Why are you hanging on?

Divine darlings gathered for a reunion last night to drink wine and catch up on gossip and sex lives. I lurked. Finally, one of the lovelies noticed me and thought she knew me from somewhere. Yep, I dated her friend. I played along, hoping the ex didn’t trash me too thoroughly.

“Hi, you look so familiar to me.”

“You’ve probably seen me on TV.”

“Really?”

“Yep, Awful Chefs, Lifestyles of the Poor and Insignificant, or The Perpetual Bachelor.”

“Ha! No, I don’t know you from TV.”

“Well, Christine, I haven’t a clue.”

“Wow. I’m impressed. You remembered my name.”

“I also remember where we met and what you do for a living. Still impressed, or is this becoming creepy?”

Take note, gentlemen: Remember as much as you can when you meet a woman. Drill it into your memory. Make room by casting away the useless ditties you’re storing, such as:

• Childhood friends’ phone numbers.
• A grade school teacher’s name.
• The details surrounding your first orgasm.
• Important dates, which can easily be transferred onto an electronic calendar.
• How to make a margarita. (Leave it to the experts.)
• The lyrics to “Da Butt.”
• Quotes from Seinfeld.
• High school locker number or combination.
• Pi.
• The capital of Norway.
• Who was president before Reagan.
• Where you hid the porn.

Turns out the woman I impressed was married (*sigh*) but her friend was delicious and ringless (*grin*), so I began my mating dance. Turns out my target had a boyfriend I could tell she was none too pleased with.

“Why do you stay?”

“Because I can’t see myself hanging out in places like this.”

“Oh, it isn’t so bad.”

“It’s such a scene. Ugh.”

“And you’d rather stay in an unfulfilling relationship?”

“Beats being alone or desperate.”

“Leave him immediately.”

“What?”

“Go home right now and start packing. This is nonsense. You’re wasting your time forcing something to work that has probably been over for months or years. Move on!”

“No. I’m not going to go through dating hell again. I can’t imagine hanging out in bars or online dating sites. That would be depressing.”

“It is what you make it, darling. If you seek desperately, you make yourself unattractive. If you’re amused by the process and see it as a way to meet new people, you’ll thrive.”

“So, are you telling me you’re here in this club tonight to network?”

“That’s not the ultimate goal, but it’s one I can live with. I met you and you’re not going to sleep with me … are you?”

“Doubtful.”

“See? I still like you and am enjoying our conversation even though it probably won’t end in a sex puddle.”

“Fair enough.”

God, I hate to see women hanging onto to the frayed threads of remnant relationships. Please lose the man who isn’t treating you right as well as your fear of being judged for doing so.

Bar etiquette for those with rookie livers.

There’s a difference between people who drink often and people who get drunk often. I am a professional among the former, who dabbles in the latter, when necessary. As such, I’m out practically nightly honing my skills and occasionally slamming my clipboard to the turf as I witness egregious fouls. Play is becoming sloppy, people. Something needs to change. The don’t-be-a-pussy beer commercials aren’t helping because they are self-serving and everyone knows light beer doesn’t taste like anything except rusty club soda.

Here are today’s lessons, which I hope you’ll share with the stumbling, bumbling first-beer-ever boobs you see out this weekend.

• Do not buy anyone a drink unless there is a legitimate chance it will make you more attractive to the recipient and said recipient hasn’t already warned you that you’ll never see her or him without clothing.

a.       If you’re a man, do not buy me a drink. If you buy me a drink, you create yet another debt I must repay. This annoys me. Also, I’m probably not through with the drink I have, so the new drink is going to become warm and watery before I get to it. This also annoys me.

b.      If you’re a woman, do not buy me a drink. If you’re attractive, you will have emasculated me causing embarrassment as my brothers wonder what happened to my testes. If you’re mediocre, please allow me to determine how much I need to imbibe to make you a mating option. If you’re unattractive, you’ve put me in a difficult situation, which will probably cause me to excuse myself to the toilet and set off the rear-exit alarm as I sprint to my Jeep.

c.       If you’re a bartender or server, don’t buy me a drink. I used to own a club and nothing irked me more than when one of my bartenders said, “This one’s on me.” Technically, it was fucking on me, the owner. Right? So, if you’re the owner, I will accept your generosity and probably frequent your establishment. Don’t be surprised if you find me sleeping in a stall. It happens and you’d be partially to blame. Consider yourself forewarned.

• If you’re posted up at the bar, use your peripheral vision for more than locating cleavage and cock lumps. Be aware of people who are thirstily waiting for access to the bartender. You’re probably blocking their advance. See them waving those large bills and credit cards or doing jumping jacks? No, they’re not Richard Simmons’ fans; they’re parched. Move it, roadblock!

a.       If you stubbornly block access, this is what you will encounter: The odorous armpit of stoner dude who thinks himself a surfing Kurt Cobain reincarnated and thus refuses to wash his hair while he wears the same goddamn plaid flannel shirt six times before tossing it in the laundry.

b.      The two attractive ladies standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they’re scanning your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and coloring. Ah, but you think you’re slick. You offer to get the bartender’s attention for the ladies or take it a step further and offer to order their drinks. Neither the bartender (trying to make a living off you’re one dollar tip) nor the ladies need you involved in the transaction. Step aside.

c.       You’re going to be dripped upon. It may be as innocuous as condensation or it may be pinot-gone-wild. In some bars—the ones who play Taylor Swift’s music—what lands on you may be tobacco drool from the lower lip of an inbred who just mated with a cousin, four-legged creature, or jar of Mother’s strawberry preserves. Spit leaves stains, so, unless you’re wearing a body condom, scram.

Take these lessons to heart, friends. You must study and remember that practice makes others hate you a little less.

Who deserves thanks?

I’m not spinning a football and pointing to the sky. I’m not doing some oddly choreographed high-five with an on-deck batter. I’m not bumping chests with a sweaty fellow wearing silly shorts and a tank top. I’m not even saying “Hi Mom” into the camera. I’m simply saying thank you to readers who maintain a sufficient sense of humor and logic to be entertained by my rants without calling me a douche … to my face, at least.

“You post some pretty bizarre shit.”

“That’s what I do.”

“Why?”

“Because mundane shit is boring, by definition.”

“Aren’t you worried about offending people?”

“I don’t give offense; people take it.”

“Doesn’t it make you feel bad to hurt someone’s feelings?”

“No, because that’s not my intention. I’m looking for a reaction, hoping it involves a smirk and a giggle, and I’m willing to accept a few casualties along the way.”

“So, why don’t you write more romantic pieces and limit the casualties?”

“That would be suicidal. I’d be the casualty. Look, I can be loving and romantic. I can write deep poems and letters of adoration. Those are saved for that someone special, when and if she ever comes along.”

Think of comedic writers this way: They are handing you, the reader, a loaded whoopee cushion. Now, you can choose to place it on your chair and deploy the most vile sounding yogurt fart just as Uncle Ted is about to carve the turkey. Or, you can eat the cushion and be hurt by it. Obviously, the writer’s hope is that you cause jellied cranberry to come flying from your relatives’ noses. If you take the gag and gag on it instead, how can you blame the writer?

“Why must everything be about sex and dating?”

“They are two of the most desired things there are, and rarely do we get them right.”

“I disagree. I love my husband.”

“And that’s entertaining how?”

“It’s inspirational.”

“No, it’s annoying to your friends, like me, who have not found the golden hen or have decided not to settle for any hen.”

“So you hate me because I’ve been successful with my relationship.”

“I don’t hate you, sweetpea. Your story doesn’t inspire or entertain me. Now, if you go home tonight and walk in on your husband using his flesh baster to semen stuff the turkey while watching Project Runway, you’ll have me hooked.”

“Gross.”

“Ah, what was that? Did I detect a tiny smile? You may be turning to the dark side.”

“Never!”

“Then make sure you don’t read what I post later today.”

“You wouldn’t.”

She don’t know me too well, do she?

Seriously, though. Thank you all so much for tolerating, supporting, encouraging, and inspiring me. Happy Thanksgiving, my friends!

I may need to release a sex tape.

I met with my publicist about taking things to the next level, whatever that may be. Nobody wants to live in a cubicle for fifty hours a week. To avoid that corporate trap, I need to sell more books. To sell more books, I need more exposure. A logical person would surmise that increased sales should come from higher quality books. Untrue. I have one word for you: Snooki. You didn’t hear me? How about this word: JWOWW?

“OK, here’s what needs to happen: You need to leak a sex tape.”

“Very funny.”

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m fifty. Have you lost your mind?”

“Look what it did for Tommy Lee, Paris, and Kim.”

“I don’t have half the penis Tommy Lee has and the other two, while closer to me in genital size, happen to be beautiful women.”

“None of that matters. It’s all about exposure and publicity.”

“Well, I’m not exposing anything.”

“It can be done tastefully to help your image.”

“Really? My image is so poor that a sex tape would actually improve it?”

“Well, you are known for dating and dashing as well as picking on poor, defenseless dogs and chubby gals.”

“But …”

“You also poke fun at cougars, bikers, Bostonites, and religious fanatics.”

“Technically, they’re Bostoners. Heh, heh.”

“Hush. So, to combat all of this negative energy, we accidentally release a sex tape featuring you and a fifty-five-year-old woman from Boston.”

“I’m intrigued. Continue.”

“You met her at a café while on a city bike tour. She recently moved to San Diego with her chocolate Labrador.”

“God help me.”

“He will because you two go at it in her bedroom beneath a crucifix mounted above her headboard while you wear your bike helmet and her dog lies at the base of the bed watching.”

“Why the helmet?”

“She’s going to be a little rough with you and the crucifix will fall and crack you in the skull.”

“Well, can she at least wear a nun’s habit then? I used to have a thing for The Flying Nun.”

“Now, we’re getting somewhere.”

“I want her to call me Reverend Lance and get nasty without saying any dirty words. We need to be cognizant of the Motion Pictures Association’s film rating. She can be like, ‘Oh gee whiz, yes, freak me, baby. Give it to me. Don’t you love my fragrant tulip? You’re making me tremendously not dry. Your banana is so unripe right now.’”

“What have I done?”

This could work, I began thinking. Still, this dish, like most, could use more topical spice.

“What if the woman is a college woman’s basketball coach and I have my way with her in the locker room? Then, an assistant coach hears the moaning and slapping. The assistant makes all sorts of racket, trying to get us to stop but we’re too busy with the pump soap, hair pulls, and all. Afraid of the fallout, the assistant runs from the locker room and calls Kris Jenner.”

“Kris Jenner?”

“Yes, of course. Kris just happens to be in the middle of a torrid lesbian affair with the coach. Kris storms into the locker room in a jealous rage—OK, with a dog—and demands an explanation while spraying Chloe and Lamar’s Unbreakable fragrance to clear the scent of sweaty old-people sex.”

“Why haven’t I learned not to tempt you?”

“Have the camera crew ready by six. I’ll go shave my balls.”

Are you a john to media whores?

We enjoy poking fun at famous people who make lots of money with little talent, such as reality TV stars. Ironically, by doing this we are feeding the frenzy. We should consider the art of making oneself popular (branding) to be a talent worth admiring and cultivating. Why? Consider the following:

• Snooki is paid more for college appearances than Nobel Prize winners are.
• The Situation will make over $5 million in 2011.
• The Kardashians will make over $65 million in 2011.
• Publications pay millions of dollars for the rights to publish celebrity baby pictures, weddings, and “Just Like You” pictures of stars who couldn’t be less like us (unless we were popular enough to hire publicists and paparazzi to pose us).

At first, I was disgusted by this. I take part of the blame because I subscribe to magazines like Us Weekly and regularly watch shows like The Bachelorette and Jersey Shore as well as shows that generate most of their success by commenting on reality shows (e.g. Chelsea Lately).

Women are the primary johns as they can’t seem to get enough of housewives, dancers, singers, daters, addicts, and dieters. I had a female friend stay with me for a few days on her vacation. She chose to stay in one night to catch up with the Kardashians … on her vacation! I watched her watch. She was mesmerized, as was I.

Then, I fell deeper into the trap.

I enjoy watching The Millionaire Matchmaker. When I moved to the sugar daddy and gold digger capital of the world in 2004, I was fascinated by how many women would trade their pride to be with unattractive men with thick wallets. I witnessed these men (most of them faking it) reel in women with ease, only to treat them like cufflinks. That’s why MM appeals to me—Patti, the host, exploits the freaks on both ends of the transaction. Clever woman!

This concept only works with spoiled men and desperate women. Try putting together a Barely Getting By Matchmaker and it will be cancelled in two weeks. “Meet Joe, a middle manager at a financial planning company who works fifty hours a week, struggles to pay his bills and child support, and forces himself to hit the gym to combat his expanding belly. He can’t find time to meet his soul mate. Meet ten women who spend most of their time fighting aging with clothing, makeup, treadmills, and hair coloring, which too often is wasted on unappreciative men.” *Yawn*

I ran into Patti Stanger from The Millionaire Matchmaker at a local club this past summer. She was attractive, kind, and buried in her Blackberry. She fascinated me, so I bought her a drink and flirted as she checked me out over her reading glasses. No luck. Afterward, I thought, Why did I do that? I’m not attracted to her. Obviously, her show is produced and scripted. Liking her on the show isn’t the same as liking her in person. I guess I was star struck.

Then, a few weeks ago, a friend of a friend contacted me saying Patti asked him to find her “a nice San Diego man.” He had me send an email with some personal ditties and pictures, which he forwarded to her. “Be patient. She’s very busy,” he warned me. No shit.

After I sent the email, I felt icky. Why must I sell myself to a woman I hardly know? Screw that! She should send me a sales pitch. Then I considered the fame aspect. If she agreed to meet me and actually began dating me, this could help my brand immensely. She might mention my books. I might appear on an episode. Paparazzi might become curious about me. More eyes on me would translate into more book sales.

Still, it felt dirty.

I wavered and waited for her response. Finally, we spoke on the phone and I was encouraged because she didn't seem like the hyper-critical woman from her show. She asked me to text her another picture. I complied and then I didn’t hear back. Oh, well. A friend persuaded me to send just one more follow-up text, in case she was too busy to respond. Finally, she responded, confessing she “didn’t feel the chemistry.”

The ego punch was gentle, actually, as I had low expectations. To me it felt like losing a business opportunity or being turned down for a job. I responded saying, “Fair enough. Still a fan. Best wishes.” Naturally, her next text solicited me to become a customer. Ugh. Must it always be about the money? She has the goods and I almost paid. I nearly became a john.

Can’t we admire people for their personal qualities instead of their financial influence? Can’t we find love based on what’s deep inside, instead of the shiny bows and wrapping paper that conceal the goods? Must we consider taking on certain relationships for the non-emotional benefits they offer? Can we distinguish the person from the brand and love one regardless of the other? I’m not sure it’s possible.