9/27/2004 - Dating Terror Level

I have an aversion to women saying "I love you". I hate to say it, but at this age, and after all the BS I've been through, I have a hard time believing anyone in the game of love. Not that I don't think people can fall in love. I just think that people far too often fall in love with the idea of being in love, and they think that love exists with the first willing person that happened to have superficial traits that they liked.

Married women, how many of you are married to a man who had some money, or a sculpted back, or a nice car, or played a sport that you thought was cool, but you never really clicked and connected in the way that all your ridiculous movies imply should happen?

Married men, how many of you are married to a woman who was really pretty, or she did naughty things to you, or she played on your ego, but you never once had a moment with her where you felt like you were sharing good times and some laughs like you do with your friends? And now she talks about how she doesn't like your friends, and that she doesn't want them around. And she gets all irritated with you, saying that she wants to go out with her friends, but you make her feel guilty, even though you don't say anything negative, as a matter of fact you give her $100 and say "tear it up", and you don't even question anything when she comes home at 4:30 even though every bar closes at 2:00, and then you find out later that the friend she's out with, who, by the way, is married, picks up another man and brings him home and has sex with him while your wife waits in the living room, but your wife never said anything about it because you'd get mad. Hell, yeah, I'd get mad! You don't like my friend because he talks about his dog being in heat, and your friend is yelling "Cowboy, Up!"

See how I get myself worked up?

Anyway, back to the topic - I love all of my friends, but I won't say it to any woman, and I have an aversion to hearing any woman say it to me, because the following scenarios aren't a lot of fun:

"Jay, I love you."
"I know."

"Jay, I love you."
"Thanks."

"Jay, I love you."
"What did you just say?" <=== this actually happened

"Jay, I love you."
"Aw, dammit! (Sigh)... okay." <=== this actually happened, too

Now, "The L Bomb" is as predictable as a terrorist attack. Sometimes there are warning signs, and, if you don't watch yourself, you may trigger an attack inadvertently, since you never truly know what's going to set a terrorist or a woman off. Another similarity... they may have been planning it for a long time based on something you did long ago that wasn't meant to trigger them. Hence, we can establish warning levels, so we can be on our watch a little more. Perhaps put off the trip to Florida for a bit. Maybe set a little extra cash aside, and buy a little extra bottled water.

So I'm establishing my own terror warning level, which matches the Homeland Security Advisory System, but it's not quite as disturbing to the general public.

Green - Low risk of The L Bomb. It can still happen when we're green, but it would have to be some out-of-the-blue thing.
Blue - General risk of The L Bomb. I've seen a terrorist, but I don't think she's going to start acting up.
Yellow - Significant risk of The L Bomb. A terrorist has said that she enjoys time with me, and she's not been clearly relegated to the Friend status.
Orange - High risk of The L Bomb. A terrorist has started showing signs of preparation for an attack.
Red - Severe risk of The L Bomb. A terrorist has put significant effort into creating a scenario in which an attack could easily occur.

Right now, I'm at Orange. The details are classified.

9/26/2004 - Status Update

In my quest to become able to charm the most unattainable of women, I must provide my sexy readers with status updates.

The Waitress At The Bar
This isn't Cindy from Shenanigans. This is another waitress from another place entirely. I went to lunch with my friend Scott last week, and I saw a waitress that just mesmerized me. I'm a sucker for pretty eyes, and she had that. She also had the glasses that I affectionately call Naughty Librarians (S***n had Naughty Librarians, and she knew that I was defenseless against them).

I've never picked up a waitress, but I think I'm going to try. If I take a longshot like that, and I miss, no biggie. Waitresses are practiced in the art of rejecting men, and the good ones can do it in a way that they still get a good tip. "Oh, you're so sweet, but I can't date customers."

So, status on this waitress - incredibly attractive, soft spoken yet confident look about her. Jay walked out without even knowing her name. Jay received 100 Loser Points, redeemable for more one-player video games.

A good status update will identify tasks, issues, and a forward plan.

Task: Ask a waitress out.
Issue: Jay's a dink.
Forward Plan: Jay's going to stop being a dink, and just ask a waitress out.

However, there's a predecessor to asking a woman out. Think of this like software design, fellow software designers. Can you just say that you need to write Woman.AskOut()? Not at all! You need to know the parameters. You need to know the return value. You need to address the design, since you may have to overload this method for different woman types. What other interfaces will a woman have? Don't answer that, dorks - I can hear your snorting laughter from here. Object oriented programmers, insert joke here about women being objects.

So, fellow programmers, riddle me this - can we just call the Woman.AskOut() method without some sort of initialization? I think that it's very likely that the Woman object may have some properties, such as Woman.Receptivity, which may have been set by another application entirely. A Woman is very clearly an out-of-process multi-user component, correct? So we must perform some initialization, otherwise the method call is going to fail, no bones about it.

We need to pass properties about the calling application. Some properties, such as physical attributes, are public properties, which we don't need to pass. Others, such as SenseOfHumor or Confidence, need to be passed during initialization.

I need to think about this for a few days. Nerds and non-nerds, input is appreciated.

9/23/2004 - Road Rage

I get really upset while I'm driving. I'm really an even tempered person, though. If you see me in person, I am slow to anger, a good listener, and always respectful of others' points of view.

However, when I'm driving, you'd better not be driving like a damned moron.

My first gripe is people who drive too slow. I live at the intersection of two 55 MPH roads. On each of these roads, many of my fellow citizens decide that 55 MPH is too generous for them. They obviously believe that they should lead a grassroots campaign to lower the speed limit near my house to 35 MPH. I'm tempted to break into their houses while they're trying to cook dinner and turn down their oven from 375 to 275. I think that 375 is too hot - I don't want to cook at that temperature, and they shouldn't, either.

So, in review, I believe that the speed limit should be viewed as a lower limit. On a 55 MPH road, 55 MPH is the minimum. What's my rush? I'll tell you what my damned rush is! Wait! I'll tell you later! Get out of my way!

Another thing that bugs me is specific to Grand Rapids. On the East Beltline, all of the lights from I-96 up to Plainfield are timed. If a person drives slightly under 55 MPH on that stretch, they will catch every green light, given no traffic. People who know this fact have gotten silly nuts with this knowledge. Here's a description of what they do.

They drive approximately 60 MPH. About a half mile from the red light, they begin to slow down to approximately 45 MPH. Those of us who drive normally will pass the Stop Light Ranger at this point. We reach the stop light and we stop. Seems logical.

However, the genius, foresight, and planning of a Stop Light Ranger puts them about five yards in front of the light at the moment it changes, still traveling at 45 MPH. They scream through a freshly hatched green light, flying past those of us who drive merely to get from A to B. They are magnificent. We are dolts.

As near as I can figure, the main objective of this game is to remain in front of the other cars for the majority of the time. I tested this theory on three separate occassions with the following method: at any point on the course, I would remain abreast, yet slightly behind The Ranger.

Yes, Beavis, I said "abreast".

My theory is that, in this position of potentially passing The Ranger and nullifying their lead, they would increase their speed slightly. Additionally, as they slowed down in the half mile warning track before the next light, they would lose their edge if their competitor was slowing down with them. The competitor was supposed to continue forward to the stoplight to look foolish! Look foolish, damn you!

Results: During one experiment, my Ranger and I reached 80 MPH due to my pesky presence in the "just about to pass" zone. The Ranger had no algorythm for this event! Were his brain cobbled together with inferior hardware, it surely would have melted. Luckily, the wind caused by the excessive speed helped to super-cool the cranium. Meltdown blessedly avoided.

Since the primary objective is to remain in the forefront for the longest time, The Ranger's speed increased with no apparant limit. There was no safety valve in the driver's head to say "Stop goofing around once it gets ridiculous." Of course there was nothing to stop it once it got ridiculous, since the entire premise was ridiculous from the beginning!

As we slowed, I maintained my position slightly behind the leader. The leader slowed more. With approximately 1/4 mile to the stoplight, the speed had dropped to under 30 MPH.

I was quite literally messing up the one single area of their lives where they felt superior. It was magnificent!

My other two experiments had very much the same results, although not to the same proportions. Both of the other experiments triggered the realization that I was changing my driving habits in an attempt to dominate the other drivers, which is exactly what I thought was so damned stupid in the first place.

Due to my frustration with other people on the road, though, I am planning on modifying the horn on my car to honk when I'm not pushing on the horn. The implication is that I want to tell everyone that they're idiots by default, and I will stop honking for the rare driver that doesn't tick me off. Picture an incessant "HONNNNNNNK!" peppered with my voice yelling, "You're all idiots! Every last one of you!" from underneath the permahonk. That would sound great with the whole doppler effect. "hhhhhoooooOOOOONNNNNNNNKKKkkkkkkk(idiots!)kkkkk...."

9/21/2004 - Carpal Tunnel

I realized today that programmers like me are the very first breed of human to have used a mouse for as long and as frequently as we have.

I don't mean the rodent, you twisted apes, I mean the computer pointing device.

I first used a mouse in the mid 80's, pre-PS/2 mouse. Oh, and back then, PS/2 stood for Personal System 2, not PlayStation 2. Yes, boring, I know.

I'm going from memory with no fact checking, and I really don't care about the facts anyway, so please don't correct me, but the first mice required expansion cards, with interrupt switches and all that stuff. Hence, very few people had them except for me and my goober computer friends. Actually, we were more C-64 nuts than IBM, and it was more joystick on the C-64.

Side Note: Joystick is the most disturbingly named computer peripheral of all time. We'd tell our parents that we wanted a joystick for Christmas, which would leave them speechless. "What is a joystick? Is my son gay?"

At any rate, we started using mice in the mid 1980's, which puts us right around 20 years of actively using a mouse. I've recently discovered that many of us are suffering in silence, with a ticking time bomb in our wrists.

I get soreness in my mousing hand. Every woman I've dated in the past three years knows that there is one thing that pleases me to the core in a way that a belly rub does for a doggy. Rub my mousing hand. S***n, the day before I left her, sat with me in a movie theatre rubbing my mousing hand. To this day, that is on the list of my fondest memories of any woman.

I asked a coworker today if he had experienced the same thing (soreness in the mousing hand, not having my ex-girlfriend rub his hand). He said, "Oh, yeah. Sometimes, it's really bad and painful. I'm just going to ignore it."

Sounds like a plan. Computer guys aren't known to be real militant. At least I know I'm not suffereing alone, I guess.

9/20/2004 - Old Age

I became an old man at 2:25am EDT (-0400), September 20th, 2004. Over the weekend, I did two things that triggered my old age.

First, I played badminton with some children. I stretched, jumped, and swung like a real competitor. This was on Saturday.

Sunday, feeling slightly sore, but unable to admit that I was getting old, I did something really dumb. Not dumb because I did it while I was a little sore. This was just seriously dumb. I'll start at the beginning...

Sunday morning, I woke up, and, armed with Raid Wasp and Hornet Spray, I took out two yellow-jacket colonies. The main colony was contained within my grill, which I have not used all summer. I opened the top of the grill, prepared for battle, and was immediately swarmed. I sprayed half of the can in every direction, drenching the grill, the deck, the side of the house, myself, and one hundred bees in a glorious slow motion orgy of death while the passionate symphonies of Ludwig Van played in my head.

I timed my assault poorly, though. After removing the grill and rinsing off the deck, I went inside to wash the spray off of myself. When I got back outside, I saw perhaps ten bees all hovering around where the grill used to be.

Wasn't there some movie about intrepid astronauts that return to earth, only to find it destroyed?

Here's where testosterone trumps common sense. I immediately think, "I must defend my household!" I arm myself with a mere flyswatter, and lunge into battle. I swat at the bees in an epileptic assault. The flyswatter buckles under my might. Then, my worst fears are realized... the smacker part of the swatter flings off into oblivion, leaving me clutching nought but a malformed wire.

I am defenseless!

Quickly, I grab the only thing around me that I can find, an old towel that had been sitting on the back of a chair all summer. I return to combat armed with a rotting towel. I swing! Bees get a comfy "foosh" of air. The bees are speechless for a moment. There's an awkward silence. A drop of sweat falls from my brow. Then, all at once, the bees erupt in a chorus of laughter...

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

One of them tries to reel the rest back in. "Okay, guys (heh), let's pull ourselves together (haha)... okay... (snicker)..."

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"

I go back in the house amidst their demeaning laughter. I will not admit defeat to insects! I search for a new weapon for my crusade, and I find a plastic child's tennis racket. With the noble confidence of a samurai, I rush back to my struggle.

Now I'm wasting bees like faceless henchmen in a Bruce Lee movie. I'm striking poses between swings, with the racket poised over my head in the Dragon stance. Over the course of the afternoon, I liberated scores of heathen souls. At the end of the raid, I stand, isolated, with the setting sun behind me, hard earned sweat dripping from my lone warrior's face. Softly, coarsely, I speak. "Ashes... to ashes."

So last night, as I was doing my accounting homework, I started to feel it. The back had had a bit of a workout. I took a warm bath to relax, and then went to bed.

At 2:25am, EDT, I awoke in agony. I have a stupid waterbed, which I hate, but don't get me started on that topic. The waterbed provides no support for the throes of war.

I took five minutes to get out of bed, shuffled to the bathroom, then began a search through drawers for a magical medicine that could cure a backache.

Let me insert in here that I have not lived with another adult for approximately three and a half years. No medicine finds its way into my house but through me. Yet, three and a half years later, I still find miraculous little surprises all around my house.

I found some Ben Gay. I have never purchased Ben Gay. Perhaps my ex bought it years ago, and it has been sitting, unnoticed until this day. Personally, I think that God Almightly put that Ben Gay there. God has a sense of humor, and He was getting a kick out of what followed.

Anyone who has ever tried to apply Ben Gay to your own bad back will be able to relate to my puppy-dog wimpers. Reaching one's own back is difficult enough. Reaching the aforementioned back while it is in pain is... humorously painful.

So I massaged Ben Gay into my own bad back, and shuffled back to bed, wimpering and laughing at my misery. As I lay in bed, sticking to the sheets, trying not to laugh because it would hurt me to tears, I realized that I was now officially an Old Man.

9/16/2004 - Horoscope III

I have never known anything to be so out of touch with my life as my horoscope...

Your dreams are starting to come true, one by one. After all of the waiting, you can't believe that you're finally here. This kind of success is better than you hoped it would be, isn't it? The stars match you up with someone who has been desperately seeking your presence. True love spices up everything to perfection, wouldn't you say? Who could ask for anything more?

My dreams are coming true? Where was I when this happened? True love? I got your true love... right HERE!

However, horoscopes are open to interpretation. So let me try to interpret this as it applies to my life...

"Your dreams are starting to come true, one by one." When I was a kid, I always had that "falling dream". Yesterday, walking down the stairs at school, I missed a step. I totally came inches from a flailing swan song, nearly crashing to the floor in front of all of the kids, backpack sprawling, dragging my self respect across the dirty floor with it. Huh! That dream was almost fulfilled!

To the dream-analysis-inclined, the "falling dream" is symbolic of a fear of failure and lost control, which makes that dream that much funnier when applied to my life. Fear of failure? How many divorces define failure?

"True love spices up everything to perfection, wouldn't you say?" I'm trying to make sense of this one, outside of the obvious "nyah-nyah." Maybe it's all about inflection... maybe there is a brand of spices called "True Love Spices." And maybe "up everything" is just one step beyond "up yours" for those of us who are frustrated. True Love Spices up everything? Yeah, that would be perfection. So yes, I would agree with that statement, Horoscope. Lucid.

"Who could ask for anything more?" I think that this is going back to the old Abbot and Costello "Baseball" routine. That's a classic...

Lou: "Who could ask for anything more?"
Bud: "Exactly!"
Lou: "What's your problem?"
Bud: "No, you're my problem. What's on second."
Lou: "I don't know!"
In unison: "Third Base!"

So, while my horoscope is more out of touch with my life than I am, I still enjoy it.

9/11/2004 - Tonight

Background: I met Boo after she had seen one of our shows, emailed the band, and talked back and forth with me over email for a few days. We met in person at a bar that following weekend.

Story: I am meeting the aunt of a friend of my daughter's tonight at a bar where we are doing a show (actually the very same bar I first met Boo at). I was talking to Boo about this last night.

"You don't need me at your show tomorrow - you're meeting this girl there, and S***n might even be there, too".
"That's why I need you there - moral support".
"All the guys are going to think you're a real ladies' man".
"They know I'm not".
"Isn't it weird to meet this girl for the first time at your show?"
I thought for a moment...
"Actually, the weirdest thing is that I only talked to her over email for a few days, I don't really know what she looks like, and I'm agreeing to meet her at a bar".

3...

2...

1...

"Hey! That's how we met!"

Boo is priceless. Absolutely priceless.

9/11/2004 - Last Night

Boo, you know that I can't hold back any story that involves you trying to burn down a bar.

Everyone, My Boo got a little crazy last night. It was the Indian food.

The story opens with Boo and I in Grand Rapids' premiere Indian restaurant. The food was excellent. The service was a little quirky, but I think that that is part of the ambience of this part of town. As we sit and ponder what's next in our night on the town, we weigh the option of driving 30 miles north to some authentic country music. This isn't Garth Brooks type of stuff. This is "go to Howard City, turn left at the bar/grocery store, and look for the building with 'Bob's Country Outhouse' spray painted on the side".

Honestly, this is seriously tempting to me. This is the kind of thing that I love doing with my friend Jiggy. I think it'll bore Boo to tears, though. Add to that the fact that I would have to drive 30 miles north to this, 30 miles back to take Boo home, then 20 miles back north to get myself home.

So we decide to head over to a little bar called Mulligan's. Mulligan's has a house specialty called "Mulligan Stew". Judging by the taste and the pyrotechnic properties, it is Kahlua, rum, and Bacardi 151 on the top. I may have that wrong, though.

What fun it would be to watch My Sweet Little Dutch Boo drink something that's on fire. She is an oasis of all that is good and normal in the world. We should celebrate that with flaming shots!

So I go and get us two Stews, then spread out the straws, matches, and napkins.

"Okay, I'm going to light this on fire, Boo. Then you put your straw in it and drink it really fast".
"Call me 'Boob' - it's funnier".
"I'm not calling you 'Boob'".
"Why not?"

You see why I like spending time with this girl? Her focus just flows like water.

So, after a quick explanation, I light the shots on fire. I think I was in mid-sentance, and I think she was formulating a question, such as "What if the straw catches on fire", but the shot was already lit. It's showtime.

Her straw, now a reed of melting plastic, lights some spilled 151 on fire. Her napkin burns as she tries to see if her molten straw is still usable. Her shot is engulfed in flames, inside and outside of the glass.

I think it was at this point that Boo says "People are looking at us". Does anyone else find that hilarious in its innocence? We have fiery burning death on our table, and her focus is on the people looking at us. Of course they're looking at us. They need to decide when to run.

I confidently slap out the flames while the thought in the back of my head is "this is a really big fire". I may have seemed like I knew what I was doing. I admit to my sexy readers that I pictured myself standing on the bar stool, yelling "Everybody run! She'll kill us all!", and leading a mad charge out of the burning building.

Now Boo takes a spare straw, shot still flaming, and says "Okay, what am I supposed to do now?"
"Put the straw in quickly, and drink it really fast". I then demonstrate with my shot. She follows suit.
Now she sits with flaming, melting plastic straw #2, and cheerfully says "Yum! That was pretty good!"
"Your straw's on fire again".

We spent the rest of the night making faces at each other to test out our theories of how eye contact should be made in bars. I show her my freshly whitened teeth, pulling the lips up and out of the way so she can get a good look.

"Jay, you are a total nerd".

Birds of a feather, Boo.

9/9/2004 - Contact

Bek tells me that my quote from yesterday coming from my imaginary "type of woman I prefer" is, in reality, coming from a Golden Retriever.

I'm a sucker for that long blonde hair.

So I sent an email to the aunt today to ensure that my daughter is not, in fact, playing a cruel, heartless joke on her poor old dad.

Jodi: My dad is a very lonely, sad, broken shell of a man.
Friend: Aw. That's sad.
Jodi: Let's play a joke on him!
Friend: That would be great! Let's pretend that I have a beautiful aunt, and we'll pretend that we're fixing him up!
Jodi: And then we can watch him cry! His tears will bring us joy!
Friend: Bomb!

So now I'm listening to Lyle Lovett, thinking deeply about the disconnect in my life. Abbey Road, side 2. 1:00 am alcohol haze with heavy metal musicians. Studying accounting. Studying Texas Hold 'Em. Watching golf on TV. A big bottle of a vitamin B complex to counteract the fact that I'm getting old but still acting young. Are the mid-30's just another transition point, like the teens? Maybe life is just a series of transitions. Whatever. I'm digging it.

9/8/2004 - Second Childhood

I am being set up by teenagers.

Background: A few weeks ago, I had my band play at my daughter's birthday party. One of her friends has a single aunt, and this friend told her aunt something to the effect of "Jodi's dad is cute for an old guy".

Hell, I'll take "cute for an old guy". I used to have an aversion to "cute". Mickey Mouse is cute. Care Bears are cute. Hound dog puppies with big droopy eyes are cute. None of these entities are getting lovin'. I'm not talking about "oo, you squeezably soft MUFFIN" lovin'. I'm talking about "SAY my name!" lovin'.

So I always hated being called "cute". Just recently, though, I discovered that there is a type of woman that prefers "cute". There is a type of woman who really enjoys the sophomoric innocence, the passion for playfulness, the puppy-like, wide-eyed "we're going for a ride in the CAR? YES!" This type of woman turns out to be the type of woman I prefer. This type of woman says "Let's go to a ballgame! OH! Hot pretzel! And a beer! Now let's go gambling! Are you hungry? Let go eat! Let's keep having fun!" I'll keep the rest behind closed doors.

So I'll take "cute". I'm actually quite happy with it now.

Back to the topic. Jodi's friend's aunt expressed interest in meeting a "cute for an old guy" bass player. Jodi tells me that this aunt is beautiful. Beautiful is nice. I like beautiful.

So, for the past two days, Jodi and her friend have been the go-between, setting us up like we were two of their shy friends. Bek says that I have to tell Jodi to tell her friend to tell her aunt that she's cute, but don't tell her that I like her, and then she'll tell Jodi's friend to tell Jodi to tell me that she thinks I'm cute, too. Bek's scenario soon started bringing up bad memories of inexperienced teenage fumblings, so I'll stop there. My scenario was more... sophomorically innocent. I will write her a note, have Jodi pass it to her friend, who will pass it to her aunt. Soon, I'll be carrying her books, thinking "What's up with this?" while my friends laugh at me.

Tonight, I plan to stare in confusion and disbelief at a topless Eritrean woman in my dad's National Geographic. This weekend, my friends and I are going to try to find some guy to buy beer for us. Then we'll hang out in a park down by the Detroit River (I'm from Detroit) and try to drink it until the cops come and take it away from us, probably to drink it for themselves.

It's never too late for a second childhood.

9/6/2004 - That Cute Waitress Last Saturday Night

First entry in my "Blog With A Porpoise"...

Scenario: I was at one of those Mass Produced Middle Of The Road Restaurants, which we'll call Shenanigans, on Saturday night. I was with Boo and Inigo, and we were being served by a cute little blond with a sweet smile, who we'll call Cindy, since that's her real name.

Cindy was a doll. An absolute doll. The best thing about her was that smile. It was a little reserved, a little shy, but so genuine and sweet. It was pretty obvious to Boo that I was watching Cindy. I don't remember what Boo said to me, since I was probably watching Cindy, but it was something like "she's looking at you guys - I think she likes you".

"Yeah, right! I can't get her to make eye contact".
"Because she knows that, once she looks in your eyes, she's going to lose control".

Okay, I know when I'm being bamboozled. So I gracefully called her on it.

"Bull!"

Now, Boo looks me directly in the eyes and says "When a woman can't look you in the eyes, she's probably really interested in you, but she's too scared. It's the ones that look you right in the eyes that don't like you". Again, Boo says this looking me directly in the eyes.

?!? You're walking home.

"What you need to do, Jay, is flick your tongue out when you order another beer".
"Like this? I'll-ll have a Samuell-ell Adams. Ll-lll-ell-ll". Then I touch my nose with my tongue.
Inigo pipes in with something to the effect of "He's legendary".
Boo is in a fit of laughter at this point. "The bottom of your tongue is disgusting!"
The bottom of my tongue is like a placenta, and I know this, since I've stared at the thing in the mirror for extended periods of time. So touching my nose with my tongue is out.

Well, I'm seriously considering the fact that I need to put some swerve on Cindy. Boo and Inigo are having the time of their lives trying to play out scenarios, but I've blocked them out for the most part by this point. I can speculate that they said things like...

"Hey, baby... ll-lll-ell-ll."
"Oh, my! I've lost control!"

How did this play out? Jay turns into The Tongue Creature From The Depths, as Boo and Inigo have a grand time. I think Boo wanted Inigo to drive her home, since she couldn't get back in the car with that THING!

All in all, it was fun, since Boo and Inigo are two of the best people in the whole stinking world, but how do I rate the scenario in my quest? I didn't walk out of there with contact information for Cindy, so I made no progress towards that goal. I'll rate the night in a few categories related only to my quest, from 1-10...

Progress - How much progress did I make towards meeting a woman
1 = Total failure, I alienated someone.
10 = I met a potential ex-wife.
Wildness - How wild was the night
1 = I could have been in church.
10 = Where are my pants? Who are you? Where's my spleen?
Missed Opportunity - Was there a potential that I didn't pursue
1 = No opportunities at all.
10 = A beautiful girl with a good personality totally slipped away.

Progress: 3 - I didn't scare her away, but not talking to a woman is the same as slowly scaring her away.
Wildness: 3 - It was like church with beer. That would actually be really cool. YEAH, JESUS!
Missed Opportunity: 7 - This girl was very cute and seemed to have a good disposition and fun personality. She may have been too young for me, though, and I usually don't go for waitresses.

So I learned some lessons. Next time, the tongue is coming out.

9/6/2004 - Counter

I added a counter yesterday, so I wanted to point out to everyone that the total hits is "as of 9/5/2004". I don't want anyone to think that I've gotten 30 hits total in the past two months.

I'm obviously not bringing down servers with my overwhelming traffic, though.

Now, I'm bouncing around the idea of having a direction to my writings. I read some writings of Tucker Max yesterday. If you don't know who Tucker Max is, please don't go try to find out. I direct that to Boo, if you are reading this. Please. Tucker tells extremely graphic stories.

However, here's what I got out of Tucker's stories. There is a consistent theme. Tucker has his own distinguishing artistic style. His writings are pure yang.

I wrote an incredibly long post yesterday, explaining my motivations, my background, and my direction. My computer locked up before I finished, and I think that I was being directed by a force bigger than myself to not over-explain.

Brevity!

However, I will give a quick summary of each point.
Background : I was always a really shy guy. It was more than normal anxiety. I really missed out on a lot of great stuff.
Motivation : I don't like being shy. I think that interaction with other people is the best part of life.
Direction : I'm going to identify whatever great stuff I think I missed, and do it (to the best of my ability). And I'm going to tell everyone about it.

My writings aren't going to be graphic like Tucker's, so don't come here looking for stories of my sexual conquests. What goes on behind closed doors stays behind closed doors. However, I will identify things, such as asking out that cute waitress last Saturday night, and I will do what I can to follow through on them. And I will tell you all what her reaction is when she finds out that I have three children.

One motivation is to do this stuff for myself. Another motivation is to do this so that others who are tired of living more in the Cyber World than the Flesh World will get a little of their own motivation.

I'll try not to be too introspective, since sitting and being introspective is what's got me where I'm at. It's time to cut that out.

9/3/2004 - Food

"Hey, Jay, try this!"
"Ummm... what is that?"
"Shredded horse intestines, mixed with tartar sauce, spread on asparagus pickle crackers!"
"No thanks."
"Come on! Try it!"
"I'd rather not."
At this point, the assailant becomes irate. I have even been called anorexic (I'm 6', 160 pounds - lean, but not anorexic). This has happened to me hundreds of times, seriously. I'm ashamed to admit that there have even been times that I eat whatever crap I am offered just to avoid the situation...
"Hey, Jay! Try this!"
Chewing. "Hmmm... what is it?"
"Bone marrow!"

I have no lust for food. Not one bit. I eat because I have to eat to survive. I don't sit and look forward to meals, fantasizing about what delicacy might grace my palate. I don't care. I really just don't care.

Since there is no real interest in food, I have no motivation to blend complex flavors into new culinary adventures. I like steak. Smother my steak in something Frenchy and flitty, and I get upset. Take a perfectly good filet and wrap it in bacon (!), and I'm bewildered. You put any kind of fungus sauce on anything of mine, and I'm downright livid.

I've been nice to all of you people who take perfectly good food, shred it, mix it with some ridiculous sauce and minced green onions, dip celery into it, then say "That was delicious!" I've put up with your weirdness for too long, and I'm tired of it.

Here's my solution. I will eat the freakish concoctions, and I will immediately upchuck and die. There. Fine. I ate your mess, and I died.