I learn in short order that alcohol and blind dating might not always be the best bet. It was a rainy Saturday evening and I had worked all day at the cemetery, but was able to gather the energy to slip into my date outfit for yet another adventure for a guy reading The DaVinci Code. This guy was a guy’s guy, someone who I guessed had a life-size Colin Farrell poster taped to the inside of his closet. He was in the bar a full hour before I arrived, he said, because he’d heard that “hot women” hung out there and got “liquored up.” Loser!
“When Irish Americans take to the streets on St. Patrick’s Day to celebrate their heritage,” he rambled on to all who would listen, “all the newspapers portray them in cartoons as drunk, violent monkeys.
What a bunch of bull crap!”
He’d begun drinking Car Bombs before I arrived. A Car Bomb is half a pint of Guinness with a shot glass of Irish Whiskey or Irish Cream dropped into it; one then chugs the pint. Not really the behavior of someone looking to meet his soul mate, now, is it?
He made it known to all that he was a devout Irish Catholic and heedlessly began to bash the Protestant faith. Begorrah, this guy wouldn’t let up! I kept thinking of recent headlines such as “Drunken fool disrupts Boston Marathon,” and “Defrocked Irish priest strikes again.”Then he switched to Black and Tans. At least he had good taste in beer.
I kept thinking, If a drunk man speaks in the forest and there is no woman to hear him, is he still a jerk?
He was now yelling at some poor guy standing near him.
“Why the hell did that redhead in here leave? I didn’t even get a good look.”
Blah, blah, blah…who cares, you stupid ass? I was out the door as soon as he stumbled off to the can.
Finbar pulled a classic “show and throw up;” the more he drank, the more he spewed. The whole unreal experience reminded me of a joke: a snake slithers into a bar and the bartender says, “I’m sorry, but I can’t serve you.”
“Why not?” asks the snake. The bartender then says, “Because you can’t hold your liquor.”
Buck, the trend analyst, told me to meet him at Wahoo’s Fish Taco on Santana Row. When I arrived, he was already there at an outside table, and it didn’t take too long to notice he’d had a few drinks. We made brief introductions and quickly he ordered some food, all the while having a slurred conversation.
“What’r you drinkin’?” he sprayed out at me.
“I’ll have a Maker’s, with a splash of coke,” I said clearly and soberly.
Drinky says,“Ah, a Maker’s Mark whishkey with a shplash of Coke. I call that Coke-flavored whishkey.”
Good for you, Asshole. Good for you. On the first date, gee, do you think disgustingly drunk can be a deal-breaker? So was his extremely loud electric-guitar cell phone ring tone. He knocked into someone as he stood up to answer his call, and then was surprised when the guy flipped him off.
Buck loudly broadcasts, ‘San Francisco hipsters are among the laziest, dumbest, most unsophisticated animals on the planet. Scrawny, too. All that political correctnesh, and poverty, and veganizhm. Who the hell needsh ‘em.’
I was out the door. Actually, I never was in the door since the table was outside, but you know what I mean. And, incidentally, he didn’t have any money on him so I got stuck with the tab.