Time To Go Gay (part two)

I originally joined match dot com because I was bored. No, that's a lie. I joined match dot com because I wanted to meet the woman of my dreams. However, after signing up and seeing the clientele, I decided to settle for any chick who wasn't formerly male. As such, I've treated match dot com like a social experiment since day one. It's been massively interesting to meet all the different characters and even more interesting to meet different iterations of the same personality. You know what I'm talking about - the type of chick who plays "the game". The chick who never says anything uncouth or derogatory; the chick who, by all accepted societal norms and standards, is a perfect lady; the chick who woos her way into your heart because some book taught her how to woo. She has such things in her profile as:

1) I love to stay home and read a good book, but I also love to go out and watch a movie.
2) I love cooking at home, but I love going out to eat too.
3) I love to travel, but I also love San Francisco. It's the best.

My comments:
1) Nice dichotomy. You're so fucking deep. You read books and watch movies? Shit, you're like one in a million. I want to make babies with you now.
2) Another dichotomy. Amazing. So you like food? That's so unique, it's not like we need it to live or anything. Well, at least you're not anorexic. Fattie.
3) I'd just love it if you'd shut the fuck up, travel to Istanbul, and never show your ugly mug on match dot com again. Even on the Istanbul match dot com.

Anyway, those chicks are lame. But I seriously enjoy going out with them. With these chicks, I practice *my* version of their game, which usually involves acting repugnant and seeing how far I can push it. Some may call it practice, others may call it having too much time on my hands. I call it, The Evolutionary Theory of Modern Dating: Society Versus The Individual. It's fascinating stuff. My research for this fictional book provides hours upon hours of entertainment.

Well, not this time.

The second date of my double-header last Sunday easily ranked in the top three worst dates of my life. This is a very serious statement; I've been on a lot of bad dates. I have a friend (Giz), who likes to encourage us to ask out girls (and go on dates) by giving the following advice: "What's the worst that could happen? Is she going to hit you in the face?" No, Giz, she's not going to hit me in the face, but she is going to make me want to end dating season. And she's also going to make me want to hit her in the face. I'm totally against physical violence and solving problems with your fists, but sometimes you just gotta smack a bitch. Note: I did not smack the bitch, but I should have.

The aforementioned bitch is Rachel, a slender, 5'9" Jewish chick, living in San Mateo, from match dot com. Let me rephrase that - a slender, 5'9" Jewish walking shit-pile of psychosis. When I originally saw her profile, I immediately categorized her into the standard-boring-chick-but-hey-i-got-nothing-else-going-on group. It's a fairly large group, made even larger by my new found desperation (i.e. joining match dot com). However, she was living, breathing, and female, so I wasn't about to get fussy.

Let's get fussy. I'm sure you've heard of that 25 Random Facts fad on facebook. Well, being that this chick didn't have a personality, she copied and pasted her 25 random facts into her match dot com profile. It was not the least bit interesting. Here's the list in its entirety, with my comments italicized and in parentheses:

1) If I find a artist/album that I like, I will buy and listen to said song/album over and over and over until I get totally sick of it and can't listen to it again for months. (You and everyone else. Whore.)
2) I am the primary speech therapist on a rehab unit, and I am scared every day that I have no idea what I'm doing. (That's probably because you're not good at your job, just like how you're not good in bed. I don't actually know this, I'm just assuming. Though, you are a whore, so maybe you're really slutty in bed. I don't know.)
3) I have an amazing relationship with both of my parents... and step parents! In particular, my dad is the first person I call when I'm feeling sad, upset, or really happy. (Your parents divorced and neither of them wanted you.)
4) I may be addicted to the internet. (Profound.)
5) I have owned 4 cats in the past 6 years. I had to give away one because he had some serious "issues" that may have required kitty prozac or worse, one died suddenly and mysteriously after accidently getting outside, and now I have two that I adopted from the local SPCA last year. (You kill animals. That's associated with the mentally ill. You're mentally ill as well as physically gross.)
6) I used to bite my nails... I've been nibble-free for over 6 months! (You've likely also been sex-free for over six months.)
7) I live 5 blocks away from work, but I drive every day because I hate getting up early :) I'm a night owl. (Five blocks? You are a wasteful waste of human flesh.)
8) I played percussion in a community concert band while in grad school. (By "percussion", she means resident, filthy whore.)
9) As a follow-up to #8: I've been in the Morgan Hill 4th of July parade twice! (See my comment to #8. Four words: Morgan Hill Whore Parade.)
10) I have lived in 10 cities: San Diego, Hayward, San Jose, Mountain View, Sunnyvale, Emeryville, Albany (CA), Ann Arbor (MI), San Rafael, San Mateo. (I hope your next city is somewhere on the Gaza Strip.)
11) I make a lot of my own jewelry. (And it all looks like turds, which bears a striking resemblance to your face.)
12) I've had an apple computer since I was 6 years old. I am a mac-user for life! (I never thought I'd say it, but I'm a PC and I wish you were dead.)
13) I'm so glad I moved back to California and I live so close to my family... but I miss my Michigan pals a lot! I don't miss the cold though :) (You won't get to miss the cold when you spend your eternity in hell. Unfortunately for you and me, I'll likely be there too.)
14) I think all four seasons have different smells. (I want to fart in your face. That's the smell of dating season indignation.)
15) Growing up we didn't have normal pets. My dad was studying herpetology. We owned a few rosy boas and a tiger salamander. When we went camping, we would catch newts, salamanders, and fence lizards with fishing poles and floss. We always let them go where we found them. (Your "dad" should've left you in the dumpster where he found you.)
16) I have four little brothers - 1 full brother, 1 half brother, 2 step brothers. (And they all call you, That Crazy Bitch.)
17) I love talking to little old ladies. (When you become an old lady, I guarantee that no one will try to talk to you.)
18) I know entirely too much useless trivia, but not enough useless trivia to win trivial pursuit! Curses! (Face it, you're just useless.)
19) I always drink ginger ale when I fly. Its just a tradition, I don't get motion sick. (You should start a new tradition of just jumping off the plane.)
20) Sometimes I have nightmares about waking up with tattoos. (Tattoos are awesome. I've had nightmares that I'm still out on that date with you.)
21) Constantly have to resist the temptation to quote Mitch Hedberg. Sometimes I give in. (An even harder temptation: to look at you for more than ten seconds without crying.)
22) I am Jewish but went to a Catholic high school... I can recite the "our father" by heart. (I went to Westmoor High School. We shoot bitches like you.)
23) Additionally.. I used to say the "shema" in my head during religion class in high school so that I could mentally block out all the Jesus prayers around me. (Does "shema" translate into ugly? Because that's what you are - inside and out.)
24) I think Iron Chef is the best TV show EVER. (I heard you were an ingredient once. They had to make dishes out of turds.)
25) My granddad's company made the parachutes they used when the astronauts came back to earth after the first moon-landing! They are on display at a museum in Dayton, OH. (That's kinda cool.)

As I stated before, I went out with the last chick (Natalie) because she was asian and I hadn't gone out with an asian chick in seemingly an eternity. I have no idea why I went out with Rachel. Maybe I wanted to see if a Chinese-Jewish child would be the cheapest, stingiest son of a bitch ever known to mankind. Maybe I was expanding my horizons and going out with chicks that I initially deemed boring. Maybe I wanted a free blow job. Whatever the reason, it was a mistake. And even though I've consciously attempted to repress and forget the entire incident, I've been unable to. Weak. What follows is entitled, I Hate This Bitch. It's chapter eleven in my book.

I was scheduled to meet Rachel at Broken Record at 5pm. I need to stop taking chicks to my favorite spots. I had never really considered that I could be introducing a potentially lame-ass chick to one of my neighborhood haunts. What if this lame-ass chick liked the place and started to frequent it? I could never go back for fear of my projectile vomiting. I will need to evaluate this further. Anyway, she was late. That's never a good sign. Granted, she was driving from San Mateo. As my non-friend, Toby, likes to say, "Chicks come up to me." That's why he's not my friend. He's a fucking self-righteous motherfucker with a huge ego. I prefer self-absorbed assholes with esteem issues... like me. I had actually offered to go to San Mateo for the date. My exact words were, "I can also go down to San Mateo, though I heard it's pretty lame there. If there are any non-lame things, please suggest away." Smooth. I have so much email game.

While I was waiting for her, an offensive asian dude and his dreadlocked white girlfriend stepped into the bar. Normally, I'd sneakily watch the asian dude-white chick combo and secretly wish to be in their place (after all, hapa chicks with asian dads are amazingly beautiful). However, this couple was gross. They had definitely never been to Broken Record before, as was evidenced by their exchange:

dude (in a fobby accent): Coo. They got a pool table. You wanna play some pool?
chick: No.
dude: Why not!?
chick: I don't play pool.
dude: Well, you can learn.
chick: I TOLD YOU. I DON'T WANT TO.
dude: Bitch, I want to.
chick: Fine.

So offensive. That dude should obviously not be playing pool. He should, instead, be attending English classes in an effort to correct his fobby accent. And the chick, good lord, she might have deserved him. Normally, I'd feel sorry for her, but she was a pale white chick, with ugly, long dreadlocked hair. Her face was also gross. I pictured their kids eventually being on television in year 2025, on Cops: Ugly Hapa Kids Gone Wild. After all, in the future, they run out of good, original show ideas and start combining ideas from formerly successful reality shows, like Cops and Girls Gone Wild. It's the #1 rated show in all demographics in 2025. The second highest rated show is, So You Think You Can Whore. I hope I die before 2025.

Rachel finally made her appearance a little after 5:15pm. What is it with girls showing up over fifteen minutes late and violating my dating principles? I guess it's my fault for not following my principles and leaving. Note to self: if another chicks shows up over fifteen minutes late, there's a 99% chance that she's a miserable wench and I should vacate the premise immediately. When she came to my table, I did my best to act smooth. I greeted her with a "Uhh, should I get up and hug you now, or should we just shake hands?" We ended up doing neither. I meant for it to be funny in an awkward way. She didn't get it. That made it even more awkward. I tried to laugh it off, but she looked at me in a weird way. It wasn't a i-want-to-fuck-you weird look; it was a who-is-this-loser weird look. Amazingly, I am familiar with both looks. Though, I was totally unfamiliar with her Skeletor look. Her face was much scrawnier and bonier than her pictures. She looked like Skeletor and I wanted to shout, "By the power of Grayskull, I am He-Man. When the fuck did Skeletor turn into an ugly chick?" It would only get worse from here.

Since I had been waiting over fifteen minutes, I had already ordered and finished a mini-bottle of wine (classy, I know). I told her I'd be getting another one and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She asked what was on tap. I told her classy shit, like PBR. She responded that she hates PBR. I then told her that she should get up and look for herself. Broken Record only has three taps, all of which are plainly visible. Shockingly, Broken Record's taps matched the beers that were in the taps. Rachel did not seem to recognize this. She attempted to order several beers that were not on tap. Somehow, in the first three minutes of the date, I had already given up on having a good time. I looked around the corner to see if I could escape out the emergency exit without anyone knowing.

Eventually, she settled on a beer that was on tap. We went back to our table and were immediately beset by an awkward silence. I am very unaccustomed to awkward silences. I usually find it quite easy to talk to people, even if I have nothing in common with them. Well, at least with people I respect. I then tried to bring up a topic that I find fun, namely prior match dot com dates, because a horror date story is always a good story. Then, she got all psycho on me:

(awkward silence)
me: So, how's match dot com working out for you? Have you been on any other dates?
her: Why are you asking me that?
me: I love hearing date stories.
her: You shouldn't be asking me that.
me: Huh?
her: The only reason you'd ask that is if you weren't interested.
me: I'm not saying I'm interested or not. I just like to hear about horrible dates. If you don't want to share, you don't have to. It's really not a big deal.
her: What if I told you I have been on dates?
me: Well, by that tone I'd assume that one of them went well.
her: And what if it did?
me: I guess if I were interested in you, I'd need to step up my game and make you fall madly in love with me.
her: "If" you were interested, huh?
me: You're fucking psycho.
her: Sorry, sorry. I know I'm being psycho. I just get nervous before and especially during dates. I also tend to over analyze things.
me: You're still psycho.

It was all so amazingly psycho and not fun. I've never had a chick react so harshly to such an innocent question. Sure, she may have had a point about not being interested, however I've asked the question even when I was interested in a chick. I just like to hear dating stories - plain and simple. You can probably relate, you are reading this blog after all. Of course, her overreaction and basis for the overreaction only confirmed my beliefs that she conformed to the standard rules of dating, i.e. act like you're interested and don't ask a potentially awkward question. Fuck the standard rules of dating. Fuck this chick. Fuck her with a spike-studded bat.

Once we both settled down and the tension left the air, we talked about stuff. She revealed that she was indeed interested in a guy that she had just gone on a date with. I mildly implied that she should pursue this dude with all her might and conviction. After all, if this dude was down with her, it might be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Maybe it was Moss Man; I always thought that those two were gay for each other. Or maybe it was Ram-Man; that guy was seemed like an idiot. For the non-nerds, those were some He-Man references. I don't understand why I'm still single.

Rachel then went on to say "You're not normally the type of guy I date. I've never dated an asian guy before." Wow, that was pretty offensive. I never knew that asian guys were a type of guy. By that, she probably meant that I was really good at math, only ate rice, loved the color yellow, went to UC Berkeley, and studied computer science. Wrong, bitch. I studied psychology. Then, I couldn't resist and retorted, "Yeah, you're not normally the type of girl that I date. I usually just go out with sane chicks."

I pretty much wanted this date to be over. About an hour into the date, I wanted the date to be over an hour ago. So, I asked if she was hungry. Fuck. That was a stupid thing to fucking ask. I was hungry, but I wanted to go home and eat. In my screwy mind, I was hoping she'd be hungry too, so we could mutually agree to end the date, go back to our mutual homes, and mutually eat separately. I guess chicks don't really think the same way I think. Actually, I think human beings don't think the same way I think. She replied, "Yeah, I actually skipped dinner. Where do you want to go?" Goddamn it, I wanted to go home. I am so stupid. Instead, I told her that I wasn't that hungry, but Broken Record was supposed to serve the best Soul Food in San Francisco. I heard this from the bartender. He might be a bit biased.

We walked together to the back of the bar, where the restaurant was situated. While she was deciding what to order, I just left and went back to the table. That was definitely not a cool thing to do. I probably violated, like, seven rules in the standard people dating handbook. However, I was mentally exhausted. Having come off a previous bad date about four hours ago, I didn't have the mental fortitude to withstand two bad dates in a row. I considered just getting up and leaving the bar. I also considered bludgeoning myself with a pool cue. Or grabbing a couple darts and jamming them into my eyes. Or picking a fight with the offensive asian dude and his offensive-looking dreadlocked girlfriend. Maybe they'd render me unconscious with their inane talk and gross faces. I eventually settled on concentrating really hard and trying to become invisible. For those that have never utilized this technique, it involves closing your eyes, clenching your fists, gritting your teeth, and vibrating your entire body. I've never got it to work, but it has convinced people not to come up to me. However, Rachel was psycho so she came back.

She had ordered a po-boy sandwich. It looked and smelled pretty damn good. I decided to eventually try Broken Record's food, preferably on a day/night where I was with good company and enjoying myself. There's nothing I hate more than sharing a meal with someone I detest. Food is meant to be enjoyed and savored. If you're with someone you dislike, you're going to want to eat your shit as quickly as possible and then take off. I used this knowledge to my tactical advantage. I sat there and watched her eat her food. Ordinarily, I'd make conversation, say something interesting that didn't necessitate a response, and generally look away (so as not to be rude). Not this time. I just stared at her eating her sandwich and tried to make it as uncomfortable and awkward as possible. I didn't say anything. I just sat there. And stared. It was pretty fucking weird and creepy. But it worked. She ate her sandwich quickly. Within minutes, she was done. So, I said, "Was the sandwich good? It looked good. I think we should leave." She immediately and happily agreed. We both wanted this date to be over ASAP. Finally we agreed on something.

Thankfully, after exiting the bar, we found out that we parked in opposite directions. That was awesome. I quickly said bye and good night without actually looking at her. It was a pretty ass move, but it needed to be done. You know, I didn't want to lead her on. She might think that we were gonna potentially go out on a second date. Yeah, right. I just wanted to be mean. Sometimes I'm petty. Whatever. I got into my car and felt very mixed emotions. On one side, I was happy and relieved the date was over. On the other side, I wanted to follow her home and take a shit outside her front door. Or maybe I could just take a shit into a jar and then empty the jar onto her front step. I made a note to ask Daniel D about that move; he did originate the shit-jar maneuver after all.

I don't know if words could do justice to just how poorly this date went. It was a fucking catastrophe. Neither of us had a good time. I thought she was ugly, vanilla, and slightly offensive. She probably thought there was something wrong with me, since I was asian and could actually speak English. Needless to say, but I want to say it anyway, there was absolutely no chemistry. Our only bond was that I was He-Man, she was Skeletor, and I wanted to shove my sword directly into her skull. This is not a euphemism for having her suck my dick. That's gross, dude. Like Skeletor would ever suck He-Man's dick. That was She-Ra's job. I wish I had a first cousin that was that hot. Okay, no more He-Man references. It's worse than Star Wars. Sorry.

After the date, I emailed my two upcoming dates and canceled them. I had to recover. More importantly, I had to figure out if this dating season could continue. In my efforts to remain hetero, I had to make sure I didn't go out with too many wack chicks in a short period of time. Also, instead of just complaining about something and not taking any action (my number one pet peeve about people), I logged onto match dot com and searched for their form to submit complaints about going on dates with wack chicks. They had no such form. They should create one. These testimonials should also go on a person's profile, unedited and unmoderated. Maybe I should start a dating website, purely based off that one idea. It's pretty brilliant, I think. My comment for Rachel would be:

"Rachel is a psycho whore. I don't mean whore in that she'll suck your dick. I mean whore in that I hate that bitch. If you want to meet someone who is tall, slender, good-looking, fun, and smart, why the fuck did you join a dating website? You're a fucking idiot. The people on this site have serious issues, usually with their face. Rachel's issue is that she's painful to be around. Oh, and she resembles Skeletor. Die, Skeletor, die. You fucking die."

So, I don't have any more dates on the horizon; it's probably for the best. But cross your fingers, I might eventually find a chick who is attractive, intelligent, witty, and into me. Haha, who am I kidding. Why would a chick like that be into me?

Fun - 0
Masochistic Fun - 8.5
Interesting - 2
Being Psycho - 6
Future Relationship Potential - -10
Future Friendship Potential - -10

Time To Go Gay (interlude two), otherwise known as Western Hemisphere

Bainie, star of recap Chemistry is a Wonderful Thing, and I have become friends. Not fuck buddies, but regular friends. It's pretty rad. Like I explained in my recap, I thought she was awesome. Apparently, she's also quite giving. Here's an abbreviated version of our recent email exchange:

(We were discussing whether or not some dude would give her roses for their Valentine's date. She wasn't into this dude, but he was into her. She went out with him anyway; thus is the life of the match dot commer.)

From Bainie
i got exactly NO roses. did end up shitfaced and making out. which was one of the worst experiences of my entire life. then i smashed his heart. all in all a successful date.

From Me
no roses? this guy is not even a guy. though, you did suck face. apparently, i am the only guy in the western hemisphere not to suck face with you. (She had previously gone out with some surfer dude, got belligerently drunk, and made out with him. He was also a dude that she was not into.)

From Bainie
i'll make out with you if it'll make you feel better.


I've never participated in a pity make out session. Though, the offer is tempting. It's weird when you're around the water cooler at work (it's even weirder because I don't have a job) and everyone's talking about their face-suck with Bainie. You're just standing there, nodding your head, and saying shit like, "Yeah, I put my tongue down her throat. Down her throat! Yeah. Fuck yeah." While they may still give you a high-five because they think you're in the club, you're really not. It leaves you feeling a little empty. You want to tell them, "Bros, I have to tell you bros the truth - I actually haven't sucked face with Bainie." They'll respond, "It's cool, bro. It'll happen to you too. It happens to all of us in the Western Hemisphere." But you know their words are empty and meaningless. In the coming days, you'll walk by the water cooler and overhear conversation about banging some pornstar or doing 100 in the new Corvette. You'll walk in, smile, nod, and join the conversation. Nope, not part of the club. The conversation will then turn into a discussion on the new merger and whether HR will get their blasted act together. You'll try to play along by exclaiming, "Blasted HR!" Everyone will just look at you. Oddly. And with a little bit of contempt and pity. Everyone will then go back to their desks. You'll be left all alone at the water cooler, thinking about how it all went wrong. You'll let a single tear drop. Someone will see you. That someone will then say, "Bro, stop being a faggot." You'll try to stop being a faggot. It won't work. You're the only dude in the Western Hemisphere not to have made out with Bainie. But you did masturbate to some really high quality pornography that morning. That counts for something, right?

Time To Go Gay (interlude one), otherwise known as Acid Reflux

In discussing my horrible dates with Gass, we had the following conversation:

me: yeah, dude, i'm really mentally drained from all these dates.
gass: better than my life, let me tell you. i've been dealing with acid reflux all day.

Priceless.

Time To Go Gay (part one)

I'm a picky guy. Though, maybe I shouldn't be. It's not like I'm the most attractive male alive; that honor belongs to Lorenzo Lamas. I'm also not terribly suave; that would also be Lorenzo Lamas. I certainly can't dance, especially compared to Daniel D's sweet moves when he's drunk off his ass at weddings. (If you don't know Daniel D, imagine lots of bumbling, stumbling, ass grabbing, and puking.) Shit, I don't even have a job. Truth be told, I should stop being picky and just take what I can get. "Do you have a vagina? Is it functioning? No? Shit. Well, you appear to be breathing. Pull down those granny panties because I'll hit anything that moves."

Unfortunately, I am misguidedly picky. I attribute this affliction to my parents for two reasons. First of all, my parents adored my ex-girlfriend, Sunny, probably more than I did. When we broke up, I think my mother cried and even shrieked, "How did I raise such a stupid child?" Thanks, mom. Since Sunny, no girl has ever successfully won my mother's favor. A few have tried, only to have my mother remark, "Why does that girl look like a platypus?" or "I hope you don't catch any diseases from that girl." To this day, she still talks about Sunny - how Sunny's so pretty, how Sunny's so nice, how Sunny's so smart, how Sunny's the best I'll ever get. I'm pretty sure my mother yells out Sunny's name when she and my dad have sex. But she doesn't, only because my parents no longer have sex. This brings me to the second reason for my being picky - I don't want to end up like my parents. My parents are quite unhappy. While they still live together, they most certainly do not sleep in the same bed (going on twelve years now) nor do they talk to each other, aside from the occasional "You have the brain of an ape" and "You are a dumb woman". Nice comeback, dad. It's sad really. During last summer's family trip to Yellowstone, my brother and I asked our parents about how they met and what they saw in each other. My dad explained how he fell in love with my mom because she was intelligent, hard-working, and attractive. My mom then plainly stated that she married my dad because she was lonely. Don't beat around the bush, how do you really feel, mom? As a result, my seemingly fussy goal is to marry a woman out of love and not out of loneliness. I'll also marry a woman if her breasts fit really nicely into my hands.

I communicated with Natalie for a solid week on match dot com. I say it was a solid week because my "game" is usually quite fast-paced. I've fallen in love, slept, fought, and discontinued all communication with numerous chicks, all within a one week time frame. It's ridiculous. If I ever tell you I've met the love of my life, wait one week. I'll then likely respond, "Who? Oh, that conniving whore? I stopped seeing her because she didn't use a loofah." I don't know what's wrong with me. Actually, I do. I like the chase. I love constantly wondering if a chick is into me. If a chick text messages me good night, my interpretation is that she wishes I was laying next to her. Suckling on her tit. Alternatively, if a chick tells me that she's busy on Tuesday because she's hanging out with friends, my interpretation is that her buddy, Todd, is going to suckle on her tit. Fucking Todd, I always hated that guy. I thrive on the constant interpretation, re-interpretation, and misinterpretation. Of course, after the chase is over and we're living happily ever after, I get confused. Instead of basking in the love and adoration of my newly beloved, I grow complacent and bored. I don't mean to. It just happens. I could make some sort of excuse and say the chick just wasn't the right one. But really, I'm just fucked in the head. With Natalie, I wouldn't need to worry about any of this chase, interpretation, and suckling tit business. Natalie was wack. Even if her breasts fit perfectly into my hands, I'd prefer to have my hands filled with something more useful, like a video game controller.

In my email conversations with Natalie, I ascertained a few things: she was quite plain; she was intelligent, but socially stupid; and she was lame. I'll explain. Her general lack of panache was exhibited in her scintillating questions: where do you live in San Francisco (what fucking business is it to you); how's your week going (swell, I masturbated twice today); are you a fan of Grey's Anatomy (no, but I am a fan of your mother's scat sex video). While she appeared to be doing well in the business world, her social skills were lacking. If a chick chooses to spend 50% of her emails talking about inane, uninteresting aspects of her job, that's cool, I'll simply respond back with 50% of my emails talking about how I'm amazed that there are millions upon millions of dead sperm in my wastebasket right now. Whoever said that semen has an odor is wrong. Finally, she was lame because she thought my story about underbite (see first date recap) was mean. It ain't mean, bitch, it's the fucking truth. Perhaps I should forgo my hopes of becoming a writer and instead focus on doing underbite-reconstruction surgery. It'll be a specialized field, but I'll be doing a service for mankind. So, you may be asking, "Dating machine, if this Natalie chick was so lame, why did you ever agree to go out with her?" Glad you asked. I went out with Natalie because I haven't been on a date with an asian chick since last summer. For some reason, I've exclusively dated non-asian chicks in the past six months. I've been ignoring an entire continent. That's fucked up. Chicks of all colors should have the equal right to be dissed in my recaps. Natalie, today's your day.

Natalie and I went out last Sunday, February 15th, starting at 1pm. We met at Cafe Du Soleil, a patented Dating Machine first date spot. Cafe Du Soleil's chill atmosphere and selection of inexpensive organic wine are absolutely perfect for a first date. I arrived at Cafe Du Soleil ten minutes early, as I always do. I also called Daniel D to give him a date pre-cap, as I always do. I went over the fact that I was not hyped about the date and basically wanted to go home. I've always been known for my winning, optimistic attitude. Soon, it was 1:05pm and she was five minutes late. That's bullshit. I finished my conversation with Daniel D and turned on my cell phone's countdown timer. She had ten minutes to show up. I can't stand tardiness. At 1:13pm, she text messaged to tell me that she was in a cab and would be there in five minutes. I debated whether or not that was allowed. I wasn't sure. When I finally decided that I should just leave, she showed up. I wish I could tell you that, as soon as she stepped foot inside, I was captivated by her beauty, absolutely smitten by her aura, and transfixed by her smile. Nope. She looked wack; she walked wack; she reeked wack. I hate dating season. I hate match dot com. And I hate the entire continent of Asia.

By most standards, Natalie would be considered attractive. She was a 5'4", skinny asian chick, originally from Los Angeles. My friend, Bowman, who has an asian fetish, would probably say, "Fucking bullshit. I want to go out with a hot asian chick. Wait, I only date hot asian chicks." However, her face resembled the moon. It was round, really round. I guess some dudes like that sorta shit, however, I've always liked my women to have faces closer to horses (long) than moons. And when you're comparing women's faces to moons and horses, you know you're on match dot com.

We greeted each other and took a seat at the bar (there were no regular tables available). I ordered an earl grey tea with milk and sugar. She asked me what was good. I thought to myself, "It's a fucking coffee joint, order your favorite fucking type of coffee." I then told her, "It's a coffee joint, order your favorite type of coffee." Nice, I think I've just learned tact. All these shitty dates are finally paying off. She eventually settled on a mocha. From that point, I consciously decided that I was being a little too high-strung and should loosen up. Then Natalie said something in her stupid valley girl accent. The only thing worse than a valley girl accent is an asian fob accent. If you ever catch me going out with a fob, please only speak to me in improper plurals, like fishes, shrimps, and sheeps. I'll snap out of it in a hurry. Anyway, a valley girl accent is a close second on my accent shit list. When she, like, strung to together, like, a few sentences, like, yeah, and like, uh huh, yeah. I decided that instead of loosening up, I should just concentrate on not choking the bitch.

The very first thing we talked about was money. If you know anything about me, you likely know that I don't give a shit about money. After all, I do throw away $60 every three months on wasted match dot com subscriptions. Granted, my perspective is slightly more privileged. While I do come from immigrant parents, I've never had to pay for my own college tuition, lap dances, or He-Man toys. I've also been lucky enough to save a good amount of money so that I could probably live for seven years without a job. Anyway, this chick really liked to talk about money, cars, and fancy jobs. Those topics suck. My preferred topics of conversation would probably involve fantasy baseball statistics, video games, and comic books. Those are some awesome topics. If I could find a woman, with a shapely, firm ass, interested in those three things, I'd be a happy man... with my head constantly laying on a shapely, firm ass.

After about five minutes of conversation, I realized that I was going out with a standard Marina chick. For the non-San Franciscans, a Marina chick is a girl who "works hard and parties hard", with her usual vocation being trophy wife or, pre-marriage, secretary. The Marina chick lives in the Marina district of San Francisco and regularly frequents the bars on the corner of Fillmore and Greenwich. Additionally, the Marina chick wears such apparel as Seven jeans and Ugg boots. Needless to say, the Marina chick is pretty fucking lame. Here's a typical snippet of my conversation with Natalie:

natalie: yeah, so, like, i went shopping yesterday and bought, like, all this great stuff.
me: (silent)
natalie: oh my god, it was raining so hard, i had to get a valet to, like, park my car.
me: (silent)
natalie: how much money do you have?
me: about eleven dollars and some change.
natalie: no, i mean in your bank account.
me: seriously?

Wow, I'm getting a little agitated just thinking about it right now. That's weird.

While we were in the midst of our enlightening conversation about the merits of mani-pedis, I felt a sudden poke at my side. Normally, I would've been quite startled and scared. But in this instance, I was hoping that someone was trying to stab me to put me out of my misery. It was my friend, Melissa. I've never dated Melissa, so that's probably why she's still my friend. Anyway, while Melissa and I were greeting each other, Natalie took the opportunity to use the restroom. I then took the opportunity to tell Melissa that I hated Natalie. Melissa giggled and said she'd watch out for me. Though, I'm not sure if pointing and giggling count as watching out.

When Natalie came back from the restroom, I asked her about the other dudes that have been contacting her on match dot com. There was no ulterior motive behind my question, rather I view match dot com as a huge social experiment, where the lonely, the desperate, and the perverts are all thrown together and told to mate, and I was gathering intelligence. She told me about one prospective date who was some British dude who liked to use emoticons and the phrase, heehee. You will never, ever catch me using emoticons or heehee. Aside from being against my principles, I am also a full-fledged male. Using emoticons is, like, basically announcing to the world that you want to turn gay. At this moment, I'd like to tell you to disregard the subject of this post. Anyway, I encouraged her to go out with the British dude. I may have even said, "I wonder what he's doing right now." I'm kind of an asshole.

Somehow, we then got onto the topic of Bay-to-Breakers. I cannot wait till Bay-to-Breakers in May. My friend, Philly, and I have this grand idea to build a float centered around a huge cauldron of beer. We'd then dress up as leprechauns and parade around like jackasses. Obviously, if anyone wanted some beer, they just needed to yell, "Cauldron of beer!!!" Awesome. Even more awesome and perhaps less likely, I'd probably take a shit into the cauldron of beer without telling anyone. That way, whenever anyone took a swig of beer, I'd giggle and cackle maliciously. "That's my pot of fecal-stained beer that you're drinking. Enjoy."

After about two hours of ball-crushing torture, the date was over. I went to the restroom, looked in the mirror, and said, "You did it, buddy. You didn't even have to fake a stabbing. Nice work." We made our way outside of the cafe and it was raining. I considered doing a little dance in the rain, maybe the pendulum move from New Kids on the Block. I wasn't sure. Natalie asked if it was easy to get a cab in that neighborhood. I responded, "It should be really easy, but I'll give you a ride." She said only if it wasn't too much trouble. I said, "I'm a motherfucking gentleman." Few words go together better than motherfucking and gentleman.

Since it was raining, I didn't take my scooter and instead borrowed my dad's car. Natalie and I would have the opportunity for a nice fifteen minute conversation about all the things that wack chicks like to talk about. Thankfully, it wasn't that bad. In talking about a previous date of mine, I mentioned how White Chicks by the Wayans Brothers is one of the shittiest movies ever. Natalie said that she actually liked White Chicks. Natalie is a goddamn moron. The moron later said that she was deathly afraid of birds. I asked how that came about. She said she had no idea. I offered some possible reasons, like maybe a chicken shat on her face. She laughed and said that wasn't it. Then, I said, "Oh no wait, that's me." When I was about six years old, I really, really wanted a dog. My parents got me a couple baby chickens instead. I tried to play fetch and teach the baby chicks different tricks. They just looked at me like fucking idiots and continued pecking the ground. One day, one of the chickens somehow jumped up onto the branches of a tree. I looked up and yelled, "Goddamn it!" While yelling goddamn it, the chicken took a shit into my mouth. My entire face was plastered with chicken shit. There could still be some chicken shit in the crevices of my eyes right now. Anyway, I'm not scared of birds at all, but I've learned to keep my mouth shut when there's one above me.

Soon after that delightful chicken shit story, I dropped Natalie off. It was finally over. Obviously, there was going to be no second date with Natalie. In fact, I immediately erased her number from my cell phone so I'd never have to scroll by her stupid name again. I made my way home and prepped for my next date. That's right, friends, I had two dates that Sunday. Apparently, misery comes in twos. Compared to my next date, my date with Natalie was like finding a mint, first printing of Miracleman #15, or beating Contra without dying. Ha, that was dork. Anyway, that date will be divulged in its horrific, painful entirety in part two of "Dating Season: Time To Go Gay". Dating season may be over.

Fun - 2
Interesting - 2
Future Relationship Potential - 0.5
Future Friendship Potential - 1

Chemistry is a Wonderful Thing

Chemistry is lovely, especially when it allows you to make LSD. I'm just saying. Anyway, I believe in many types of chemistry. There's the genial chemistry that you have with your best friends. There's the romantic chemistry (that "spark", if you will) that you have with your special someone. There's the unmistakable chemistry that you have with a really well-made hot pastrami sandwich. Delicious. While I could write a litany of things about a proper pastrami sandwich, I will instead focus on romantic chemistry.

I've definitely felt the irresistible spark of romantic chemistry many times in my life. I endured a tremendously volatile five-year relationship where the spark was mainly exhibited through fighting, making up, and the occasion threat with a baseball bat. No, I did not threaten my woman with a bat; that's not cool. I threatened some dude who disrespected her. During my college years, this guy tried to walk in on her while she changing. He might've thought that he was being funny. I thought he was being a fucking idiot who needed to get his head bashed in. As I like to say, sometimes you just need to get your head bashed in. I was going to help him out with that. Being that my girlfriend (at the time) went to school at UC Davis and I went to school at UC Berkeley, it involved a forty-minute commute going at approximately 100 mph, in a friend's car no less, to ensure the head-bashing would occur within an appropriate time period. There are rules involved with this sorta thing, you know. I recruited two of my best buds: Daniel D, an electrical engineering/computer science major, and Gass, a math major. We were definitely not an intimidating crew (hence, the bats). We plotted and came up with the perfect plan. I think it went something like this:

me: Hey, I have to go to Davis and, like, hit some guy or something. Do you guys want to, like, have my back or watch my back or do something with my back?
guys: Sure. (pause) Wait, what happened?
me: He walked in on Sunny while she was changing. She's not pleased.
guys: That's fucked up.
me: Yeah, I'm pretty angry. Should we bring bats?
guys: You mean to, like, hit the guy?
me: Yeah, I think so. Either that or shove it up the dude's ass.
guys: I think you should just hit the guy and not worry about the ass part.
me: Okay, fair enough. Let's go.

We left around midnight and, on the ride there, discussed how I was going to have a very stern talk with the guy and then hit him in the head with a bat. It made sense. It was simple. I also wore one of my ghetto shirts in case I got blood or brain fluid on it. And after the beating, we were going to go to Cache Creek (an Indian casino), because that's just how the entire head-bashing routine works. Once we arrived in Davis, we picked up my girlfriend and went to the guy's dormitory. I knocked on his door loudly, since it was already 1am and he was sleeping, and he eventually answered. I think my adrenaline took over because I don't exactly remember what was said. It probably went like this:

me: You fucking asshole. Don't you ever, EVER walk in on Sunny while she's changing.
him: Uh huh.
me: If I ever hear of that shit again, I'm going to fucking twist your neck off.
him: You will, huh?
me: Yeah, I will.
him: Okay.
me: Okay.

Then we went to Cache Creek.

Years later, I found out that there was a warrant for my arrest. I think it was just a rumor, because I think I would've heard about a warrant for my arrest. Though, upon hearing this rumor, I actually felt like a bad ass. "Watch out for the dating machine, he's on the lam! He's wanted by the police and the ladies." I then brought bats with me everywhere I went. No, I didn't. Anyway, there are three morals in this story: (1) Don't walk in on my girlfriend when she's changing, (2) Bats are good for bashing in heads, and (3) I know what chemistry is. And amazingly enough, I've just experienced chemistry again. That's right dear friends, the dating machine is not a completely hopeless pile of human feces. Well, at least not entirely.

Bainie is a chick from match dot com. Shocker, I know. She's a 5'6" Caucasian chick originally from South Carolina and currently in San Francisco (as of two months ago) looking for a job in the advertisement/graphic designer arena. Artsy chicks are rad. I've already decided that I eventually want my future betrothed to be mad creative. Or have a cute face. And wear a ponytail. And have a European accent. Oh, and ride a scooter too. And if it's not too much to ask, to have twins run in her family. You know, the standard stuff. Anyway, Bainie seemed like a kick-in-the-ass, laugh-till-your-jaw-hurts good time. In our communication before the date, we talked about going to Dolores Park in jumpsuits. She also used the word, chortle. That's awesome.

Since Bainie and I are both unemployed, we decided to meet up at Dolores Park on Tuesday afternoon. Unemployment dates are the best. If there's anything I hate talking about, it's work. I hated it even when I had a job. Unless your vocation is your life's passion, why the fuck do you want to discuss it? You already have to live it for half of your waking day. You want to discuss it for the other half of your day too? Ridiculous. I can usually tell when a chick will turn out to be lame when her face is ugly. Aside from that, I can also tell when a chick will be lame if she asks about my job within the first five minutes of a date. What's she going to ask next - my favorite color? How I like the weather? If I prefer my pastrami on rye or wheat bread? Wait, that last question is interesting. (Wheat.) So, yeah, unemployment dates are the best. We decided to have a little picnic with a blanket, some chips, some dip, some wine, and some good company. This is why Dolores Park is a preferred first date spot.

Dolores Park was incredibly cold and windy this past Tuesday. I got there slightly early, as I always do. It's an unfortunate habit that I'm trying to change in 2009; it's actually my New Year's resolution to arrive late and not be so anal about the time. I need a lot of help. Bainie had warned me that she'd be arriving late, since she was going on a mini-adventure navigating the wonders of San Francisco's MUNI system. I usually have big issues with people showing up late, since I view it as a sign of disrespect (see, I told you, I need to loosen up). However, if someone informs me that they're going to be late, I have no problem whatsoever. I waited about half an hour for Bainie and it was fucking cold. My nipples felt like icicles.

When Bainie arrived, I was pleasantly surprised. She was cuter than her pictures. Also, seeing how I've been out with one chick who was 5'1" and another chick who was 5'11", her 5'6" stature was ideal. In an effort to say something really smooth and make a good impression, I busted out my A-game material. I said something along the lines of "Hi. It's fucking cold." Smooth, the dating machine is a fucking charmer. She sat down and we chatted. It was nice. The conversation was easy, flowing, and interesting. She talked about her recent move to San Francisco and love of the city. I talked about how much I hate Los Angeles. She told me about her interests, which included cooking and doing stained glass art. I told her about how I've already planned my meals for the next five days. She discussed her idea of doing personalized catering for small groups at people's homes. I pictured sushi being eaten off naked bodies. I'm not entirely sure, but I don't think her catering involved naked bodies. I guess it could. That would be kinda weird. I don't even like sushi, but I guess I could learn to love sushi, especially if it unveils a tit:

Outwardly Doing: I take the unagi roll off the woman's breast. I eat the roll and comment that it's a tasty roll.
But Really Thinking: Show me a tit! Just show me one! Tit! Tit! Tit! Yessss, that's a tit! Damn, nice nipple type.

We spent about two and a half hours at Dolores Park shooting the shit. Good talks, good times. Since Bainie was new to the city, I decided to play tour guide. If I do say so myself, I'm an excellent tour guide. Being part of the couchsurfing.com, I've played host to a chick from Iceland and three people from Austria. The Icelandic chick was pretty funny; she had a real acerbic wit. The Austrians were pretty fucking awesome, especially one of the chicks who was probably the cutest, sweetest, most genuine person I've ever had the pleasure of meeting. And staring at. A lot. Shit, she was cute. I pictured myself doing vile things to her body. And by vile, I mean sweet love. When the Austrians left, I knew one basic thing about Austrians, they love Full House. We probably spent two hours at Alamo Square Park looking at the Full House houses. Well, I spent about thirty seconds doing that. The rest of the time, I thought about how half-Chinese and half-Austrian kids were beautiful. Never seen one? Me neither, but just trust me.

Our first stop on Bainie's San Francisco tour was Noe Valley. I live in the ghetto. Noe Valley is like a haven of attractive people who actually speak proper English. We went there and walked around a bit, nothing earth-shattering. The next stop on the scooter tour was the Marina Safeway, which is known for being a pick-up spot. In fact, when my friend, Daniel D, and I first learned of this fact years ago, we went there and successfully picked up zero chicks. Daniel D and I have successfully picked up zero chicks at many establishments, so it got our seal of approval. Though, I later found out the key for a successful pick-up at the Marina Safeway is to have a bunch of bananas in your basket. Not in your shopping cart, but in your hand-held basket. If you're using a shopping cart, it definitely signifies that you're making a large purchase, likely for yourself and your boy/girlfriend. Or for yourself, your babies, and your seven baby mamas. In short, do not use a shopping cart. However, if you use a basket, it signifies that you're in heat and you just want to fuck. And, apparently, for some reason, you need to have bananas in your hand-held basket, where the bananas are slightly peeking over the edge. I don't know how they came up with that. It was probably some meathead having a conversation with another meathead. I'm pretty sure the conversation went like this:

meathead 1: Bro, I saw this hot chick at the Safeway today.
meathead 2: Really!? Awesome, bro.
meathead 1: Yeah, bro. She was fiiiiiine. I was checking out her produce, if you know what I'm saying.
meathead 2: I don't, bro. I don't know what you're saying.
meathead 1: Like, her melons and her bananas were really fresh, bro.
meathead 2: So, do you mean that she had fresh melons and fresh bananas in her hand-held basket?
meathead 1: Yeah, bro. That's what I'm saying. I could see those bananas from a mile away.
meathead 2: Ch-yeah, bro. Awesome.
(the meatheads then high-five and say "bro" like fifty more times.)

Anyway, Bainie and I did not use a shopping cart or a basket, but we did walk around and follow people with bananas in their baskets. Sadly, we did not see anyone get laid at Safeway. I need to do more research into the methodologies of the bro. Incidentally, Robin Williams may have been outside of the Safeway dressed as a bum. We thought it was him until we passed by and he asked us for 18 cents. Robin Williams does not ask for 18 cents. Robin Williams does a short comedy routine where he's running away from the flying lizards and unicorns in Jumanji. That's how Robin Williams gets 18 cents.

Next, we made our way to Alamo Square Park to check out the Full House houses. Unfortunately, even though I had taken three crazy Austrians there, I had a less than vague idea of where the park was. I also did not know it was named Alamo Square Park. This would prove to be troublesome. I know that my sense of direction is horrible; it is like that of a retarded turd from a retarded monkey who is stricken with retard poisoning. Alamo Square Park is probably around a ten minute scooter ride away from the Marina Safeway. I was able to make the trip take forty minutes, which involved two and a half circles (to Geary and then back to the Marina and then back to Geary and then back again and again) and a near-death experience. San Francisco is full of hills. My scooter can handle hills. Unfortunately, I cannot handle my scooter. While going up one hill, I was able to stall my standard-shift scooter, turn it back on, and then do a mini-wheelie all in one swift move. Luckily, we were in between cars so our potential fall would've been cushioned by a car's front hood. I had all the shit planned. Fortunately, we did not fall and made it out of that situation alive. Plus, to comfort Bainie while I was in the middle of stalling and doing a wheelie, I said, "This isn't good." I think I felt her tears on the back of my neck.

Bainie was an absolute trooper and still had a very positive attitude. I appreciated that, especially since I felt like a jerk for almost maiming us. Eventually, we made it to Alamo Square Park. She took a couple pictures of the Full House houses and then we sat for a few minutes smoking a few cigarettes. When you have a traumatic life experience, you should always smoke some cigarettes. It's part of a realization that you can die at any moment, so you might as well have some control over it by choosing lung cancer. Anyway, after our short respite at the park, we made our way to Loi's Vietnamese in the Sunset. You may be thinking to yourself, "Damn, dating machine, when are you going to learn any new moves? Don't you realize that these moves haven't really resulted in you finding a lady friend?" To which, I would respond, "Shut up, punk."

Loi's was thankfully empty that night. I had surmised that Loi's recent poor-tasting food (at least held up to the Loi's level of deliciousness) was due to an influx of customers. So, I was hoping that tonight's meal would taste a little better. Prior to ordering, I noticed that the main dude/waiter/owner had gotten a haircut. Two things: (1) I never notice when people get haircuts (I think it has to do with me being too self-involved), and (2) I go to Loi's enough times (because I'm a dating machine) to see subtle changes day-to-day. Without any thought, I told the dude, "Nice haircut." Well, I'm an idiot. I forgot that Asian males do not respond well to compliments, especially from other males. He probably thought that I was getting my gay on and, in turn, wanted to violate his asshole. I did not. He started getting angry and yelling, in Cantonese, with the waitress about how I was a fucking idiot. The waitress had my back by telling him, "The boy's just trying to be nice and tell you that you're an attractive man." Thanks, lady; that sure helped the situation. And you know what else helped the situation? I then told the dude that I understood Cantonese. My intention was to prevent him from saying anything else derogatory about me, because he might feel like an idiot if he later found out I knew what he was saying the whole time. Well, dating machine, how the fuck was he going to find that out? My comment about being able to understand Cantonese was met with a slight growl. That dude hates me. I might need to figure out another standard date spot; my psyche was in pieces.

Thankfully, our meals came out quickly and were quite delicious. I don't know if it was semen or spit, but my shit tasted good. Bainie and I chatted a bit more, but I obviously don't remember shit because I was still frantic about my soon-to-be self-imposed exile from Loi's. We ate as much as we could, but still had a little food left over. I hate wasting food, so I asked for a take-away container. The dude charged me fifty cents for the container. In my years of going to Loi's, he's never charged me for a container. That fifty cent charge was basically him saying, "I hate your fucking guts, you fag." That hurts, Loi's dude. I'm sorry to have offended you. We left Loi's and I scootered Bainie back to her place, which was only a dozen blocks away. When we got there, we exchanged a nice hug and thanked the Gods we didn't die on that hill.

So, the date went very well and Bainie's a fucking awesome chick. And there was definite chemistry. Though, I believe the chemistry was more of the genial, friend-type. I bet you thought that love was in the air and little, shitty birds were chirping. Maybe even a dating machine jr. was on the way. Nope, incorrect. Love's not that easy, buddy. I didn't feel a spark and I doubt Bainie did either. She's a rad chick and I'd love to hang out with her again and often; we are both unemployed after all. However, the lack of romantic chemistry was pretty apparent. So sad. But as my motto goes: Chemistry is tough to come by, unless it's in the form of wet panties. Now, let me sniff those panties.

Fun - 9
Interesting - 8.5
Future Relationship Potential - 3
Future Friendship Potential - 10

The Laws of The Dating Machine

There are general rules to follow when dating me. I've previously gone over one of the rules, which is to not show any interest. Essentially, if you show interest in me, you're showing that you have poor taste. I don't want to date a chick with poor taste. Other important rules include: do not wear halter tops when you're fat; do not bring a gift on the first date; do not have an underbite and not get it fixed. However, the cardinal, foremost rule is: do not step foot into my house. The reasoning behind this rule is a little tricky. It's not because I'm concerned about my place of residence being revealed and, accordingly, burned down to the ground. I have home owner's insurance for just such a circumstance. It's not because I have a huge stash of pornography lying around. I don't, unless 'huge stash' can also be defined as 50GB of quality softcore porno on my computer. Okay, it's not really softcore. It's not because my room is messy. My room is actually immaculate; all 200 of my t-shirts are perfectly folded, color-categorized, and ranked by how much I like them. I do weekly status upgrades and downgrades. No, the reason why any chick who is interested in me should never step foot into my house is because she'll never step foot into my house again. I'll explain. For one reason or another, once a chick comes into my house, I end up never seeing her again. I am eight for my last eight chicks in this respect. You would think that going over to a dude's house would mean some snuggling, some kissing, and maybe some intimate hardcore fucking. Nope. Okay, yes, sometimes, but that was a mistake. It seems that a visit to the dating machine's house is the ultimate curse on a burgeoning relationship. My second date with Lauren would be no different.

After my first date with Lauren, I was a little apprehensive about going out with her again. I wasn't sure whether I was captivated by her attitude, humor, and intelligence, or if I just thought her singing voice was really hot. But then I remembered I was in the middle of dating season, and I'm not one to violate the laws of nature. Lauren and I texted back and forth and eventually arranged a second date for the following Saturday, February 7th. Initially, she wanted to check out the Chinese New Year parade. However, her excitement quickly died when I said, "That's stupid." The dating machine is an excellent communicator. She then suggested a movie, which I was actually in favor of (violating one of my dating tenets) because the Embarcadero theatre was hosting a limited engagement of Oscar-nominated shorts. Rad. So, after she was done with her choir rehearsal on Saturday afternoon, we were going to have dinner, watch a movie, and maybe go to a bar.

I prepped for the date by playing twelve hours of video games, with a short four hour nap. I just thought I'd mention that.

Since Lauren's choir rehearsal was in Palo Alto (she lives in Oakland), we decided to meet at my house and then either take her car or my scooter to dinner, depending on the weather. When she arrived at 5pm, the weather was cooperating, so we decided to scooter. However, my new scooter, Esmeralda, was not cooperating. Esmeralda is a cold-hearted bitch. Earlier in the week, I found out that my beloved scooter, Isabelle, was suffering from what the scooter repairman described as, "Your scooter is fucked. It's dead." He estimated the repairs would cost $400. Prior to going to the shop, I estimated the repairs costing $500. At the spur of the moment, and perhaps stupidly, I decided to trade in my beloved Isabelle for a new scooter. Esmeralda seemed like a good bike. She was physically prettier than Isabelle; though, Isabelle's imperfections (aka scratches and dents from me falling) gave her character. Esmeralda also ran very well, something I was definitely unaccustomed to. I bought Esmeralda, drove her home, and mourned the loss of Isabelle. So, just as Lauren and I were about to get on Esmeralda, Esmeralda started, ran for ten seconds, then died. Fuck. If I actually cared about Lauren's opinion, I might've been embarrassed. Luckily, I am also a cold-hearted bitch, and even thought about canceling the date so I could attend to my new scooter. Instead, we decided that Lauren should drive and I'd be the in-car DJ.

Lauren is a terrible driver. During the twenty minute drive to the restaurant, she missed two stop signs. I realize that people have unique driving styles. Some people like to brake hard and others like to brake gradually into a stop sign/light. I had not accounted for the third group who like to blow past stop signs. I attribute this unlawful behavior to two possible reasons - either (a) she is just unaware and not attentive, or (b) she was just way too into me and not concentrating on the road. Both are bad and unacceptable. I took note and prayed that we'd get to our destination with all our limbs intact.

Oh, I guess I should mention what I thought of Lauren upon seeing her a second time. She was short. Pretty fucking short. I'm no goliath myself at 5'9", but 5'1" may not be allowed on amusement park rides. It's cool though, she had pretty big tits. It's funny how short girls have big tits. I've never understood the logic behind it, but 3 out of 4 short girls (at least the ones I've been out with) have C-cups or bigger. Weird. Aside from her height and breasts, I noticed that her skin looked aged. She was also not wearing a cute outfit. I like cute outfits. I like a girl that has style. Lauren was missing that. As you can tell, this date was not starting off well.

We made it to Loi's Vietnamese on Irving Street just fine. Incidentally, Loi's Vietnamese is another standard dating machine spot. Inexpensive meals (about $13 for two), delicious food, and chicken marinating in the back alley near the cats (yes, really) equals a good, frugal time. After ordering, I noticed that Lauren's loud laugh was only amplified at this small restaurant. It was really loud. I realize that I'm kinda funny, but I'm not laugh-so-loud-that-you-scare-

the-neighboring-customer-into-spitting-out-his-food funny. I'm also not laugh-your-pants off funny. That's Daniel D. Anyway, she was starting to annoy me. I made the conscious decision to not be funny anymore. However, similar to Gass's inability to turn off his vibe, I couldn't turn off my funny. Dinner ended without anyone punching me in the face so I considered it a success.

We started making our way over to the Embarcadero district, with only 17 minutes to go before the movie started. The commute, if ideal, and the parking, if ideal, would take about 17 minutes. Unfortunately, those Chinese motherfuckers and their stupid parade ("Look at me, I'm a dragon!") took over downtown San Francisco. Facing numerous street closures and a flood of traffic, we ditched the movie idea. Instead, we decided to go to the Broken Record over in my hood. I love the Broken Record, mostly because it's always empty, so please don't try to go there and unempty it. Anyway, aside from Lauren being too short to sit comfortably on a stool, the action and conversation at the Broken Record was mostly uninteresting, similar to the entire date. However, the really interesting shit was about to come right up.

After we finished two drinks each, we called it a night and Lauren drove me home. Once we arrived outside my pad, we had the following conversation:

me: So, thanks for hanging out today and for driving, even if the driving was poor. *quick hug* Bye.
her: Do you want to invite me in?
me: What? Uh, but I thought you had to get up early tomorrow to prepare for your dinner party?
her: Not that early.
me: Oh.
her: Do you even want me to come in?
me: Yes, definitely.
(to self: Fuck.)
her: Okay, I'll find some parking.
me (with a last second attempt to discourage her): Cool, but just don't park on that street; that's where I got mugged.
her: Okay.
(to self: Oh well.)

Since my first objective (of going home alone) had failed, I made two more objectives. #1, we would not kiss. #2, if we kissed, we would not have sex. Did I yet mention, or did you yet get the feeling, that I wasn't into Lauren? Well, I wasn't. I'm wholly uninterested in kissing or having sex with chicks that I'm not 100% down with. Perhaps I'm an atypical male, but I only like to have sex with people I'm truly interested in. Well, either that or they're really fucking hot, in which case I can guarantee I'll be interested. Lauren was neither of those things. Right when we stepped through the door, I enacted Project Get This Chick Away From Me. The first phase was to avoid eye contact and suggest other activities so she wouldn't want to make out. Apparently, in my mission to avoid eye contact, Lauren successfully slipped into my room, took off her shoes, and sat on my bed. However, she didn't realize Project Get This Chick Away From Me was actually in version 2.0, and totally prepared for this type of development. I quickly grabbed a DVD and walked into the living room, while yelling towards the direction of my room, "We should watch this. I think you'll really like it." Mission accomplished - she came out of my room and sat on the couch, secretly hiding her dejection. For the next forty minutes, we sat quietly, about a half foot away from each other, and watched the movie. Unfortunately, the calm and inaction did not last long. Lauren complained that she wasn't enjoying the movie and that we should do something else. "How sly of you, Lauren - something else? What could you possibly mean? Well, I'm not a slut and you're not attractive, so this isn't going to work." That's what I should have said. Instead, I enacted phase two of Project Get This Chick Away From Me. I put on White Chicks by the Wayans Brothers.

If there's any better anti-panty dropping movie, I don't know it. Wayans Brothers movies are historically bad, however, White Chicks was in an entirely uncharted stratosphere of shit. I should know, I've seen it. Unfortunately, Lauren and I didn't see it that night. I should sue Comcast Cable for advertising White Chicks and instead showing Best in Show, which, amazingly enough, is one of Lauren's favorite movies. Are you there God? It's me, dating machine. And I'd like you to know that you're an asshole.

We started watching the movie when it was halfway through. I had approximately forty minutes to turn this chick off, aka phase three. I started biting my nails and spitting the remnants onto the floor. Didn't work - this chick had a mission herself and it was to experience my limp dick. Apparently, Lauren was also a nail biter. She showed me her nails (gross) and then asked to see mine. I showed her my deformed nails. I think she tried to hold my hand. It was pretty hilarious. She held my fingers with her fingers and then slowly tried to inter-cross our fingers. Upon realizing this, I suddenly laughed at a not-so-funny scene in the movie. I also decided the not-so-funny scene was a knee-slapper. Literally. Crisis averted.

During the remainder of the movie, I caught Lauren occasionally looking over in my direction. I did not see it directly obviously because phase one is a lack of eye contact, but it's not hard to tell when a person shifts their weight to look at you. It's also not hard to tell when a person simultaneously laughs and inches closer to you. Two can play at that game. Every time she'd laugh and get closer, I'd laugh and move farther. After about forty minutes, we moved from the center of the couch to the far right, where I was sitting. I secretly giggled. I may not play the game of dating well, but I play the game of avoiding chicks very well.

Near the end of the movie, Lauren whispered, "I have to go home soon." Being a master of linguistics, I knew the phrase "I have to" carried a much different connotation than the phrase "I'm going to". The latter phrase is a declaration - I gotta go home, so I'm going to go home. The former phrase is a thinly veiled plea for sex. Correct, a thinly veiled plea for sex. It translates to "I have to go home, but I don't want to. I want to stay here with you, but preferably making out and then maybe some cunnilingus." My response to such a plea was to put my shoes on and declare, "Cool, I'll walk you out." I called her bluff and she sat for another ten minutes.

Finally, the movie was over and there was no longer an excuse for her to stay. Project Get This Chick Away From Me was a success. She gathered her belongings, I mentally high-fived myself, and we made our way to the front door. I opened the door and prepared to walk her to her car. After all, if she got mugged or raped, I'd probably have to, like, help her out, which would in turn cut into my sleep time. Wait, who am I kidding? I was going to play some video games as soon as she left. After opening the door, we had this conversation:

me: I'm going to walk you to your car to make sure you don't get mugged or raped.
her: I don't think so.
me: Huh?
her: Since you're not going to make the first move, I'm going to make it.
me (with my hands held up in the air in a defensive position): No sex.

I am not shitting you. That's exactly how the conversation went. I don't know what I was thinking. It wasn't part of some grand scheme. It wasn't some age-old, time-tested Buddhist tactic. Without thinking, I just blurted out, "No sex". Pretty much, it was getting late, I was tired, and I really didn't want to have sex. At least with her. I've done many silly things on dates, but this move ranked right up there. Though, even more amazingly, she was not dissuaded. Our conversation continued:

her: You don't have to worry about that.
me: Oh, okay. Good.

She then proceeded to kiss me. I kissed her back a little (about 30% of maximum capacity), until I realized that her lips tasted and felt the way her skin looked - old. Kissing her was like kissing the sagging flesh of an old, fat man. I've never kissed the sagging flesh of an old, fat man, but I'm just really bad at similes. I then kissed her at about 8% of maximum capacity. If my 100% output induced rapid moisture of the panties, my 8% output was like a firm handshake. That was a better simile.

After roughly 25 to 30 seconds of sheer making out horror, it was over. There was no blood, but she was playfully biting my bottom lip. I secretly hoped that she would bite a little bit too hard, causing blood, so that there'd be a reason to end the kiss. I'm a weird dude. Right after the kiss, she looked at me longingly, like she wanted me to invite her to sleep over. I wanted to invite her to get the fuck out. I made a note to myself that 8% of my kissing capacity is still fairly lethal to the ladies. I then walked her to her car, gave her a hug, and quickly walked home. I smoked about five cigarettes in a row that night, trying to get the taste of sagging old, fat man skin off my lips. It did not work.

So I'm definitely not going to see this chick again. I've decided that if she calls or texts me, I would simply say that I met someone else. It won't be a complete lie. I have five more dates tentatively lined up in the next eight days. More recaps to come.

Are You There God? It's Me, Dating Machine.

Dating season is a very interesting phenomenon. On the one hand, you get to go on a bunch of dates with chicks in a relatively short (about a month) period of time. On the other hand, you always want to turn a little gay after going on this bunch of unsuccessful dates. Also, dating season cannot be created or decided; somehow the whims of match dot com chicks all converge, leading to them being desperate enough to go out with a douche like you/me. So, I guess the superficial goal of dating season is to find a woman, who would later be converted into a wife, but the real goal of dating season is to remain hetero as well as sane. I went on two separate dates last week and I am still hetero.

Preparation
Going on dates with two different girls in the same day requires preparation. First, you have to decide if you want the dates to happen at the same time and same place. I am an idiot, so I actually considered this. I thought it would funny if I was hopping back and forth between picnics at Dolores Park - "Hey, I need to use the restroom. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Please don't follow me." Luckily, my dates were only available at different times, so I could not consider this further.
Both chicks are from match dot com. Obviously this should be of no surprise to you. Actually meeting chicks face-to-face would require a sack or lots of alcohol. If I didn't go the face-to-face route, I guess I could also live with a chick and watch scary movies (forcing her into my bed for comfort) or go to grad school and try to pull off that cool, mature, older dude vibe to all the undergrads.
So, yeah, these chicks are from match dot com. I haven't been on a match dot com date since late November when a chick invited herself into my house, then my bed, and then proceeded to lick my sack. My response: to go limp after about five to ten minutes of sex because I just wasn't into it. She smelled somewhat foul in that her perfume reminded me of a Mexican housemaid. If you don't know what I'm talking about, just realize it's kinda gross. Anyway, there will be no date recap of that date but there will be a lesson: do not get trashed on a first date.

My contact with Lauren (date #2 of 2) was very simple - a few emails and a couple text messages - and we were set to meet at 3:30pm in the Embarcadero. My contact with Rosa Maria (date #1 of 2) was a bit more difficult. She gave me her phone number over email and told me to call her to arrange the date. I am not too seasoned with calling chicks to arrange dates. How asinine. Email and text messaging were invented to smoothen out the dating process; why did she not realize this? So, I gave her a call, leaving a voice mail around 1pm on Saturday afternoon. Very soon, it was 10pm on Saturday night and there was still no return phone call. What is this bullshit? Who does this chick think she is? She's going to ditch me and not even call back? If I didn't already have another date lined up, I might've been pretty pissed off. I decided to text message her with: "Hi. Just so we're clear, are we not going on a date tomorrow afternoon?" She replied back: "You have the wrong number, buddy." Shit. I was given a fake number. I was given a fake number over match dot com. This is a new low. I logged back onto match dot com to write a mean-spirited email along the lines of "You really hurt me." Very mean-spirited, I tell ya. After reading her previous email again, I realize that I incorrectly transcribed her number into my phone. I am an idiot who frequently confuses 7s for 1s and 1s for 7s. Just those numbers, I don't know why. It happens while using my phone and the television remote control. Anyway, I immediately called Rosa Maria, explained the reason for my late phone call, and arranged a date for Sunday at 11am.

So, the stage is set. The first date is with Rosa Maria, a 5'11" Hispanic/Latino 28-year old, at 11am in Dolores Park. The second date is with Lauren, a 5'1" Caucasian 26-year old, at 3:30pm around the Embarcadero. I wonder if anyone in the world has ever gone on two dates in one day where the height differential was ten inches. On a related note, the shortest chick I've ever gone out with said she was 4'11". However, there's a strong chance she was lying and was actually 4'9", which would technically make her a midget. She knew that fact so she lied about being 4'11". However, instead of getting a height job, she got a boob job. Those D-cups are a whole 'nother story, which involves the line, "You got a boob job? Do you have any self-respect? What's wrong with you? Are you trying to overcompensate for your height?" This line happened while we were making out. Yeah, it's amazing I'm still single.

Date #1 - Rosa Maria
For a date at 11am, I had to get up at 10:20am. Being that I have a tremendously fucked up sleeping schedule, I had gone to sleep at 6am. Luckily, dating is psychological not physical, so I was ready. I woke up at 10:20am, showered, got my good smell on, inflated my scooter tire, deflated my scooter tire, and got there a couple minutes early. To explain the scooter tire bit, I was told about a month ago from a passing motorist that my rear scooter tire looked flat. I had never inflated a tire of any sort in my entire life, so I decided to wait until that day to do so. I looked up online that my tires should be about 36PSI. Upon arriving at the gas station, I found that they were both 2PSI. Motherfucker. So, I inflated that shit to about 7PSI and said there's no way I'm getting this to 36PSI. Fuck that shit. After scootering six blocks, something didn't feel right. I stopped at another gas station, got some help, and realized that I'm an idiot. When reading the gauge, I didn't notice the number on other side of the 2 and 7, which was a 0. The 0 was separated from the other numbers by a straight line going down the middle. I had inflated my previously underinflated 20PSI tire to an overinflated 70PSI. It almost sounds like some Darwinian death where I should've lost my life due to sheer stupidity. But I did not and I'm still alive to terrorize the women of match dot com.

Shortly after my arrival, Rosa Maria calls me because she's having trouble parking. I tell her to pick me up on the corner and I hear her say, "I'm in a Camaro." I start giggling and wondering if Hispanic/Latino people are known for driving Camaros. I am not sure. But it doesn't matter when she pulls up in a Mini Cooper. I am hard of hearing. I hop into the car, say hello, and start playing with her dog. In arranging the date, I told her that we should go to Dolores Park and she should bring her dog. If all else goes wrong, we could just focus on playing fetch with the dog. While driving, I noticed that she had her left foot crossed beneath her right thigh. That was kinda cute. We find parking quickly and walk towards Dolores Park. She's pretty attractive and definitely tall. (I'm 5'8 3/4", but I happily didn't feel any short man complex.) However, her make-up is caked on. Gross. I hate that shit.

Dolores Park is fairly wide open because it's early and a lot of people are attending Super Bowl parties. Rad. I hate it when Dolores Park is packed. We find a space, lay down my blanket, and pop open my bottle of white wine. This is a very standard dating machine-date; I do not have many moves. I find out she's originally from Texas, moved down here last summer for her job as a speech pathologist, and I'm her virgin date on match dot com. (Out of about 20 match dot com dates, I've been the virgin date for about 15 of the women. I don't know what that means.) Her sensibilities were very traditional and friendly. While that's awesome and nice, I prefer someone wise, snarky, and progressive. While she was still quite attractive (aside from the make-up), after about an hour, I'm positive that there's no chemistry and I'm sure she realized the same. Incidentally, her match dot com profile definitely did not list Asian as an ethnicity that she wanted to date. I've gone on a bunch of match dot com dates with women who don't want to date asian dudes, and our dates never last longer than the initial date. This one would likely be no different.

Anyway, we talked about a lot of shit, none of which was terribly interesting because I don't remember much. I do remember playing fetch with her dog, Phoebe, a little bit and throwing the ball mad far. Both her and the neighboring yoga chick, who introduced herself to us for no reason, were amazed by my throwing prowess. I sarcastically explained that it was all due to my intense softball training. She didn't get that I was being sarcastic and probably thought I was weird. I decided to push it further by saying, "Yeah, we have a big tournament coming up this summer. I'm hoping we take home the trophy and I won't accept anything less than utter domination." I think she understood my sarcasm because she laughed, but she may have just been laughing at me. I don't know.

At one point, I asked why she decided to go out with me when she had a plethora of dudes to pick from. She's probably in the 95th percentile in regards to the chicks on match dot com. She explained that all the dudes that emailed her were either too old-looking (40s, 50s), too creepy-looking ("hi, let's a get drink tonight" as the entire and initial email), or too strong-looking. I laughed and delighted at the fact that I was frail and definitely could never successfully rape her. This is now the third date in a row where I've mentioned me raping the chick in some manner. You'd think that would be a horrible move, but amazingly, it's always met with laughter. It's all about the delivery. And your hand has to be on her thigh. It's funnier that way.

We chilled at Dolores Park for about two and a half hours and then decided to get something to eat. A standard dating machine-date would include El Farolito. Because I am cheap. However, Isabelle, my scooter, has been acting up lately and Rosa Maria decided Phoebe (a chubby Jack Russell terrier) could not fit in my back pack for the ride, so we decide to walk around and find a place to eat. We stop at a pizza place and immediately sit down on one of their patio tables. However, we didn't notice the line, which was initially circular, so it looked like people were just hanging out. After a few evil glares, I get up, ask if that's the line, and apologize for taking the table. We get up and order a pizza to go. In waiting for our pizza, I asked for a tub of water for the dog. The one nice waitress (out of four) graciously and happily gives us a tub of water. That waitress is sweet, I like her. After about ten minutes, the same waitress comes out and tells us our table is set up. We're confused but go with it since there's no longer a line. After two minutes, a different waitress comes out and tries to get our order. I explain that we ordered something to go but were instructed to sit down. She retorts that if anyone else needs a table, we'd need to leave. Very confusing. There isn't even a line anymore. In another two minutes, two people are waiting in line. We are told to leave the table. I didn't ever really care because it's all adding to the whole aura I have about hating pizza. Pizza never results in anything productive or good, unless it somehow and directly leads to sex. But I don't know how that would ever happen. Because it's pizza. Anyway, Rosa Maria super doesn't want to leave the table and is a little pissed. I am amazed at this sudden show of emotion, start laughing, and ask if she's serious. She smiles and says she's kidding. I believe she's lying so I press further and call her out. She relents and admits to being pissed off at the treatment. I tell her it'd be nicer if we just eat at the park anyway; she begrudgingly agrees. The pizza eventually comes out and we leave.

On the way to the park, I realize that I only got water for the dog, but not for us. We stop by Bi-Rite and I buy a couple vitamin waters. In paying for the purchase, I pull out all my loose cash and change to find out that I have the exact amount, $3.68. I was amazed and had a fat smile on my face. The cashier did too, causing this exchange:

dude: Dude, that's exactly how much you need!
me: I know! I'm shocked.
dude: That's never happened before.
me: Yeah, for me neither.
dude: Have a great day! I'll see you again.
me: Yeah, you too. We need to make this happen again.
dude: Definitely.

Haha, ridiculous.

We set up shop at Dolores Park again and start eating the pizza. Rosa Maria explains that Phoebe is super well behaved and will not even try to eat human food. Rosa Maria is wrong. While we're sitting on the ground, Phoebe is all over us trying to snatch a slice of the pizza. She's never successful, but I definitely got some paw to the face. Rosa Maria profusely apologized, but I didn't really give a shit. It just meant that I had to take another shower before my second date. I then got caught in the thought of only showering when I had dates. That's probably a bad plan.
Did I mention I got some tongue on this date? Yeah, the dog put her tongue into my mouth. Twice. I had a little dog breath. It was weird, but funny. Phoebe was like a little fat chick only going for the kiss because I had pizza on my breath.

The date ended around 2:30pm with me walking Rosa Maria to her car and then exchanging a harmless hug. We didn't talk about a second date at all, but I'd consider going out again if it were purely as friends. Oh, and Phoebe should be there to give me some sugar.

(scale of one to ten)
Fun - 7, mostly because of the dog
Interesting - 4
Future Relationship Potential - 1
Future Friendship Potential - 6


Date #2 - Lauren
It was roughly 2:30pm, which allowed me exactly enough time to go home, shower, and race off to the Embarcadero district. I did so and laughed to myself about how I was sorta living a double life, like the ones you see on the 20/20 special reports or Dateline. Except neither of these girls probably wanted to ever see me again. No matter, I got more shit lined up; it is dating season after all.

I arrived in the Embarcadero district a couple minutes early and called Lauren to find that she'd be a couple minutes late. I told her I'd wait on the corner like a five dollar hooker. I don't know why I say these things. I'm not trying to be funny; I just have no filter. When I think about not being strong, I think about my inability to rape. When I think about waiting on the corner, I think about the life of a hooker. I want to take one of those word association quizzes to see if I am deranged. Or just lonely with a slight S&M fetish.

While waiting for Lauren, I had forgotten exactly what she looked like. As each solo chick passed by, I got slightly anxious and worried. All the chicks who passed by were not attractive. But they may have looked unattractive because I was staring at them and they were giving me a stop-staring-at-me-you-fucking-creep look. Anyway, eventually one of the chicks smiled at me. I figured this was Lauren. It was. Even though it's stated in her match dot com profile that she's 5'1", she still seemed even shorter. Whatever. She was fairly attractive and looked better than her pictures. Although, as white women are normally cursed in this respect, she was aging poorly. At 26-years of age, she had already developed some pretty deep smile wrinkles around her mouth and eyes. I've never before went on a date with a chick who had that feature. I made a note that I did not like it.

Lauren seemed pretty nice and down to do shit, mainly because she was willing to get on the scooter and head over to the Richmond district for a drink and skeeball. She had also driven (a car), but the scooter was faster, easier, and deadlier. How can you beat that shit? While trying to start the scooter, Isabelle would not start. Lauren surmised that Isabelle was pissed off that another woman was getting on the scooter. I deadpanly said, "She's not pissed off about that. Women get on the scooter all the time." Lauren laughed, so the date definitely had some potential. Eventually Isabelle started and we got on. I gave Lauren the option of either holding onto the back of the scooter or holding onto me. She decided to hold onto me. I'm currently doing an ongoing study of the correlation between whether the chick holds onto me and whether we will have sex. It's a fairly interesting study because getting on the scooter usually happens within the first minutes of meeting each other, so we barely know each other. Prior to Lauren, this scooter test has resulted in 100% (4 out of 4) girls having sex with me if they hold onto me, and 100% (5 out of 5) not having sex with me if they don't hold onto me. I am not yet prepared to provide a scientific analysis nor conclusion.

We started making our way to the Richmond district and, more specifically, Buckshot on Geary. We talked about random shit while scootering there and I mentioned how the first time I ever had a chick on the scooter, we fell twice while going up a hill. I had never gone up a hill and also never had a chick/passenger on the scooter before. I told Lauren she had nothing to fear because I've since had many, many, many women on the back. She laughed again. Good sign. Upon arriving at Buckshot at 4pm, we found it to be closed even though it was supposed to open at 4pm on Sundays. They have skeeball, which was our main reason for going there, so we decided to walk around a little bit and check back in ten minutes. During the walk, I told her not to be intimidated if a lot of people came up to me and said what's up. I explained that the Richmond district had a lot of Chinese people, so my uncles and aunts were all over the place. She responded that, in order to not hurt my street/Asian cred, she'd walk away and pretend not to know me. I told her that would be an excellent move because we (the Chinese) hate the Whites. She said she was Jewish (at least on her dad's side). I told her that was even worse because Jews are even cheaper than Chinese people. She laughed.

After ten minutes of passing by a couple bars with a bunch of old Chinese dudes outside smoking and Lauren asking if they were my uncles and I wanted to say hi, we got back to Buckshot and saw a handwritten sign saying they'd be open at 5:15pm. We then decided to go to one of the non-old-Chinese-dude bars to get a drink. We found a pretty cool place on Clement, Lauren said she'd get whatever I got, and I paid for a couple glasses of red wine. I'm very sure that Lauren does not regularly order wine, like I do, but (1) wanted to see what I would order and (2) wanted to attempt to appease me by drinking the same shit. At times, throughout the date, she'd do very predictable things. I can't really explain it, but I more often than not knew what she was going to do or say. This might be the result of me being a dating machine. Dating machines are seasonal, so sometimes my shit is on and many other times it is not. While at this bar, I had hyped up that I had been on a lot of terrible dates. She wanted to hear about them, probably because she didn't want to make any of the same mistakes and to also try to understand me better. I told her three dating stories...

I told her about underbite (and referred to her as underbite because I forgot her real name). I started at the beginning when underbite tried to unsuccessfully pick me up at Thalassa (I forget who was there with me, but it was a fairly big crew) using some story about her uncle wanting to buy a used car, which was met with me asking underbite if she came over to ask about cars or to pick one of us up. And then how she got her dude friend to come over and get my number. I continued to tell Lauren how underbite turned out to be the cousin of my friend's girlfriend and how he set up a really bad double date involving the four of us eating leftover barbecue out of tupperware at his girlfriend's house. Pretty weird. The story of underbite finally ended when underbite somehow got invited to a golf outing, which was later followed by Rohan Lounge in the evening. At Rohan, underbite got drunk, pulled me outside, and explained that she only came out to hang out with me and all I was doing was avoiding her. No shit, underbite; I don't like you. She then cried and tried to go in for a kiss with me pinned against the Rohan Lounge window. I pushed her face away with my forearm. I heard cheering inside; I think it was my friend, Giz. I love that story.

The next story I told Lauren involved me inviting a chick over to my place for a first date. This happened in late 2003 when I came back from Los Angeles. I was pretty poor, lazy, and, of course, cheap, so I decided that the first date should involve watching a dvd at my place. It was a blind date off craigslist so I had no idea what she looked like. She did not look good. When she arrived, she brought me an apple. That was weird. If she were attractive, that would've been hot and I would've eaten that apple like a fat vegetarian. After about ten minutes of excruciating torture, I realized I had my computer on and I IMed my friend, Wu, when the chick went into the bathroom. I told Wu to call me in ten minutes, without providing any reasoning. If I recall correctly, the phone call went something like this:

Wu: What up?
me: Who got stabbed?
Wu: What? Someone got stabbed?
me: Thos? What was he doing? It doesn't matter. Where is he right now?
Wu: I have no idea what you're talking about.
me: Okay, I'll be there in ten minutes.
Wu: Whatever dude.

The date was over. Thanks Wu.

The final story involved a date with an asian chick who applied her make-up with a fat paintbrush. Liberally. She wore too much make-up, probably doing her utmost to cover her ugly face. It didn't work. The date occurred at Cafe Du Soleil, which is another standard dating machine-date. 80% of all first dates happen at either Dolores Park or Cafe du Soleil. If you ever want to spy on me and I don't tell you the location, you can usually find me at one of these two spots. However, I don't give a shit about spying, so I'll tell you the location anyway. Amazingly enough, the date went well and we got along fine. However, I was not the least bit physically attracted to her and felt no chemistry. That was not the case for her. At the end of the date, we had this exchange:

her: Did you have a good time?
me: Yes, definitely.
her: Do you want to see me again?
me: No, not really.
her: Why!? Why not? Didn't you have a good time?
me: Yes, I had a great time, but I don't really feel a connection. You're not my type. (Note: I don't actually have a type.)
her: I don't understand. What is your type? How am I not that type?
me: I need to go buy some cigarettes at this Walgreens now.
(I hoped she would go away but she did not. She followed me into Walgreens, giving me a death stare.)
her: So, what is it?
me: uhhh, uhhh, bullshit, bullshit, uhhh, uhhh, more bullshit.
her: You can put your hand down now.
(During the two to three minutes of trying to answer her question without devastating her, I had my hand up trying to hail her a cab.)
me: Oh okay.
her: So, why?
me: more of the same stammering.
her: Whatever.
(She gets a cab.)

I then teach myself the life lesson not to go out with another ugly chick.

After relating my three date stories, Lauren tells me that I'm actually her second match dot com date. She went on one the previous night. I resist the temptation to tell her that I had a date earlier that day. She continues and tells me that the date went okay, but not great. Basically, the dude was really into her. He text messaged her every day for a week, leading up to the actual first date. Stuff like, "What are you doing?", "What's for dinner?", "Sounds good, I'm having pasta.", "Good night. See you in three days." Haha, pathetic. And I know pathetic. Also prior to the date, Lauren mentioned to the dude how she really wanted to see Slumdog Millionaire. But obviously, going to a movie on a first date is stupid. Lauren and I agreed how a movie should be, like, fourth or fifth date material. Sitting in complete silence with a stranger for two hours is lame. Sure, you can talk about the movie over dinner, but the movie is just a vehicle of conversation, similar to talking about the weather. He suggested going to a movie, she rejected the suggestion. I forgot what they actually did; it was probably nice, but nothing earth-shattering. Immediately after the date, he text messaged her good night. He also text messaged her the following day. The guy sounded amazingly awkward and I asked if I could be his friend. From that, Lauren slyly suggested that he wouldn't want to be my friend because I would be going on dates with her. Lauren was down with the dating machine.

At about 5:15pm, we left that bar for Buckshot. We were Buckshot's only customers. I paid for another round of wine because they did not accept credit cards. Lauren got angry at herself for not carrying cash and said she'd buy dinner. That was cool with me. At Buckshot, the flirting from Lauren went up a notch and she started touching me on the shoulder and hand. Never a good thing. I have a really fucked up attitude where if a chick is into me, there's something wrong with her. I don't know why I feel that way. I think I want a chick that is way too good for me and completely out of my league. The ideal course would be for the chick to show no emotion for the first two dates, and then divulge her burning desire on the third date. That would be good. I want a challenge, preferably someone who wants nothing to do with me.

Anyway, we start playing skeeball and, like an asshole, I tell her that there's absolutely no one way she'd ever win. I've probably played skeeball three times in life. I had no chance of winning, but I like to talk shit. At one point, she hit a 50 point shot. I verbally hyped myself and told her that I perform well under pressure. Amazingly, I also hit a 50. Somehow, I won the first game, but not by much. She wanted a rematch. In the second game, she started off super hot and I started very poorly. After about six balls, she had a fat lead. There were three balls left. I told her to bowl her last three balls so I knew what I'd need to score. She did and I needed two 100 points scores and a 20 point score. I hit exactly that. I was amazed, she was amazed; though, the difference is I think she got a little wet. Haha, probably not.

We had another round at Buckshot and she started to loosen up a bit. As a result, she got kinda loud. This chick is not a quiet individual. I laugh pretty loudly, and she was par with that. She also enjoyed talking super loud. It was unattractive. She went from having a good shot at a second date (say, a 5 or 6 on a 10-scale) to a poor shot (a 2). Soon, more people came in and started cheering along with the football game. She started cheering too, quite loudly, which was followed by her asking me what happened. Lame. Or maybe I'm just being too sensitive.

We left Buckshot and walked towards the original King of Thai on Clement. The original King of Thai no longer exists. The location has been taken over by some Taiwan restaurant. We settled for King of Thai 2, which is a block away from the original location. I ordered pad see eww and she order tom kah gai. I didn't taste her shit because I dislike soup, but my shit had about one to two tablespoons too much soy sauce. That shit was gross. Coupled with Lauren's loud behavior and my poorly made pad see eww, I just wanted to go home and arrange more match dot com dates. Or check out some porno. When the check came, we found out that they didn't accept credit cards. Lauren profusely apologized and I paid for dinner too. This date was only getting better and better. After finishing dinner, I asked what she wanted to do next. She said it was still early (8pm), so she said we should go somewhere else. For some reason, I agreed and we made our way to Amber because I wanted to smoke indoors.

Amber was closed and since she had previously mentioned how she loved The Mint, we went to The Mint. The Mint also does not accept credit cards. This was getting hilarious. However, in a fucking awesome move, Lauren said "fuck this" and went to the ATM. She couldn't let me pay for another drink. That was kinda awesome. She submitted a song for the karaoke; I don't remember the song because I have a horrible memory. She told me about how she's heavily into her choir group. But not because she's into church, rather she loves singing. That's pretty cool, I thought. She talked a little about her job, which involved doing analysis of stocks, margin calls, and mergers. And how her current project is analyzing the possible outcomes of Citigroup's merging of its Smith Barney unit with Merrill Lynch. Pretty high; I like that shit. I told her that I didn't have a job, and she didn't seem to mind. It was at this point that she stopped drinking because she had enough. That's when I pulled the old rape move. I will, in the future, always call it the old rape move. I told her "Yeah, you should stop drinking, otherwise I might try to rape you." Yes, my hand was on her thigh. Again, it's funnier that way. She laughed pretty hard and was kinda into it. I told her that she should call up the dude from last night so we could have an elimidate-style date. Point blank, she said, "Why would I do that? You know you'd win." Wow. That was kinda awesome. I then upgraded her to a 3.

Finally, after nearly two hours of waiting (it was about 10pm), her song came on. I was glad because, even though I was having fun and we had fairly good chemistry, I just wanted to go home. She sang. I think I might've got a hard on. All I could think was, "Damn, that chick is hot. Her voice is fucking amazing. That is a fucking good singing voice. I want to have sex with that." So, yeah, I was pretty turned on. I love good voices. I've never went on a date to a karaoke place and had no idea her singing would have this effect on me. Even though she was, at times, loud and annoying, I was super down. I then officially upgraded her to an 6. Ridiculous. When she got off stage, I put my arm around her and told her that that was really hot and that I was a little turned on. Then I said, "That was really hot" about three more times. Smooth, dating machine. I think she was glad to hear that because I had stopped flirting for the second half of the date. And due to the renewed reciprocation, she put her arm around me. I need to watch out for ugly girls who can sing. I'm not saying that Lauren is ugly. I'm just saying I need to watch out. I'm a sucker for some things.

We decided to leave The Mint and have sex. I'm kidding. I drove her back to her car, which was parked over in the Embarcadero district. During the ride, she put her chin on my shoulder, which is one of the dumbest things you can do as a passenger on a scooter. Scooters occasionally hit bumps, which would cause her to potentially lose her tongue. Also, she was snuggled up mad close to me. My knees were touching the front of my scooter. It's very hard to ride like that. But whatever, that was a hot-ass singing performance. I didn't give a shit. We made it to her car, we both got off, and we arranged a second date for next weekend. We also kissed. Just a couple pecks, no tongue. I got back on my scooter and rode home, all the while thinking of a way where I could work in some singing into the next date. And maybe some sex. That would be nice too.

Fun - 6
Interesting - 7
Future Relationship Potential - 6
Future Friendship Potential - 5


That was a long recap. Thanks for reading. Sorry about the ever-changing tenses.