sandwich with a side of french fries, which will hopefully absorb most of the excessive alcohol you nervously drank during the early stages of your conversation,

2) The next two minutes require no substantial conversation beyond commenting on the food you’re eating (bonus: you don’t even need to be ironic!),

3) If you ask her about the quality of her meal before she asks you, at the end of the ensuing conversational volley, the ball is in her court, and you don’t need to flip through what’s left of your internal rol-o-dex of conversation starters, and

4) You have something to do with your hands (eating) that doesn’t look nervous or fidgity.

Once dinner is over, and she’s glanced tellingly at her watch, you generously admit that you should probably get going because you have to get up early for work tomorrow, to which she’ll immediately agree.  You implicitly walk her to her car, like gentlemen do, and she asks where you’re parked. You point in the opposite direction.  ”Oh,” she says, looking away in that “this is your cue to leave” way.

Here it is, the big moment.  The unspoken decision to see each other again soon or not.  There are several ways to physically say goodbye, and I struggle* with this situation every time.  We all know that a high-five is highly inappropriate, as well as the firm good-ol-boy handshake.  But did you perform well enough for a hug? If so, should it be one-armed or full?  Is she cultured enough to interpret a light kiss on the cheek as benign?  If you hold back, will she think you’re not interested?

Etc., etc., are you as tired of this allegory as I am?  We all know I’m not getting laid tonight.

* To most people, the word “struggle” elicits thoughts of slaves traveling the Underground Railroad, the plight of Palestinians in the occupied territories, or the blind man who climbed Mt. Everest, not some asshole’s attempt to stretch a metaphor for his timidity towards entering the vainglorious world of blogging.