BattleScars (A terrible name) is now called Surfette. Also of note is that I've now gotten email from more than one of you. Thanks for that, it's nice to know you're out there, and it's good to be back. Feel free to use the comments!
I had a lot to say to you tonight, but too many Jamesons stopped me from saying them.
I was planning on having a short night, drinking enough to get the courage up to email Surfette (hey, they're my neuroses, don't make fun) and I went out for a drink to warm up for that. Jamesons, being a good writerly drink, was the choice for the night.
For the first hour or so, there was an engagement party and I talked to Cocktail waitress about Surfette, women generally, and I think she's probably tired of my claiming to be shy. I think, candidly, that I'm not anymore.
I was also there on a mission. Watch the interactions of the people there. I wanted to see what was what - I've never done that with a purpose before. Sometimes it happens, but my intent, this time, was to just observe. Talk to people, maybe, but mainly see who was interacting with whom and how the social dynamics of the room worked out. It was pretty amazing.
I took a seat at the bar next to a very cute brunette, just my type, the tall, thin, long shiny hair, the kind of woman you want to talk to in a bar but don't because she's sitting checking her phone and wondering where her boyfriend is. You know the sort. So I drank my drink, playing that most favored game - I'm drinking my drink and don't you dare try to take it from me. I'm good at that game.
At the same time, a guy walked up to shiny haired girl and started talking to her. I could read her body language pretty well - she wasn't having any of it. Kept checking her phone and glancing over at me, the bartender, the wall, wherever.
When her friend came it turned out not to be her boyfriend, rather a woman who looked like a younger, better looking, less addled version of The Cuban. My heart jumped into my throat for a second there, and then came back out again when I realized it wasn't her. The new girl cockblocked the poor guy who just stood there drinking for 10 more minutes.
Behind me were a pair of ironed-hair girls, one blonde and one brunette, clearly out on the prowl but not wanting to admit that. I turned at one point and told them they'd missed the bartender, and they looked back with the deer-in-headlights that you give when you really want to talk but are shocked that you're actually talking. I turned my back on them immediately and went back to observing my Jamesons.
Minutes later the guy was in and talking to the two of them. I don't know how he did, but when he ended that conversation, I tapped him on the shoulder and said "If I said you got blown out of two sets, would that mean anything to you?" It didn't, but he put together what I was saying and got both offended and interested. He went through the expected "are you hitting on me" and when he found out that I was giving him unsolicited tactical advice (stop saying Fuck every other word) his interest spiked and asked "what's your deal?" I didn't tell him who I was (or, more to the point, who I am here and that I'm a trained professional and such) and instead gave him more unsolicited pointers.
He walked to the bathroom and I tapped another guy on the shoulder that I didn't know, this one that I'd seen many times before. I introduced myself to him, got his name, proceeded to memorize it, and will consider him part of my entourage from now on. Every time I see him he's with a beautiful woman. Good guy to know, I think.
I turned back around and the brunette started bumping into me. Clearly had to talk to her too, so I started in and she gave me her name, and the Cuban-lookalike gave me her name, and started talking.
"I'm Bad Man"
"I'm CubanLookalike, I've seen you around here."
"Nice to meet you finally" *sounds of oxygen being sucked out of the room, mental note that she's seen me before and commented on it filed*
They introduced me to the tall banker-type guy they were talking to who seemed both dull and annoyed that I was interfering, so I tried, unsuccessfully to make friends with him. Shortly thereafter, they left.
And I went and spoke to the Cocktail Waitress, mentally recording all of the names of the boys and girls I met. I told her that she wasn't allowed to let me go home with ugly girls, and she should follow the mandate of the MTA - if you see something, say something. She, as well as the bartenders, have been put on notice both of my singledom and my no-ugly-girls policy. I should note that I think, having told them that, I've become something of the pet project of the bar. After Surfette and I went home together, the next time I came in, they gave me hi fives, hugs, and told me how impressed they were. Strangely, only one of them had been there, but the story, it seems, got out. It's a strange thing, being me.