Monday, October 9, 2006

Advice to my daughter, follow-up

I gave some advice to my daughter a while back. My, how times flies …

Man with comb-over, white turtleneck under a faux camel hair jacket, white patent leather shoes, approaches my daughter at a bar: Hey you, care to celebrate a special occasion with me?

Jourdaine, now 23 years old (eight years has passed since I wrote the advice column to her a couple of months ago), sitting alone at the bar because her friends are late – she senses immediately that this guy can be easily hooked and dragged through the water: Hey yourself, cowpoke. I mean that as an action verb. What’s the special occasion?

Man: Um, ok. I get it! A verb! Um, ok, ha! Oh yeah, the special occasion is meeting you!

Jourd: Ah, meeting me! What a great line! Does this mean you’re buying me a drink?

Man: Sure, little lady, what’ll you have? A red wine? A Jolly Rancher?

Jourd: Yo, barkeep! Double potato vodka, chilled and neat. This guy’s tab.

Barkeep (whispering as he leans in close to Jourd): Be gentle, ma’am, you’re up against an unarmed man.

Jourd (winking and downing her vodka in one gulp): One more, bud. If any blood is drawn, he’ll be begging for it first, k? Put this second round on his tab. (turning to comb-over) Right?

Man: Um, yes, yes!

Jourd: Thanks! So, come here often?

Man: Yes. Yes, I do. Say, where’s your favorite romantic restaurant?

Jourd: That depends on what I am romancing … (she makes an obvious glance at comb-over’s left hand. At first he recoils, forgetting that he removed his wedding ring in the parking lot. As he remembers, the fingers stretch over his bony knee.)

Man, with beads of sweat forming above his upper lip, he raises his bottom lip in guppy-like fashion and audibly sucks the sweat into his mouth: Well, what if you were romancing, say, me! Where would that restaurant be?

Jourd, thinking that this guy is about as pathetic as they come: You? Well, that would have to be some place lonely and out of the ordinary, just like you.

Man, not grasping the verbal backhand: Yes, like me, lonely and out of the ordinary. (He leans forward to invade Jourd’s personal space, a move he read about in “How to Snare any Woman in Five Minutes.”)

Jourd, always in control of losers: Back up a little, pal. That’ll cost you. Barkeep! (Jourd shakes her empty jigger, looking for a refill. The barkeep smiles, and takes another $5 from in front of comb-over.)

Man, moving quickly back into his own space, and glancing over my f’g daughter’s body you piece of trash keep your eyes to yourself: You want to celebrate a special … oh, sorry, I already asked that.

Jourd: You did, yes. What else you got? I think you need to put another $20 on the bar. Barkeep, keep ‘em coming!

Man: Um, you live around here?

Jourd: No.

Man: Um, you work close by?

Jourd: No.

Man: What do you do for a living?

Jourd: I don’t.

Man: You don’t?

Jourd: I don’t.

Man: Um, what’s your favorite hobby?

Jourd: Hanging out in bars and having fucktards like you buy me drinks for hours.

Man: Ha, ha, ha! You sure have a great sense of humor! I’d like to buy you dinner sometime. Would that be ok?

Jourd: Sure.

Man: Really?

Jourd: No, just messing with you.

Man: There you go again! You are so funny! It’s a gift. Really it is!

Jourd: Barkeep!

Man, looking a tad dazed at this point, like Joe Frazier did in the later rounds of the Thriller in Manila after Ali hit him in the head for the 243rd time: Gee, um, …

Jourd: OK, pal, listen. You want to have dinner with me? First, the comb-over. Gotta go. Shave your head. Trust me. It’ll look great. The clothes have got to change. I want jeans, tight. A white t-shirt and a demin jacket. New, clean converse sneakers. Black high tops. White socks. Got it? I’ll wait here. You got one hour. Leave another $20 for the bar.

Man, breathlessly putting several $20 bills on the bar: One hour. Wait right here!

Jourd: You got it, cowpoke!

Man: A verb! (He yells as he rushes out of the bar.)

Jourd, dialing her late friends on her cell: Hey! You clowns! I’ve been sitting here fending off some greaseball waiting for you! … Yeah, whatever, no excuse is good enough … listen, can you pick up Timothy on the way? Tell him I have a boytoy for him. … Yeah, a newbie.

(One hour later, our formerly combed-over pick-up artist arrives all decked out looking like a groupie for that band that sang Y-M-C-A. Timothy is immediately interested.)

(Yeah, OK, we don’t need a line-by-line recitation of what happened. Formerly comb-over thinks that Jourd invited another couple to double date. After a couple of hours of drinking on formerly comb-over’s tab, Jourd and her girlfriend leave Timothy and his new boyfriend at the bar. Six months later, formerly comb-over has left his wife and moved to a gay commune on Fire Island. He writes Jourd occasionally.)

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