The Complex, Part Deux

Hello my friends.  It's been a while and I have so much to catch up on.  Observations and comments and insights, it'll take a while to get back up to speed.  I had to take a moment, though, to write about where I live.  Actually, to comment in general about life in a high-rise.  I have to say, I absolutely enjoy living in a high-rise.  I've already written about some of the pros and cons about it in previous entries.  There are a multitude of interesting people, the care and upkeep is minimal, and, most importantly, few bugs.

One of the greatest things about living in a high-rise is the elevator experience.  See, one of the most enjoyable moments I have living in my complex is riding the elevators up and down from home, to lobby, to the gym, to the laundry and so on.

Yes, I've been stuck in an elevator, three times!  I imagine this is what it looked like from the outside.

Here's what I particularly enjoy about the elevators:  The people.  Not only are there a bunch of outrageous characters living here, but many of them are women of all shapes, sizes and demeanor.  Seriously, do the math.  There are 44 floors.  With the exception of the first floor and the second floor (private lofts, four of them) there are 12 apartments per floor.  Given that there is AT LEAST one person living in every apartment, that means there are 528 residents living here at any given time.  Now, since I KNOW there are at least two people living in most of the apartments here, I'm going to shoot that up to about 1,000 residents, give or take a hundred or so residing around me. 

It's kind of like a bachelor's dream.  Going by the national statistics, if there are 1,000 residents in my building, then at least four to five hundred of them are, statistically speaking, women.  Every single day I ride up and down in my elevator, chances are good I will be riding with a woman. 

The elevator rides are always an adventure.  I'm not talking about a couple going at it like rabbits once the door closes, only to emerge looking dishevelled and in a daze.  But the mere experience of riding elevators is something I've always enjoyed, and not because I'm whizzing upwards in a metal box controlled by computers and cables and maintained by angry, gruff technicians. 

There's something fun about the awkwardness of two people, complete strangers, riding alone in an elevator.  I'm a large man, I can be intimidating sometimes.  A lot of the women I ride up with are smaller, more petite women, mostly dancers or chorus girls in shows at the performing arts center.  They're attractive, they always seem very nervous.  I don't stare, but it's hard not to look at them as they stand near the front of the elevator, fidgeting with their purses or staring at their phones.

In time, though, if they stick around long enough, or if they live here, we all get to recognize each other and I've had some interesting conversations in those rides.  I've chatted with a girl on the fourth floor about music, a woman on the 19th floor about public relations, I've had conversations about BP, politics, sports and even relationships.

Of course these are all short conversations.  Three minutes, tops.  And since we both know these are short rides, we somehow manage to cut through all the polite banter and get right down to business.  Of course we say hi to each other and then a question or observation sparks the conversation and suddenly we're talking as if we're long lost friends.

As I've stated previously, I've been living in high-rises for a long time now, five years here, four years in another complex, three years before that in a different building.  Oddly enough, even though all of these complexes are separated by miles of road and situated in very different economic areas, each of them have some interesting things in common.  Of course, the elevators have similarities too, such as the strange smells, the stuffy-hot atmosphere and the occasional dog pee on the floor.

First, I believe that every high-rise has screwy fire alarms.  I'm usually up late or working from home, and in every building, the alarms have gone off randomly at all hours of the day or night.  You get used to the alarm going off for no reason.  So it came as a huge surprise one night when the alarm went off around 2am one night a couple of years ago.  Right before the alarm went off, my lights had flickered on and off.  It was kind of spooky, actually.  Then the alarm went off and about five minutes later, I lost all electricity.  It was strange, so I walked out into my hallway and to my shock, smoke was billowing out from underneath the electrical door and out from the elevator doors. 

A moment of panic set in as I tried to figure out what exactly was going on.  For so long a fire alarm was simply a distraction, a nuisance.  But now it seemed as if it was a real, honest-to-goodness fire...in my building!  In my sweats and t-shirt, I grabbed my phone and started walking down the pitch black staircase. 

Slowly, I was joined by several other folks who had been rudely jolted awake by the blaring alarm and the smell of smoke.  I chatted with several lovely women while I waited outside for four hours for the fire department to clear the building. 

One of the other interesting commonalities in each building is the people.  It seems as if every single high rise in the world has the same mix of individuals living within its walls.  There is the strange couple that looks at everybody as if they were criminals.  They don't speak much, they squint when they look at you and they mumble when they say hello.  For a while this couple lived right next door to me.  They had, well, I guess they still have, a small dog, a tiny dog, a poodle I think, that they take for a walk four to five times a day. 

I have to clarify when I say "take for a walk" because really, they carry the little dog around in a miniature pet carrier.  The front of the carrier is open and the dog sits with its front paws hanging out the front with its head just barely poking out from underneath the little blue curtain that hangs down from the top.  They lived next door to me for about a year, before moving to a lower floor.  I don't know if I made them move, I might have.  I kind of terrorized them, I think.  I don't throw a lot of parties, but when I do, they tend to get a little rowdy and loud. 

More than once, I would get a call from the front desk, or a knock on my door.  "Please be quiet" they would say.  And then another call or knock, another request.  This would go on a few times, until, more than once, a very angry and tired-looking neighbor, dog carrier in hand, slippers on his feet would pound on my door.  I was drunk, he was red-faced, he'd yell, I'd blow him off.  That was pretty much the nature of our relationship.

So, I can understand why he might look at me with disdain.  But he looks at everyone like that.  It's strange.  Even his dog seems to look at people with a suspicious glint in its beady little eyes.  Every time I see him now, he's still taking his dog for a walk, and he still mumbles when he says hello.

Then there's the person I call "the nervous one".  In every instance, this is a middle-aged woman, generally tallish, skinny, wearing glasses and dressed like a 1950's librarian.  In my last building the "nervous one" never actually spoke to anyone.  She mostly talked to herself and stared straight ahead.  I think people truly frightened her.  I don't mean, made her fidgety, but really, REALLY scared her. 

In my building now, the "nervous one" looks much like all of the other "nervous ones," tall, skinny, dressed in severe gray skirts and buttoned up blouses and horn rimmed glasses.  She rushes around as if she's always late for something and never, ever talks to anyone.  She happens to live a few floors below me, so I catch a ride with her from time to time.  Two days ago, she actually said hello to me.  I was so shocked, I almost didn't reply.  It was just the two of us in the elevator, but I thought she might have a phone in her hear and was talking to someone else. 

I finally said hello back and she commented on the heat and something about her neighbor's dog keeping her awake at night.  I'm not sure if she thought I was someone else, or what exactly happened.  In four years, this lady has never said a single word to me, or anyone else in our building as far as I know.  And here she was being practically verbose. 

There are a ton of other characters in the building...the slutty women, the slutty guys, the angry couple, the couple that is WAAAYYY too in love and takes every advantage of public displays of affection to let the rest of the world know exactly how much in love they really are.  Recently we even got our own Balke.  Unless you're over 30 years old, you probably have no idea who Balke is.  He's a character from an old TV show called "Perfect Strangers".  Balke was a foriegner, living with a cousin in New York, or some big city.  It was your basic fish out of water story, hilarity ensued. 

Our Balke, is just like that character, only real.  He chats away, happy as can be, but no one really understands what he's saying.  He has a high pitched voice, is timid, doesn't look anyone directly in the eye, but still he chats away to anyone who will listen or respond.  We've had fascinating conversations during our rides together.  I'm not sure what we talked about, I think it's mostly about the weather, but it's hard to walk away from those conversations in a bad mood.  Cheery and seemingly clueless might not be such a bad way to go through life. 

Sure, there are the fights you hear at 4am, the drunken parties who's pumping music filters down to you at midnight on a Tuesday, and the whoops and hollers from inebriated men and women as they stumble back to their apartments. 

All in all, though, it's great living in a high-rise for no other reason than the elevator rides.  As I stated, I've yet to get a date from my ups and downs.  I have been stuck in my elevator for a few hours, I napped.  Not so surprisingly, I found myself wondering why I had to get stuck by myself in the elevator instead of with one of the single dancers living on the 10th floor.  Oh well, it could have been worse, I could have been stuck with my angry neighbor or with the "nervous one". 

Check back soon, I'll be discussing the issue of juggling, and I'm not talking about circus juggling, either. 

I HAVE to get out more!

So, I'm a drinker.  I'm not an alcoholic, I just like to drink.  I likes my adult beverages.  I also like to tell stories.  I'm a drinker and a talker.  Some guys are lovers, some are fighters...I like to drink and talk.  I days past I would have been relegated to sitting on an old log sporting a robe and a long white beard smelling of plum wine and rambling on about the "days of yore".  On the one had, that guy never got laid.  On the other hand, he DID preserve the cultural history of his people, so, I guess it's a trade-off.

Therefore, it's not a huge surprise that I wandered down to a wine bar on Wednesday night to partake in what is called, "The Narrators" series.  Basically, it's just a bunch of artists, comedians and writers gathering in a hipster bar to ramble on about personal incidents and throw back a few two-dollar PBR's.

Just look at the crowd waiting for my story...not.

 Storytellers Wanted:

I joined in the fun because a friend of mine from L.A. was coming back to town to do some shows and she was participating in the event and encouraged a bunch of us to also get involved.  Now, a few things about this lady.  First, she is perhaps one of the funniest people I've ever met.  Truly a comic genius.  Second, she's also the same gal that somehow managed to talk me into doing stand-up, not once, but twice.  Both times compeltely sober (my third stand-up effort involved a lot of alcohol and a seedy bar, so it doesn't count).

It's odd how she has some kind of comedic sway over me.  Probably the only woman in the world that I don't have a crush on that could actually talk me into doing stand-up more than once.   I wanted to see her perform, and I wanted to see how I'd do in that environment.

I got there early, about an hour early, because I misread the time on the invitation.  That was fine, it gave me time to partake of the cheap beers on tap at the Paris Wine Bar.  And by cheap beers I mean the one cider they had in a can for two bucks and the one dollar Pabst.  Eventually, people I knew showed up and we all gathered in the back room for storytime.  There were ten "narrators" on the docket and each one was supposed to have only ten minutes.

Of course, you KNEW this wasn't going to happen.  At ten minutes, ten storytellers, that should have amounted to just under two hours.  Give it a full 120 minutes with people getting up and sitting down and the host time.  As it turns out, we weren't done until about 10:30, so...you do the math.  SOMEONE went longer than ten minutes, right?

I enjoyed the stories, I didn't wow the folks, but I didn't embarass myself, and sometimes that's all you can hope for.  I told an old radio story.  It wasn't funny, but I made up for it by sitting on a stool and not making eye contact, so, it was all good.  But that's not what this entry is about.  No indeed.

A Lovely Surprise:

Because afterwards, all of the performers and some of the random folks sitting around watching the show mingled and shook hands and told everyone how much they enjoyed the others' story.  I didn't really know anyone else there outside of the couple of people I met there.  But as I was chatting with the organizer of the event, a very pretty girl walked up to me and stood in front of me, not saying anything.

Of course I noticed her, but I didn't know her and I just figured she was waiting for me to get out of the way of the very narrow aisle that led to the front door.  I stepped aside, but she didn't move, she just stood there.  After about two minutes, I said my goodbyes to the the host and I turned to look directly at her.  Without saying anything, she just put her arms around me and held me for an awkwardly long time.  I'm not talking about five minutes, but when a complete stranger does a drive-by hug, even 30 seconds can seem like a very long time.

After what seemed like forever, the young lady pulled herself back from me and grabbed my hand and looked into my eyes and simply said, "I loved your story, I...I loved your story."  Here's what I heard.  "I want to have sex with you."

Yes, I know, that's not what she said.  But you have to understand that what a woman says isn't always what a man, particularly a bachelor, hears.  I'll admit she was pretty.  Very pretty in a librarian, curly dirty blonde hair pulled back with glasses, fair skin and striking green eyes sort of way.  It took me a second to respond, because I truly didnt' expect anyone to come up to me and talk to me about my story.  It was grim, it wasn't funny, it was just a straightforward story.  Not even close to the best I could do.  But she seemed very smitten with the retelling of my story.

I grabbed her hand back and thanked her profusely for her compliment.  It was crowded as people were starting to file out and make plans for the rest of their Wednesday night.  Well, really it was just crowded in the very spot we were standing in because we were smack dab in the only walkway between the back room and the front door.

After thanking her, I didn't know what else to say.  But she was still grabbing my hand and I was still grabbing hers, so it felt like I needed to say something.  So I asked her if she had an interest in journalism.  To which she replied, "I'm a freelance journalist myself, and I found your story so fascinating."  It was like I had turned on a firehose.  For the next ten minutes she just kept talking.

At this point I started trying to figure out how to transition from random stranger conversation to something more intimate.  I was in luck because we HAD to get out of the way of everyone trying to leave, so I slowly led her over to the bar and kind of sat her down in the one open barstool.  We chatted for a while, talking about journalism, the media, the Iraq war, politics, writing and comedy.

Of course, you won't be surprised when I tell you that she is significantly younger than I am.  And of course you won't be surprised when I tell you that I simply didn't care.  Sadly, after about 30 minutes of chatting, I asked if she wanted to go somewhere and get a drink.  To which she replied, "I'm not sure, I have to see what my boyfriend is doing."

Grrrrrr.  A disappointment, to be sure, but at the same time, I had a revelation.  I haven't spent nearly enough time getting out to the clubs and bars and wine houses and partaking of the myriad of fun things available in town.  I didn't get the girls number, for obvious reasons, but it was nice to be appreciated.

I have to send out a special thanks to Meredith and Michelle, Sarah and Michael for also being there.  Sara and Michelle were performing as well, but Mere simply came down to show support, which meant a lot.  But at the end of the night, I realized that since I'm not doing as much improv as I have been the past several years, I have a chance to get out and do things outside of the community I've been involved with for such a long time.  I still want to do things with those people as well, as much as I can, but I also have to get out and meet total strangers from time to time as well.

Just tonight our apartment complex had their annual "Pool Party" complete with free food, free alcohol and prizes.  I reconnected with some of the handful of people I know from riding the elevators for the past four years, and met some new folks.  I danced to Frank Sinatra with a retired ballarina dancer and shared a mojito with a lovely, overworked female lawyer.

The point is, and I know a few other bachelors that understand this as well, I simply have to get out more.  If this means grabbing Mere and dragging her to places where we can both meet people, then that's what I'll do.  Hell, we could both use a one night stand if nothing else with some mysterious, hot stranger.  Regardless, I've enjoyed this recent foray back into the social scene.  I'll keep you all posted on how it goes!

Dancing Fool!

I'm a guy.  I've been a guy my entire life.  Being a guy, there are a few givens that I have dealt with from time to time.  These are pretty much universal truths that govern the way men, particulary single men, bachelors, think and act.  It's like the law of gravity, only with gender issues.

I call these constants the "Bachelor Laws".  Of course these laws will differ slightly from bachelor to bachelor, and in different regions and probably different countries.  But for the most part, these are the rules that we bachelors follow, whether we want to or not...it's instinct.

"Well you can tell by the way I use my walk..."  Eh, dancing sucks!

They aren't complicated, and even women, if they've ever spent any time around bachelors, are aware of them.  Here are a few to get acquainted with:

1.  You never cry at a sad movie in public...unless you're with a woman and you want to show your "softer" side so you can score later.


2.  The man always pays on the first date.


3.  Slapstick is funny, explosions are cool, ninjas are awesome. (a note here, it's not essential that bachelors like the Three Stooges, but they DO have to like one of the following movies or their bachelor card is revoked; The Blues Brothers, Caddyshack, Spinal Tap, Airplane or Animal House).


4.  Drinking is an acceptable form of recovery from a breakup.


5.  Porn is a basic fundamental right.


6.  You are required to punch Kenny G square in the face if you ever see him in person.


7.  Ogling is okay as long as you don't say things like, "hubba hubba" or "Holy Crap, would you look at those things!"


8.  Never be afraid to make the first move.


9.  You can enjoy the opera and gardening as long as you also enjoy boxing and/or football.


10.  No bachelor "enjoys" dancing, it's merely a way to hook up with a woman.

Not That There's Anything WRONG With That...

These are simply a handful of the laws that govern the actions of bachelors.  There are a lot more, rules that deal with cooking, working out, dating, fighting, etc.  But for a moment, I'd like to focus on the last of the ten rules I posted above.  You know, the one about dancing.

I get a lot of flack for my take on dancing.  However, I don't think I'm off base on this.  I have known a lot of guys in my time.  Guys who are graceful, tall, slender, fat and short.  These are guys from all walks of life and different backgrounds and the one thing I can honestly say we have all had in common is out general dislike for dancing.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that we hate dancing in general.  I mean, we'll sit and watch a ballet, or we'll watch women bounce and jiggle all over the floor.  It's just that if presented with a variety of activity options for the night, we will almost never willingly choose to go dancing. 

I know, I know, "But Chris," you say, "I know a ton of guys who LOVE to dance."  I don't doubt that you do.  And for the most part I can put these men into one of two categories.  One group of dancing men are the exceptions that prove the rule.  The other group of men are gay. 

Listen, there's nothing wrong with being gay.  But for the most part, men who really like dancing are, well...gay.  Yes, there are those cowboys who like to line dance...that isn't dancing, though, it's more like organized group activity.  Like water aerobics on dry land.  There are those ballet dancers, the ones who wear the really tight leotards that just happens to highlight their package in a way nature never intended.  I'm not sure those guys are gay, they probably just like dancing with hot chicks and getting paid for it.

Anyway, the point is, I don't enjoy dancing, never have.  And I'm actually a graceful fella.  I CAN dance, if I have to.  I can do the salsa and I'm a particularly good slow dancer.  But by and large when I'm in an environment that involves dancing, I'm the one standing at the bar watching everyone else get sweaty.

My Dancing Disaster:

I did once actually recommend dancing as part of a date years and years ago.  I was just out of college and a woman I'd known for some time hooked up with me at a house party.  The following weekend, I asked if she wanted to go dancing.  Now, I did this for two reasons.  1.) I knew she liked to dance and I wanted to take her someplace I thought she'd enjoy.  2.) She also enjoyed country music so I asked her to the Grizzly Rose, a big country bar just outside of Denver.

Now, the Rose has a live band of some sort just about every night and a huge dance floor right in front of the stage that is fenced off like some kind of corral.  I don't like country music, and I can't two-step.  So you can imagine how I had to psych myself up for the evening.  Still, it was for her and I wanted her to be happy.  We showed up at the place around 10pm on a Thursday night.  There was a live band playing all sorts of twangy country tunes, some original, some covers. 

She knew how to two-step, I already mentioned I didn't know how.  She was cool about it and danced with a couple of guys before insisting I get out there and take a lesson from her.  I did and, in reality, the two-step isn't a particularly difficult dance, I mean, it's really just two steps, shuffle shuffle, move.  The music is simple, I picked it up pretty quick.

That's when disaster struck.  There were about 15 couples on the floor at the time, all moving around in a circle, which is apparently what you do when you do the two step.  It reminded me of a big barn dance.  We were going around as easy as could be, talking a little, laughing a lot, when my date decided to up the ante a bit.  Without saying a word, she pushed me away and said, "now it gets fun!"

I wasn't ready, not ready at all, for anything out of the ordinary and it caught me off guard.  She grabbed my right arm, put her hand on my waist and spun me around.  She did it so fast, I didn't have time to react.  In an instant, she had thrown me out, spun me and brought me back in, all while not missing a beat in the two step dance.  Well, that seems pretty simple, I thought to myself.  So as we rounded the bend, she asked if I wanted to give it a try.  Of course I did.  I wanted to show her I was the man, I could lead, I could dance her silly little two step and do flips and twists, dammit.

The next moment happened in slow motion, like one of those movies where the hero gets shot and time suddenly stands still and you helplessly watch as the bullet enters the chest and papers and blood fly everwhere while someone just off camera yells, "Noooooooooo!" 

yeah, it was just like that.  I grabbed her at the waist and flung her out in front of me, still holding on to her right hand.  And then it happened.  My feet somehow got crossed and when I started to pull her back in, I lost my balance.  I started to fall, but I didn't want to drag her down with me, so I took my left arm and pushed her aside, which didn't help, because she got caught up in my legs and toppled herself.

As I fell backwards, and she fell off to my right, an elderly couple just kept dancing towards me.  Because my hands were occupied as I fell, I couldn't break my fall and I fell squarely on my ass, my momentum carrying me backwards.  I knew if I didn't try to stop my movement, or gain control of it at least, my head was going to slam into the floor, so I raised my legs to try and do a reverse tumble roll.  Sadly, as I kicked my legs up to help me roll over backwards, the elderly couple finally saw what was happening in front of them. 

I remember the look on the elderly woman's face, a mixture of horror and confusion as her mind put all the pieces together.  They were too close to get out of the way, and their reflexes too slow to save them from getting hit...hard.

I did roll over, but as my head whipped up, it hit the elderly man smack dab in the gut.  I heard an "oomph!" as he double over.  The woman refused to let go of her man and got dragged backwards as my momentum took us all about five steps in reverse.  I couldnt' see what was happening behind me, I could only feel it.  I knew I hit the man hard and I could hear the woman scream a little as they crumpled into a heap, my body landing right on top of both of them.  Then there was another set of legs all tangled up with us.  A woman's show hit my head, a foot nailed me in the ribs and suddenly there were two bodies lying on top of me.

We apparently had been flung so far back, we hit the couple behind the elderly couple, who, again, just didn't see the disaster coming.  In the aftermath, I envisioned a giant car crash on the freeway, where the semi-truck jacknifes and wipes out about ten cars and all that's left is wreckage and engine fluids and steam rising from the rubble.  For a second I thought I heard the requiem from Full Metal Jacket playing in the background.

There was groaning and my side hurt, as did my butt.  I got the couple off of me and then rolled over so I could get off the couple I had destroyed.  By that time, my date and a few other folks had come over to give us all a hand.  And then I saw it.  There was a pool of blood on the floor.  To be fair, there was blood kind of everywhere.  It turns out the old man had tried to stop his fall and put his hand out.  He promptly broke his wrist and his face hit the floor.  Amy had tripped and hit her head on the stupid fence that ran along the outside of the dance floor and when my head hit the man, I cut my scalp on the dudes oversized belt buckle.  It looked like a MASH unit.

I apologized to the dazed couple and to my date and to anyone within earshot of my voice.  I couldn't have felt worse.  Frankly, I was truly just glad that no one died.  Seriously, I nearly killed an old man while doing the two step at the Grizzly Rose.  I vowed from that day forward I would never dance again...or at the very least, never do the two step again at the Rose.

Dancing For My Art:

I bring this up because one of the ways a bachelor can catch the attention of a woman he's attracted to is dance.  Like it or not, being able to dance is a sure fire way to meet a woman.  If a bachelor can dance, he can always go up and ask a woman out on the floor.  Plus, dancing IS a great way to break the ice.  Let's face it, dancing is sexual in nature.  Men will dance only because sex might be involved.  Women dance because they actually like it.  I never understood that, I never will, but them's the rules and I follow them because it's the law. 

I also mention this because I'm in an improv group that sings.  We improvise musicals on the spot.  This means the characters, the plot, the music, the lyrics, all made up on the spot.  Another element of musicals is dancing.  We've been working, as a group, on dancing and getting better; and we have.  But I'm pretty much the weak link when it comes to the dancing part, so I'm trying to get better at it. 

Last Sunday we rehearsed on the 16th Street Mall because we didn't have a keyboard available to us in the club, but there are a bunch of pianos just sitting on the mall for people to play if they want to (Don't ask me, it's part of the city's summer art program).  We were out there, with our pianist, grabbing people as they walked by and asking them for suggestions for songs.  Then we'd stand around and just sing for them.  It turned out to be a great way to promote our upcoming show, but at one point I couldn't help but think how cool it would be if we also did a little dance to go along with our song.  How impressed would people be then, right?

But for the moment, we'll have to stick with the songs, at least until we get better at dancing as a group, or until I can do it without significantly injuring someone.  So cross your fingers as I attempt to improve my dancing abilities.  Hopefully no one dies and even though I won't enjoy it, I know it's for the good of the group, which is more important. 

I'll keep you updated.  Until then, stay cool my bachelor and bachelorette friends.  Next entry will be after the Fourth Of July and will update the parties I'm attending.  Should be fun!

On Weddings and Funerals

I hate weddings.  Always have.  Maybe it's because the majority of weddings I've attended have had the word "Catholic" attached to it in some way.  For those of you in the unwashed masses category, this tranlates into what I affectionately call, "Church Aerobics".  Stand up, sit down, pray, pray, pray!  It also means long.  Like, REALLY long.  There are candles to be lit, songs to sing, sermons to shout, prayers to pray, wine and little rice cake-like discs to be consumed and then, oh, yeah, there's an actual wedding in there somewhere.

By and large, weddings are awkward, angst-filled events sprinkled with drunken speeches, resentment, fear and sloppy, late-night, desperately sloppy hookups between bridesmaids, jealous that they're not the one being married and groomsmen looking to add a notch to their bedpost. 


As you know, weddings are broken up into two separate events.  There's the ceremony itself, and then there's the reception.  Receptions suck, because it focuses on dancing, particularly dancing with the bride, sometimes pinning money on her dress and drinking...heavily.  The family is usually in attendance so everyone tends to be on good behaviour and friends often sit around and chat uselessly while the couple poses for pictures, smashes cake in each others' faces and tries not to spill champagne so they can get the deposit back on the tux rental.

I want karaoke at my wake, preferably backed by this band.

The Wedding Crasher:

I always feel out of place, and a little sad at weddings.  I keep envisioning the horrible break up that inevitably will come five or ten years down the road and the court fight over who gets to keep the Mac and who gets the flatscreen.  Unless there's an open bar, I rarely see the point of attending most weddings. 

I make an exception for close friends and family members.  But even then...there had better be an open bar.  Perhaps this is why I partake of my own little wedding tradition whenever I have to go to a nuptials gathering.  I wrap up a bottle of Jack Daniels, place it on the wedding gifts table with a little note attached.  I smile as I place it gently between the ill-disguised china setting and new set of knives, just imagining the looks on the faces of my newly married compatriots as they unwrap my present and read the note that says, "Do not open until divorce."

Crude? Yes.  Mean? I don't think so, given the statistics for divorce in the U.S. these days.  Inappropriate?  Maybe.  Cynical?  Oh, hell yes.  I've yet to get a truly angry response from the folks I've given this gift to, and to the best of my knowledge, the bottles remain unopened, so, I guess that's a good thing.

I know a number of friends who actually enjoy going to weddings.  Guy friends.  Bachelor guy friends.  Of course, their primary reasons for going to weddings is, A) The bachelor party and B) hitting on drunk bridesmaids or other random women in attendance.

I get this.  I mean, it makes total sense.  People tend to act desperately at weddings.  A lot of women start to feel the biological clock ticking away at weddings and start looking hungrily at the bevy of bachelors wandering around with a Bud light in one hand and a poor-fitting cumberbund slouching around the midwaist.  Meanwhile, a lot of men start to feel inadequate that they haven't been able to get hitched and beging thinking about a conquest to once again prove their manhood.  The whole scene makes me feel dirty.  Hitting on a woman at a wedding feels sleazy, slimy, like I'm taking advantage or abusing my power or something.

Life and Death:

And then there's the funeral.  I enjoy funerals.  No, I'm not morbid. I don't go crashing funerals looking for kicks.  And generally, because I often know the person who has died, it's a sad day.  But here's the thing.  Whereas weddings seem to represent an ending of sorts, as well as the beginning of something totally uncertain, funerals are final, completely certain, unchanging.  There is a kind of peace that surrounds funerals.  Yes, there is sorrow and there is loss.  But there's none of the desperation I often see at weddings. 

Like weddings, funerals are often divided into two parts, the service and burial, which is where the mourning and rememberances take place.  And then there's the wake.  The wake, I like.  I'm no Goth or necrophiliac, I don't have a death fetish.  I just really, REALLY like wakes.  Because the wake is a time of rejoicing.  No, not rejoicing the death of a friend of loved one, but a time to rejoice the time spent with that individual.  It's a time to tell stories and jokes and remember all the good things about the person who just passed on.  It's a time to laugh and cry and reconnect with others who you might have lost track of over time. 

I find it to be a time of renewal as well.  An opportunity to take stock of your own life and re-energize to do all those things you've wanted to do before you yourself pass away.  It's a reminder that life is short, laughter is beautiful and love is fleeting.  While weddings seem so concocted to me, funerals seem real, with all the warts and happiness and sadness that is real life. 

Perhaps this is why I have picked up an alarming number of dates at funerals.  Well, not exactly AT the funerals, but at the wakes.  At a wake, the defenses are down, the emotions are real and no one is "searching" for a love connection; if it happens, it happens. 

The Hook-Up:

Ten years ago, I attended a funeral of an old friend.  It was someone I used to work with in radio, and he had passed away suddenly.  I had moved on to working in television news at that point, but still had close connections to some of my radio pals. 

We all got dressed up and attended the funeral.  It felt odd being a pallbearer, since many of the people in attendance didn't know me, they were new to the radio station.  We sat glumly through the service and slowly made our way to the burial.  It was a crisp, beautiful fall Colorado day.  The sun was out, but it was cool, almost cold as a breeze ran through the bare branches and played with the leaves scattered across the cemetery grass. 

The shadows were long and the air was light.  It felt like football weather, and I remember thinking that at least my friend got to see the Broncos win the Superbowl, twice, before he died.  That made me smile.

Afterwards, a bunch of us went to a bar that our friend used to frequent regularly.  It's a small little place just on the edge of downtown Denve, bordered by high-rises on one side and parking lots and Five Points on the other side.  20 years ago, it marked the border between the safe part of the city and the part where you wouldn't walk alone after dark.  It was a bar that hand't changed in 30 years and still had pictures of patrons, some famous, most not so famous, some infamous, in cheap frames all over the walls. 

The bar had graciously opened early and gave us the run of the place until it's normal opening hour of 4pm.  We had about three hours to drink toasts and tell stories.  And we did.  We whooped it up.  Journalists are already a hard-drinking lot, give them a REASON to let loose and, well, it can quickly turn into a wake that makes even the Irish green with envy. 

The whiskey and beer flowed.  Stories were told and retold, each time our friends' exploits growing grander and grander.  At some point, I had noticed a young, long-haired brunette sitting at the end of the table, not saying much, laughing a little, drinking even less.  I didn't know her, but my buddy who still worked at the radio station did.  She was a relatively new sales rep and had become good friends with our deceased friend.

She was pretty, had huge brown eyes and long black hair.  I was immediately hypnotized.  I made the regular checks every bachelor makes; no ring, check, no visible scars, check, no slight ticks or odd behaviour, check.  I was curious and on my way back from the bar with my fifth Jack and coke, I took a seat next to her and introduced myself.

She seemed shy, but not elusive.  I asked her how she knew my friend and she told me that he had kind of taken her under his wing when she first started working at the station. 

"That old dog," I thought to myself.  Typical of him to become a mentor to a pretty, young, shy woman.  Why, it's exactly the kind of thing I would do.  I told her how I knew him and proceeded to tell her a story of the first time I met my friend.  It's a funny story and one I've told a few times over the years. 

By the time I was finished, the entire table was listening and we all were having a good laugh, raising our drinks in a heartfelt toast.  Everyone, that is, except for Jennifer, the lovely woman sitting next to me who prompted me to tell the story in the first place.  She raised for a toast and she was smiling, but there was still a sadness to her that was almost heartbreaking.

Within a few minutes, another story was being told at the other end of the table and attention had shifted away.  The two of us sat there, surrounded by people, but feeling very much in our own world, not saying anything, just sipping on our drinks.  Finally, she looked up from her beer and asked me, "Why were you smiling at the funeral?"

The question caught me by surprise.  It's like those moments when you you're singing in your car, and you KNOW that people can see you as you drive down the highway jamming out to Bon Jovi, but you nevr really believe that anyone is really watching you until you look over and see some kid staring at you through the rear passenger window.  It's a little unnerving. 

I immediately started to wonder how many other people had caught me quietly smiling to myself.  I responded the only way I could.

"You saw that?"
"It was hard to miss," she said.

Maybe it was the jack and coke's, maybe I was just feeling a little courageous, but I took that as a signal.  I mean, if she saw me smiling at the funeral, she must have been looking at me, right?  It wasn't like I was front and center at the service or burial.  In fact the only time I was even remotely visible was when I was acting as a pallbearer.  All of this was running through my mind in the matter of about five seconds, a bachelor's mind is amazingly quick under the right circumstances. 

"So, why were you smiling at the funeral?" she asked again.
What could I say?  I told her the truth.  "I was thinking about football."

NOW she laughed.  "The Broncos, right?" she replied, taking a big swig of her beer.
"Of course," I said.  "I was thinking how his timing was perfect, waiting for the Superbowl wins and Elway's retirement.  It was like he planned it."
"I just don't think he waned to see a Broncos team without john," she said, still laughing.

And just like that, the ice was broken.  We hadn't gone to the funeral to meet anyone.  It wasn't on our radar.  But the death of our mutual friend brought us together.  There was a chemistry and a spark and once she relaxed, we started talking.  We talked about everything.  Sales, history, music, sports, our friend, radio, television, news, movies, books.  We spent hours talking.  Before either of us knew it, the wake was over, the crowd grew and then dissipated and then it was time to go home.  Hours had passed and we had lost ourselves in each other.  We found comfort in each others words and presence. 

A Renewing Event:

Saying goodnight in a situation like that can often be awkward.  A couple meets at a funeral, they spend hours talking, getting to know each other, the feeling is relaxed and there's no pressure.  But then you have to make a choice to see where the relationship could go.  Do you let it just simmer and be friends and give a quick peck on the cheek or a "friends" hug where you pat them on the back like a good buddy?  Or do you be bold and ask them out, knowing that because you met at a funeral, it might seem a little crude? 

But there was none of that.  By the time I had walked her back to her car, we both knew there was something there.  Neither one of us was looking for anything serious.  We both knew that there was no pressure.  We wanted to see each other again.  It was unspoken.  We exchanged phone numbers, hugged and then kissed each other goodnight.  It was a long, passionate kiss that made me regret, a little, not asking her back to my place.  And then she drove off.

We saw each other again, and dated for about four months.  It was never serious and we eventually drifted apart.  But we remained friends and I really enjoyed the time I spent with her.  Most of my funeral "hook-ups" are similar in nature.  Just quality conversation that turns into something fun for both parties.  The deal here is that neither party goes to the funeral looking for a hook up.

So invite me to a wedding.  I'll go, I'll partake of the open bar, I might even bring along a date so we can sit in the back and amuse ourselves by making snarky comments about the guests and the happy couple and their overbearing families.  I'll give my "gift" and laugh later that night as I imagine the fury of the bride when she sees the note.

But I'll take a wake, thank you, when I want quality conversation, real emotions and a spirit-reviving experience.  Take note, bachelors, you can't be "on the prowl" at a funeral, that's just not right.  But if you play your cards right at the wake, you can definitely find someone worth spending time with.  Plus, and this is important, funeral sex is way better than drunk bridesmaid sex any day.  Trust me on this one fellas. 

Bachelor Alone-ness

I live in a high-rise.  I've lived here for a while, and, with any luck, I'll be living here for a while longer.  I like living in high rises.  For the past 12 years, I've lived in a high-rise of some sort.  I like high-rises for various reasons.  One, no bugs.  It's not that I'm afraid of bugs, except spiders, I'm terrified of spiders and I hate them.  Truly, I really, really hate them.  But for the most part, high-rises are devoid of bugs in general. 

A lot of high-rises also come with parking, which is good in town with crappy parking and police that hand out tickets like John Wayne Gasey handed out lolipops to underage teen boys.  I also like the fact that most high-rises have balconies.  Just about every apartment I've lived in has had a balcony and was located near a bar.  This is particularly fun around 2am when the bars close and the show begins.

You KNOW you want it baby, Yeah!

Honestly, I'll often just wander out to my balcony around closing time just to watch people stumble around, throw up in the gutter or engage in what I call drunk fights.  These are different from real fights in the fact that, usually, neither party can really stand up straight, keep their balance or throw a real punch.  It's usually a lot of yelling and smack talk, followed up by some shoving or the traditional "drunk male chest bump" which is then usually followed by a slap or a punch.  The great thing about drunk fights is that the punch generally ends up knocking both people down and then they roll around for a minute while their friends come in to break things up.  It's like clockwork. 

Then there's the always fun lovers' spat.  A guy and girl stand on the corner and air all their dirty laundry publicly.  The woman is generally hysterical because the guy, A) looked at another woman, B) forgot something important, or C) is drunk...again.  It doesn't really matter, it's fun to watch, even from 20 stories up.  You'd be surprised how much of a conversation you can hear that high up, especially when they're yelling at the top of their lungs.  Oh, you hear the usual, "WOOO'S" and "HOOOT'S" but it's the drunken spectacle I really enjoy watching.

Sometimes, though living in a high rise has its downside.  For instance, the other day, I was sleeping on my couch, which I often do, and my phone rang.  I was startled out of a deep slumber by its constant ringing.  I looked at my iPhone, the time was just after 4:30 am.  Now, you have to understand, since I left TV and radio, no one calls me that early unless it's something very important.  I didn't recognize the number, so my mind had a million awful thoughts running through it.  Was it the hospital?  Was a family member in trouble?  A friend who needed help?  I had been asleep for just over two hours and suddenly I was faced with something potentially horrible. 

Fortunately, it was none of those things, but it was still pretty horrible.  Dave, the front desk guy was calling to ask me to check my bathroom.  Still a little drunk from sleep, I wasn't sure I understood the question. 

"I need you to check your bathroom to make sure it's not leaking somewhere," Dave said.  Still a little confused, I managed to pull myself off the couch and make my way to my bathroom where I promptly stepped into what felt like a kiddie pool.  I have a ledge between my bedroom and my bathroom, about a two inch ledge.  So any water that manages to leak out onto my floor, it collects.  Well, let me tell you, it had collected...in a big way.

It seems I had a leak coming from my toilet tank.  I didn't know.  But somehow it had started to leak during the night and flood my bathroom floor.  This would be okay if I lived in a house.  In a high-rise, though, it's a minor catastrophe.  My water was leaking through to the floor beneath me and they had called to complain.

In my time living here, the pipes have proven to be the biggest issue, with clogs happening all the time.  As I type this, my garbage disposal is basically useless as my sink is backed up.  But that's okay, you learn to cope with a few setbacks when you live in a high-rise. 

I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, "What does this have to do with 'bachelor alone-ness?'"  I'll tell you.  One of the hallmarks of being a bachelor is being alone.  Learning to be alone, learning to enjoy being alone, dealing with problems...alone.  I'm not talking about life-changing, world-shattering kind of things, but, my toilet is backed up and my garbage disposal won't work and my microwave is on the blink and for some reason the elevator isn't working again kind of problems. 

Being a bachelor means never having to say, "I can do it."  Seriously.  I hear all the time from my "partnered friends" who are always complaining that their girlfriend or wife is making them put up new shelves in the closets, or fix the plumbing or build a porch.  Men with girlfriends or wives do things they normally would never do because their significant others ask them to do those things. 

As a bachelor, I have no one to ask me to do things I don't want to do, like fix my garbage disposal, or mow the lawn (hell, I don't even have a lawn), or build anything...at all.  I'm not trying to impress anyone or show off my alpha male-ness to anyone.  I can simply call someone up and say, "Hey, I have a problem, come fix it" and someone shows up a few minutes later wit a toolkit and in an hour or so, it's fixed.  Yay for me.

As a bachelor, I often walk around in only my boxers and a t-shirt (although lately I've been wearing my "I"m Working" sweats I got from a friend last Xmas) and I can leave my dirty dishes on my coffee table and I can go months without dusting or mopping.  I was making dinner the other night and I had made chili and burgers.  I whipped it up in about 20 minutes and then I grabbed "the Plate" and served up a meal.  "The Plate" is a particularly bachelor-like phenomenon I believe.  I have a single plate that I eat just about every meal on.  I don't wash it, I don't wipe it off, I eat a meal off it, I put it on the counter and then I serve up my next meal on it.

I do this because, first, I hate doing dishes.  And second, I hate doing dishes.  So I use the same plate over and over.  My only other option is to buy paper plates, which I've done in the past, I'm not above that.  So here I am, with my "plate" and I consider pulling out a bowl for my chili.  But then I think, why?  So I pull the pan off the stove, let it cool for a second and eat my chili out of the pan. 


See, this is what bachelors do.  And we do it because we're alone.  We don't have anyone looking over our shoulders telling us NOT to eat off the same plate every single day, or NOT to eat our chili straight out of the pan.  This is why bachelors ENJOY being alone and being bachelors. 


Listen, I love my friends, I love being around them, I miss them when I'm not around them for any length of time.  Just tonight I went out to have a beer for an hour and half with probably my best friend, just because I enjoy being with her.  She makes me laugh and I feel at ease with her.  But then she goes home and I go home and we can both be bachelors in our own little worlds. 


Does it get lonely?  I think most bachelors would say yes, sometimes.  But for the most part, we revel in the alone-ness.  And here's why: the alone-ness also equals freedom.  We don't have anyone to answer to, we don't have anyone looking over our shoulders, we don't have the kind of responsibilities that couples have.  This is the essence of being a bachelor. 


I've heard from several people that the bachelor lifestyle is a kind of Peter-Pan lifestyle.  In other words it's where the person never really grows up.  This confuses me.  I suppose we all have different definitions of what being a "grown up" means.  Yes, I'll admit I act well below my age at times.  And if being a grown up means having a wife and children, a mortgage and a job you hate, well, then, you can keep it.  I know a number of bachelors who are very responsible.  In fact the bachelorette I met tonight, my friend, is one of the most responsible people I know.  She's pretty grown up, even if I'm not sometimes. 


I suppose, in the end, being successful at being alone is a uniquely bachelor trait.  It's part of who we are as bachelors.  We don't want to sit alone at home on a Friday night, we'll normally go out and FIND something to do, people to be with.  But when the bars close, when the lights go up and the drinks are done and the conversation is over, we're perfectly okay making the walk, or drive home alone.  It doesn't fill us with sadness or regret.  On the contrary, we don't mind going home alone, in some cases, we enjoy going home alone.  The alternative is having to answer to someone, or facing the awkward morning after where you're trying to remember the other person's name and help them find their keys and cellphone. 


Of course, sometime we're also the ones throwing up in the gutter or getting involved in some kind of drunk fight.  Either way, it's still better than having a lover's spat on a streetcorner at 2:30 am, to the amusement of every balcony dweller in a three block radius. 


And when faced with those options, bachelor-alone-ness wins again.

The Girl Next Door

Hey folks, I'm back.  It's been a little while, I admit.  I've been busy trying to drum up business and travelling around a bit.  Lest you all think it's all been fun and games, I was doing some work along the way, so it's at least been productive.

I was in Los Angeles last week.  I'm sure you all know of La La Land.  If you've ever been there, you also know it's an...ummm...interesting place.  To be honest, I'm not a huge fan of the place.  It's not the size that daunts me.  I like cities.  I like big cities.  I've done a stint in small towns before, and I've lived in the 'burbs.  Neither one are for me.  I like people.  I like to meet new and interesting people.  Plus, I like to talk, so, you know, people are kind of a pre-requisite for that.

Yeah, but can they solve a quadratic equation?

No, I'm not a big fan of L.A. because so much of it seems fake.  Sure, it's cool to see the movie industry everywhere you look.  And the history is pretty cool, what there is of it.  But under the glitz and glamour and the haze, it all seems a bit hollow.  I DO like Santa Monica, but everything else is so criss-crossed with "freeways" and sprawl and palm trees, well, it's just not my style, I guess.

Hootchie Mama:

Now, you might be asking, "What does this have to do with being a bachelor?"  I'll tell you.  Because L.A. is the movie capital of the world, you can imagine that the place is just crawling with beautiful women.  No, that's not really the right word.  As my friend Galloway said, they're not just beautiful, they're amazing, stunning...breathtaking. 

While I was in L.A. I spent a lot of time on Hollwyood Blvd., home of Grumman's Chinese Theater, The Walk of Fame, The Kodak Theater, the L.A. Subway and multitudes of crazy, insane people.  Oh, and it's pretty well stocked with beautiful women.  For me one of the best parts is that women in L.A. appreciate the short skirt and high heel look as well, which is always a winner in my book.

Now, I'm not intimidated by beautiful women, or smart women or confident women.  I find smart and confident attractive, as well as funny...funny is important.  But walking down Hollywood Boulevard, I found myself coming to one very interesting conclusion; As beautiful as these women were and are, I had a hard time finding them attractive.  Confusing?  Let me explain.

Most of the women I saw as I wandered down Hollywood Blvd. were thin, dressed in skirts that hit way up on the upper thight and heels that looked like miniature versions of the boots that KISS used to wear.  The hair was stylish, the clothes were form-fitting and the makeup was laid on thick.  I never spoke to them so my only impression came from their looks.

Listen, there was nothing wrong with the way they looked except for the fact that they looked so...well...L.A.  In other words, they looked fake.  Am I being harsh?  Am I being too judgemental?  Perhaps.  Maybe it's my age.  Maybe I'm becoming like that old man that sits on his front porch, yelling at "those blasted kids" to get off his lawn and reminiscing about the "good ole' days."  Problem is, I hate yardwork and I don't believe in the "good ole' days."

All of the women I saw, and maybe this was just where I was located, seemed way more interested in stuffing themselves into crowded nightclubs, working as waitresses or hoping to be seen by the right people.  As a bachelor in L.A., the competition isn't other men, it's Hollywood itself.

Confidence!

When I was in Boulder, I was a young, good looking, relatively thin man.  I was athletic, participating in sports, even fencing for a number of years.  I dated, I met women, I grew in confidence.  By the time I left Boulder, I have to admit that I was a bit of a cad.  I was confident to the point of arrogance.  I just felt that, hey, I have been in the dating waters in Boulder, where some extraordinarily beautiful women live and I did okay for myself.  I figured if I could be successful in Boulder, then I could have success with women wherever I went.

After I moved to Denver for work, I realized a few things. 

1.  Women in college are simply looking for a good time, which was compatible to me.
2.  College women are basically focused on two things, school and men, not necessarily in that order.
3.  Professional women have different desires and focuses.

In Denver, I wasn't just competing against other men, I was competing against career aspirations, marriage aspirations, family obligations.  I had to change my approach, my own focus and my own ideas on what being a post-school bachelor was like.

I talked to a number of guys while in L.A.  We talked about the town, the work and the women.  These are good looking guys with good jobs and charm.  In Denver, they had no problem finding women to be with.  In L.A., however, being a bachelor means having to take on a whole new skill set.

That's because most of the women they have met are way more interested in being seen by the right people and parlaying that into a modeling or movie gig.  One man I spoke to told me that if you aren't involved with the movies somehow, your chances of hooking up with one of these "stunning" women diminishes greatly.

Now, I have to imagine that maybe it's only that way in Hollywood and the immediate surrounding areas.  It can't possibly be that way all over Los Angeles, could it?  As much as I enjoyed all the eye candy wandering Hollywood Blvd., I will still take the girl next door any day of the week. 

Preferences:

Maybe it's just my personal preference, but the entire town looked so very blond.  Bleach blond, natural blond, dirty blond.  At least there were a number of redheads mixed in.  I like redheads, I think red is sexy.  I think redheads are my blondes.  Of course, though, I'll always be a sucker for brunettes and dark hair.  I'll take a brunette from Chicago over a blonde from L.A. any day.

I think I could be okay if I had to live in L.A.  I wouldn't be overly happy about it.  But I'd probably find a way to live in or near Santa Monica and try to find the women who weren't just looking for a casting couch.  And I think it could be done. 

Being a bachelor in L.A. is all about segmenting, I think.  Yeah, you can make the trip down to Hollywood or Sunset Blvd., but that's probably more for the occassional wild night out on the town.  I think bachelors that have success (those not involved in movies, anyway) find neighborhoods where they are comfortable, where they fit in and where the women aren't as movie-obsessed as the rest of the city.

I will say this, though.  I feel bad for women living in, or growing up in, L.A.  It has to be hard.  Everywhere you look are billboards, thousands of them, featuring hot women in bikinis or in movie promotions or telling you that liposuction is the way to achieve your dreams.  Plus, the competition for women out there is brutal.  You can be the most beautiful girl in your town, but in L.A., you're just another face. 

One night as we drank two-dollar bottles of win on a rooftop in downtown L.A., we met two women who had clearly been partying for hours (on a Wednesday night, btw).  These two women had just met two men, brothers, at a local club.  The men seemed subdued, one of them even left the party early.  We all chatted and had a good time.  Neither woman was involved with movies, but of course, had a secret desire to GET involved in movies.

The women were attractive, bubbly, outgoing, if also a little tipsy.  They just seemed like they wanted to have fun, which is a common theme out there.  If you had asked me when we first met them how old I thought they were, I would have said mid-20's.  Sure, the lighting was low, the wine was flowing and I wasn't paying too much attention.  But I could have sworn they were in their mid-20's.  So imagine my surprise when told that each of them had children in their mid-teens.  They were closer to 40 than they were 21.  I don't get shocked very often, but THAT shocked me.  I was literally speechless.  Once again...brutal competition for the women out there.

In the end, I'll take the girl next door who might not be as pretty as all the women in L.A.  But I prefer substance over plastic surgery and movie aspirations.  Although it WOULD be cool if the girl next door wore short skirts and heels.  I could live with that.

Stupid Men Tricks

Okay folks, riddle me this:  What is the world record for quarters stuck in a person's nose?  If you guessed 18, you are correct.  You win nothing except the pity of your friends for actually knowing that.  How about the record number of backflips on a pogo stick?  The number of cobras kissed on the head without being bitten?  The record for number of live cockroaches inside a human mouth at one time?  Or how about the record for being hit by a paintball?

Answers: 9, 16, 12 and 114, in order.

Besides all being world records, what else do you think all of these things have in common?  If you guessed unbelieveable stupidity, you would be correct.  If you also guessed they are all records held by men, you win again!  Give that person a kewpie doll!

In case you haven't guessed by now, it's a fairly quiet Thursday night and I'm watching "World's Dumbest" on TV.  I have to admit, it's a guilty pleasure of mine.  So much so, that I TIVO it, along with "The Soup" and "Aqua Teen Hunger Force."  What can I say, I like mindless TV sometimes.  Now, I've seen this show a bunch of times, It makes me laugh.  But for some reason I was watching tonight and I was hit by a sudden epiphany. 

 13 live cockroaches in my mouth? Yeah, it's cool.  Can you believe I'm still single?

Men are idiots.

Women don't stick quarters up their noses.  Women don't try to jump over rivers in a jet-powered Lincoln Continental.  Women don't put cockroaches in their mouths.  And for this I am very, very happy.  Listen, men are stupid enough for both genders, we don't need women trying to outdo us in the dumb department.  Besides you have the bitchy thing.  We let you have that, let us be stupid.

Those who know me know that I have long stated that men are idiots.  It's what we do, it's our superpower.  I have no problem admitting it.  But I DO have a problem explaining why, we're such idiots.  I've been asked more than once why men are sto stupid.  Generally, I just laugh and mutter something under my breath and then say something about the moon and tidal forces and the ill effects of disco liesure suits.

Honestly, I have no answer to that question.  It's like asking why dogs bark at squirrels or why cats are evil.  Some things just are and you have to deal with it.  As a man and a bachelor, I've had to come to grips with this sad bit of natural truth.  For instance, I KNOW that no matter how hard I try, no matter what I do, or how careful I am, I'm going to do something really, really stupid.  The stupidity is often increased by a factor of ten when I'm in a relationship. 

Fortunately, I'm comforted by knowing all of my bachelor brothers are probably being just as stupid as I am.  And honestly, ladies, we don't know why we do the things we do.  Why do we forget your birthday, or the restaurant of our first date or that we shouldn't have stayed out until 4am with our secretary?  We don't think about it, we just stumble blissfully ignorant through our lives just waiting for the next stupid thing we're going to do.  Sometimes we even wonder why we're doing the stupid thing WHILE WE'RE DOING IT.  But that doesn't stop us.  Hell no! 

If it makes you feel any better, it's not something we do just to piss you off.  In fact, it's not something we learned how to do when we suddenly hit puberty and decided that risking life and limb was not only a good idea, but an imperative to entering manhood.

I'll use myself as an example.  In my lifetime I have done the following stupid things:

1.  Fell down the stairs, broke my arm, and told doctors my aunt pushed me
2.  Stood on a hill while my family was target shooting
3.  Fell down said hill and cut my wrist from pinkie to arm.  I still have the scar
4.  Jumped off a jungle gym and broke my arm
5.  Actually inhaled the spring from a pen.  Doctors had to take it out of my lung
6.  Swallowed ball bearing on a dare
7.  Have eaten various strange plants and bugs, on a dare
8.  Skateboarded behind a car and received a concussion
9.  Climbed the bookcases in elementary school and threw paper airplanes at the teacher
10. Shoplifted
11. Nearly burned my house down while playing with fire (broke the TV)
12. Cheated (especially at board games...if you're not cheating, you're not trying)
13. Cheated on a college girlfriend
14. Became the reason KOA has a no drinking policy at work
15. Broken a xerox machine by xeroxing my ass (but NOT the one I got blamed for)
16. Jumped from the roof of a house onto my flagpole
17. Jumped from the roof of a house into a tree
18. Driven 110 miles an hour, lost my license
19. Randomly taken road trips to California, Texas and Montana for no good reason and without 
      telling anybody
20. Challenged a man twice my size to a fistfight, which I promptly lost

I'm stopping at 20, because, well, because it's getting a little embarrassing.  Don't think this is a comprehensive list.  Just think of this as a highlight reel of just SOME of "Chris's dumbest moments." 

Each time I'd do something stupid, someone, usually a family member would ask me, "What the hell were you thinking?!?"  My response was, "ummmm...errrr...uhhhh...I dunno, just 'cause." 

To be honest, I HAVE given some thought to why men have mastered the art of stupidity.  Sometimes we do stupid things to impress women.  Of course, we don't know at the time that being stupid is actually one of the dumbest ways to impress a woman.  Sometimes we do things on a dare, because our friends are cheering us on and we just CAN'T back down if people are cheering us, right?

I mean, even while my family was berating me, right behind them, my friends were usually snickering and high-fiving and giving me a big thumbs up as if to say, "right on, man!"


It's In The Genes:

Of course, I'm not a doctor, so I have absolutely no scientific proof, but I think the answer lies somewhere in genetics.  How else can you explain our fascination with monkeys, or things that blow up, or games that involve brutal bodily injury and/or scratching and spitting? 

Why else would a man fart loudly while having Christmas dinner at his girlfriend's parents house and then nearly burst a blood vessel trying not to laugh too loudly.  We know that women mature faster than men, but as I go through life, I have made several observations that prove, to me at least, that while women might mature faster, men simply have a hard time maturing at all.

Yes, we might dress up in a tuxedo for a gala event, but that won't stop us from puking in the planter outside the restaurant later that night.  We might say and do all the right things for a little while, but eventually, like the sun rising in the East and setting in the West, we're going to falter.

It just HAS to be genetic, or biological.  It's something inherent in us men to be stupid, generally at the worst possible time.  It's easy to understand why a 14 year old boy might crush up a packet of smarties and then snort them while the rest of the boys giddily stand around cheering him on.  My friend Travis did that.  He was never really the same after that.

But it's another thing for a grown man to look at a bottle of Tabasco sauce and wonder how fast he can drink it.  But we do.  For some reason, while women evolved into graceful, beautiful rational life forms, men remained somewhat nearer to our glorious ape ancestry.  We're often violent, irrational, smelly, burpy, surly creatures that often act without thinking. 

And I know women do stupid things to.  like Guenevere sleeping with Lancelot, or Juliet killing herself (I mean, really, was he worth it?), or Sarah Palin just being Sarah Palin.  But really, the ratio is so enormously on the side of men it's almost astronomical.  There's, like, one stupid woman act for every one million stupid man act.  It's almost inconsequential. 

In summary, I still don't know why men are such idiots.  Like I said, it has something to do with genes, or apes or moon tidal forces.  I just don't know.  But I do know this.  I'm okay with it. 

It's kind of like a female friend of mine.  She's crazy.  She's high maintenance.  I seriously want to give her boyfriend a medal.  But I love her to death.  Yes, she's crazy, and she drives me crazy and she sometimes drives the rest of our cast crazy.  But you know what?  It's okay. 

It's okay because, 1) She's not, like, homicidal crazy.  2) She embraces her crazy.

People who understand who they are and know their flaws are the best kind of people.  You can forgive them their faults when they embrace them because, well, they're just being who they are.  You have to respect that.  I wish more men would embrace their stupidity.  Too often we try to explain it away or make excuses or try to hide it.  I ask why?  Why not just embrace the fact that at some point, if you're a bachelor, heck, if you're a man, you're going to do something incredibly stupid sometime.  And then follow that thought up with the knowledge that after that, you'll do something stupid again.

It's Not The Same:

Just a quick note as I wrap this up.  I'm not talking about the kind of stupidity that comes with drinking too much.  That's a whole speical kind of dumb.  Plus, while stupidity while being male is forgiveable, stupidity while drunk normally isn't.  Just because you drank half a bottle of tequila doesn't give you permission to be more stupid than usual.  It happens, but apologizing for doing something dumb while you were three sheets to the wind isn't the same as apologizing for being a sober male and still thinking that your head will fit throught those stairway slats.

So ladies, relax.  I know I've said this before, but I felt it needed to be said again.  No matter who you're dating, or how good of a guy he might be, just know that at some point he's going to come home with a used dirt bike and want to go out "jumping things" with his buddies.

There's a reason why there are no women in the Jackass crew.  Women are too smart for that.  All you can do is sigh and try to love your man no matter how dumb he might get sometime.  I have a good friend who is married to a smart, professional man.  They have two children.  He's a computer whiz or something like that.  Well read and cultured, spent time in Africa with the Peace Corps.  A few years ago, he called me up and wanted to me to come over to help them film them jump there car over life-sized dummy in their alley.  That was to be followed by an egg-eating contest, followed by a farting contest. 

These are grown, adult, smart family men.  At one point, I looked at my friend and smiled and just said, "hey, it's boys being boys."  To which she responded, "I know, that's why I'm not upset.  I have to allow for his dumb-ass moments from time to time."

And THAT'S the correct response.  Hey, we let you blow things all out of proportion sometimes.  We go to your mom's house with minimal complaining, we change the light bulbs and kill spiders (except for me, I don't do spiders) without getting upset.  So give us our stupidity, please.  We'll embrace it and you can tell all your friends that you're the smart one in the relationship.  Trust me, they'll believe it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to the hospital to have a quarter removed from my nose.