Tragic Blind Date #459

I’ve been meaning to do some kind of post about Valentine’s Day (aka “singles’ awareness day”), something pithy and fun, mentioning dubious and useless statistics such as the fact that more people break up on V-day than any other day of the year. I even had a party that night, which usually makes for good stories, but this one was pretty tame, so aside from the killer mojitos and Phineas in a fijian sarong and hawaiian shirt (how is it possible that I do not have pictures of this?!), there’s not really much to tell. Instead, in keeping with the romantic theme at least, I give you this – yet another example of online dating gone wrong, or at least very very strange, from a month or so ago. Yes, I do exist to make you all feel better about your lives…

We met at the original Bar Louie. He suggested it and I agreed, figuring this would be a nice, neutral location where we could anonymously swill some booze and see if we got along. He arrived at 9:30. I decided to overlook the doofy hat, since it was in all fairness really really cold out, and for all I knew his dead grandmother had knitted it for him.

The drink of choice was bourbon, for both of us. A good sign. Drink #1 was spent joking about work, the pros and cons of having a ‘real’ job vs. working in the arts (which he does, and I used to) and so forth. So far, so good. Halfway through drink #1, though, he was already on drink #2, and sucking it down like a thirsty camel about to head out into the Sahara. Oh well, I thought. Nerves. It happens. We briefly touched on Chicago neighborhoods and how mine is altogether too milquetoast these days, but quickly abandoned that topic when he told me he’s actually not opposed to the whole Lincoln Park trixie phenomenon. This probably should have been my first clue. I took the opportunity afforded by the resulting awkward pause to down the rest of my drink and order another. This brought us around to film, television and music. My tastes are fairly broad, so (at least on the first date) unless you’ve got an abiding fondness for Britney Spears or are looking forward to The Littlest Groom, this is a pretty safe subject. Not this time. Somehow, anything I said I liked was either boring or dumb or otherwise worthy of some combination of raised eyebrow and snort of contempt. Which is a little strange from someone who doesn’t really have a problem with the fact that “reality” television has gotten way out of hand. Anyway, in what I can only assume was an attempt to get the conversation back on track, he asked me who my favorite comic actor is.

Best comic actor, ever? I studied theatre and film, so this is kind of a long list for me, but I gamely began to whittle it down. Can I have more than one? Sure. Buster Keaton was pretty amazing, I said. Snort of contempt. Katharine Hepburn. Shaking of head. Rosalind Russell? Jack Lemmon? Thelma Ritter? Now he’s looking at me like I’m retarded. Maybe I should just stick to contemporary actors, I thought. How about, say, Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller? They’ve got good chemistry. He hated The Royal Tenenbaums. Bill Murray has done some great work, though, right? Nada. The only actor we could agree on, in fact, was Jack Black. Not that he’s not really great, but still. So what response was my date looking for? Jim Carrey. King of over-the-top, and while there’s no doubt he can get the laughs, arguably one of the most irritating humans (?) on the planet. This should definitely have been the part where I began to plot my escape. Nevertheless, I told myself not to be too critical, and persevered. That’ll teach me.

After drink #3, things didn’t really seem very promising, so we decided to get out of there. Out on the sidewalk, he looked at me. “Where to?”

I was momentarily stunned. Surely he didn’t want to carry on? But somehow I wound up saying, “It’s your neighborhood. Where’s good these days?”

He thought about it for a few seconds. Then: “Let’s go to your place.”

Hunh?! I’m amazed I didn’t do a visible double-take, although I’m pretty sure I stared at him for a good five seconds before I was able to reply. Befuddled, I tried to think this through. My place? Bizarre choice. But my roommate’s at home, I’ve got some wine, it’s not too much of a mess… And at least this way, I’ll already be at home when the inevitable train wreck happens. “Uh, I guess we could do that,” I said, reluctantly. So he hailed a cab and in we got.

Somewhere around LaSalle and Division, my date spoke up again. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what?” I wondered aloud. What the hell were we doing, anyway? And why had I agreed to go to my place? He had no answer. It occurred to me that bringing this man to my apartment was really probably not the best idea I’d heard that day, so I suggested we stop off at another bar nearby and have a bit of a chat. He agreed.

Having directed the cabbie to the Old Town Ale House, a grungy little joint on North Avenue, we exited the taxi and I started toward the door. As I was reaching for the door handle, I noticed my date was still standing six feet away on the corner. I walked back over to him.

“I think I’m done,” he said.

Now I’m completely baffled. On the one hand, I thought, I’d just as soon not have another hour of strained conversation, but on the other hand, what the fuck is going on? So I asked, “You’re not coming in?”

“No.”

“You’re… going home?” I ventured.

“Yeah.”

“Ummmm, ok…”

And he turned on his heel and walked away. No handshake, no nice-having-met-you. Nothing. And I was left standing in front of the Old Town Ale House at 10:30 on a Monday night. Alone. Now I really needed a drink.

Now don’t go feeling all terrible for me or anything – the way I see it, this was an easy escape from what would surely have been a disaster at some point or other, and arguably already was. I called a friend or two, went down to the local and told the story, and we all had a good laugh about the looney. Wound up being a pretty great night, actually. The only thing that I still find a little worrisome is how I could have mistaken him for sane in the first place.

The moral of this story, for all of you who spent V-day dateless and therefore feeling like some kind of a leper: sometimes being single is much, much more appealing than the alternative.