Romeo in black jeans?

• It was a nice weekend. Sometimes you just have to pack it in and escape the grind for a bit. Some booze, good food, and a few sassy women seem to take the edge off pretty nicely.

I think I’ll launch myself outside of the odd universe of my work today and into the murky nebula of relating to my fellow man. Blame it on Violet Blue’s podcasts if you desire.

In many ways, a brief exchange in the movie “Clerks” sums up a fair bit regarding myself.

Dante Hicks: “But you hate people!”

Randal Graves: “But I love gatherings, isn’t it ironic?”

There is nothing quite as surreal as a misanthrope attempting to cultivate an evening of flirtation and dalliance. It’s like scuba diver who can’t stand fish intentionally diving a reef seeking barracuda. You find yourself working at cross-purposes.

Set aside if you will the impact my current work schedule usually makes in making evening plans, because honestly, it’s just an excuse. There are usually a few factors that are always in effect to interfere with living a rock-star lifestyle, even if you are a rock-star since you’d still have to set up times to rehearse, record, perform, etc.

The reality is that I am personally unmotivated. The reward for girding my loins, dusting off my off-beat charm, and embarking upon an evening out usually does not off-set the investment I put in.

I enjoy people watching and listening to decent music. I enjoy the change of scene I am afforded. The muted feeling that someone new and interesting might connect with me is something to savor.

On the other hand, my first instinct upon entrance is to find a good vantage point and scan the mass like a cheetah observing a herd of gazelles. To some, it comes across as predatory. To others, I just look lost. Neither is optimal. Which means instead of assessing my environs as rapidly and completely as possible, I have to take my time in percolating through the crowd.

This brings up a secondary issue; personal comfort zone. In short, if I can reach out my arm and touch you when I have not invited you that close, I’m going to be tense. Know how hard it is to project being open and approachable when your id is shrieking to rip the throat out of anyone not giving due distance? Alright, this just means slipping the brain into “serial killer mode”, disassociating anything that is truly “me” from the persona I choose to wear. I’m back in the game.

It was aptly told to me from a very dear female friend that picking up women is a numbers game. At the most blatant, a guy standing on any given city street asking every woman who passes by if she wants to have sex, will find an amenable woman sooner or later. Who knows what sort of person she would be, but statistically all he has to do is ask enough people. Bring this back to me. I hope to find someone interesting and interested in me. Subsequently, I get to have a lot of superficial chit-chat and body language interpretation.

Have I mentioned that I find the vast majority of people to be tiresome and little more than meat-puppets? It doesn’t take long before I get discouraged and bored. This is generally the point when leaving is called for.

A couple hours of endlessly vapid discourse only to reveal what appears to be an unending parade of personalities as complex as a Lego brick, tends to leave one with the impression that perhaps this was not the most rewarding use of one’s time. It doesn’t require very many hollow evenings before it casts a pall over the willingness to exert the energy.

“She” may be out there that night, but I know there will be legions of fodder.

Maybe this is why I don’t feel interested in gambling beyond an occasional single throw of the dice.