big plans

One major goal in my life is to reach the point where I could walk into a dusty saloon and have the bartender glance briefly in my direction, turn to the nearby patrons and say: Here comes trouble.

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double header

Yesterday evening, I staggered drunkenly through two dates, the first a not-really-a-date-but-a-girl-I-knew-and-lost-touch-with-and-met-again-randomly-and-invited-out-for-drinks date, the second a part of the aforementioned (though now mainly repurposed for print) Friendster booty experiment. In short, the results:

The Friendster date was so bad as to be excruciatingly painful; I have now consequently imposed a minimum IQ requirement (and a maximum Gucci limit) on all future booty. [Further details, sadly, must be saved for the actual article.]

The first date (or non-date), however, was absolutely excellent, leaving me wishing it was more of a date date. Though, actually, it may have been more of a date date than I initially realized; at least, that’s what I started to suspect over the course of the evening. Which may have been largely due to the increasing influence of each passing drink. Either way, I was too much of a pansy to push my luck and test that theory. But I’m hoping to drag her out again, at which point, nerves steeled, my luck will definitely be pushed. [Note to the girl, who is doubtless reading this very entry: you have been forewarned.] [Meta-note regarding the previous note: yes, I am aware that using a weblog in this manner is largely akin to the middle school classic “my friend thinks your friend is cute,” about which I am wholly unrepentant. I say: whatever works.]

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definite article

Two uses of the word “the” sure to piss people off:

1.
Where: Before “MTV”.
Why: A fast route to cantankerous old-skool street cred!
How: “That little Lavigne hussy was on the MTV again; why, back in my day, a band without a synthesizer wouldn’t even have dared to show up at the recording studio… [adjusts false teeth]”

2.
Where: Before “Central Park”
Why: Piss off New Yorkers and look like a clueless tourist!
How: “I think Earl lost his fanny pack somewhere in the Central Park; we’ll never be able to find other tickets for Phantom!”

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strummin’ along

As I’ve always been a fairly fast learner, over time I’ve come to perversely value those things I’m painfully slow to pick up.

Take, for example, playing the guitar. Having loved the sound of classical guitar since my early childhood (when my parents would play a record of Julian Bream lute suites to lull me to sleep), about six months back I decided I really wanted to learn to play classical guitar myself. So I picked up a copy of Alfred’s Basic Guitar Method at the local Sam Ash, quietly snuck my roommate’s guitar off of its stand, and set to work.

By all logic, I should have been off to a roaring start. After all, I’d not only played the trumpet for more than fifteen years, I’d even played another string instrument (the upright bass) for long enough to perform publicly without too much embarrassment. But neither of those instruments, I soon realized, were chordal – on both the trumpet and bass, no matter how many notes appeared on my music page, I could deal with them sequentially. The guitar, however, introduced the dangerous world of chords, and (worse) polyphonic melody – two different things going on at the same time – something for which my simple, one-note-at-a-time mind was wholly unequipped.

By now, half a year later, by slogging slowly along, I’ve made it to the second book in Alfred’s series. And, frankly, I still suck something royal. But I intend to keep plugging away, with the hopes of one day making it through complex flamenco concertos (or, at least, through the version of “Meet Me in St. Louis, Louis” on page 7, my current nemesis) without anyone in the room cringing visibly. It might take years, but I’m sure I’ll get it. And when I finally do, I’ll be picking up a cheap electronic keyboard, a basic piano method, and opening up yet another whole world of musical pain.

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beefcake

While I’ve made good progress in my aforementioned muscle-gain efforts, I recently began to question whether the results were worth the work. Up twelve pounds of lean mass, and the difference was only slightly noticeable. Should I keep packing on the pounds, I wondered? And, if so, how many?

Sure, I had a sense of what might happen if I went wildly too far; Sylvester Stallone and I, for example, measure in at the same height, though he tips the scales a solid 50 pounds past my comparatively svelte 145. But while I’d have no desire to climb anywhere near Rocky’s steroidal ridiculosity, there’s certainly a rather large gray area between me and the former (fictional) heavyweight champion of the world. Wasn’t there some more aesthetic weight in between, I wondered? One where people, upon seeing me, might assume that I went to the gym, but not that I lived there?

Then, this weekend, as part of a wild movie-watching spree (an occupational hazard of film producing), I popped in to catch The Italian Job, a bland yet resonably enjoyable big-budget heist film. After, rooting around the web to find the various stars’ filmographies, I discovered that Mark Wahlberg also matches my height, and weighs in just past 165. There was my answer. While I don’t wear Rambo-esque headbands (okay, maybe occasionally), I certainly own enough Calvin Klein’s to make Marky Mark proud.

So, 165. Not that I could pack on another fifteen or twenty pounds of muscle any time soon. But it’s nice to know that, if I could, it would likely be well worth the work.

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couch potato

I discovered this afternoon that, bundled with my Time Warner cable modem service, I apparently also receive Time Warner On Demand, a digital tv-based system which allows users to instantly pull up a wide variety of series and films on HBO, Cinemax, Showtime, and a couple of other channels. After watching the three Sex and the City episodes I missed earlier this season (replete with ability to pause for mid-show pee breaks), I’m convinced there may finally be something to give Tivo a run for its money.

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hey casanova, redux

To extend today’s theme of sappy girl-gift giving tips, another helpful hint for intrepid young daters:

Wrap the gift very well. I repeat, wrap the gift very well. If you cannot, find a store that can (and have them teach you, so you can do it on your own in the future).

Invariably, she would rather receive an empty box exquisitely wrapped than whatever you’ve bought for her in a brown paper bag. (This makes no sense to me either; but it is the way of the world.)

Nota Bene. My online friend Nara Vaughan adds:

Dead right on the gift-wrapping, though it is important to wrap it YOURSELF, not just have the girl at the store do it. (Too professional indicates lack of personal effort.) Tip: Plus points for a small flower/flowers tucked into the ribbon on the top of the present.

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hey casanova

On the way to my office this morning, I passed a man buying two dozen roses for his girlfriend’s birthday. I wanted to stop him, to tell him she’d be just as happy to receive a single hand-picked rose as that giant tangled bunch. And what she’d really want, I would have told him, is to receive the other 23 roses, one by one, on days that weren’t birthdays or anniversaries or Hallmark holidays, but where he was just passing by a flower shop and thinking of her.

We guys don’t get it. In our minds, a bigger, more expensive toy is always a better gift than a smaller one. But in the perilous world of girl-gift giving, it really is the thought that counts. Any present that requires effort on our part, demonstrates we were listening that time she hinted at liking something two months back, or just implies that we spend large chunks of the time we’re alone thinking about her, is solid gold.

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any advice?

Is there a statute of limitations on dating friends’ exes? After how many years of post-breakup time does that become kosher? Or is it always tref?

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