The Pressure

I'm going to rant here a little.  Okay, not so much of a rant, as it is a...well, okay, I guess it's a rant.  But before I get to that, I have an announcement.  I know a number of you have commented to me personally that you haven't been able to comment on the posts.  Blogger is strange that way.  Unless you're a registered user of Blogspot, or have a gmail account, you can't make posts.  At least that was what I though until I went through my settings, DETERMINED to find a way to change that.  And I did.

Note from Management:  Now that the settings have been changed, If you ever want to comment on any of these posts, please do so.  You should be able to now.  Please let me know if you still have problems posting replies or comments.  Email me at cdgallegos01@earthlink.net to let me know if the problem isn't fixed.  Thank you...that is all.  We now return you to your regularly scheduled rant, already in progress.


...and THAT'S when she slapped me, right in the face.  It was unbelieveable!  

Ahhh, there's NOTHING like being the only bachelor at a couples dinner...grrrrr.

Sorry, I just had to do that.  Although the message posting thing HAS been taken care of, so that's all good.  But seriously, back to the rant.  I recently did an improptu stand-up the other night at a seedy little bar called "The Lion's Lair".  I have a great story about that place.  Actually, I now have TWO great stories about that place.  The first one happened a few years back when I was still working at KUSA.  My apologies for my friends who've already heard this one, but it's just such a fun story to tell.

The Lair, Part I

I was doing some freelance work for a friend of mine who ran her own public relations firm.  We scored some tickets to a Barenaked Ladies concert at Fiddler's Green; backstage passes, VIP lounge, all the fun stuff.  During the show we ran into a friend of hers, a writer for a local paper, who also happened to be in a punk rock band.  He invited us to see him at a punk rock show at the Lair and a week later, I found myself walking into a bar on West Colfax to watch some good old fashioned punk rock.

My buddy and I headed right for the bar (which is what any good bachelor would do).  He started out fast, with a dirty martini and a beer chaser.  I hit my usual, a jack and coke.  The music was average, nothing great.  There were four bands playing the tiny space.  It was dark and smoky (before smoking was banned inside) and smelled funky.  It wasn't too crowded, though and no one was causing trouble, yet. 

One of the bands was an all-girls punk rock band, they were okay.  The best of the bunch, though was a band featuring a female singer backed by three scraggly-looking guys with long hair and questionable hygiene.  The female lead was pretty, shapely, wearing a short skirt and looking grungy without looking dirty, if that's possible.  I was drawn to her right away, and not just because of the four J&C's I'd had by the time they played.  We met eyes at one point when she was singing and I knew I had to talk to her.

After she performed, she was mobbed by a bunch of guys across the bar from where we were sitting.  She was laughing and chatting, but she kept looking over at me.  My buddy, meanwhile was now face down on the bar, not quite unconscious, but close.  The evening was coming to a close, and as people began filtering away from her, she leaned over to the bartender and whispered something in his ear.  A minute later, I had a brand new Jack and Coke in front of me.

That was it, I had to talk to her now.  I sauntered over to where she was sitting and told her I thought she was great onstage.  I realized pretty quickly, she was fairly tipsy, which was okay, because I was too.  We chatted for a little bit, until the lights came up and the bartender started kicking people out.  Time was short, so I asked her out, she said yes.  I was just about to get her phone number when a small brunette walked past, heading to the bathrooms. 

This girl was one of the members of the all-girls group.  She said something in passing to the girl I had just asked out.  I won't repeat it here, because, well, it wasn't nice.  Not nice at all.  The girl I was talking to didn't miss a beat.  She went from, "I'd love to go out with you, hold on, I'll give you my number" to "Give me a second honey."  At which point she leapt off her barstool and onto the back of the brunette and commenced pummelling her on the barroom floor. 

I was stunned.  I didn't know what to do.  Should I break them up?  Should I just stand there and watch two, albeit attractive women, roll around on the floor pulling hair, cursing and scratching each other?  My conscience got the better of me and I started to make a move to break the fight up.  At which point the bartender touched my shoulder and said simply, "No, dude, let them go".  Which I did.  The bartender offered to take my number and give it to the girl after the fight.  I thought about it for a second, but declined.  I left the bar, without her number and not knowing who won the fight (my bet was on my girl, not the tiny brunette). 

The Lair, Part Duex:

Fast forward a few years to Monday night where I found myself in a crowded bar, not smoky this time, for an open mic. night.  15 or 20 stand-ups from all over were hitting the stage, with varying degrees of success.  I went because I had some friends participating, and I knew the hosts, who I hadn't seen in a while and I wanted to catch up.

When I got there, I realized I knew about five people going up that night.  I went my usual route with the Jack n Coke and sat back, waiting to be amused.  My friends did a great job.  Some of the others, not so much, but hey, the show was free and it WAS an open mic., so what did I expect?  At one point, my friend, one of the hosts, asked me if I was going up.  Not thinking, I said okay.

Now listen, I'm not a stand up guy.  I do improv, which is completely different.  But I'm pretty good thinking on my feet and, even though I had absolutely NO material (that's what standups call their jokes, matierial), I figured I couldn't do worse than some of the others I'd seen so far.

I got up there, I wasn't nervous, and I started talking about being a 40-year old bachelor, more precisely, about the pressure of being a 40-year old bachelor. 

I'm not going to rehash what I said, because, frankly, I don't remember it all.  Not because I was drunk, but because sometimes performing can be a blur.  You get up, you get out there, you do your thing, you don't think about it, and afterwards, it all seems unreal.  You don't always remember what you did, only how you felt about it.  I wasn't embarrassed, that's the best I can say about my performance.

Once Again, Suck it, Couples:

Anyway, I was talking about the pressure of being a bachelor.  Society expects people to get married at some point in their lives.  Statistics prove that a great number of people never get married, have kids or move to the suburbs.  But societal pressure I can deal with.  I'm a non-comformist anyway.  But what really bugs me is the pressure from my couple friends and, in particular, family pressures.

I'm an only child, so at least I don't have any brothers or sisters to add to that pressure.  But I have cousins, a few of which are married and happily popping out babies like tic-tacs.  My mother is even starting to get on my case, dropping little hints here and there.  She'll say things in passing like, "(heavy sigh) I guess I'll never have grandchildren to spoil, will I?" 

What do I say to that?  How do I even begin to respond?  It's nearly as bad as my couples friends trying to set me up on dates as they say things like, "You're too good a guy to not be married," or "Why aren't you in a relationship, you'd be happier if you had a girlfriend."  Seriously, I've been told this.

I get my mother giving me pressure.  She wants grandchildren.  I'm not sure why anyone wants to be called grandma, but apparently mothers look forward to that kind of thing.  But why, why, WHY can't couples just leave bachelors alone?  What is it in their DNA that insists that everyone be involved in a relationship?

We're perfectly fine being bachelors.  Remember, it's the "singles" that are constantly looking for a relationship, not the bachelors.  If it happens, then fine.  But I promise, if I'm ever in a relationship, I won't be that guy that keeps pushing my bachelor friends to find "the one".  In fact, I'll probably be looking longingly at their freedom and committment free life. 

I suppose that's why I always give a bottle of Jack Daniels as wedding gifts with a note attached saying, "Do not open until divorce."  Yes, it's offended some people, but I find it funny, and one of the great things about being a bachelor is the freedom to be completey selfish.  It's all about me, deal with it.

So, gather around, bachelors.  You don't have to avoid your couples friends, just remind them from time to time that most relationships end up as complete disasters.  Tell them that you'll be there for them when their marriage goes down in flames like the Hindenburgh.  Let them know that your freedom isn't worth trading to simply be in a relationship. 

As for the parents.  I've just come to the point where I tell my mom that if I'm still single at 50, I'll ocassionally rent an African orphan and hand it off to her, so she can get her grandma fix from time to time. 

Ahhh, that feels better.  I already have enough pressures from bill collectors, society and failed expectations.  It's nice to be able to rid myself of the pressures of being in a relationship.  One pressure down, twenty more to go.