Cryptography of a Booty Call

I have stepped in dog shit. Not literally, but the situation is seemingly as bad as a turd caked in the heel of my penny loafers. I have now been away from my ex for nine months and I still can't seem to scrape the last little bit of him off the bottom of my shoe. I gave all of his clothes to homeless people. I blocked him. I bought new sheets. I haven't gotten a text or any contact from him or his friends in months. So I'm thinking that the whole mess is probably done when I get the following message-- not from my ex, but the guy he left me to go back to:

Single people everywhere know the perplexing nature of internet communications. There is no Emily Post for this sort of thing. Messages like this are as impossible to understand as Kryptos, and the CIA is still working on that one. Most people would just ignore this but I, being a social cryptographer, enjoy picking apart minuscule nuances of communication. When forensic scientists find the slightest bit of DNA they can build an entire case on it. So here we have the complex analysis of this seemingly harmless communication:

Background on the sender. This is the man my ex was with when we had an affair, and later he decided to break up with this guy to be with me, then did a 180 and decided to go back to him. This practice, in politically incorrect terms, is called indian giving. If only I had known to call no backsies. Also, I must assume that the text message I sent my ex: "You made your bed, and you should go lie in it with your pudgy codependent boyfriend," was shared with Nick at some point.

So, right of the bat, we must assume that this person does not like me. Unless some combination of painkillers and marijuana has made him a more benevolent force than Mother Theresa.

Now, lets examine the context. This message was not sent via text, it was not Match.com, it was not e-mail, facebook, twitter, or carrier pigeon. The sender chose Scruff, a gay "dating" app that is used primarily for hook ups and secondarily for dates. The profile lists him as single, which is not unlikely but seems a little bullshitty. Also note the time and date stamp of the message, this is clearly a post-cocktail message, further evidenced by the "Cheers" at the end. In the gay world 12:30am is also known as "who am I going home with-o-clock."

This message is cleverly timed and guised to indicate boo-tay. But lets not get too carried away with the ego of the situation. To assume that the sender is hitting on me is to fall into the trap of being punked (refer to RULE 1 in this stream of logic, which is 'we must assume this person does not like me'). We must consider all other possible solutions to the problem before resorting to this explanation last.

Let us now pick apart the diction of the message since we understand the context. We begin with the informal "Hey Zack," which seems harmless but indicates a number of things. "Hey" is the greeting used with a person you see regularly. Notice how "Hi Zack," has a different, less optimistic tone. That is the appropriate tone for greeting someone you don't particularly like. We are now further assured from the coy friendly tone that this message is disingenuous. And so, that becomes RULE 2 in decoding the message, this person does not mean what he says. Punctuation also plays a crucial role in this message. The sender chose a comma, rather than a period, to differentiate between the greeting and the body of the message. The comma is a more proper letter-format convention. However, in text messages and other communication where there are no line breaks and limited characters the period indicates a line break, or a pause, or a separate thought. For example here is the same text message:

Yo. Don't know if I can make it Monday.

Yo, don't know if I can make it Monday.

The first appears to move slower and seems a little more stiff, almost standoffish. It is assumed that the first message comes from not an enemy but someone who doesn't particularly like you, whereas the second seems a little softer because of the less jarring punctuation. Ordinarily a comma would indicate that the person is fond of you but remember our two rules: 1. this person does not like me, and 2. this person does not mean what he says.

So, we can safely surmise that the comma has the inverse meaning than it ordinarily would. Further more, it fits with the unexpectedly candid tone of the message. If the sender had used a period it would have raised a red flag that he was in some way hesitant about the message he was sending. Instead it is brazenly sent, and so we must be even more wary of this message because of it's seemingly harmless nature. This establishes RULE 3 in deciphering: this person has malicious intent.

The next part is complicated so I'll have to break it into two. First, here is the whole clause:

"...I hope you're doing as well as you look..."

Again, we mustn't be fooled by the seemingly friendly, almost flattering, nature of this message. The fist half can be paraphrased as, "I hope you're well," which indicates that the sender knows you either were not well or are still not well. A get well card when you're sick is sweet, a get well message when you've been broken up with is adding insult to injury. Also, given that I did not exactly take the break up well, this is a very subtle nod to that fact. The sender is insinuating that I am unwell in general, and simply operate in various states of unwell-ness.

In order to offset the insulting nature of this sentiment there is the additional message tacked on, which can be paraphrased as, "You look good." This message is cleverly dovetailed on the end in an attempt to inflate my ego to overcome the perceptive parts of my brain. However, because the sender has actually had very little interaction with me he wouldn't know that my bullshit compass is spot on. It takes more than a cheap compliment to pull a veil over my eyes. Most single people are ready to marry the first person that compliments them on their looks. But, we can not ignore the first half of the sentence in conjunction with the compliment.

When we bring the two parts together we see that the sentiment is not corollary, but contingent. You are good, if you look good. So, knowing that I'm not breaking any mirrors should inversely prove that I am good. But, because we know that the first part of the sentence is implied to be false due to RULE 1, 2 and 3, we must adjust the antecedent to reflect what we already know. The sender thinks you are unwell, therefore you don't look good. We can deduce that the second half of the sentence is actually an insult because A can only be true if B is true, but inversely if A is untrue then B is also untrue.

This establishes RULE 4: the sender means the opposite of what he appears to be saying. Now we can go back through the message and apply this rule to uncover its real meaning:

Original message: Hey Zack, I hope you're doing as well as you look~ Cheers : )

Deciphered meaning: Hi loser, you're crazy and unattractive ~ eat shit : (

Now that we understand the message we must examine why it was sent. I will break this part of the analysis into two categories based on the variable of whether or not this person is actually single.

If the sender is single:
A. He wants to play a trick on you
B. He wants to get back at the guy who broke up with him by fooling around
C. He is trying to get a reaction out of you

If the sender is still with your ex:
A. He wants to play a trick on you
B. He is doing surveillance
C. Someone else is using his phone for mischief

Now, since selection "A" in both lists represents 1/3 of the possibilities and all other selections represent 1/6 it is most likely that the sender is trying to play a trick rather than turn a trick. I suppose that no matter how I react, if I react at all I am fulfilling the desired result. And so, the best course of action is to DNR, DO NOT REPLY, and in my case blog extensively about it.

Shoulda Coulda...Pennsylvania!? (second course)

The single most crucial moment in a budding romance is the first time one of you takes a trip without the other. Every single gesture, things otherwise unremarkable under normal circumstances, becomes rife with meaning. This year is the first time in my adult life that I've been single on my birthday. No presents no special romantic dinner. No feeling special. When you're single every birthday and holiday becomes a reminder of what you don't have. And no wrapped gift can replace the first I miss you phone call.

The I miss you phone call (n.)

This is a romantic gesture in which you pry yourself away from the new X factor long enough to call a special person that you have feelings for. In theory this phone call could be made at any time during the day but carries the most sentimental value when made during prime time television for a duration of longer than a commercial break. This symbolically establishes you as a higher priority than television, which the foolish young singles everywhere take for granted. See also: not looking at the phone on dates, texting you in the middle of the day for no reason, letting you eat the last scoop of ice cream.

For me this call never came, nor did the text, nor did the e-mail. Ordinarily I would analyze a missed romantic landmark into oblivion but the convenient thing about going on a trip is that it distracts you from anything going on back home. So while the absence of this call was noted I was also too distracted to make this call. In math two negative numbers can either cancel each other out, make a bigger negative or somehow create a positive number. In relationships, two negative actions just makes things worse.

See also: I'm not calling you because you didn't call me.

From divergent behavior to emergent behavior, my sister called us the day after my birthday explaining that she was going to die of stomach pain. My mother, who has a soft spot for my sister and her irritable tummy of course decided to err on the side of inconvenient and tell sister to take an ambulance to the nearest hospital.

Here is what the voice of reason (I.e. my voice) says:

Web MD will tell you that stomach pain indicates:

A. Cancer (.01% of instances) 

B. Gas (80% of instances)

Ambulatory care: thousands of dollars, results in going to the nearest crappy hospital.

Taxi: tens of dollars, results in going to your preferred hospital.

So of course my sister took an ambulance, wound up at a shitty west Philly teaching hospital, was given Motrin fluids and two inconclusive ultrasounds and sent home with no diagnosis after 10 hours of me sitting in a waiting room wondering why this hospital employs 10 snide boxy legged nurses to every 1 reasonably attractive doctor.

After we spent a suitable amount of time (10 hours) waiting for a diagnosis of "possibly a ruptured cyst" (gas) the doctor finally released us back into the city. My mother had armed us with 20 bucks for a cab which I wholly intended on purchasing a round of drinks with. My sister looked at me in disgust,

"I just got released from the hospital. I still have my wristband on. And you want to go to a bar."

"Yes, that's the plan. I just wasted the whole day in the hospital to find out you had gas--"

"A cyst!"

"Well, now it's time to start my day, which is to say start drinking."

"Mom said to take me home in a cab."

"We can walk and parlay this twenty into our first round. Cosmos on mom tonight."

However, sister was not convinced. For whatever reason she insisted on taking a cab rather than walk three miles home (these people that live in Philly, geez.). Then the trouble of how, exactly do you get a cab in Philly. One would think on a major street, outside of a hospital, there would be an abundance. I'm starting to think that the motto of Philadelphia is, "No dice," or maybe, "Fat chance." I looked to my sister, as this was clearly her city, to get us a cab. She shrugged and gave me this look like how the hell was she supposed to know where the cabs are.

"Well can you call a number?"

"Like 911?" she asked.

"No, I was thinking a cab company would be more appropriate."

"You can call them?"

Just when I was ready to re-admit my sister to the hospital and hit the pubs some fortuitous grace brought us a cab down Broad street and back to whatever bumfuck west Philly college neighborhood she lives in. Her flat, sandwiched between two fraternities and a sorority was a fourth floor walk up that smelled like curry and clorox in the hallways.

Sister wanted to order food but I was feeling a bit stir crazy and decided it'd be better for me to walk somewhere and grab food (and drink). Plus I didn't want to spend one more second in the apartment of four college age girls. She directed me to some pizza place around the corner. I ordered my pizza and took a seat at the bar.

Population of the bar: 1

At first the bartender approached me like I was skittish runaway dog that would flee if she stepped too hard.

"Are you..did you want--"

"Do you have Hendricks gin?"

"I..what is?"

"Never mind, I'll have a Tanqeray dirty martini."

She stepped away slowly and frantically dug around in a bin for something, I assumed a taser, to take care of me. What she pulled out was a dusty old never-used martini shaker and held it up as if she had just unearthed the sword of camelot. I gave her a subtle nod to reassure her that she was doing the right thing. She picked up the bottle of Tanqeray in the other hand, I gave another nod. It was like watching a lunar space shuttle lift off. I saw a bead of sweat form on her forehead.

Then, when I saw the crusty old olive jar that she was about pour olive juice from I stopped her and said just a regular martini is fine. She pulled out the bottle of dry vermouth and poured and entire ounce into the shaker.

"What are you doing?"

"You wanted a martini right?"

"Yes, which really only needs the suggestion of vermouth."

"You suggest using vermouth?"

"No, what I meant was--that's just too much."

I'm going to interrupt this programming to explain how to make a proper

Dirty Gin Martini

Fill a martini glass with ice and water to chill. Add three ounces of gin and ice to a mixing glass. Stir thoroughly (Do not shake, stir enough to melt the ice slightly). Dump the water from the martini glass (this should cause the glass to frost up) and pour the tiniest splash of vermouth in the glass; slosh it around and dump the vermouth so only a light coating remains on the glass. Strain the chilled gin into the martini glass. Drizzle a small amount of olive juice on top of the martini. Garnish with two skewered olives.

She then dumped the entire thing in the sink and was about to start over when I just asked her for a scotch neat, and pointed to an unopened bottle of Glenlivet Nadurra. She had to pour at least 5 ounces of scotch in the glass, it was a ridiculous pour. Then she set a check in front of me for six dollars and fifty cents.

"Excuse me, I think you charged it wrong. Where I work this would probably cost eighteen bucks."

"Nope," she said, "That's what it costs." I looked incredulous. Maybe Philadelphia wasn't so bad. Sure the music was about ten years two thousand and late, the people dressed like the cast of Water World and apparently nobody in the state had heard of this new drink called the martini, but maybe there was something to this quaint little grotto in the armpit of North America.

Then the bartender said the sentence I've been waiting my whole adult life to hear, "The most expensive drink we have is seven dollars."

Shoulda Coulda... Pennsylvania!? (Part one)

In food and beverage we have a look. The look is one part deer in the head lights, one part confusion, one part aggravation, shaken lightly. This special look is reserved for only the strangest of requests. Can you change my $1000 bill? Can I order a pinã colada even though it's January and I'm in Chicago? Can I order a BLT with out the B, and extra L with no bread? Ensalada cesar con camarones por favor. It's shock. It's horror. It's annoyance. It's the signature look for the state of Connecticut. And, every time I travel to Pennsylvania, it's the look I seem to be getting from everyone.

This trip to Pennsylvania came at a good time. The hotel's full of Argentinians, my cat's driving me up the wall, and I've just had a successful third date with a new interest. It was time to get out of the city for a week. I've long since accepted that the love of my life is Chicago and the man in my life is my cat Gucci, and there's nothing like travel to make your love seem shiny and new. If it seems like I've been closed mouthed rather than clothes mouthed lately it's because I'm in the process of courtship, and if I've learned anything in the last few years its that there are two things that will jinx any relationship early on:

1. Blogging about it

2. Telling my mother

So, I've been very hush hush on the internet about this. I can be very superstitious about dating. Never knit a sweater for the boyfriend, never talk about it before the third date, never order spaghetti until you have a ring on your finger or you're on a date with a cocker spaniel. 

Planning a trip and taking time off is the easy part for me, it's packing for Pennsylvania that's the difficult part. Should I bring the gun or cannoli? The emu boa scarf or paisley muffler? Can I get away with a watch fob? Is a fuchsia velvet smoking jacket too much?

Here is my 

Compressed guide to packing for Pennsylvania (2012 edition):

1. Go to the nearest salvation army and ask for the jeans that Jerry Seinfeld was wearing in 1994, wear these every day

2. Anything from L.L. Bean

3. Is there something like a dragon or skull embroidered on it?

4. Did you remember your coach wristlet and Ugg boots?

5. Sweatpants, sweatpants, sweatpants!

6. Sweatshirts

7. Remember those tee shirts with Mickey mouse on them?

8. Do you still have the Family Values 2008 hoodie?

9. Tracksuits!

10. Maybe your nana has a fanny pack you can borrow? Python embossed leather?

11. gray, dark gray, slate gray, stone gray, pebble gray, expired beef gray

12. You know that Eagles shirt with holes in it that you've been using as a washcloth for a decade?

13. XXXL

14. frozen shrimp gray, shades of gray, gray gardens, raincloud gray, Alex Trebek gray

So, clearly, nothing in my closet is suitable. Pennsylvania is very much about blending it, there is prolific camouflage to prove this. I, well, I am not exactly a wallflower. Why do you think I moved to the city? I had to go somewhere that a floral Etro three piece suit wouldn't get me lynched. I traveled to Chicago, where anything goes (except Packers fans). It is with some trepidation that I return, but if I could make it 17 years here what's another week with some sideward glances from the local village folk. I packed light, bribed my friend to watch Gucci, and grabbed an early cab to O'hare. 

It was about six in the morning so I was running on auto pilot; in the security line I was following behind the guy in front of me up to the TSA desk.

"Excuse me," the TSA lady said, "Are you with this man," she said indicating the business man in front of me.

"I don't know, is he cute?" I asked, he turned around curtly. He looked vaguely like Hugh Laurie if Hugh Laurie got thrashed with rosebushes and sand for about twenty years. "Yeah, I'm not with him."

"Stand behind the line then sir."

"Ooh, yes maim!"

When it was finally my turn she grabbed the drivers license out of my hand and said,

"Happy Birthday, your license is expired."

"Well, that's the worst birthday greeting I've ever heard." And there came the look, the Connecticut glare I'll call it (this nomenclature comes from the WASPish tendency to express emotion with light variances of the facial muscles). These TSA people are like the queen's guard, they're trained to not show emotion, and have characteristically lackluster hair. This would be the first of many of this look. My usual chauffeur (my mother) met me at the Philadelphia airport and decided to promptly renew my license so as not to hinder any drinking while I was here.

Now a trip to the Bucks County DMV, also known as the cramped constipated anus of the slowest moving snail on the planet, requires three things: two forms of ID and one double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water. One of the wonderful things about the suburbs is that you never have to get out of your car for anything. There is so much useless space here that everything can be converted to a drive thru. The downfall of this is that you must order everything from a scratchy amplified speaker box with graffiti on it. We pulled up to the drive through Starbucks and my mother shot me a look.

"Just order it! C'mon, say it, I'm serious," I said to her. My mother looked agitated.

"Hi, can I have a double grande nonfat dirty chai with no water and a medium pumpkin latte." She looked back at me an shrugged. The machine crackled for a second. We were unsure if the voice at the other end registered the order.

"shhhhhh...I got the pumpkin..shhh..latte..shh..but can you repeat that other one...shhhhhhhh." I hopped up and tried to lean over to order it myself but my mother pushed me back. She swatted me back.

"Two pumpkin lattes," My mother said and drove through before I could correct him. She regarded me, "You're not in Chicago anymore!"

I got the look again when I asked the woman at the DMV if she could photoshop out the stray hair and if she could facebook it to me. I mean how was I supposed to know they don't do that there. The people in there looked at me like I was the fool. I mean I know how to behave in restaurants, I know how to behave in job interviews, I know how to address important people, how was I to know there was an etiquette guide to the DMV, and that somewhere in that guide is: don't tell the woman next to you her weave is crooked. 

People who come here from Chicago encounter several differences in culture. For example, in the midwest you can walk into a 7-11 and pick up a bottle of wine for dinner. In Pennsylvania you have to take two busses, a cab and a camel to get to some state-run liquor store that closes in time for the clerk to get home to prime time TV. And sometimes you'll get a beer depot that can't sell wine and spirits because the alcohol content is just TOO high. The only place that you can buy any alcohol is at these sparsely located stores, and god help you if you ask for green chartreuse. I settled for a bottle of St. Germaine and a fifth of Ketel 1. I made up a special Pennsylvania cocktail that I like to call a

Lemon Drop-off-the-face-of-the-earth

2 oz. Vodka

1 oz. St. Germaine

zest and juice of half a lemon

shaken and served up

drink until you're back in Chicago

(to be continued...)

A case for the dirty chai

As one of my 25 regular readers, you may have noticed I tend to steer clear of politics in my wildly unpopular blog. Why? Politics are for people who like to change things. I am not so progressive. I like to sit quietly in a corner watching calamity and reporting back about my findings. I'm an observer and believe faithfully that whether I participate or not the pendulum will always swing one way and back the other eventually and accelerating the pace of one change simply accelerates another. I limit my participation to voting when it doesn't interfere with something more important like shopping or watching Grey's Anatomy. But in conversation, well, I've learned from experience that my participation in political conversations is often imprudent and recklessly inflammatory.

Sample:

Him: "I think the real problem with unions is that they prevent progress and reform under the guise of doing just those things."

Me: "I feel the same way about Spanx."

I have my own version of political dialogue:

Me: "How much is this dinosaur sweater?"

Barney's salesperson: "Nine hundred dollars."

Me: "I blame sweaters like this for the recession."

Barney's salesperson: "It's made with camel hair."

Me: "I'll take it."

Truth be told, I'm more concerned with the rising cost of my daily Starbucks, also known as my stimulus package. Let us examine this dire issue. Under our current administration the price of a double grande nonfat no water dirty chai---

Double Grande Nonfat No Water Dirty Chai (n.): 

A medium sized chai tea latte brewed with no water and steamed with skim milk. The "double" and "dirty" denotes that this drink should also include two shots of espresso.

--is $5.70. Let us examine the financial burden that two of these drinks a day will put on a young mover and shaker such as myself. This cost comes to $39.90 a week, roughly 40 buckos. This could buy me a cute hat from Goorin bros.. Monthly that's $160, which is a pair of wingtip brogues from Allsaints. Yearly this cost rises to $1920 which could have been my new Louis Vuitton luggage. Now, here is where this math gets really troubling to matters of my wardrobe: in ten years that comes to nearly $20,000, which is the Burberry shopping spree of my dreams, or I suppose the down payment for a condo. This conclusion leads me to an even more troubling revelation: my ten year high school reunion is only two years and some change away. So, of course the thing to stress about in the next two years is that if by my ten year reunion I don't own a home, I can honestly say its because I drank too much Starbucks.

And I know this talk of home ownership may sound out of character but truth be told there is a part of me that wants to own something other than what's in my closet. Maybe it kicks in at the age of 25. And of all my goals in life--book deal, syndicated column, reality show, studded Louboutin loafers--owning a house is easily the most attainable.

So, I've decided to address my growing financial concerns from the perspective of a politician. But, the real question about my chai conundrum is whether the resolution can be best addressed from a liberal or conservative point of view.

Issue: Price of chai increasing the deficit of new shoes

1. Foreign policy

Response from the left: Respond by creating "alliances" with baristas in Starbucks all over the city to increase the number of free drinks given.

Response from the right: Declare war on the countries producing chai tea for being undemocratic and launch a military regime to invade and claim all of the chai for myself, then turn around and sell the chai at a profit.

2. Economy

Left: Appoint a Chai Czar to oversee all chai requisition. This czar, presumably my mother, must approve all spending via text messages in conversations that look like this: "Czar mother, should I buy a chai for my walk to work?" "No."

Right: Deregulate chai spending further, and simply cut funding in other useless areas like food and soap to make up for the added cost.

3. Environment

Left: Convert unused rooftops in the city to chai gardens for the growing of ingredients to make chai, thereby increasing the availability and lowering the cost.

Right: Convert parks and other boring useless grassy places into massive coffee shops thereby increasing competition in a healthy capitalist way and forcing competitors to duel for lowest chai prices. 

4. Public Programs

Left: Start a non-profit, partially government-funded organization to reach out to lesser caffeinated communities and provide chai for needy citizens at a discounted rate.

Right: Offer government vouchers for chai that can be used at select coffee shops and give tax breaks to the coffee shops that accept the vouchers.

I think I may be leaning left, if only to be able to use the term Czar mother on a regular basis.

Encyclopedia of undatable men, updated

I've been struggling with a recurring theme in my first dates. Not the paying thing, I'm over that (although I stand by my assertion that no decent man that was interested in me asked to split the bill on a first date). It would seem that I can no longer attract the type of men that I used to. There was a very specific personality, above all, that I looked for. For that reason I dated a really wide range of men. They all were different ages, looked different, had very different careers, lived in different neighborhoods, but the thing they all had in common was a specific personality. They were all warm caring nurturing types. It doesn't take a $200.00/hour shrink to figure this one out. I was young, bright, and vulnerable and so I attracted men that wanted to take care of me in a way.

Now, I have to face a reality, or stand in my truth as Suze Orman would say, I'm not that kid anymore. And yet, I'm stuck with the fact that those qualities in men are still attractive to me. Unfortunately, being the bull headed stubborn independent person I am now I tent to drive away "soft" people. People who are optimists, nice guys, vegans, glass half full types don't walk, they run away from me. And so the reverse portrait of who I attract is painted.

Meet The typical guy attracted to Zack (Ver. 2.0):

Age: 45-49ish (Previously: 36-43ish)

Occupation: doctors, F&B people (Previously: teachers, artists)

This hybrid breed of older slash less likely to commit type of bachelor comes courtesy of odd work hours, the ability to sustain on TV dinners and matinees at the Lyric, at the prevalence of online shopping. These types live very close to work and still drive for reasons unknown even to them. They often have expensive haircuts and cheap shoes (my preference to the contrary) and a stack of Amazon boxes in their apartments. They've all had a ten year relationship in their past and aren't interested in doing it again but will not offer this information up to you. They will, instead, tell you any sweet thing you want to hear that will get you into bed with them.

Key characteristics: frugal, poorly decorated apartments, oily brow line, "taking up" photography (i.e. bought an expensive camera two years ago)

I find this guy despicable, not to mention all too often overlapping with other entries in my encyclopedia of undatable men. Most commonly falls into one of these categories:

We We Guy:

We We Guy likes to make big “we” statements early on in the relationship. He makes a lot of promises early on that are exciting and make him seem committal but really he’s just trying to impress you--which is not a bad impulse-- but don’t get your hopes up with him. He’s all talk and no game and will only infuriate you later on when he’s incapable of keeping even smaller promises and engagements. Beware of any little pig that goes “we, we, we,” all the way home from a first date, because he’s just going to “we-we” on your expectations.

LA LA land guy:

Any man from LA is not to be trusted. Men from the land of bottle blondes and boob jobs are notorious for their low input/ high yield jobs, sense of entitlement, playing the field, and obnoxious obsessions with their cars. Think of this man like an overpowering bottle of wine, he’s not ready to drink right out of the bottle, you need to let him settle for a while. Until a man has been out of LA for one year, his ego is still inflated and he does not fully understand public transit. Give him time and he could be a great bottle of wine, or he could just be a bimbo chasing loser with an Amex. You never know.

Peter Pan Man

This one should be obvious to spot but he is often camouflaged by a fabulous lifestyle and disposable income. Beware of any man in his forties surrounded by twenty-somethings. This is a man on the verge of or in a state of perpetual mid-life crisis. The first problem with Peter Pan Man is that he surrounds himself with people he can easily dominate who all look up to him and need him for some reason. Often he employs a lot of his friends to feel in control. Don’t mistake this guy for being generous or nurturing he’s just insecure. The other problem with a man who is only friends with younger people is that it means he’s incapable of cultivating long-term friendships and presumably relationships.

I’m Too Sexy For This SMS guy

Anybody who sends you a picture of anything that could not be in a Disney movie before the first date or asks for a picture of anything but your beautiful eyes wants to have sex and never call you again. If that’s what you want then feel free to proceed. Also beware of guys that want to pick you up at your place or come up to “use your bathroom.” These tend to be ploys to get into your apartment. A gentleman will never ask to come up, he’ll wait until you invite him, and a gentleman will never send a picture of his erect (or flaccid) penis via text message, e-mail, or fax.

September recap/ cat pictures

Last month can be summed up in one picture: