Friday, February 27, 2015
However, then the tide turned. A bunch of girls showed up, and it was more or less even. So that was exciting. Also, almost all of the girls were attractive. Before the event I was concerned that I wouldn't have anything to say, but lately I have decided that its no fun worrying about things in advance. As Nelson said, "Never mind the maneuvers, just go straight at them." So I just showed up without a plan or anything. It was a pleasant experience. Of course, I'm sure all of the girls were trying to make conversation whether they were attracted to me or not, because that's what I was doing. So I guess in the next few days we'll find out if this was an effective means of meeting people. It must work out for some people, because every girl I talked to said they had never done speed dating before.
I'm pretty sure talking to that many girls in such a short time period made me high.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Tonight, since I am alone, I went to the "lesson" at the beginning of the night. And they taught the lesson in "on1" or Philly style. I was super confused. They didn't do any partner work during the lesson, which is unfortunate, because usually that is how I meet all the girls, and that is also how all of the girls find out that I'm a good dancer. Nonetheless I was able to observe, and learn some new shines.
When the lesson was over, I had my pick. It has been a long time--a very long time--since I've seen that many girls in a fucking salsa club. Including that night in the same club a few weeks prior. So go them. I danced on1 with a bunch of girls. It was a fucking blast. I'm pretty sure it was at least 3 girls that saw me dancing and then came up an asked me to dance. That's happened in Philly...once, but never in Seattle unless it was someone I already knew.
The girls who showed up and already knew salsa, though...it didn't go so well with them. I tried to dance on2 (the bullshit new york style invented by turds) with the ones who said they didn't really know on1, and there remained something very wrong with what I'm doing.
After an hour and 40 minutes (including the lesson) the ITB on my left leg started feeling sore. I don't know what that means. I guess an hour and 40 is pretty good for someone who hasn't danced a lot recently. Maybe its fine; maybe it need to give my legs more time to recover from the spin class. Who knows.
So. I'm curious to see how this club will pan out. I definitely would like to be a regular there, although the group salsa class that I signed up for at a new studio is also on thursdays nights, so I'll miss the mini lesson at the club. We'll see. After a month I could switch the group lesson to another time. Or maybe just stop dancing on2? Maybe on2 is for all of the salsa dancers that are way to into it and have "boyfriends" and "just want to dance." Its too early to tell.
All I know is that if this club keeps doing the lesson in on1, this could turn out to be the best thing ever. And if there is anything I can do to fuck things up for the nerds who prefer on2...just sign me the fuck up, baby.
Friday, February 20, 2015
Those are pretty good. Obviously, given how artistic I am, my masterpiece is in a league of its own. I decided to go with a basic retro neoclassical side-goth style, which obviously required adopting the more advanced 2-color pallete:
There you have it. The very black diamonds my blog is half named for, and which I haven't even skiied for more than a year.
The class was fun and I did enjoy my time there, but it did take more time than the painting. It was obvious that this, like the painting, was very much a girl thing, not just because I was the only male there but much more importantly because the girl in charge didn't even think to bring black yarn. That black up there in my masterpiece is just a very dark blue. I suppose its for the best...if there had been black yarn, I would have just tapestried up a large rectangle of black and been done with it.
Ironically, making a tapestry and making Lego mosaics have a lot in common. Too bad there isnt a...wait...ok no. I was right. There is no fun art class for making mosaics out of legos. Shit. Maybe I should teach one. Except the entrance fee would have to be like $200 just to cover the parts. Hmm.....
Painting was more fun and less tedious. And even though there were some cute girls I sensed some very wary vibes in the beginning, until they noticed that I had gotten wrapped up in my sad attempt to tapestrify a double black diamond sign. Which, in itself, was kind of dumb. I should have just fucked around with shapes like everyone else in the class, and flirted more with the cute teacher (she has cats) but I got too wrapped up in trying to make something that I will...never use. I seriously don't know what to do with it. Its uglier than the painting; its sure as hell not going on the wall.
I talked to the instructor a bit concerning what it would take for a beginner like me to attempt to make the White Tree of Gondor. I could take some intermediate classes, or just hire her for instruction. I think though, that we're going to have a moratorium on hitting on--I mean working with--private instructors. At least until I get enough pussy to wash off the "single guy" smell.
Meeting people is nice, and this was obviously a better use of my time, probably, than sitting at home playing minecraft in my underwear for 16 hours straight. Still, a class like this comes and goes. I think to actually make friends it has to be something like volleyball where you'll see the same people for a while. Idk. I kind of really want a White Tree of Gondor taptestry now...one that doesn't look like shit, and which I can claim to have made. I have so many white walls.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Finding a good volunteering gig is surprisingly difficult. For whatever reason, searching for a volunteering opportunity leads mostly to broken websites for organizations that no longer exist, and stupid bullshit that people put on craigslist.
I did find one opportunity in all my searching: tutoring at some kind of homeless outreach center. Since I have some experience tutoring, I signed up. I told them I could tutor math, or maybe basic computer skills. When I got there, though, I happened to walk in with someone who was involved with a completely different, sort of career development program, where you sit there and help people with their resumes, and the guy in charge assumed I was part of that program.
I...did my best. It was almost horrifying, because here are these people to whom a resume--and all the wording and formatting--is actually important, and here is me, someone who used 20 minute resumes for his job interviews, who ignores recruiters that ask for them, and who still gets tons of hits on Linked In even though his profile is just a list of companies and funny quotes. I did the best I could with what experience I had, even so far as just googling some resume tips in front of them. Tonight I learned, probably for the second time, that the "executive summary" has replaced the "objective" section. So that's an interesting development for the whole resume writing scene.
On my way out, I tried to explain to the guy who worked there why I am probably not qualified to give resume advice to anyone, anywhere, without sounding like a conceited jerk. Then the guy realized that I was supposed to be one of the tutors, and not one of the resume people.
So then he sat me down and gave me the low down: this place is a home for recovering drug addicts or really anyone who needs a place to stay and assistance getting back on their feet. My mission, as it were, is to help guys study for the GED or some newfangled super hard test that lets you claim to have a full high school diploma.
So that was interesting. I may have told one of the guys that I regret not partying more in college.
I'm not going to help a great many people with the tutoring thing, but I will help some, and that will make far more of a difference than taking up a spot in a food line at a soup kitchen. Unfortunately, once I grow accustomed to the whole volunteering situation, I may have to switch to one of its useless yet social forms (i.e. soup kitchen). I've lain in bed alone with no one but the smug satisfaction of "doing the right thing" for company, and I can promise you that girls are better.
Tuesday, February 17, 2015
As soon as I looked at the website I realized this was not something I would ever, ever, ever think to do on my own. However, the shit that I think of on my own has so far resulted in great wastes of time, so I'm trying new things.
The first clue that something might be amiss is that "clip in" shoes are required. Now, this is important, so we're gonna go into it. You may not be familiar with clip in shoes. I shall explain. First, you need to know that you could have a long and healthy cycling career, taking a real bicycle over almost every possible surface of the earth without ever using or even touching clip ins. That isn't enough for some people. Some people think its fun to ride up a mountain. Some people think its fun to have a bike called a Fixed Gear, a bike with only one gear and which lacks the ability to coast (so if the wheel is moving, the pedal is moving; the pedal cannot stay still), such that it is either extremely difficult to pedal or nearly impossible to keep up with. You'll probably never see one, because the only people in the universe who ride them are engineers, bike nerds, and hipsters. People who ride up mountains, or on Fixed Gears....they are the people that need clip ins. Clip ins actually fasten your shoe to the pedal, such that you can pull directly up with your foot and you will pull the pedal. Having the ability to pull on the upstroke while your other foot is pushing on the downstroke adds some extra power, and/or lets everyone know that you are a major douchebag. It also makes it really hard to get off the bike if you get doored, so wear some fucking pants. Actually just watch the 1986 film "Quicksilver." It will tell you everything you need to know.
Fake bicycles should not need clip ins.
At Soul Caliber (again, not its real name), clip ins are mandatory. Foreshadowing: that was the clue.
The next warning sign was how much of a production they make out of everything. We have to arrive early to make sure that they hold the reservation on our fake bike. (In case you're wondering: the fake bikes are numbered.) Its like all of the overhead of a fancy ass restaurant. Except we're just sitting on fake bikes together.
Anyway, so my nurse friend told me that this was just so cool and its all dark and they have a DJ talking at you. I thought that sounded lame, but I was told there would be girls there and as of a few weeks ago, stepping outside of my comfort zone is my new thing. I have a painting to prove it. I mean, who knows...if I try enough new things...something. Whatever. I figured worst case scenario, I'd just bike a little to music and ignore whatever the guy was saying.
Anyway, so the locker room is like...coed, with male and female showers off to the side. There was a sign saying "change at your discretion" but I surmised by everyone else's behavior that "at your discretion" really means "leave all your valuables in your unlocked locker while you change your pants in the shower room." And I really didn't have a choice, because the boxers I happened to be wearing have so many holes and tears in them they were, literally, coming apart at the seams. Well, seam. The one at the top. Like this pair is just one washing away from becoming a two piece. It never mattered before because other males in locker rooms aren't people. But I digress.
So I was a bit late. Then, since it was my first time, this girl had to show me how to sit on the fake bicycle. I'm not kidding. And I'm....I would not have figured it out on my own. There were like four different adjustments that had to be made, and each one involved measuring one of my body parts. She even had to clip in my fucking clip in shoes to the pedals for me, like I was five. And I wouldn't have figured that one out, either, because I never want to wear clip ins on any bike. If I've wearing clip ins, and its not to impress a girl who I am fucking or am about to fuck that night, I have failed.
So I'm finally on the bike, and... in the spirit of tumblr I will use a reaction gif (actually its a video) to show how my growing horror as I realized that the "DJ" was actually a fitness instructor who was going to make us do all kinds of gay shit on the bike:
Ladies and gentlemen, the reason you clip in to the stupid fucking fake bikes at Soul Caliber is because you aren't there to cycle. You are there to sort of...dance...or something...on your bicycle. In a manner that burned out my quads in 60 seconds. I thought of leaving but something inside of me screamed that I couldn't quit...something about if I can get a license to fly a plane I should be able to survive one gay-ass spin class. So I spent the rest of the class doing my best to look like I was doing what they were doing. It was awful. It was worse than dancing with a dude. In fact, the next time I am forced to dance with a dude I'm just gonna grab his gross-ass, sweaty, disgusting body and count my lucky stars I'm not in a fucking spin class.
It was a nearly empty class; I had picked a bike in the back. The girl showing me how to use the fake bike asked if I wanted to move up since it was such an empty class; I told her it was fine, and later, I was very glad. A column of mirror partially hid me from the DJ/instructor. The instructor (whose skinny ass body convinced me that cycling is not the path to having the body I want) singled me out at one point, maybe to ask if I was ok or whatever. I narrowly avoided flipping him off. Words can't describe how much I hate a person who spends an hour effusing corny, upbeat excitement about people doing super gay shit together as a form of exercise. I have never been to a fitness/workout class. This spin class was everything I feared it would be. It was so bad that for the first time in my life "this dick aint gonna suck itself" was no longer a sufficient motivation. The only thing that kept me going was a desire to not quit something. I don't know why--I often quit drinking a beer as soon as I taste the shit. Anyway, if going to spin classes is what it takes to get a girlfriend, I'd rather die alone. Also at one point my heart felt like it was on the verge of tachycardia (sadly, I know exactly what that feels like), so I might have gotten my wish sooner than I thought.
In fact, all forms of Group Exercise in Rooms are going to the bottom of the list (yeah, there really is a list; 14 items and growing). Sadly, this includes pretty much all of the suggestions that have come from actual girls. Most of my female friends are always recommending these incredibly inconvenient group activities that involve doing athletic shit in rooms with other people, but without a ball or a net or anything cool. Its like they've taken sports, removed the fun part, and constructed classes based on whats left. And the stupid-ass enthusiasm is even worse. Why do they have to act so fucking excited about nothing? I'd like to go to a spin class lead by a monotone, tattooed, goth girl with a bad smoking habit who ends every session by saying "see you losers next week...if I haven't killed myself by then." That's a fucking spin class I would go to!
I wish that I could just go somewhere and meet girls by like, playing Warhammer. No one ever has to leave all their stuff in a smelly, overcrowded and old-man-dick filled locker room just to play war with some silly painted action figures. Or nerdy board games, or poker, or video games, or like...fuck it...origami. Or maybe like a fireplace class. I bet you could make a class on fireplaces. How to build them. How to use them. Their history. Can't we just go somewhere and drink and watch fires burn and hear about, like, ancient fireplace design? "Oh yeah these old inhabitants of this motte-and-bailey castle used to burn everything in the middle of the room. It burned down and they all died! So now we put fires in fireplaces! Now over here you can see the evolving French design...."
And I would just sip my whiskey, stroke my chin and go "Hmmm....fireplaces. Interesting." And then me and a girl would sneak off to go fuck in front of one, our bodies intertwined on a rug made of the decadently soft fur of the rare Snow Panda. Happily ever after. The end.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
I have reviewed hundreds of tinder girls as so far I haven't received a single response from a human. Tinder does love to drain the fucking battery though.
I am considering making a Jack on the rocks my standard drink. Last night we observed that unmixed whiskey is the only drink that is always acceptable, always cool, and always irreproachable in the eyes of a common man. There are limited times for tequila, and rum can be out of place among beer douchebags/snobs, and neither beer nor wine are universally appopriate. But whiskey? Unassailable. If everyone is drinking beer, the guy drinking whiskey is way cooler. If everyone is drinking wine, the guy dining whiskey is still appropriate. If everyone is drinking cocktails, strait whiskey is considered the manliest cocktail. The only issue is to make sure that you don't choose a pretentious whiskey, which is why I go with jack. It's kind of like the Captain of the whiskey world.
I might stick to captain and cokes though...they are so fucking delicious.
Friday, February 13, 2015
My earliest and fondest memories of Seattle involve sushi, so its nice to come back to that. Sadly, I haven't managed to stir up any kind of female company, however there are plenty of old friends to chill with. I'm sure I could invent some kind of conclusion about all that if I cared to.