SWM, Drunk & Confused...

I can never remember when I’m (perpetually) single if I’m supposed to treat my date or my cock like a Mogwai that could possibly turn into a Gremlin…

That’s the best introduction I could find to the beginning of this conversational journey we’re going to suffer through together. Yes, it’s a bit masturbatory, but so are blogs, and so is dating, as I’m about to explain and then recant before just landing in an ambiguous world of over-thought references and genital allusions, replete with heartfelt judgments and apologies and neurotic attempts at revolutionary optimism through various degrees of relations and this sentence is kind of getting away from me…

This isn’t ‘Nam, there are rules.

-You can’t expose your penis to any bright lights, including flash photography. Apparently it’s some sort of law. Sunlight is by far the worst. That’s right, tanners, you’ve cooked your collective penii to death. If you’re a woman who tans, then I also think of you as having a deep-fried decrepit dangler.

-You can’t expose a date to bright lights because she’ll get distracted. Or maybe it’s a metaphor for keeping her in the dark about who you really are, and the posturing that seems to go along with such activities. I’m more of a night owl anyway (is saying “night owl” redundant? Are there day owls? Is that just an early bird? Look, birds can’t fuck owls, okay? Birds fuck bees, and that’s just the way it is…)

some things will never change…

-You can’t get your penis wet. I know, bros are always saying,

“Man, you just need to get your dick wet!”

But those people are wrong and kind of assholes. That’s not a solution, it’s just something to do. I’ll come back to this.

You just have to be aware of the fact that it leads to multiplication, because moisture is the essence of wetness, and water is the essence of life, and then some other things happen and babies. Then there’ll just be more dicks, because that’s what most of these kids are. They’ve got half-eaten, rotting food in their teeth because they’re unclean, and they want to touch you and lick things, taste things, trying to learn… you don’t need that. Some half animal beast-child putting his hands on you, the cheese dust fingers, with his death breath and apple juice farts…

-You can’t get your date wet, for the same obvious reasons (or serve them apple juice). I know, it seems like it defeats the purpose, but what are you gonna do? Rules are rules, and I’m drunkenly applying the ones from the motion picture Gremlins to this misguided analogy.

This is also a bummer because I always thought that swimming was such a good date activity. You get to see each other close enough to naked, and the man can lift the woman easily, making him feel strong and her feel light. Unfortunately, it’s out.

And I love the ocean.

-Most importantly, you can never feed your penis after midnight. That’s when it becomes some sort of reptilian demon creature that attacks your mother and then you have to stick it in the microwave.

-You certainly can’t feed your date after midnight. Women try not to eat late anyway.

Fine, this one doesn’t really make sense (because the others are iron-clad). I never understood this rule anyway. How are their bodies attuned to their specific time-zone? As far as a date goes, does this include any and all ingestions?

Although I’m sure that many women would love nothing more than to purge on junk food before becoming some kind of monster and going to watch Snow White with her friends. Hell, I know I would.

Don’t buy your junk food at the theater though. The price keeps getting higher, I swear they’re raisinet…

So with the Gremlins rules in effect, you can see how my horizon has been limited. I don’t mean to suggest that the dating scene is this hazardous. Stripe isn’t going to become some sort of metaphor for an evil landing strip afflicted beast of vagina dentata.

You know what, maybe I should end the Gremlins references here…

Howie Mandel is also the voice of my penis.

Obviously I am thoroughly confused by the dating world, as well as the Gremlins world, and the world in general, but let’s just deal with one bit of neurosis at a time, shall we (wait, should we?)

I’m not much for dating.

Jesus, fuck that thought and sentiment and sentence. Who wants to date that guy?

Lots of people, you jerks. Well, not lots. Maybe some, at first, before the harsh truths of reality and practicality sink in. Maybe none. It’s some sort of elephant/rhinoceros hybrid at this point.

To be fair, I’ve never actually been on a proper date, in which I ask a woman with whom I haven’t slept to accompany me and only me to some sort of function(s) with the intention of romantic or sexual pursuit.

That may not be true, but I can’t recall any specific occurrences.

Does that make me the asshole? Usually, but what I’m reaching for is the idea that I just don’t understand serial dating, the search for anyone, playing the odds at that level in the hopes of finding that someone special-enough to grant your entry into the exclusivity of the couples country club (which is exclusive, so don’t tell them that you’re Jewish). I don’t want to belong, I want to believe.

It’s great to have someone, and even better to share your life with as many people and in as many special ways as possible, but there are degrees. There are those incomprehensible interactions that stir your anxieties in the most wonderful way, and knowing that feeling, the awareness of its recurring existence, is enough of an inspiration to keep me in wait. It’s not so much holding out as it is just understanding what’s worth the time and effort.

Let me climb off the high horse of pretension and straddle the motorbike of jealousy for a moment.

I’m sure that the reasoning behind many indulgences in online or even compulsive dating is earnest. There are worse things to spend your time pursuing than love (I’ll never find that picture of Houdini with his keys locked in his car). It’s far too easy to feel loneliness in this friendly, friendly world, and company and community are essential. Whether the caterpillars have hatched within your shit factory or not, it’s worth it to connect. If this is your honest agenda, then I’m actually quite envious of your dedication and progressive endurance to the crusade for a soul-mate or partner. Looking for love, meeting people, enjoying yourself through legitimate interactions… I can’t rightfully shit on those passions like a homeless man behind a gas station.

But is that always the case?

From the most basic glimpses of research I could manage, the majority of online dating site users are women, and the sites with the highest percentage of women members are match-based. These are the sites which require a long and detailed questionnaire, an immediate turn-off for men. Through some sort of mathematical equation, the love nerds formulate a theorem or formula or algorithm (I don’t know, I’m bad at math and science and intimacy) that will prescribe you your ideal mate, rather than allowing you to freely browse the stockyard for the 4H babe you feel that you somehow rightfully deserve.

Again, I really don’t mean to diminish anyone’s attempts, but what I get from this is that the women are at least seeking a potential partner rather than a hook-up.

I don’t understand most people’s agendas, so I’m even more out of my element and sobriety here. But to engage in a system which essentially amounts to scanning your options for acceptable vaginal patronization sounds a bit like a fancier version of masturbation to me (and I don’t just mean autoerotic asphyxiation with a black tie (and a bow tie for your erection (copyrighted))).

If that’s the case, then you’re just paying more money in order to keep dating your penis, which you were already doing, for free. Or maybe you’re dating a fancier version of your hand, or rib I suppose.

This falls into the mindset of just getting your dick wet (this doesn't fall into any mindset). 

I know we like to think that casual sex exists, but it doesn’t. It always means something to someone, and often much more to one than the other, and that’s not fair. You don’t want to be on either end of that ignorance. If you do happen to find yourself there, driven drunkenly against your will by a questionably designated wingman, don’t be the casual one. Heartbreak beats apathy every time.

Don't get me wrong, I'll get more drunk and do things, and everyone may come out the other end just fine. That's another ideal worth remembering. It's arrogant to assume there can't just be casual fun. In fact, I feel that I've often indulged in some enjoyable acts of ribaldry with minimal consequence. I'm just trying to be more mindful of how I really feel, and relate that to the treatment of others, because I've also been on either end of the previously stated ignorance.

But maybe the casual, or preliminary, dating world is all worthwhile. This is how people meet, and I know plenty of amazing couples. The casual can lead to the intimate, it doesn't have to be such a narrow field. It just hasn't revealed its appeal enough to entice me. I want to be knocked out in person, or at least gut punched, and I want the feeling to continue, easily, but that doesn’t mean that I get to judge others for a different approach, one that seems to be proving itself across the globe throughout time.

When I start reading through dating statistics, online or not, I get depressed, for many reasons. Perhaps it’s the basic appliance of science that turns me off…

(Hold on, I suddenly have the urge to simultaneously watch Disney’s Beauty & the Beast and listen to Rage Against the Machine…)

I feel that science can often be an attempt to dilute the magic.

We’ve become spoiled to not only solutions, but immediate ones. Internet dating goes to the next level of dangerously toying with an acceptance of scrolling through people, scanning and computing a mathematical analysis of something that can never lose its awe to our arrogance. I guess we’re all doing that anyway, but I’ll be damned if some computer’s going to best me at recognizing nature’s sorcery.

And I don’t want to hear about being purposefully single in order to stand against over-population or societal pressures. The argument is valid, but also shut up. I don’t want to begrudge anyone’s sincere efforts towards a better world or sense of self and security, but the point isn’t a feeling of superiority. There’s no “winning.” If you’re better than magic, then why do you have diabetes?

Relationships shouldn’t be about figuring out a system by which your satisfactions will be met by the ideal person of your choosing. You have to allow for the wonderful idiosyncrasies of natural attraction, human error, the fuck-ups and fuck-downs and fuck-sideways, if you’ve got the leg strength.

There's no right way. It’s the questions, not the answers; the journey, not the destination.

In which case, I may have to digress and surrender to the concept of honest, frequent, connective human experience as legit. Dating is quite admirable in that sense, through any means.

I don’t mean to offer an answer or judgment or cohesive thought regarding any of this (obviously). This is just food for late-night thought (though not after midnight, somehow). Clearly I’m confused, but maybe that’s what I’m arguing. Knowing shit is overrated. Confusion is incredible. The surrender is often greater than the false power-trip. 

Shit, maybe I'm just a masochist (hence the rules (hence the blog title)). 

You need the sense of wonder for the magic to take hold. It’s truly a question without an answer, like why her or him, what time is it, and are there Gremlin vaginas?

Actually, there may be an answer to some of those, but I don’t want to know them. 

I forget things.

Oh shit, I’m supposed to be on a date right now!