A St. Patrick's Day Special

Top O' The...ummmm...afternoon, to ya!  I have to say, it's been a relatively mellow St. Paddy's Day for me, not the usual revelry and carousing that normally goes into this day for me.  As holidays go, I realize that most of the world treats St. Patrick's Day as a giant excuse to go out, wear green, drink green drinks and get hammered. 

Ahh, the lasses enjoying a few pints of "sexy juice" on St. Patrick's Day, beautiful

 For me, well, I never need an excuse to throw back a few pints, but St. Patrick's Day is a great day to celebrate life as a bachelor.  In case you missed it a few entries earlier, let me explain to you where I place this holiday in the pantheon of great holidays.

1.  Halloween
2.  St. Patrick's Day
3.  New Year's Eve

That's right, it's number two with a bullet and standing fast.  To be honest, it's a virtual tie with New Year's Eve, but because St. Patrick's Day comes without the burden of expectations, it wins by a clover. 

For some reason, St. Patrick's Day has always embodied what it means to be a bachelor.  For one day, there are no problems, there aren't deadlines or bills or responsibilities.  There's only friends and Irish Whiskey and pretty girls in short green skirts.  It's the time of year when the weather starts to turn from bitter cold to warm and inviting.  It's a rebirth, a clean slate, a time of dreams without end.

Whoa, deep.  But this is why St. Patrick's Day is one of my "High Holy Holidays".  There's tradition involved with St. Paddy's.  There are toasts and drinks to loved ones lost and those still near.  Traditional dinners, time spent with friends. 

St. Patrick's Day is the day I got my tattoo with a wonderful woman I met after a particularly difficult time in my life.  She worked for the New York Times, out of the Denver bureau.  Her name was Katie.  She provided a lot of comfort while I was dealing with a painful breakup.  One day, on St. Patrick's Day, she calls me up and says, "I'm getting a tattoo, you want to go with me and get one, too?" 

See, we had had this conversation.  About tattoos and the best brand of whiskey and why smoking cigs is hot and the best Alec Baldwin movie (and you thought journalists just sat around arguing politics and world events).  Sure, we talked about important stuff too.  But we'd had the tattoo talk and, by God, she was going to get her tattoo on that particular St. Patrick's day. 

We both knew what kind of tattoo we would be getting.  Mine was the old CU Buffalo logo (long story, don't ask) and she was going to get a four leaf clover on her wrist.  We got to the Tattoo parlor, one we were both familiar with, and signed up for a room.  We spent about 20 minutes browsing through the tattoo books, talking about what other tattoos would look good on our living canvas and then it was time. 

I won't get into the actual tattooing, it was uneventful.  But I remember, at one point, I was sitting there and watching her get her tattoo, preparing to get mine, and I was thinking what a wonderful way to remember a St. Patrick's Day.  The freedom of getting ink, doing what we wanted, when we wanted.  No rules, no one looking over their glasses with that tsk tsk look in their eyes.  We had nowhere to  be, nothing to do but sit and get our tats.

Afterwards, we acted like giddy children on Christmas morning.  It was the first tattoo for both of us and somehow we felt a kinship, a bond as if we had just gone through some kind of adult rite of passage together.

We immediately headed over to a bar across the way called Street's Of London.  It was beautiful day, middle of the afternoon, around 3pm, and the sun was out.  The breeze was blowing and the Guinness was cold.  We sat on the patio and drank slowly, knowing we were committing a definite no-no by drinking after a tattoo and feeling positively empowered by doing so (I mean it says RIGHT THERE in the little pamphlet they give you in bold letter, "Do Not Drink Alcohol" so, of course, we broke that rule right away).

After all, it WAS St. Patrick's Day.  How could you NOT throw back a few drinks, right?  At some point, a woman walked by with a dog.  I don't remember what kind of dog it was.  I think it was a poodle of some kind.  I remember it was white.  Maybe it was a beagle.  Honestly, I don't remember much about the do other than it was a puppy.  It was cute, it was cuddly, it was the kind of dog a bachelor takes for a walk in the park specifically to attract the attention of hot, single women.  We fussed and fawned over the dog for a few minutes and then the lady and her puppy were gone and our conversation turned to dogs of our own.

I think at that point we both realized that we were two ships passing in the night.  We were both at different places in our lives.  I was ten years older than she was and I was starting a new business.  She was the youngest reporter for the New York Times bureau division and had big things in her future.  We knew, despite our talk of getting a dog and raising it as our own, that it was never going to happen.  We understood that at that moment in our lives, we were good for each other.  We both needed each other to help us relieve pains, and build confidence to move forward with our lives. 

We had a few more drinks and we got drunk and we had a great day.  But then it was over.  Maybe it was the catharsis of the tatto experience.  Maybe it was the fantasy of the dog conversation, whatever it was, we never really saw each other after that day.  We chatted, very briefly afterwards a few times, but then, slowly, drifted apart.

This little tale was not meant to make anyone sad, or anything quite so heavy.  It really was a walk down memory lane for me.  But it was also a way to illustrate something that I think bachelors understand implicitly.  Not all relationships are meant to be.  The hardest ones to get over are the ones you were CERTAIN would work out.  But as bachelors we have the luxury of turning to a variety of options when things get rough.  They can be faceless strangers, they can be very special people, angels, who enter our lives for a short period of time and then move on, their job done. 

I'd like to think I did as much for her as she did for me that St. Patrick's Day and few months leading up to that day.  As a bachelor, maybe that's why I enjoy holidays like St. Paddy's and Halloween and New Year's Eve.  It's a day to let go of whatever burdens or pains you may have and go out and simply enjoy life.  That's so much easier to do when you're a bachelor.  You can go out and make a connection, be it harmless, platonic or carnal. 

I have similar stories to tell about Halloween and New Year's Eve, but I'll get to those when it's appropriate.  In the meantime, I will go out tonight and carouse and look for adventures and future stories to tell.  Because that's the essence of being a bachelor; adventure, stories, life.  And what better way to celebrate all of that than making a toast to old and new friends, drinking some whiskey and honoring the memory of a man who allegedly pied-pipered the snakes out of Ireland?  Enjoy, friends.  See you on Thursday.

The Perfect Woman

Oh, wow, I have a feeling I'm about to dig myself deep into a hole on this one.  But I have no choice.  I'm pulling out another question from the Bachelor Diaries Mailbag, and boy, this one's a doozy.  Erin from Omaha (okay, I don't think she's really from Omaha, but I just like saying that, it sounds like one of those old time radio deejays reading request dedications, but I digress) asks this question:

"Dear Bachelor, are bachelors more forgiving of women not having perfect bodies?"

I've been mulling this question around in my head for a bit, wondering exactly how to answer this one without incurring the wrath of women everywhere.  I'm not sure if I've succeeded, but I'm going to give it a shot anyway.

First, I have to tell you that, as always, these are my opinions, and in no way scientifically proven.  I am basing my answer on my own experiences as well as the opinions of scores of other bachelors I've known throughout the years.  So, you know, take it as you will.

Still trying to figure out how this is attractive...

Let me say to every woman out there reading this, all you bachelorettes, married women, single women, all of you; men are way more forgiving of your bodies than you are or ever will be.  I've been a guy my entire life, and I can't remember one conversation, not one, single discussion that I've had with other men, be they bachelors or otherwise, that involved this phrase, "Yeah, she's cute, but it's those extra five pounds that I just can't live with."


An Informal Poll:

Can men be critical of women who are larger, or even curvy?  Sure, you betcha.  But hey, guess what, women are just as critical of men who are larger, perhaps even moreso.  So, for those of you who are obsessing with your weight, just stop it.  Because, in the end, most of the pressure comes from other women, not men.

Over the years, I have also done an informal poll with many, many men, generally while discussing women over copious beers.  I've asked them to describe their perfect woman.  I can honestly tell you that in over ten years I have never seen or heard a man point to one of the magazine covers with the rail-thin waify models and say, "THAT'S the perfect woman!" 

In other words, women, stop looking at the magazine covers and thinking you have to look like that in order to attract a man.  It's a futile quest for most.  Besides, as has been proven, many of those magazine women are airbrushed to look that way. 

What's difficult about this question is that I'm trying to describe beautiful, or perfect, when, in reality, beauty really is in the eye of the beholder.  If I had a dime, no, make that a penny, for every time I heard a woman complain about "those last five pounds," or that her breasts are too small or that her hair isn't exactly the way she thinks it should be, I'd be a millionaire.  Seriously, a millionaire. 

Now, here's the bad news.  Men are pigs.  When it comes to sex, bachelors are a driven breed.  We like eye candy.  An attractive woman is worth going after, and we'll sleep with them if we can.  But you have to remember that what is attractive to me, isn't necessarily attractive to the guy sitting next to me.  Plus, just because we want to have sex with a woman doesn't mean that they're the "perfect woman" for us. 

I have the very good fortune of knowing many, many very attractive women.  I get to perform with them, I get to hang out with them, I get to spend time with them and know them on a level many others don't and never will.  If given the opportunity, I'd do my bachelor duty and sleep with them, most of them at least, if I could.  Are any of these women the "perfect woman" for me?  Who knows?  But my actions speak more about me as a man-pig than it does about the perfection or imperfections of their bodies.

Here's the good news:

A perfect body is NOT a prerequisite to being the "perfect woman" for a man.  Therefore, men, even bachelors will always be more forgiving of a woman's body than women are themselves.  For instance, I'm a leg guy.  I prefer brunettes, followed by redheads and then blondes.  I like a woman who looks like a woman, you know, with some womanly curves, so I've never been a fan of the whole heroine-chic look. 

But that just covers the physical side of things for me.  I have a whole other list of things that attract me to a woman.  They have to be smart.  They have to be funny.  They have to be able to at least sit through a baseball game (at the stadium).  They have to love music.  They have to have ambition and goals.  They have to be witty.  They have to be able to fight with me and then be able to make up afterwards.  They have to be able to put up with my B.S. and push me, challenge me, support me.

I don't know that my list is much different from most men I know, young or old.  Because in the end, most men want a partner, not just a sex-buddy.  Sure, we may point to a Gillian Anderson, or Zooey Deschanel or Jennifer Aniston and pant heavily before wiping the drool from out chins thinking about one night alone with any of them.  I mean, I have a whole "hot tub" list (courtesy of my friend Mere, who introduced me to the whole hot tub game in the first place).  Maggie Gyllenhal (sic), Jeanine Garafalo, Bernadette Peters, all beautiful women, all in my hot tub, but are any of them my perfect woman?  Again, probably not.

Now, even more good news, women.  Men DO change.  Seriously, we do.  When we're younger, mostly all we care about is the physical aspect of a woman.  We're so caught up in how a woman looks, when we're 21, 24, 27, that we miss out on a lot of great women who we could have solid, long lasting relationships with. 

But that starts to change, particularly for bachelors, as we get up there in age.  We start to recognize and truly appreciate the things in a woman and potential partner that we would have missed a few years earlier.  I can only speak for myself, but as I've grown older, I've noticed women I would not have even given a second glance at ten years ago. 

Overall, I suppose the Bachelor Diaries would ask this of women.  Be patient, and stop trying to be one of those models on the magazines.  Certainly some, maybe even many, bachelors put a lot of stock into looks, we all do, I guess.  But as bachelors get older and wiser, we DO grow up a bit and start to see the person behind the long legs and huge rack. 

As Stuart Smalley said, "You're good enough, you're smart enough and goshdarn it, people like you!"
Until tomorrow, take care all you bachelor's and bachelorettes.  Remember, St. Patrick's Day is upon us.  So go enjoy yourselves and keep the bachelor spirit alive and kicking.

Mrs. Right vs. Mrs. Right Now

There are a lot of misconceptions about bachelors.  We're all slobs, we're all broken in some way, we are incapable of committing to a stable relationship, we're gay.

I suppose that's one of the reasons why I started this blog; to clear up the myriad of falsehoods circulating about bachelors.  So, yes, I might be a slob at times.  But I'm not broken (although some may argue that), I believe I'm more than capable of being in a stable relationship and I'm certainly not gay (not that there's anything wrong with that...gotta love Seinfeld). 

Oh, Zooey, will you be my Mrs. Right?  No?  Ummmm...okay, then.

Today won't be offering a top ten list, or tips or anything like that.  Today is a look at bachelors and love.  I know, I know, bachelors aren't supposed to feel love.  We're just sex machines, right?  Well, at least until we reach a certain age, and then we're put out in a field somewhere and expected to become some kind of bachelor Yoda's, only taller, slightly less wrinkly or green and without a cool lightsaber.

Wuv, Oh, Wuv:

But here's the fact.  Bachelors DO fall in love.  No, it's true.  Bachelors are humans, too, it's just that, as bachelors, we make slightly different decisions, have different priorties than those who get married at 21, pop out a copule of babies and move to Arvada.  There are a lot of theories as to why bachelors are who they are.  Some psychologists will tell you that we bachelors are afraid of committment.  Others will say we don't value ourselves enough to believe we deserve to have healthy relationships, so we sabotage them at some point.  Even others will say that some bachelors are the way we are because we come from broken homes and therefore don't believe in love.

To all that I say, and pardon my French...bullshit.  I've been in love.  More than once, even.  I've even asked people to marry me.  How's THAT for fear of committment?  Sure, I may have sabotaged a relationship or two in my time, but, well, that's not the point, and it doesn't support my argument here, so I'm going to just gloss over it if that's okay with you, kind reader.

The point is, all bachelors fall in love.  It's just what we do with it that separates of from the rest of the non-bachelor, you-must-get-married-and-have-children world.  Some, many bachelors will, eventually do just that.  Most do, in fact.  And yet there are still those stallwart holdouts that refuse to enter into that end all be all of relationships.  In those cases, circumstances may have played a tragic role in their life decisions.  Or perhaps they simply haven't found the "right" one yet. 

But who is Misses Right?  And why is it that she so often loses out to Misses Right Now?  There are a number of reasons this happens.  So listen up, those of you looking to snag a bachelor and drag him, or her, into blessed matrimony.

Let the Comparisons Begin:

For one thing, there's the pressure.  Bachelors simply don't do well with pressure.  They may be able to multi-task seven different projects under tight deadlines.  They might be able to save a person's life with CPR in an emergency situation.  They might be able to run a CEO, be part of a non-profit board of directors and coach a high school baseball team.  But get any of these folks together with a woman, at a romantic restaurant, faced with the prospect of talking about marriage and family and children and in-laws, and they start sweating harder than a sumo wrestler in a sauna. 

Misses "Right Now" comes with no pressure.  No baggage.  You don't even have to know her name if you don't want to know.  The biggest pressures a bachelor faces with Misses "Right Now" is whether or not to pay for dinner or wait to buy breakfast.  There are expectations with Misses Right.  Ladies, if you want to beat out Misses Right Now, cool your jets.  Be patient, take your time.

The other issue is control.  Bachelors are used to their freedom.  When a bachelor finds a potential Misses Right, there are sacrifices to be made.  Weekend nights aren't their own anymore, they have to lower the lid on the toilet seats, they actually have to regularly clean their homes.  Decisions aren't made by the bachelor alone anymore, they have to made as a pair.  This can be frustrating to the bachelor who is used to unilaterally deciding things on his own.

By the way, all of these issues also relate to bachelorettes, so don't think I'm forgetting you, I'm not.  For those of you who want to be Mrs, or Mr., Right, let bachelors keep their sense of independence, their individuality.  Some will resist more than others.  Some might jump wholeheartedly into a relationship and explore this new thing called a committed relationship like a child may play with a new toy on Christmas morning.  They'll play with it and smother, exploring everything about it and use it up until it runs down or breaks or they simply lose interest. 

I've done that, heck we've all done that as bachelors at one point or another. 

Now for the bachelors in the crowd:

Be open to relationships, but don't be looking for Misses Right.  I know that sounds strange, right?  But it makes sense.  Looking just adds pressure and expectation.  Besides, you'll know when it happens.  I've always gauged my level of interest by butterflies.

No, not real butterflies.  It's not like they speak to me, although that would be cool, wouldn't it?  To be able to have a little butterfly as some kind of romantic adviser?  This might prove to be a problem, though, because of their short lifespan.  But back to the point.  I like women.  Some of my best friends are women.  Many of them are very, very attractive.  But I don't have romantic feelings for many of them.  Don't ask me why not, I just don't.  But when I do, I know, because, first, I think about them constantly, and second, when I'm around them, I get butterflies in my tummy.  Thumper might call it twitterpated.  I call it a crush.

I get crushes all the time.  Seriously, I do.  I'm like a little lovesick schoolchild when it happens, it's disgusting, really, but it happens, more often than I'd like.  Now as a bachelor we have to learn the difference between crushes and real love.

First rule bachelors, and listen up.  Crushes are fun, love isn't.  Crushes are cute and flirty and harmless.  Love is painful, gut-wrenching, sick-to-your-stomach gut-wrenching.  Suddenly the most innocuous of comments carry massive weight, as if they were boulders dropped from a plane at 30,000 feet.  Love is scary and mystifying and, yes, wonderful, all at the same time.

Bachelors, the next time you're trying to decide if the girl sleeping next to you is Mrs. Right Now, or actually could be Mrs. Right, ask yourself these questions. 

A Many Splendored Thing:

Do you find yourself doing things to please her?  Things like cleaning your bathroom three times a week, or eating healthier or getting up at 5am to go work out with her?  Things you normally wouldn't do even if there were a gun to your head.

Do you put down the toilet seat and buy extra toilet paper because you want to, not because you feel you have to?  More importantly, when you see her tampons in the medicine cabinet, when her toothbrush is prominently next to your sink, when she buys groceries because you just don't choose healthy foods, does it upset you? 

That's the real litmus test.  When you feel that you're losing some control in your life, when you have to phone in if you're going to be out late, if you're passing up going out with the guys to watch "Knob Hill" on a Friday night and you don't mind, then it might be love. 

Because we just don't do these things for women unless we're really, REALLY smitten.  Teetering on the edge of love, kind of smitten.  More than that, unless we really think that she could be Mrs. Right, these things would normally upset us.  It's when the sacrifices come easy, it's when we not only don't mind making the sacrifices, but actually WANT to make the sacrifices that we know, as bachelors, that we might be in love.

But that's really just the easy part.  Falling in love isn't hard.  We could walk around the corner of the frozen food section at the grocery store and fall in love...or at least lust.  As bachelors, we always see the shiny objects that attract us.  They're wearing short skirts, or they flip their hair just the right way or their eyes are mesmerizing.  No, the actual falling is easy.  It's the work that comes afterwards that is hard.

And maybe, just maybe, that might be the one criticism of bachelors I'm willing to concede.  We're not broken, we're not afraid, so to speak, or committment, and we're not saboteurs of our relationships.  The fact is that we as bachelors just might be lazy.  It's the mining and digging and compromising and hard, hard work that goes into a lasting, committed relationship that might bother us the most. 

Because with Mrs. Right Now, there IS no work involved.  It's more like a day at the amusement park, all cotton candy and bumper card rides.  After a while we just get so used to the amusement park and fun of it all, that we start to cringe at the thought of getting our hands dirty, or the daily grind that can be a real relationship. 

But that's the great thing about love, bachelors.  When it happens, you won't mind the work.  Sure, you'll have to get used to it, but you won't hate it.  And yes, more often than not, it will all end in horrible, unbearable pain that will scar you emotionally for the rest of your life.  But hey, at least you always have being a bachelor to fall back on.  That and all those fun amusement park rides. 

The free Drink!

First, sorry for the novella I published yesterday.  Yes, it was long, but I had a story to tell.  If you read the whole thing, I hope you enjoyed it.  If you didn't, well, I don't blame you.  I also have to apologize to anyone reading this that is familiar with my old, old blog that is now ancient history.  Today's post is going to be a recap of an entry I made nearly two years ago.  But that was then, and this is now.  Plus, I think only about two or three people ever read that old blog, so this should be new to most of you.

There's a commercial out right now, reviewing all the different ways to order a beer at a bar.  I saw it the other night and it's been rattling around in my head.  Mostly because I've tried many of the techniques they pointed out, hell, we all have.  Seriously, I even knew a guy who tried calling the bartender at a crowded bar to get a drink.  He got pretty much the same reaction the poor soul did in the commercial.

Hey, baby, nice pour.  Now how 'bout that free shot?

But simply ordering a drink is for schlubs.  Anyone can do that.  You go to a bar, you plop yourself down on a stool, pull out your wallet and order a drink.  Pretty routine stuff.  Heck it's even pretty easy to get faster service at a packed bar if you know what to do.

Bachelor's listen up.  If you ever find yourself in a bar and it's harder to get a drink than summitting Everest, all you have to do is pull out a wad of cash and conspicuously wave it in front of the bartenders face.  Money talks, regardless of where you're at or what you're doing.  If a bartender is staring at a sea of nameless faces, all begging for a jack and coke, or a martini or a 'rita, who do you think he or she will go to first?  That's right, the one with cash in hand.  The eye just seems to go to greenbacks flashing in the red and white strobes. 

But I'm not even here to tell you how to speed up the inebriation process.  Again, anyone with some cash can pull that stunt.  No, the real trick is scoring free drinks at a bar.  Now that takes talent, commitment, charm and a little bit of luck.

Here's how:

There are two types of free bar drinks.  There's the "miracle" freebie, and then there's the "regular" freebie.  One depends more on luck, looks and charm, while the other one simply depends on the level of commitment you're willing to give.

The "Miracle"

To make this happen you have to know a few things.  First, if you're a woman, you know that free drinks come easier to you than they do men.  Usually, these come from the other bar patrons, but if you're really attractive, it's likely you've also managed to grab your share of free shots from an interested bartender.  This entry, however, is for the men who don't enjoy the same advantage.  Sure, we could wear a short skirt and bat our eyes in a flirty fashion as well.  Sadly, I just don't think it will have the same effect.

You also have to know that these rules apply mostly to bars and not dance clubs.  It's easy to score free drinks at a club, you just have to know the right people.  I'm talking about an actual bar, with a jukebox and low lighting and a derelict-looking fellow probably passed out in the corner.  These are the "dive" bars or the "townie" bars we all grew up with.  The kinds of places where you go with friends for a brew and some great conversation and to flirt with the waitresses.

Third, you have to be prepared to pay.  I know, I know, I'm talking about getting a free drink, but before you can start to reap the benefits of the freebie, you'll probably have to pony up for at least a couple of drinks beforehand.  You don't have to be a Greek Addonis to make this happen.  Sure, it helps if you don't look like the Elephant Man, but charm is more important here than anything.

Tips on getting the "Miracle" freebie:

1. Be casual.  Don't do anything that hints you're looking for a free drink early on.  Be just another patron and just be yourself.

2.  Be alone.  It's a lot easier to get a freebie if you're by yourself.  If you're with a group, the bartender is going to be less likely to give you a free drink, because then they'll probably have to give whoever you're with a freebie as well.

3.  Compliment.  This works easier if the bartender is a woman.  Tell her she looks great, or that she makes a perfect dirty martini, whatever it takes.  Yes, this is also considered flirting.  This is okay.  Be casual, hell, be awkward about it.  Whatever you do, don't come off as sleazy or smarmy.  You want them to be genuinely flattered by your compliments. 

4.  Try to spark a conversation.  This works best when the bar isn't completely packed.  Often times, bartenders will spend their down time chatting with regulars.  Listen to the conversation, then, when he or she comes back to you, comment on the conversation.  Add something to their conversation, say something witty or funny.  This approach works equally well with male or female bartenders.

5.  Find a commonality.  Again, this works well with bartenders of either sex.  I don't care if it's sports, fashion, drinks or cars.  Whatever it is, if you can talk to the bartender about something they're interested in, you've made connection, and that is absolutely essential when trying to score a free drink.

6.  Tip well.  When you pay for your first drink, tip more than you usually would.  Do this just for the first one.  If your beer is two dollars, tip two dollars.  Trust me, the bartender will take notice.  After this first drink, you can go back to your normal habit of tipping (never below 20-percent).

7.  Never ask for a free drink.  The freebie has to be the idea of the bartender.  You might get a freebie if you ask for one, but that's all you'll ever get.  If the bartender takes it upon themselves to give you a shot or a drink for free, more will follow.

8.  Pay for the first freebie.  If you DO get a free drink, make the tip equal to, or nearly equal to the price of the drink.  This means, in essence you've paid about half price for your drink, after tip.  But if you do this, you'll find more free drinks coming your way as the night wears on.  You can go back to a dollar tip per drink, or whatever you normally do.  But thanking the bartender with a big tip after the first freebie is essential and you'll end up saving a lot of money in the long run in free drinks.

The whole point of getting the "Miracle" freebie is snagging a drink the first time you walk into a bar.  Notice I have focused on the bartender in this scenario.  This is because most waitresses are pretty jaded and more than likely NOT to be persuaded by your charm or looks.  Plus, they're usually pretty busy and don't have time to engage in any conversation.  Therefore, work on the bartender. 

Getting a free drink on your first trip into a bar isn't easy.  It takes some work, so it helps if you like to talk and are a reasonably personable person.  The bartender has to get to know you, and, more importantly, like you, in a relatively short period of time.  It can be done, I know because I've done it myself.  But also know that it won't always work, sometimes, you just get lucky, sometimes you don't.

The "Regular" Freebie:

This method deals with earning free drinks at a bar that you go to regularly and actually uses many of the same tricks used for the "Miracle" freebie; relationships and conversation.  You will need to utilize your charm, your wits, your humor and your money.  The biggest difference in this method is the level of commitment and the fact that it will work on both bartenders as well as waitresses.

In this method, flirting is essential.  Not flirting as in, "I want to take you home and make you my wife" kind of flirting.  No, this is casual, "I know we'll never date, ever, but it's still fun to flirt," kind of flirting.  With the waitresses, this is vital because they will never give a complete stranger a free drink, unless of course they look like my friend Naamdi, who, if he drank, I'm sure would never have a problem getting free drinks from ayone simply by walking into a room.

You'll still use the same 8 tricks listed above for the "Miracle" freebie, so I won't rehash them.  But I will add a few others that are unique to this method.

1.  Find a bar you like.  This is important because you'll be going back to this bar over and over again.  In order for this method to work, you have to get to know the bartender and waitresses, and they have to get to know you as well.  If you don't like the bar, then it's just not worth it.

2.  Get personal.  After you've been there a couple of times, and they know your face and you've had a conversation or two during your bouts of flirting, chat them up even more.  Talk about family stuff, a few personal things (that aren't TOO personal), like your girlfriend troubles or some minor work issues.  By opening up to them, they'll be more likely to open up to you.  This matters.

3.  Never ask them out.  I don't care if they're the most attractive woman you've ever met.  A waitress or a bartender never gives drinks to a guy that has asked them out.  Besides, it's a losing cause 90-percent of the time.  You can ask her out if you want, but know that you're risking future free drinks if you do so.  Once you ask her out, and she says no, then it's just awkward and kind of creepy to keep going to the same bar.  You'll have to find a new bar. 

4.  Take your time.  If you like the bar you're going to, then you should enjoy drinking there.  Don't be impatient.  In time, once they get to know you and used to seeing you, you'll become a regular.  Regulars get free drinks, well, regularly.  At the same time, if you've been going to the same bar everyday for a year and being charming and having wonderful conversations, but you've never been given a free drink, then it might be time to move on.

Listen, I'm a drinker.  I enjoy drinking, particularly with my friends.  I know that since I rarely go to bars by myself, the chances of me getting free drinks are pretty rare.  But I've tried both of these methods with success. 

In the end, as a bachelor, bars play a big role in our lives in some way.  It's where we meet friends, potential partners for the night and where we gather to celebrate.  My theory is this, if you're going to be at a bar, you might as well enjoy it.  And what says enjoyment more than a free drink?

Salud!

Night Moves: One bachelor's story of a Saturday out on the town.

So, as a bachelor, my weekends generally consist of debauchery of some sort.  Generally that includes drinking and spending time with friends with a tiny bit of leering mixed in.  My drugging days are over, they were fun while they lasted, but no longer, which I'm totally okay with.  Now my Friday nights are spent performing and then heading to the usual watering hole for a few pints and some laughs.  Every now and then my Saturday nights have a similar itinerary. 

Larimer Street at 2am in Denver on a Saturday night

There are real advantages to being a bachelor.  Generally your weekends are yours to do with as you please.  As I said, a lot of my weekends are taken up with performing, which I love, particularly the hanging out with friends afterwards part.  But there are times when I don't have performances scheduled, and that's when I'm free to go do whatever I want.  Mostly, I prefer to hang with a some of my close friends from improv.  It's nice to spend time with them without having to perform.  We can just sit around talk and throw back a few drinks.  High, thrilling times, eh?  All kidding aside, I really live for these times.

One of the cons of being a bachelor, though, is that when you don't have any plans, and your friends aren't around, you find yourself alone and bored.  It doesn't happen too often, but when it does, it kind of sucks.  This is when the bachelor gene kicks in and I restlessly wander out into the night, looking for "kicks and tricks," as an old friend of mine used to say.

A Plan Comes Together:




That was the situation I found myself in this past Saturday night.  No performances, my friends all had plans or were staying in for the night, and I was left with a lack of plans.  Fortunately, an old friend came to my rescue and what looked like it was going to be a slow night catching up on "Burn Notice" reruns, turned into one of those nights worthy of recounting in stories over a campfire, complete with face paints and native dances. 

The plan for the night was a bit of a bachelor's wet dream.  An old friend, who also happens to do some modeling on the side was having her second annual "Divorce Party."  You have to know the woman throwing the party to understand why I had such high expectations of the soiree.  She's a tall drink of water, with legs that go on forever.  Film Noir-speak aside, she's an attractive woman, if not just a little high maintenance for my tastes.  But I do love spending time with her and, let's face it, every bachelor knows that attractive women often have attractive girlfriends, particularly when they model.

So it was with some twitterpation that I trudged the four blocks to Rack & Rye where the evening kicked off.  When I walked in, it felt like walking into a yuppie version of a Scorsese movie, only instead of mobsters gathered around a long table discussing "hits" and family matters in a melange of conversation, it was a bunch of women and a handful of guys talking about fashion shows, production jobs and Mary Kay. 

Of the 25 or 30 people at the table, not to mention the bar owner, the chef, the bartender and various other patrons who weren't really "with" the party, but were there anyway and happened to know the happy divorcee, I knew exactly one person, Tara, the divorcee herself.  So what's a slat and peppered bachelor to do when surrounded by a bevy of attractive women who also happen to be complete strangers?  Turn on the charm and talk, talk, talk.

It was a fascinating experience watching 20 attractive women, slightly drunk of wine and some kind of sweet, mojito-type drink, interact.  It was both catty and sexy at the same time.  Talk of relationships and men and loves won and lost dominated the conversation on my end of the table, which happened to be right next to Tara.  I had some wonderful conversation with the gals nearby, with the exception of one lady, who either just didn't like me, or wasn't into me.  Of course, like all bachelors, I'm going to assume she just doesn't like men.

We ate, there was gossip, some tension when an ex showed up with a new girlfriend and drank more sweet alcoholic nectar.  And so ended the first half of the night.  I had no idea what was coming next, but it would prove to be a trip in the way back machine to my younger, crazier bachelor days.

The Night Turns:

Right after paying the bill, we moved two doors down to a club called "Drink".  I had spent many nights in this space years ago when it went by a different name, and had a decidedly different atmosphere.  Actually, just walking into Rack & Rye brought back a flood of memories as the space

A fuzzy pic of Tara eating real food

used to house the original Purple Martini.  Ah, yes, the PM.  It used to have the strongest martinis and the hottest waitresses in town.  It also used to be connected to the bar now called Drink.  It used to be called something very different years ago, but regardless of the time separation and name change, the end result is still pretty much the same.  A lot of drinking, dancing, dark lighting, bright colors and the promise of sex hanging in the stale, musky air. 

I finished my cigarette outside, watching the hordes of 20-somethings crowd the sidewalk.  The guys looked horny and the girls were dressed to kill.  Clearly, the little black dress is still in fashion, and why not, as a leg guy, there's nothing I like more than an attractive woman in a very short skirt.  Boo Yah!  I was stationed in front of the valet parking podium, and I watched as car after car pulled up and unloaded four, five, six women, smelling of thick perfume and teetering on high, pointy heels, and constantly tugging at the hem of their skirt to keep the naughty parts from showing.  A little buzzed, I flicked my butt out into the street and made my way into the pumping nightclub.

Tara was already in social butterfly overdrive, mingling with her hot friends and large, slightly menacing-looking men who apparently owned the clubs on the block.  The night was still pretty young, so the dance floor wasn't completely swamped, making it easier to wind my way to the back of the room, right next to the DJ booth, where an elegant velvet rope marked off our special VIP section. 

I suddenly found myself in a little bit of bachelor heaven.  From our perch, raised up above the dance floor at the far end of the club, we could see the entire space, all the pretty young girls, dancing and gyrating.  One of Tara's friends, a gorgeous brunette with a wide smile and huge, brown eyes greeted me warmly as I entered the roped off section.  The area was full of models and would be models and drunky chicks.  I happened to be standing next to the only other guy in the section, who also was called Chris.  A videographer from Montana, he'd made the trip down to Denver for the event.  We watched as girls came and went from the section, sometimes to dance, other times to grab a drink.  They'd shake and shimmy and disappear into the growing crowd. 

Not long after I arrived, a stunning blonde with a dress that looked like had been painted on brought us a tray of mixers and large bottle of Grey Goose.  Ahh, bottle service, there's nothing like it.  We wasted no time diving right into the vodka and I geared myself for a night of drink and dance.

Suddenly, the other Chris and I caught sight of a couple dancing directly on the other side of the velvet rope.  The man in the couple was an older white guy, probably about my age, maybe a little older.  He moved like a zombie.  Every foot shake or arm wave was an exercise in awkwardness.  It looked as if someone had literally shoved a pole up his ass and his back was incapable of bending or movement. 

Meanwhile, the girl, a cocoa-skinned, curvy woman with long curly caramel locks was busting moves that would make a Madonna backup dancer jealous.  Let me take just a moment to say that, no matter how old I get, people watching at a dance club will never, EVER get old for me.  I've never been much of a dancer, but I have always enjoyed going to clubs to simply sit back and observe the crazy.  I will say this, I don't remember nudity being an integral part of the dance clubs I frequented ten years ago.  Apparently that has changed, along with the names of the clubs.

In a moment that took at least the other Chris and I by surprise, the woman flailed her arms, wrapped them around the neck of the white zombie, kissed him full on the lips, and then proceeded to take her top off.  No hesitation, no fear or second thoughs, just, whoosh and suddenly there was boobie bouncing around to the beats of the Black Eyed Peas. 

I nearly choked on the lime in my vodka tonic.  Within minutes, the top was back on, but now the pants were edging down slightly.  We all knew the woman wasn't wearing a bra, but by now we were intrigued to find out if she was wearing underwear.  Sadly, the song ended before we could find out and the man grabbed her around the waist and they melted into the throng.

I Have no Idea:

Then, as if on cue from a director, a man, dressed in a tan sportsjacket and slacks with a white shirt, the top three buttons undone, appeared before me.  His name is Brad.  He is an ex of Tara's and had caused quite a stir when he showed up earlier with his new girlfriend from Thailand.  The music was loud, and hearing actual words was difficult.  Most conversations went something like this...

Other person: "MMMBHSLKFHDLS DRUNK SLKK GIRLS WENE SLD  LKWJSIE YOU IN?"
Me: "Yeah, sure, whatever!"
Other person: "COOL!  CLKWJERHSOIKMMMF D FKS DKFKEMMMBS Vagina!"
Me: "Sounds great! Whatever!"

Normally this is a sure way to get into some serious trouble, or at the very least into a situation you probably don't want to be in.  But after several of the mojito-type drinks and some very strong vodka tonics, I didn't really care.  I didn't have to be anywhere on Sunday, so, what could it hurt, right?

After a brief, but confusing exchange with Brad, he also disappeared, leaving me with Chris and two other women, who were also older, but not unattractive.  We sat down around the tiny table and yelled comments to each other.  As we sat there, a girl, who I could easily describe as a "dancer" (think of me saying the word dancer, while making the quotation marks sign in the air with my fingers) literally stumbled over the rope and literally into my lap.  Her thigh-high boots with the 8 inch heels apparently too much for her to handle. 

She had a drink in one hand and her coat and purse in the other.  She flopped her coat on me and dropped her purse, but didnt' spill a drop of her drink.  I was impressed.  after helping her up, she smiled a crooked, inebriated smile, then leaned over, grabbed my head in her hands and planted a wet, whiskey-soaked kiss on my lips.  "You're cute" she said, "watch my stuff".  Then she weaved her way back onto the dance floor to dance, I assume.  Now to be fair, I'm pretty sure she said "you're cute" because I could barely hear her.  But that's what it sounded like.  I suppose she could have said, "you brute" or "foresooth" or maybe even "tootie fruity" but I'm going to go with "you're cute" so there.

I never saw her again the rest of the night.  In fact, I was looking for the cute brunette that greeted me when I walked in, but I couldn't find her.  Sure, the moment I saw her, all the bells and warning whistles went off in my head.  As an "experienced" bachelor, I have a well developed spidey sense when it comes to crazy.  And this girl just oozed crazy.  But, like the sirens that sang songs on the rocks and sent sailors to their deaths, sometimes you just can't avoid the crazy.  Sometimes it's worth it.  And, in my slightly inebriated state, I felt daring. 

As I was still recovering from the unexpected kiss and scanning the room for the sexy brunette, Brad showed up again, stepping right in front of me, taking up my entire line of sight.  This time, he wasn't alone. 

I'm not sure what our conversation was about earlier, but it apparently involved some kind of setup.  Behind him and his Thai girlfriend were two young girls, both looking shy but attractive, clearly buzzed and dressed in little more than extravagant bathing suits. 

"They're single" Brad yelled to me.  "SLKGHSL  SLKD  EASY!"  Again, I couldn't make out what he was saying, but he then grabbed my arm and pushed me towards the girls.  Confidently, I introduced myself and they returned the favor in thick Russian accents.  "They're Russian Au Pairs" Brad yelled again.  "They're looking for American men to hook up with!"  Ah, now it was coming together for me.  "Come on, make your move, they're easy!" Brad said with a wide grin.  He was bound and determined to show me the pleasures of exotic, foreign women.

I made drinks for the two girls, we tried to converse, but it was hard enough to talk even without an accent getting in the way.  After a bit, we stopped trying to talk and I danced a little with the redhead, who did a little grinding dance from behind and put her hands in my pockets.

Women, maybe it's just me, but it's not supposed to be this easy.  Men don't get scared, they just lose interest in these situations.  Don't get me wrong, I would have gone home with the redhead, had it not been for another large man who seemingly didn't like the fact that they had wandered away from their table and wound up in our section.  He grabbed the girl I wasn't dancing with by the arm and dragged her out on the dance floor and then returned to talk to the girl I was "dancing" with.  I don't know what they said, the exchange seemed tense, but not heated.  I'm not sure they were even speaking English.  After a moment, she returned, pulled out a pen and wrote her name and number on a napkin and shoved it into my pocket.  No words were said, but she smiled and simply left.

By now, I was reeling a little.  This wasn't so unusual when I was 22 and a bachelor, but at 40, overweight, graying and more interested in the vodka than dancing, it was certainly unexpected.  I had to sit down.  I made my way back to the seat, next to the older women I'd been talking to earlier and we had a big laugh at something one of them said.  I don't know what was said, I only know that they laughed, so I laughed with them.  Tara had returned and was in the corner sitting in the other Chris' lap.  She seemed happy and content and I was having fun.

I poured another drink from a new bottle and sat back to take everything in.  Somehow, I found myself nearly alone behind the tiny table.  Chris and Tara had disappeared, the older women had left to go back to the suburbs and Brad and his girls were nowhere to be seen.  I was in the middle of trying to figure out why the cranberry juice tasted more like club soda when a new girl plopped down beside me and asked me for a drink.

Now, I'm not a stupid man, I was pretty sure that this new girl wasn't part of our group, and she was just looking for a free cocktail.  But I obliged her and poured her a strong vodka and OJ.  We sat in relative silence for a minute as I watched to see what she did next.  She took a sip, seemed surprised at how strong it was and then just sat there.  I expected her to leave immediately after getting the drink, but she didn't leave.  She stayed.  Like most of the other girls in the club, she was cute, so I asked her her name, introduced myself and queried as to how she knew Tara. 

It turns out she grew up with Tara, in Detroit.  Detroit?  My Tara is from Jersey.  This girl, Lindsey, I think was her name, said she was in town for a week, visiting Tara.  How nice, I thought.  Coming all the way from Detroit for the divorce party.  Oddly enough, when my Tara showed up, I asked her why she never told anyone she was really from Detroit.  My Tara looked at me as if I were speaking Aramaic. 

"That's not Tara," Lindsey said.  THAT'S my Tara, pointing to another girl emerging from the dance floor.  Terra, as I was told her name is spelled, took Lindsey's place as Lindsey went to go find the bathroom.  I poured a drink for Terra, found out that she knows Tara from a Mary Kay thingy and we struck up a conversation.  After about ten minutes, my Tara told me she was leaving.  I was truly now on my own.  Everyone I knew, Tara, Chris, Brad, his Thai girlfriend, who makes breakfast for him and cleans his room and does his laundry everyday, they were all gone.  Now it was just me and this new Terra.

The New Girl:

We drank, killed the bottle, as she told me of her dreams to someday operate the mother of all recreation centers, complete with olympic size swimming pool, racquetball courts and I think she said a thunderdome, but again, it was hard to hear.  It was now nearly 1:30 and I was starting to poop out.  That's what 40 year old bachelors do, right?  They poop out.  I got up to leave and she grabbed my hand and wouldn't let go.

She said something, but I couldn't quite make it out because of the music and the noise and the fact that by now, she was slightly slurring her words.  I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, thanked her for her time and started to leave.  I wasn't halfway to the door when I felt her behind me, grabbing my hand again.  I continued to leave and she simply followed me out the door.

Listen, I'm a red-blooded American man.  This wasn't a woman I was going to have any kind of relationship with, but if she wanted to go home with me, why in the world would I say no?  Once out on the sidewalk, I asked her what she was doing.

"I'm going home with you," she said, wobbling slightly.  "You said you live nearby, right?"
I told her I did and started to walk home.  She paused briefly and then grabbed my hand again.  "You know I'm not just crashing at your place, right?"  Actually, I didn't know that.  I wasn't sure what her motives were.  My experience has taught me to be wary of things that seem too good to be true.  I told her that as we continued to walk past Larimer Street.  "Do you have condoms?" she asked.

Now let me say that when I was younger, I always had condoms at the ready, but as I got older, I stopped keeping them in my wallet, and, eventually, for some reason stopped keeping them handy in my house.  Stupid move, one which would come back to bite me later, but that's another story I'll never tell.  Since that one night when I found myself in need of a condom but without one, I have started keeping them handy once again.  I told Terra I did have condoms, which seemed to put a bounce in her step. 

We were just walking up to my apartment lobby when she stopped suddeny and looked at me with her huge brown eyes, looking as if she was going to cry.  Not a word was spoken as she squeezed my hand harder and then promptly bent over and threw up all over my shoes and jeans.  Here's another hint, ladies, if you want to get laid, don't throw up on the guy.

The tears came almost immediately afterwards.  I felt bad for her.  Yes, the warning signs were evident.  If the one cute brunette had set off warning bells and whistles, this girl literally came with a Robbie the Robot in he background with waving mechanical arms and yelling "Danger Will Robinson, Danger!"  The level of crazy for this girl was off the charts.  And yet, I really did feel bad for her. 

There was a loneliness about her, a desperation that most of us can relate to.  There's a reason an attractive 23 year old woman gets drunk in a club after speaking of hopes and dreams before going home with a 40 year old fat guy.  I knew this.  I'm not sure if I would have actually slept with her had she not thrown up.  I would have felt like I was taking advantage of a woman in the throes of a depressed, desperate decision.  She just wanted companionship, don't we all?  She wanted to be with someone, anyone.  It wouldn't have meant anything, it would have simply been sex.  It probably would have been sloppy and ragged, but she might have felt good for a while, at least until she woke up and found me sleeping next to her.  Who knows?

What I DO know, is that I flagged down a cab, found out where she lived and gave her ten bucks to get home (she lived on Capitol Hill, a six or seven dollar cab ride, I know from experience).  As we waited for the cab, she insisted I take her number and give her mine.  Taking a page from my younger bachelor friend, I now have her listed as Terra Drink.  First name, and the bar where we met.

As I watched the cab pull away with a still crying and very sleepy Terra in the backseat, I thought about everything that had happened over the past six hours.  It felt like I had just returned from a grand adventure.  I half expected my Hobbit friends to be gathered in the lobby and cheer my triumphant return to the Shire (Lord of the Rings reference, look it up). 

Epilogue:

Smelling of alcohol and puke, wobbly myself from too much vodka, I made my way to the elevator and eventually into the friendly confines of my apartment.  The front desk guy, who is used to seeing me come home in the early morning hours in less than perfect shape after a night out, simply looked at me, jaw agape.  He didn't say anything as I looked at him.  No snarky remarks, not even a hello.  Just a look that said, "Holy shit, old man, what did you get yourself into?" 

I remember seeing him shake his head as the elevator doors closed shut.  I had survived.  I felt fulfilled, I felt satisfied.  I felt drunk and tired.  It had been a good night, a fun night, a night for my friend Tara, to celebrate her bachelorhood and single freedom-ness.  It was a night to recall some of the shenanigans I used to pull when I was younger.  To not only relive some of my past glory, but to remind myself that my future wasn't dim, that I still ha a little bit of game.

I woke with a blinding hangover Sunday morning.  Just a reminder that I can't do this every night like I used to.  But every now and then, I can still tear up the town when I want to.  Long live bachelorhood, long live nudity at dance clubs, long live girls named Tara, or Terra, or..whatever.  Next weekend, I'll settle for a few beers with Meredith and Shannon and Anne and Mark and Stephen.  I mean, a guy can only take so much. And, frankly, there's only so much facepaint and ritual dancing that can be done around campfires during the retelling of legendary nights.

I Got Your Six!

Dating.  It's an exercise in futility, frustration, fear, delerium, physcosis, risk, leverage, lust, pheremones, blind trust, mistrust, depression, elation...well, you get the point.  It's like facing a firing squad, only without the blindfold and cigarette.

In situations like that, it's always nice to have a friend nearby.  Not that, you know, if you WERE facing a firing squad, you'd want your friend to be standing right next to you waiting to take a bullet.  But when it comes to dating, friends are indeed good to have on hand.  It's why people so often travel in packs when they go to clubs, bars, poetry readings, anywhere they might have a chance to meet someone from the opposite sex.  There's strength in numbers. 

The Art of Love & War:

Some have compared dating and relationships a lot like going to war.  I even think there was a book written about dating and relationships based on "The Art of War," using many of the same techniques outlined to gain battlefield victory to win the heart of that special someone.  And if that book hasn't been written yet, I call dibs.  I think it'd be a great read.

I mean, think about it, you assemble your troops, you try to gain the high ground, you do your reconniasance, you only bring out the heavy artillery when absolutely necessary.  When taken in this context, it's no surprise that one of the main weapons in the dating conflict, at least for men, is "the wingman".

I'm not sure what women call the girlfriends they bring with them when they go out together.  From my perspective they look like a force field, or some other kind of defense perimeter.  In Star Trek, they'd be called a deflector sheild; their sole purpose to swat away potential suitors like the tail of wild beast.

With that in mind, men came up with, "the wingman".  But what is this mysterious wingman?  What is his purpose?  What does he do and how does he do it?  Ah, patience, friends, all in due time.  First we have to lay out the battle-lines.

Surveying the Field:

We've all seen groups of women at clubs and bars.  I don't care where you're at, or how old you are, or what your sexual orientation is.  When a group of women gather, it takes all of about four seconds for a hierarchy to evolve.  There's the leaders, sometimes referred to as "The Heathers" by some guys (If you haven't seen the movie, rent it, watch it, you'll get it).  The Heathers are usually the most attractive, stunningly attractive sometimes, and they have the bitchiness to prove it.  In fact they're usually prety bitchy because they're hot and they know it.  These girls are usually in the inner circle of the protective shield.  It takes a special kind of man to penetrate this defenses to reach The Heathers, and then know what to do once he gets to them.  Generally this venture ends in dismal failure.

Then there's the wannabe's.  These girls are also usually very attractive, but not quite as bitchy, but they'd sure like to be.  They wannabe one of The Heathers, and they'll do almost anything to get inside that inner circle.  Again, this is usually failure waiting to happen for most guys.

After these women, you have the pretty women, the less pretty women and the hangers-on, the not quite so pretty, but they have a great personality and they do gain something from hanging with the pretty girls, even if it's only on the periphery. 

Now, smart men, experienced men will focus on a woman in one of these last three groups.  They're easier pickings and, depending on what the guy is looking for, is a pretty good bet for success.  Obviously, the hangers-on are anxious for any kind of attention they might get from a guy, while the pretty ones are there to have fun and not as defensive or bitchy or wary, whatever word you want to attach, as The Heathers or the wannabe's.

Plus, and here's where experience kicks in, when you're dealing with a large group of women, they will, eventually, break off into smaller groups, usually in twos or threes, maybe fours.  It's rare when one of these smaller groups contains one of The Heathers or wannabe's.  Now we can start discussing the wingman, because now is when the wingman strategy can be put to use.

The Scenario:

There are three women at a club, they're dancing a little with their friends and between songs, they head back to their table or the bar for drinks.  There is a group of men nearby.  One of them has been eyeing one of the pretty ones.  He has her eye on her, he's smitten, infatuated, driven to meet her.  But what can he do?  He's clearly outnumbered, three to one.

He turns to one of his buddies and says confidently, "I need a wingman."  At that point, one of the buddies has to step up to the plate and "take one for the team."  This often isn't as bad as it seems, depending on the group of women the target is with. 

You see, the wingman's biggest responsibility is distraction.  His job is to pick off the friends of the woman being targeted, so the primary bachelor can make his move.  Now, if the woman is only with one friend, this is easy.  He simply needs to distract a single friend.  If she's with two or more friends, the job becomes much more difficult and might even require multiple wingmen. 

Attractiveness of the "friends" is also a factor because if the friend is not so pretty, or, god forbid already in a relationship, married or serious it doesn't matter, then the friend is going to be extra protective and that much harder to pry away from the target.  If the friend is also single and attractive, then the wingman might actually have a chance with her, if he's attractive and charming enough.  If the friend finds the bachelor making the move to be attractive, then there's always a chance the bachelor might get attention from two women, at which point the wingman has his work cut out for him, unless the bachelor wants the attention of both, in which case his job is done.

Confused?  That's okay.  Because being a wingman can be complicated.  There has to be trust between the wingman and the pilot (the bachelor making the move on the target).  The pilot has to know that the wingman is going to do his job, keeping the friends away from the target so he has a chance to talk with her one on one and try to make an impression on her.  For this reason, the wingman is usually a trusted, longtime friend of the pilot.  With this longtime association, comes a series of eye contact, hand signals, and other forms of non-verbal or word signals that are inherently understood between the two. 

A good wingman can assess the situation, see how successful the pilot is and adjust accordingly.  Does the pilot need more time?  Is he crashing and burning?  Does he need backing or support to close the deal? 

The Approach:

A good wingman will even know how to approach the target and her friends.  And believe me, there is a lot of strategy to keep in mind when putting together an approach plan.  For instance, here are a few strategies that have proven successful over time:

Divide and Conquer -  This is perhaps the best known and one of the most successful strategies utilizing the wingman, and best used if the target only has one friend to deal with.  In this strategy, the pilot approaches first and strikes up a conversation with the target, acknowledging the friend, but putting most of his focus on the target.  Just as the friend starts to feel unwanted and ignored, the wingman swoops in and distracts her with discussion of his own.  Timing is important in this one.  If the wingman is too early, the friend may not bite.  If he's too late, the friend will interfere in the pilot's approach and things could end before they even get started.

The Immersion - This is a technique best used when the target has more than one friend, but no more than three.  This one also helps if you have a wingman that is relatively attractive and charming.  This strategy requires a simultaneous approach by the pilot and the wingman.  The two men approach the women and begin a conversation.  The wingman attempts to grab the attention of the friends, while the pilot attempts to communicate with the target.  There is a risk in this strategy in that the target may find the wingman more attractive and the pilot will lose out.  If this happens, the pilot and the wingman have to immediately change places and assume the other's role.

The Bait and Switch - Basically, a reverse of the Divide and Conquer scenario.  In this scenario, the wingman attacks first, generally asking the friend or friends out to dance or to strike up a conversation or buys them drinks and settles in as one of the group.  In this strategy, the wingman's goal is to grab the focus of the friends, although in the process, he will likely also grab the attention of the target.  This means the wingman has to make it clear that he is more interested in one of the friends, therefore separating the friend from the target.  This is when the pilot enters the picture and makes his move on the target. 

All three of these scenarios are used by men in clubs all over the world, and, while not always successful, the wingman increases the chances of success significantly.  Here's another thought.  Unlike women, men don't necessarily have the hierarchy that women do when at clubs.  Any man can be the wingman at any time.  Regardless of how attractive or well spoken or charming he may be, there are times when he will have to assume the role of the wingman. 

To The Victor...

And there's no shame in that, really.  As wingman, we're doing our fellow bachelors a favor.  Take pride in the effort you give and in any successes he may have in snaring the target.  One of the traditions I had when I was younger (read: in college and immediately afterwards) and regularly engaging in the wingman experience, was that if the pilot failed to achieve his goal, whether it be getting digits or a date, and the wingman did his job properly, then the pilot owed the wingman a drink.  On the other hand, if the goal wasn't achieved because the wingman screwed up, then the wingman bought the pilot a drink.

I know it all sounds so mysoginistic, and like a big game, but it's not.  Well, okay, it IS a big game.  There's nothing at stake other than pride and a future with a potential lover, but trust me, it's not meant to be mysoginistic in any way.  It's just that the description comes off that way.  In reality, it's a way for men to try to break through the armor and defenses of women in a situation that doesn't often lend itself to personal, one-on-one meetings. 

The women play their game, the men play theirs, and together they do a wonderful dance of tit for tat, playing a game of romantic chess in the clubs and at the bars.

Women, I'm curious to see if you have a similar "wingman" strategy.  I mean, it IS 2010, and women approach men just as much as men approach women.  If you do, please tell the bachelor diaries you wingman strategies, or tell us what you all really talk about when you're in those large groups.

By the way, the wingman isn't patented or owned by anyone.  So, women go get a Goose to your Maverick and let the games begin!

The Aging Bachelor

Man, what a weekend.  I had a birthday.  So, of course, I had a party.  I won't say how old I am, a gentleman never reveals his age, isn't that the old saying.  Let's just say, I'm no longer in my 30's.  Those of you who know me, know the exact number, but let's keep that among ourselvs, shall we?

Obvoiusly, the picture above isn't from my party.  It's a shot from my private party with my beloved cat, Mr. Giggles.  We had so much fun together, we sniffed catnip, ate tuna and.....okay, sorry, I can't go on.  I don't have a cat, and if I did, it sure as hell wouldn't be called "Mr. Giggles."  The pic is a gift for all my female friends, and my one male friend, who love cats, most of whom live with more than one ferocious feline in their homes and apartments.  There, see?  Despite the fact that cats kill babies, I can enjoy them, too.

Anyway...the party was a blast, friends came to wish me luck on the anniversary of my birth.  Drinks were imbibed, jokes were told, cigarettes were smoked, there was much laughing and joviality to be had.  I've never put a whole lot of stock in birthdays.  For the longest time, I didn't even really celebrate mine.  However, in the past five years or so, I've found that I enjoy my birthdays more and more.  Strange, huh?  As most people get older, they enjoy them less.  Just another point proving that I am, in fact, a contrarian at heart.

I had mean to take some pictures of the big bash, but I got a little drunky and alas, no pics to show the fun.  My bad.  As I said, though, it was fun, getting to hang with some of my closest friends and catching up and appreciating what I have in my life.

But as I was recovering from my stupor on Sunday morning, I came up with this entry idea.  The concept of the aging bachelor.  Unlike sports figures, bachelors can continue to play the game for as long as they like.  But like athletes, age can sometimes make them less effective.

I'm not at the top of my game like I was ten years ago, or when I was in college.  But I still have a little game, it's not like you ever lose it, it just gets a bit rusty when not used regularly.  I referenced in a recent entry about asking a girl out in a club.  She was probably 15 years younger than me, but sometimes you have to just jump into the fray so you don't forget how to play.  How are these sports metaphors working for you, by the way?  like them?  No?  Not so much?  Okay, I'll stop.

Just a quick note here, Lemondrop.com, a pop culture website just posted a story about the kind of guys women REALLY want.  And apparently, the chubby, cuddly, stubbly, geeky type is a hit with the ladies.  These guys get extra points for having graying hair.  click here or on the website to read the entire story.  The nice thing is, most aging bachelors are slightly bulging in the middle, are too lazy to shave every day and probably grew up on Star Wars, making them honorary geeks, even if they never played Dungeons and Dragons.

The point is, age in a bachelor isn't always a bad thing.  I think it really just depends on the kind of person you're trying to attract.  My issue is that I generally am attracted to women much younger than I am.  My friend Meredith calls it age-inappropriate relationships.  I suppose an aging bachelor can be a sad figure, but I don't look at it like that.  While I can no longer score with the girls in their early 20's like I used to, the group of women who I find myself attracted to has gotten larger as I've increased in years.

Plus, and here's the really cool part, with age comes a little wisdom.  I don't make the same mistakes I used to make.  Certainly there is still a little bit of self-sabotage that takes place whenever I'm in a relationship, that just seems hardwired in me and I can't stop that, I can only hope to contain it, just like Michael Jordan.  But I am smarter and wiser and more experienced than when I was rampaging through the bars and clubs of Boulder.

I don't waste time with relationships that are doomed from the start...not as much anyway.  I find I'm a little pickier about the people who I want to spend my time with and I value that time so much more than I did when I was younger.

Like a fine wine, I think bachelors can actually get better, increase their game, and happier, less frustrated, as they grow older.  Of course, I think this also holds true for bachelorettes as well, so, take heart ladies.  Yes, I know this might sound like some kind of strange rationalization for adding a year onto my calendar, but it's not.  Aging bachelors still have a lot to offer.  Sure, they're fighting the battle of the bulge, just like everyone else, and some are balding, others are graying, but they also have more to offer.

And, lest we forget, an aging bachelor makes a better lover.  I think so, anyway.  Yes, we might not have the stamina we had when we were 20, but at least we know what we're doing.  I suppose, for the ladies, it comes down to whether they want young and sloppy, or mature and knowledgable.  Plus, ladies, aging bachelors are more likely to enjoy foreplay.  Of course, we'll eventually fall asleep afterwards, just like we did when we were younger, some things really don't ever change.

So, bachelors and bachelorettes don't look at other aging bachelors with pity.  Yes, we might go through a little mid-life crisis now and then, or suffer a minor emotional breakdown, but open your minds and you'll find a treasure in someone you might not have ever considered before.

Me, I'll probably still cast an eye on the young'uns every now and then, I can't help it.  Especially doing theater, it's just chock-full of actresses in their mid-20's with "daddy" issues.  Besides, in the immortal words of Professor Farnsworth, I don't think I'm robbing the cradle, it's more like she's robbing the grave.