How Do I Find Women?

Christie Hartman wrote this thoughtful piece called Why Bars Suck for Meeting Women.

Did you read it? Good.

In my opinion, Dr Christie is right. But I can't help feeling that there's more to it.

Here's where we agree:

~ bars are about alcohol, and alcohol can be bad wrt dating judgement etc

~ bars can be noisy and bad for chatting

~ bars are not full of women looking for a man

But:

~ bars are about alcohol, which does loosen people up

~ bars can be quiet enough to talk in comfort

~ bars do serve women who are looking for a man

I think the big point Dr C is making is that men in a bar are motivated differently from the women. Fair enough. Men might be there to pick up chicks, but they're also there for other reasons, such as getting a buzz on, being with buddies, or checking out other people.

Wait a second...these reasons...finding a buzz, being with girlfriends, or checking out other people: Couldn't they be female motivations too?

That is my only point of slight disagreement with the post. Bars attract people because they are designed around sociability, with the lubricant to make it work. It will forever be so, and men will always be on the lookout for women there, because we're always on the lookout for women, whether that's a good idea or not.

Importantly: It's not necessarily about finding women, it's about the activity of being in the place where we think the probability is better. To use a simile, they call it "fishing", not "catching". Each has its own reward.

Outside of work, finding venues where you might just bump into someone new and delicious isn't that easy. Yes, we should all be more clever about this. Single, available women are everywhere - the supermarket, the gym, the coffee shop and on the train in the morning. But for an individual man to approach a woman in any of those settings requires a goodly amount of chutzpah.

Which isn't to say that we shouldn't - in fact, I advocate for men to widen their scope of interests and venues in which they approach and attempt to connect with women. Because I think online dating is bad for us, my alternative is for men to look up from their phones and notice the woman ahead of them in the coffee line. Talk to her and say hello. That's how we learn to be in the real world again.



Bottoms Up, One-Step-at-a-Timers.

Hamburger Helper

 Priyanka Chopra.

Alcohol is to dating as Hamburger Helper is to ground meat - it stretches slim pickin's into something more substantial. Booze/Helper won't change the underlying person/protein, but it will fill out the gaps in your character/meat quality. Think of it this way - would  you prefer a short date of complete honesty in a white room with two chairs and a table, or a couple of hours of low-level banter in a pub?

The meat equivalent would be one small portion of raw beef as against a big gooey cheeseburger. We know which one is more unadulterated - so to speak - but are early dates better if consumed raw? Like eggs, meat and first dates, warnings against consuming them uncooked exist for good reason.

It's not a costless bargain, this one. Your self/patty will suffer from the dilution, a little at first, but more if you over-indulge. The burger that's mostly Helper won't be re-ordered, coz it's all bulk filler and no taste. Likewise, a completely plastered plating probably has you scraped into that person's scrap bin forever. The idea is to have your date want to taste you on more dates.

 However, if you can find the optimum mix, you're on the way to making the best of the date/meal. My buzz peaks at around 1.7 martinis, knowledge that's quite hard come-by. At that point I'm still mostly sober, but loose enough to lose the usual dating inhibitions. That is the aim, by the way, to overcome nerves or other social inhibitors that get in the way. These problems are born of overthinking, and the best way to circumvent thinking that I know of is a good stiff drink or two.

But be smart and order food with your drinks. I'd suggest tapas-sized steak carpaccio and frites.





Bottoms Up Buzzed Bollywood Beauties.

Relationship Mash-Upship

Sophie Marceau pic credit.

Beautifully matched couples are boring. Kens and Barbies together are meant to be seen as a pair, batteries sold separately. Surely they have their tiffs and differences like any other be-coupled life forms, but it's less dramatic when you know there'll always be someone else. The drama of a bust-up barely registers when the danger is only of when they'll find another one just like the last. Answer: It won't take long.

Couples who are clearly different in appearance raise interesting questions. Do they know they look mismatched? What is it they have in common? Which one of them has the most devious motivation? Are they together out of spite? Which of them is desperate?

[You'll note that I attribute less than honourable motives here. That speaks to my mind, not to our theoretical odd pair.]

In my experience, there are a few broad categories where couples look noticeable. There's the big age difference, the big looks- or body-style difference, and the style difference. A style difference would be, say, someone fully tatted-up with a cleanskin. Cheatin' Jesse James and Sandra Bullock is one example. Less obvious mismatches are those involving social ability, wealth and intelligence. Intelligence is a tricky one, because measurement is so subjective.

Looking around, it's clear that we tend to meld with those who more-or-less look like they belong to us. That might simply be because all we want in a partner is the opposite-sex version of our favourite person. Us.






Bottoms Up, Self-Esteemers.

Lessons From My Cat Part 2

Male metaphors tend towards the active: hunting, chasing, holding, making her mine. Let's be kind and say that there's a certain carnivore and prey smell to our way of thinking. The implication is that women in the wild are innocent unwilling participants.

Which is dumb. Male metaphors can be crap.

As I noted previously, the humble house cat gives us fundamental clues about female human behaviour. Think of her as woman stripped of overthinking and emotion - she's the essence of feminine...in a soft, seasonal fur coat. Not that I am suggesting women are large upright cats without tails. It's that I see more than coincidence in the commonality of feline and feminine. Plus I love both cats and women.

But back to the chase metaphor. Yes, on one level men hunt for women, but it's like describing the Champs-Élysées as a Parisian street. A street takes you somewhere. A French avenue is for strolling. One takes one's time, checking out the boutiques, being surprised by what one finds along the way. Waiting for just the right moment to steal a kiss. Waiting for her to tell you by her actions when she wants a kiss.


Which is the way my cat works. Most of the time she's engrossed in her own world. There's stuff to look at, food to eat, naps to take. Washing. Grooming. Exploring. But once a day, she makes it perfectly clear that we need to be affectionate. She'll jump on my desk and sit on the keyboard. Or she'll climb onto my lap. That's the point at which I have to - I must - stop everything and focus completely on her. A petting session or a few minutes of brushing is enough...physical contact to reconnect with each other before we get on with everything else.

Observing and reacting. Not hunting.



Bottoms Up, Tail-less Ones.

Supermarket for People

Everywhere. They're everywhere. Dating sites for this, dating sites for that, dating sites for the most obscure sub-groups of humanity...and some in which only one partner is human.



Ahem.



If the internet has become the most efficient way yet of delivering porn, one side-effect is the cereal-aisle choice of ways to find The One. Not only are we singles looking up at El Capitan when figuring out how to get the right squelchy one, the delivery system is now its own nightmare. Am I a J-Dater? Am I after a MILF? Can I narrow myself down dating only millionaire women?



Oh, darn. That last one is only for women looking for millionaires. Maybe the market niche for men looking to date millionairesses is ripe for exploitation.



When we're all in our dotage, I predict we'll look back on this time with amusement. Apart from the fact that our current state of connectedness will look as clumsy as Bill Gates trying to dance, internet dating will look spectacularly agricultural. Most of these places are great big classified sites with photos. They suit men because we can rifle through a ton of photographs to find the horniest looking women, and send them an email to spark their attention. NO effort required. Thoughtful interest in finding a real relationship NON-existent. Trolling for sex at a MAXIMUM.



Yes, I know. Relationships do start from dating websites. My point is that they're entirely unnatural. Are we really designed to meet people by way of a People Catalogue? Does the supermarket Dating Aisle sound right to you?



There are some folks creating more organic sites. My favourite is Barstalk. The idea of meeting people in real life is the BIG reason I like the idea. It feels much closer to the natural architecture of finding a mate. They use the internet as it should be, as a filter to discard those who aren't up for a drink. Not that drinking is necessarily the right connective tissue for everyone, but if you do drink and live in New York City, it's logical to see if there's someone out there who shares your bar preference or simply looks like a likely martini-partner.



Too many choices make life overwhelming. Simplicity burns away the fog of indecision. Dating can be simple too. Let it be so.









Bottoms Up, Captain Morgan.

What can you do for me?

Hi honey.

I'm cute.

Look at me. My skin is soft. If I decide, you can touch it.

What can you do for me?

* giggle *



Bottoms Up, Lucksters!

Faith. Hope. Charity.

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Hope Springs Eternal

As an underaged but regular drinker, Friday nights were everything. Sports, school, vacations: nothing came close to that specific nervous anticipation before meeting my buddies for (illegal) drinks on the last day of the week.

Naturally there's something about being a teenager. One has the sure knowledge that you have the world completely by the balls. As a male, my own balls told me everything I needed - that I could get away with the underage drinking gig; my parents would never know; that I would be irresistible to girls; that this time would last forever.

Wrong. On all four counts.

But the pain of such mistakes lead to refining the plan. Once I was a legal drinker, the focus shifted from the thrill of drinking in public to the women one might meet in the process. The Friday night anticipation - and associated excited nervousness - persisted, not for the booze, but for the broads. A little success in the romance department whilst drinking sealed the deal.

Alcohol reduces inhibition (duh) a fact I continually learn and sometimes regret, usually the morning after. So it's (again, duh) no surprise that drinking and dating go together like gin and tonic. More accurately drinking and pre-dating go together, because nothing puts one in mind of meeting the love of one's life than a glass or two of champagne, or 1.2 martinis, or a teaspoon of absinthe, or whatever gets you to the perfect drinking buzz.

Forgive me then if this love affair with drinking, friends, and the chance of meeting new lady friends mash up with Friday night anticipation, for this I know is true: If you walk into a bar and order a drink, you never know with whom you'll walk out.




Bottoms Up, Barflies!



Pic from Sports Illustrated (obv) and here [link]

Absinthe Makes the Heart Beat Faster, Cheri

It's a romantic conceit, of course, a vision as imaginary as it is unobtainable. Living in a Parisian garret occasionally crosses my mind, devoting my hours to creating something lasting from words, and perhaps gaining a French lover or two along the way.

The aim is to find any place a couple of levels above the street, because I'm not sure about the supply of garrets. One big room would be best, with floor to ceiling windows, preferably with a view of something louche - the rear of a boudoir or the window of a rich man's pied-à-terre so I could write about the women coming and going.

My bed would be big and low. It would live in the style of a loft, half-way between the main floor and the ceiling. A short flight of stairs - a ladder, really - would give it the feeling of being the top bed of a set of bunks. The fun of watching women climbing up would be worth the small awkwardness.

The pace of the day would be strictly French. (Hopefully) morning sex upon waking. Coffee and croissant for le petit déjeuner, then writing. A little yoga around noon, followed by lunch with a friend. Wine, to loosen my Protestant mind. A little more writing.

With good planning, a lover would arrive around a cinq heures, to indulge that most sophisticated Parisian scene; the cinq à sept aka love in the afternoon. We'd share dinner, perhaps eating out, perhaps cooking for ourselves, all the while watching for goings-on across the street. Material for writing is what I'm here for, it's not a vacation. On weekends we might head out, to a wine bar or for some absinthe.

My heart grows fonder at the thought.




Miss Paris from here. [link]

Edited for greater pomposity.