In my sophomore year of college I was single.  Just like my freshman year…and my junior year…and my senior year.  Now, this wasn’t for lack of trying, but I just seemed to have bad luck when it came to the ladies during college (or any other time for that matter).  Here’s a typical example…

I met a girl on the train during one of my trips back to Mechanicsburg.  She was my friend’s roommate, and for the life of me, I can’t remember her name (Kathy?  Kate?  Kat?).  Anyway, she was a moderately attractive redhead, who seemed moderately interested in what I had to say during that train ride despite the fact that I was a longhaired, beret-wearing (I wish I were joking), film-student doofus.

I never saw much of this girl after that train ride, except for a few random passing-bys in the dormitory and on campus.  But when the new semester started, I saw her, much to my surprise, in my Eastern Philosophy class.  We would talk occasionally, but not too often because this was an early morning class and she was either usually late, asleep, or absent all together.

One time during the semester, I noticed that she missed two classes in a row.  My brain quickly worked up a plan.  I would approach her after class, ask if she needed notes from the classes she missed, and then maybe work up the nerve to ask her out.

The next time the class met, she was there.  I meant to get her attention after class, but she somehow  exited before I could say anything.  So, I followed her.  Then, just before I got up the nerve to approach her, it happened.  A tall, jock-looking guy in track pants waved at her.  She saw him, smiled, ran into his arms, and planted a big kiss on his lips.  So much for my plans at romance.

Oh, and just for the record, I don’t consider this a total tale of woe only because I luckily managed to avoid asking a girl out who already had a boyfriend, which is much worse.  How do I know?  Because in my lifetime, I’ve managed to ask out three different girls who, unbeknownst to me, were already dating someone.  And that’s much more embarrassing for all involved.

Here’s another example of why I don’t like clubs…

So, once again two of my female friends (the same ones from Dancing Machine) dragged me to a club, this time a club in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.  Once again, off the top of my head, I can’t remember the name of the club, which gives you an indication of the impression it left on me.  At any rate, at this point in the evening, I was tired of dancing and was leaning against the wall in a darkened section of the club, drinking a beer.

From where I was standing, I could still see my two friends dancing.  This club, if I recall correctly, had these platforms (with vertical bars) interspersed throughout the club where only girls were allowed to dance.  Kind of cage-like, I guess.  Anyway, while I was watching my friends from afar, I saw an African-American gentleman in oversized clothes approach my then-ex-girlfriend, who was still in one of those cage things.

This guy started chatting up my friend, which was fine with me, but then my friend starting pointing in my direction as if to say, “I’m here with him.”  Now, technically, I was there with her, but not in any kind of romantic capacity, so I was kind of annoyed that I was being singled out.  Leave me out of it, I probably thought.  Anyway, the guy stepped away from my friend for a moment but then returned moments later with what appeared to be a piece of paper and a pen.

He approached my friend again and was ready to either get her number or give her his own.  Again, my friend pointed me out to the guy as if to say, “No thanks, I’m here with him.”  Yes, me.  The short, wimpy guy standing in a dark corner looking totally uninterested in what is going on.  So, this guy gives me a strange, smug look then proceeds to write his information on the piece of paper before handing it to my friend as if to say, “Who?  That guy?  Whatever…here’s my digits, baby.”

What the fuck?  If I was my friend’s date, this guy’s move would have been a total slap in the face.  At this point, I had a vague urge to throw my beer bottle at this guy or at least the crowd in general and run for my life.  But instead I probably just sighed, took a sip of my beer, and tried to look inconspicuous.

Stupid clubs.

Many thanks to my artist friend A. Declet for contributing the awesome original picture for this blog post…

I rarely go to clubs. In fact, I don’t ever think I’ve initiated a club visit, rather I am usually dragged to a club by one of my female friends much to my chagrin. And I’ll give you one example here of why I don’t like clubs…

Two of my female friends, one of them being my then-ex-girlfriend, came to visit me while I was living in Philadelphia. And I got dragged to a club (the name of said club escapes me). Now, if I were left to my own devices, I would have stood in the darkest corner of the club, the one closest to the exit, and drank beer. My friends, however, wouldn’t stand for such behavior, and they made me dance with them, which I have to admit, wasn’t all bad. Now, I’m no dancer, but I had a decent time getting down, boogying, and cutting a rug with my two female friends.

Then, at the end of the night, a large, African-American gentleman pulled my ex-girlfriend aside and started talking to her. He was obviously some kind of bodybuilder, wearing a tight-fitting white shirt with a giant silver cross on his necklace, his muscles bulging. In other words, his physical appearance was the exact opposite of mine: short, skinny, white, and generally secular.

Anyway, after my ex-girlfriend removed herself from conversation with this large gentleman, I asked her what he had said to her.

“Oh,” she said. “He asked me who I was here with, and I pointed to you.”

“What did he say?” I asked.

“He said, ‘Him? Man, that’s so messed up!’”

Yeah, I don’t like clubs.