Part of learning to be a single Hot Man Meat object is remembering the art of asking out (or in) a female. Of course, that assumes the existence of datable females, a real challenge in a place where the dating pool is barely a puddle. Imagine my delight when I happened to meet one of the townsfolk who was bright, personable, widowed, and older than the half my age + 7 rule, albeit barely. I made it a point to run into her again, and asked her over for dinner. “That’s very nice of you, but I’m not interested.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Would you like my mother’s number?”
Birthdays today include a guy who wasn’t a sailor but was Navier than anyone else; SP’s spirit animal; an artist whose work should have been thrown away; a lion among men who was never short on lays; an exemplar of the creepy genius; the guy I have to blame for my old RX-7; an interesting pianist who somehow gave up credit to Milt Buckner; a failed MLB player who became the First Gentleman of Canada, sorta; the spirit animal of Cedric Bouchard; a woman who wanted you to jerk off but was difficult to jerk off to; a guy who truly led his best life; a guy who, when he sings Danny Boy, you’d better applaud or he’ll punch you out; The Spy Who Loved Me; a quarterback badly in need of an arm and vowels; and an asymmetrical woman whose job was easy as pie.
Let’s do Links.
Old Guy Music is a ’70s classic. Deal.