Tag Archives: George Costanza


I’ve been a way from the blogosphere a little too long. Let’s see what I can do to right that.

Friday night was another one of the local social club‘s monthly happy hour events. Even though these things only last three hours, the group of people that sis and I hang out with inevitably end up going to another bar or two and closing them; with everybody sharing rides home or crashing with people who live within walking distance of the bars. Needless to say, happy hour nights result in spending large amounts of money, consuming prodigious amounts of alcohol and other commonly related events along that trajectory.

Happy Hour was at a bar that, while a cool place to hang out, was simply too small a place for a group the size of the social club. We left right at 9 to go a birthday party for Steeler and 2 of his friends at another bar. (Apparently they do this every year after the March happy hour and it results in a big crowd.) even though Phred and I were still pissed about last month’s fiasco with Steeler, we decided to go anyway.

Ivy, after tagging along at the entire happy hour rode over to the next bar with us. More on Ivy later. As she usually does, Sis spots SHG over by Steeler’s party booth long before I do. I make my way to the booth, but somehow end up not talking to her right away- saying “Hi’s” and shooting the shit with various drinking buddies in the space between her and I. Eventually, we bumped into each other just off the dance floor about 10 minutes later. After hellos and a couple lines of idiotic small-talk, I decided I needed closure:

R:  Listen, I’m gonna let the elephant out of the room here; I tried to call you that last time…

SHG: Yeah…I know… (she stammers a little. her whole body language changes. She now wears a nervous smile)

She clearly wasn’t prepared for this run-in. I was seeing her in an entirely new light for the first time. And despite the fact that I was one who got rejected by her, I felt as if I was in control of the entire situation. In a twisted and inexplicable kind of way, I had achieved that which George Costanza so desperately sought on Seinfeld. I HAD HAND.

Jesus, she’s spineless I thought to myself.  Besides, at this point I was just beating a dead horse…

R: I’ll let ya go. (Exit Rob, stage left)

I was a little hurt right after it happened, but as it turns out I didn’t talk to her again that night. Hell, I didn’t even look for her again, let alone see her. At that point, the SHG saga was done.

As hurt as I was when she blew me off, I think I almost pity her more after seeing how tongue-tied and gutless she was on Friday night.  Despite her outward: the confidence with which she carries herself, her good looks, her great fashion sense – she struck me as rather pathetic at that moment.  Like a person who rabbit-punches you from behind – it’s dirty and you’re pissed yet you can tell that that’s not how they normally fight.

I’ve been rejected both ways:  the quiet “path of least resistance” way that SHG tried; and I’ve had women tell me point-blank “I’m not interested”.  The fact is, a bullet to the head is colder, but a lot quicker and  less painful than bleeding to death from a thousand open wounds.

While all this goes on, Ivy looms in the back ground…

The Bachelorette Party Quandary

Originally Written 11/25/12

Yesterday was my first pub crawl.  It was for a great cause, Toys For Tots; but let’s face it, I would have gone even if it wasn’t for charity.  The event had us go to 6 different bars, but Sis and I also went to a seventh bar with a bunch of people from the social club. Needless to say, my liver got one hell of a workout yesterday. Oh yeah, I finally learned (re-learned?) SHG’s name.  I was afraid I would have to start calling her “Mulva“.  And no, she was not a the pub crawl.

At the final bar of the night, I was once again forced to face the bane of the single heterosexual male’s bar/nightclub experience – and the subject of this blog:  The Bachelorette Party Quandary.

I’ve been to a lot of clubs over the years and I’ve seen many a bachelorette party at said clubs.  Bachelorette parties are easily recognizable by their obvious characteristics.They are an odd contradiction of terms and elicit a series of mixed messages.  Their appearance and their actions demand guys’ attention, yet when approached they typically want to be left alone.  For the single heterosexual man, Bachelorette Parties (hereafter referred to as BPs) are the Kobayashi Maru of the nightclub experience.

They stick to the pack.

Members of a BP  typically remain together for their entire stay at a club.  To their credit, party members are driven by one goal undeviating goal:  enabling the soon-to-be bride to have as much fun as possible.  I can respect this to a point.  Now, I am a firm believer in the wingman (wingmen) strategy; however I have found that the larger the group you approach, the less effective wingmen are.  Any time you get more people involved in the mix, more variables are introduced.  Some of the Party members may already be in a relationship, married, the gay friend, or just not interested in you or any of your wingmen.  Occasionally, you may see one or two mavericks who stray stray from the group; but these are typically  the socially inept, the non-drinkers or the tribal elders.  Even if the cast-offs are more one’s speed, these breaks from the formation are short-lived at best.  This pack mentality makes any individual member of a BP unattainable and an utter waste of time.

They are consistently overdressed for their surroundings

A CONFESSION:  I don’t typically go to clubs or bars that have a dress code.  It just ain’t my thing.  Back in my Samurai Days, going out mean wearing typical grunge gear, which only slightly evolved into the classic t-shirt and jeans ensemble.  It is only since I have adopted the Contrarian Principles of George Costanza that I have even begun wearing collared shirts to bars with any regularity.

Okay, the bold statement above isn’t true of all BPs since I obviously can’t speak to the behaviors of every BP in the world.  The bars I frequent are not dives (usually) nor are they “upscale” but when a BP enters dresses like their going to a rooftop party at the Palms in Vegas, like these ladies…

Bachelorette Party

No, I’ve never encountered this particular group of  women, but they perfectly illustrate my point.

It’s simply too much. I almost feel sorry for the brides in these BPs that I’ve encountered over the years.  For my bachelor party, my groomsmen and I, literally, left the country.  These poor saps I’ve encountered go to the same bars I visit on any given night – and act like they’re in the nexus point of all hedonism in the space-time continuum.  I mean, Christ, the least these maids-of-honor could do is get the brides out of town for the night!

Perhaps I should give these bridal parties the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe they are vaguely cool and realize that they’re not going to find the second coming of Studio 54 ten minutes from their suburban homes.  It could be that the ladies don’t have the means to put together an extravagant, or creative bachelorette party; after all, Michigan is practically a third-world country now.  But even if I concede these possibilities, I’m left with one conclusion…

They are desperate for attention

Try and tell me I’m wrong, but ask yourself: how often do the women you know wear sashes and tiaras as they’re falling-down drunk?  Like a butterfly or a peacock, their outlandish appearance demands your attention;  while wanting nothing to do with you or your friends unless it involves free alcohol.


Bachelorette parties are an series of odd contradictions: uninhibited,  yet prudish.  Social and outgoing, so long as no one dares invade their inner circle.  Guys, you’re not going to get a phone number, let alone hook up with, a member of a bachelorette party,  no matter how many wingmen you fly into battle with.  Let them enjoy their moment.  Indulge them in their fantasy that they are the cast of “Sex and the City” for the night and just walk on by.


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