Medicine, Media, and Monogamy don't Mix

Thanks to the safer world in which we live, life expectancy keeps climbing. Once the world goes Kurzweil, who knows how long we'll hang around.

This spike in life expectancy doesn't bode well for the already stooped, arthritic, and tremoring institution of marriage. In the old days, loving someone forever meant loving him/her until about 65. Now you have to limp through it until at least 85. It's true that people aren't getting married as young, but getting married at 32 instead of 24 still means today's married folk have to tolerate their "soulmate" for 12, 13, 14, 15 extra years to make it to "forever." Not strangling someone for 40 years is a lot easier than keeping your hands off their throat for 55.

Modern medicine has also greatly improved quality of life. Today a man of 55 can physically er, perform in ways he couldn't a generation ago, and thanks to the ubiquity of divorce, he now has a deep talent pool of divorcees to target. When you're a vigorous 55 and can pull a 40-year-old eager to have someone lie to her about how beautiful she still is, that "forever" vow you made to your now musty 55-year-old bride feels like a belly flop into the River Styx.

A lot of women talk about liking older men. That's acceptable when you're 28 and he's 40. But what happens when you're 53 and he's 65. Suddenly the allure of an older man isn't so alluring, particularly when you know you're going to be watching him decay for a couple more decades. Forever suddenly feels like the kind of forever you complain about at the DMV.

Thanks to dating sites and Facebook, it's never been easier to meet someone new. A 55-year-old divorced person can hop back in the game with a few mouse clicks; no embarrassing 50+ dance nights at your local community center. You can point and click at a wide range of partners your age and start the second (or third or fourth or fifth) stage of your romantic life.

The power of that very media is another marriage killer. There are now so many forms of communication; texts, email, constant cell phone access, which means non-stop opportunity for marital misunderstandings, words said in heat, and just plain overexposure to your now never disconnected lover. Everyone is just one unfortunate auto-complete away from relationship oblivion.

Medicine is only getting better, and technology is putting us in touch with ever more people (potential sex partners). None but a very select few can tolerate a sixty-year marriage. Given that the only people who left who take their religion seriously are Mormons and Muslims, the "forever" marriage vow will soon make even priests laugh out loud. In the future, the only way a couple will be able to last until death do us part is to hire a hitman (probably through social media).

Not just a gigolo (unfortunately)

Even in our "sex positive" age, the following assumptions persist:

A man who sleeps around, chases women...he's labeled A MISOGYNIST!

A woman who sleeps around isn't labeled a slut quite as quickly. Instead, everyone immediately assumes SHE'S SEEKING A DADDY!

On the one hand, we're telling everyone casual sex is OK, we must depart from the puritan past, the shackles of tradition shan't chafe our fair wrists any longer. But the minute we start putting those slogans into practice, everyone becomes a wind-up psychiatrist.

If anything, this makes today's society more puritanical. Insults like cad or slut are superficial and can be cast off fairly easily by settling down. Misogynist and daddy seeker are much deeper insults, alleging far more entrenched and pathological maladies. You can't go to confession one Sunday and wash off the stench of misogyny. You have to visit a shrink (today's replacement priests) for several years to tug out all the weeds of woman-hating clinching your intestines.

Of course, a society that even tolerates a term like sex positive is obviously far from sex positive, and expecting everyone's love life to obey the psychiatrically approved commandments is about as sex negative (and puritanical) as it gets. But don't tell that to Prozac Nation. They'll assume you're looking for an excuse to be a daddy seeker who only dates misogynists.

The White/Black/Brown/Yellow Man's Burden

A man in a relationship wears many hats: security guard, handyman, accountant, psychiatrist, ATM. He receives no gratitude for doing all these jobs.

When he finally finds time to take a break from these roles, he watches television; where every commercial portrays him as a hopeless incompetent.* It's high time we asked the question: WHY ARE THERE NO STRONG MALE CHARACTERS IN COMMERCIALS?





You frequently hear the gripe that "Women in movies play the roles men want to see." In commercials, men play the roles women want to see.

Why saying "I do" makes you stop doing

A gripe that is familiar to many: "Our relationship was great until we got married."

Why does getting married change relationships for the worse?

During each of the steps leading up to marriage - traveling together, meeting the family, living together - you are on your best behavior. You're doing all those appealing things with the goal of being deemed a partner worthy of marriage. Then you get married, so you are no longer aiming for marriage. You cease to be on your best behavior; wearing your best clothes, going to the gym, going the extra mile in every way. You have crossed the finish line, so you stop running.

Before you tie the knot, the relationship benefits from constant oneupsmanship. Your partner jogs, so you start jogging. Your partner is generous in bed, so you try to be generous in bed. You are constantly trying to keep up with your partner so that she will remain interested. It is a romantic arms race...a bit like the Cold War, only in this case the end result IS World War III.

Once you're married, the tendency is to rest on your laurels, because in theory, marriage is permanent and you're no longer competing with half the species to win your partner's heart. You think you have a monopoly on her love, and predictably, you become a worse product. You let your hair down, and in doing so, let your spouse down.

Now with divorce being so common and cheating discussed so openly, maybe people will wake up to the fact that they absolutely must try to excel in every way, or else their ladyfriend will hastily find someone who hasn't yet achieved all his goals with her. It could be that the answer to divorce is high divorce rates.

Why women can't "get lucky"

You know the Four Horsemen are just around the corner when women start using male sex slang and it isn't a scene in a bad comedy. The irony is gone, and the true substance of the slang has evaporated with it.

The worst example: women talking about "getting lucky." I used to hear women say this as a punchline (it was a simpler time). Now they say it like they invented it. The expression is annoying enough when men use it. Now it's gone co-ed, and when I hear a woman say it I am temporarily transformed into a eunuch.

Let's review this again: any woman under sixty can walk into any bar (or restaurant, or grocery store, or ice cream truck, or children's' hospital, or air traffic control center) and pick up a man whenever she wants. When a woman propositions a man, no matter what, he at least thinks about it (doesn't happen the other way around). She has almost as much power in this area as an old school sheikh. The world is her harem.

When you can do something effortlessly whenever you want, IT NO LONGER QUALIFIES AS GETTING LUCKY.

There is nothing lucky about a woman hooking up. In terms of sexual power, women get lucky by being born a woman. Women are born with the winning lotto numbers. The female body is a royal flush, 21, a 3-point shot, and checkmate rolled into one. Men aren't born with the sexual wind at their back. When men play the sexual numbers game, we usually come up snake eyes. This is why we feel so LUCKY when we're successful.

I have not yet heard women talk about "making it to first base" or "hitting a home run," but I am waiting with a sick, burning feeling in my stomach for this to emerge as a debilitating fact of life. Once again, such slang will be unnecessary, because there is no such thing as "rounding the bases" when you can start on home plate and stay there all nine innings.



Anyone who follows me on Twitter is getting lucky: https://twitter.com/greatMikePayne

Attila the Hun never had trouble getting laid

It is no secret that women prefer bad boys, and it is no secret they are surprised every time when bad boys let them down. Stop me if this sounds familiar: "I know he's a jerk, but he really rings my bell!" I'll let you fill in the rest.

Women pretend to prefer sweethearts to ruffians in the rough, which helps to explain why many guys make the mistake of pretending they're nice* (usually after all else fails) as a way of attracting women. Unless you're a great looking guy - in which case any approach will succeed - the nice guy act is almost certain to blow up on the launchpad. The kind of woman you want is exactly the type who won't go for a nice guy, and the chances of your nice guy act working with the general populace aren't high either. I weep for all the unsuspecting males who are poisoned by the disingenuous counsel of mothers and sisters on the virtues of being nice. Is it any wonder that prostitution is the only bubble market that never pops?

What few women get is that every functioning male has a sizable part of him that is nasty and animalistic, and it isn't difficult to tap into. All you have to do is offer mild encouragement, and some of that depravity will rise from the cellar to the penthouse. The question then becomes: are you Dr. Frankenstein enough to keep The Monster in check?

Women love to think they can change a man, meanwhile the only area where they can change him - nudging him toward scumbaggery - is the only change they don't believe is possible! Absurdity meet irony--and don't pretend you're nice or it won't work out.

Both men and women are more depraved than they let on, yet the parameters of the traditional courtship process still fence people in. Every trend in society - constant divorce, polyamory, the ubiquity of porn and its influence on contemporary sex - is a screaming red alert that the old ways are out of style - at least for now - but there is still a reluctance to admit "a guy I can introduce to my father" isn't what most women really want. At all.

If you are one of the few authentic nice guys, just adopt the bad boy trappings of the demographic of woman you desire - chains and sleeve tattoo, Mad Men overstyling, South Bronx urban get up, nerd gear (in which case you'll also have to gain twenty pounds around your midsection. Hey, not my rules!) - and ignore her texts one day a week without explaining why. Your life will change forever.


*Just as some women pretend to be demure in a scheme to attract men, though I suspect the percentage of genuinely demure women is higher than the percentage of genuinely nice men.

You Can't Go Home with Her Again

Watching women as they walk by is one of about four things that keeps me from sticking my head into a self-made guillotine (though when it comes to guillotines, DIY isn't a good idea. Do yourself a favor and splurge on the Ferrari head remover. You're worth it.). When you're in a bar enjoying this life-affirming pastime, it is common to hear a married man say: "Man, I wish I was single again..."

Married men believe going back to bachelorhood automatically means the swinging, single life. They have forgotten all the years of going home at 3:00 AM drunk, disappointed, and sans senorita. They have forgotten the thou$ands they spent spinning their wheels with women who never had the tiniest intention of pleasing them in any way. One reason many men get married is because they are sick of the chase and want to assure themselves easy access to a woman.

We forget the failures and place halos over the successes. But even if the successes were plentiful, what many married men forget is...

...they aren't 22 any more. Those young, attractive women walking by? Unless you're eye-spanking them as a married Rob Lowe, your chances are slim.

An older married men assumes the only barrier between him and nubile, uninhibited women is that he's married. Tragically, the only thing that makes an older man attractive is that he's married; i.e., responsible. Once that illusion plummets down the elevator shaft, he is just a regular 38-year-old, complete with receding hairline, billowing gut, and jokes that were old when he was young.

You must remember that although your preference for young, hot women hasn't changed, your body has. So even if you became single again, you'd be stuck with women your own age (who usually resemble the wife you're dying to escape from), the occasional loony young woman in search of a daddy, and women older than you. Unfortunately, the Mrs. Robinson scenario loses its appeal when bedding a woman twenty years your senior means dragging home a woman who remembers the telegraph.

Trust me, your second bachelorhood would be a tarnished brass version of the golden dream you're imagining. If you're a married man who wants to play the field, stay married and get a mistress. Someday I'll have a daytime talk show where I can dispense this indispensable advice.


My Twitter feed is able to juggle a harem and mistresses of every shade: https://twitter.com/greatMikePayne

I tend to meet women who are logically unavailable

When a woman is thinking out loud about her romantic history, she'll often say: I tend to go for men who are emotionally unavailable.

Somewhere in Hell, Freud is sniffing another line (though maybe in Hell there are no razors to cut up your coke...it is Hell after all) and cackling as newfangled versions of his nonsense continue to confuse otherwise thoughtful people.

Let's walk through this:

So upon meeting this guy in a bar, you immediately sized him up and figured out he was ultimately going to be emotionally unavailable. While the two of you made bad small talk about micro-brews ("Have you tried the Staten Island Guido Stout? It's made with 20% Muscle Milk"), you just divined that three months down the line he was going to be "emotionally unavailable?" This subconscious insight then sent signals to your loins to GO FOR IT..?

Interesting. The same woman who will come running to you, New York Times in hand, screaming that there is a WAR ON SCIENCE!!! will in the next breath declare she was able to do the very thing no human, scientist or otherwise, has ever been able to do: forecast the future. She can't believe people still believe in psychics!!!!, but when it comes to her relationships, she talks like a madame staring into a crystal ball.

Here are some possible alternative explanations:

Maybe you're just incapable of attracting stable men.

Maybe he just doesn't care about the same things you care about. Just because someone doesn't get as emotional about something as you doesn't make that person "emotionally unavailable." Have you ever stopped to think you might be emotionally overavailable? Maybe you're an emotional 7-11 that remains open even on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Maybe you should close once in a while.

Maybe you simply like him far more than he likes you; hence the lack of reciprocation. Even if his feelings equal yours, remember that men in general do not chatter nonstop like women. Failing to be effusive and monotonous doesn't make one emotionally unavailable.

Maybe you just go for men with blue eyes. You see a blue-eye chap, the blue eyes trigger the initial spark, and by coincidence, you happen to have met five blue-eyed losers in a row. The common denominator that grabbed you at the outset was the eyes, not the emotionally unavailability you somehow foresaw.

Most relationships, like most things in life, fail, so no matter what kind of men you are attracted to, it isn't going to work out THE VAST MAJORITY OF THE TIME, regardless of whether or not you have some fatal flaw. And because relationships have such a huge impact on us, we are inclined to construct powerful narratives and rationalizations to explain their failure. Also, there is the reality that people today play the field a lot more before getting married. When they do get married, it lasts six months, leading to more field playing. All of a sudden you've got a generation of women with 85 failed relationships to ruminate on. Combine that with the insidious boom of the self-help, pop psychology, and MAKE IT WORK! industries, and next thing you know every woman is approaching her relationships with the confidence Bambi had just after seeing her mother get it between the eyes.


Have you noticed men never talk about women being emotionally unavailable? With men and mating, the decision is binary: either a woman is attractive enough to have sex with or she isn't. If she is, and the pursuit works up to a point, fine. If not, there are several million other women between the ages of 18 and 40.

Your Definitive Online Dating Translator

Online dating is becoming more normal all the time. The transition has been swift. If you were on Yahoo Match way back when, it was only one step above calling a phone sex line. Not so today.

Though online dating has become more normal, women haven't, so their online dating profiles are a mess of contradictions that can be tough to navigate if you're a novice. Everyone already knows that "full figured" means fat, but there are lots of other important words and phrases to beware of:

I'm brash=I'm loud and dumb.

I'm really into sports=I'm going to memorize one player's name and pester you with irrelevant questions about him until you finally stop caring about the game.

I'm ambitious=I'm going to keep shoehorning my accomplishments into the conversation as though you were looking for a one night stand with my resume rather than me. I will probably also declare--unironically--that I hate arrogant men.

I'm a foodie=I'm going to drag you to lots of restaurants where we'll stand on line for food neither of us actually cares about, all because a Facebook review raved about a sandwich I wouldn't eat for free at home. And though all I do is brag about the burden of having a refined palate, if you blindfolded me I couldn't tell the difference between a bowl of SpaghettiOs and a pasta dish cooked in the Trevi Fountain.

Chivalry isn't dead=I have contrived a list of arbitrary things you must do only so I will have a handy list of things to complain about when I describe you to my equally nitckpicky friends. You might intently listen to me sit at a bar babbling about my theories on crocheting, but if you didn't open the door to said bar you're a inconsiderate guy. And by the way, if you looked like George Clooney, you could slam every door in my face and I would still beg you to let me blow you through the mail slot.

I care about social justice=I once vacationed for three days in a Third World country and forgot to get vaccinated for Buttinski Syndrome, so now I want to apply my tourist's knowledge of four square miles of Nicargua to society as a whole. And lest you think I wasn't fully immersed, did I mention I took high school Spanish?  

Must get along with my dog=My dog, the one who was tortured and abused and starved by humans for six years before I rescued him, the one who has the eyes of a Marine who did a tour of Vietnam AND Korea, is an excellent judge of strange men who come through the door at 3:00 in the morning.


One more thing: If women's online dating profiles are to be believed, all it takes to get laid is knowing the difference between "your" and you're," so a little extra editing will mean a lot more hookups.

Another Old Wives' Tale Debunked

You can tell how a man is in bed by how he dances.

This is an old wives' tale that shows why no one listens to old wives. So if a guy does a mean limbo, it means he doesn't struggle with premature ejaculation? And a gentleman who can tango is less likely to have a defective unit (if anything, a man who voluntarily tangos probably has some damage down below that could lead to a lucrative malpractice suit. Gives new meaning to the phrase sitting on a goldmine...).

And why doesn't it work the other way? Seems to me you can probably tell more about a woman's sexual abilities--flexibility, ability to absorb impact (if the woman you're dancing with takes punishment like a tackling dummy, you're in for a good night)--by watching her dance than you can from watching a man boogie.

Men don't tell old wives' tales because men are 1,000 times better at profiling. If a woman is a cold fish at the bar, a man knows she's going to be a cold fish when you get her home. If her whole body quakes each you brush her finger, you know her body is a one big, raw erogenous zone. If she has an Adam's Apple that extends past her overbite, she's probably isn't a she.

Men don't turn the obvious into a "CSI" episode, and when a woman's sexual disposition isn't obvious, men don't resort to bizarre numerology involving how far apart her nipples are. When a man is on the prowl, his mind is occupied with trying to figure out which of the sixteen fake versions of himself he's going to need to display to take that woman home. He doesn't have time to glean esoteric info. from her eyebrows.

The You can tell how a man is in bed by how he dances old wives' tale should suffer the same fate as actual old wives; permanent exile to the fringes of society.

Pimping is easy. Explaining it isn't.

Older male celebrities can pull hot, young women. And they do. All the time.

This includes male celebrities (usually pompous actors) who like to make a big showing of being male feminists. You know the type: the actors who pretend every female director is a genius and spend half of every interview bloviating about how they like being in movies with strong female characters. And if you watch the special behind-the-scenes commentary, you may even get to hear them say that the reason the flawless looking actress they're co-starring with is famous is because she has a "really sharp acting mind."

Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap! Boy, I'm so glad he said that. Hollywood needs more guys like him. He just seems like a really good guy.

Then you see the 19-year-old nymphomaniac he's shacking up with and suddenly your male Cinderella and his carriage of nonsense turns into a big, hypocritical pumpkin.

No one should blame older male celebs for shacking up with young bombshells. If you're walking down the sidewalk and you see a Rolex and a Swatch side-by-side you're going to grab the Rolex and kick the Swatch into the gutter.

What's great is watching these frauds squirm when an interviewer asks them about their better half being half their age. They always try to explain it by saying, "Sure she may be young, but she's really mature and wise."

So are women your own age. You're with her because she makes Betty Boop look like Rachel Maddow, not because she has a Buddha vibe. Don't these dopes realize they're just drawing more attention to their jailbait-loving ways by pretending their girlfriends' luscious young looks are just a side note?

You'd think an actor could come up with a better excuse. At least try to spin it by changing the subject back to her mind: "Well as you know I really value a woman's mind, and women my age are just too forgetful!"

This way you can also get points for being self-deprecating.

Boy, he just seems like a really great, humble guy. Good to see fame hasn't gone to his head. Clap, clap, clap, clap, clap, clap.

The Inconvenient Truth About Jealousy

Self-help books are worthless, the people who read them are hopeless, and the authors who write them are shameless.

Self-help books about relationships are the worst. Much like economics books, they espouse advice and theory while conveniently ignoring that the situations they're discussing involve human actors.

A typical one size fits all nugget from these tomes: Jealousy results from low self-esteem.

You could just as easily argue the reverse, that the reason some people don't experience jealousy is because their self-esteem is so low they don't think they deserve the person they're with. Therefore, they don't feel jealousy. It's odd that the self-help/psychobabble coven has taken this stance on jealousy. After all, every other exit sign on the self-help highway reads "You're not doing _____ because you don't think you deserve _____."

But not jealousy. For some reason that brand of self-preservation automatically signifies "low self-esteem."

What if you're just really in love and have visions of the agony you'd feel if you lost that person? It's crazy to have concerns about that? People take elaborate steps to avoid disaster in other parts of life. They buy flood insurance in areas that seldom flood. But in your love life it is a sign of low self-esteem to sometimes imagine a worst-case scenario? 

[Obviously, I'm talking about jealously in moderation. If the word jealous automatically makes you think Raging Bull, you're already too deep in the Oprah-Dr. Phil abyss to contribute to humanity and I forbid you to read further.]

Sometimes jealousy comes from being realistic. Sometimes you know your significant other could have done a lot better than you, and you don't want to lose your lucky break. That lucky break could very well be the only good thing in your life. So is it irrational to have some anxiety about losing something you were lucky to catch in the first place? If anything, by being realistic about your lover's superior appeal, you are practicing self-actualization, an exercise most self-help parrots recommend.

Let's say you're a stunning couple, a couple comprised of two knockouts...a little jealousy still makes sense. After all, if your partner is a stunner, you know that other people are going to be even more dogged and ruthless in their attempts to seduce that person (being a stunner yourself, you'll have experience with this). Knowing this is the case, is it so neurotic to be a little vigilant? When you have an Aston Martin in your garage, you take steps to protect it.

Another reason being a little suspicious doesn't necessarily mean you have low self-esteem: infidelity is on the rise. Traditional monogamy is taking a beating here in the dying West. Who is to say your mate isn't going to be a trend follower? Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

William Shakespeare, who may have coined the expression "green-eyed jealousy," wrote Othello, probably the most enduring take on jealousy. It contains quotes like:

Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ.

But really, a more useful Shakespeare quote about jealousy would be:

For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.

That's from The Two Gentlemen of Verona. Haven't heard of it, have you? Exactly. Ironic, considering The Two Gentleman of Verona sounds like a bad self-help call-in show.

Pina Coladas and getting caught in the rain

As we enter fall, where the days have less light and the weather slowly worsens, I am constantly on guard for morons (usually women) trying to tell me that they love the rain. That rain is romantic. That they love walking in it. That they love staying inside on rainy days (as if you couldn’t stay inside on a sunny day). Well this year, I’m not going to be a victim…

Rain as romance is a gimmick planted in people’s minds by romantic comedies, fake hipster curmudgeons, and “What Women Want” lists. Rain isn't the least bit romantic. I used to live in London, famous for its drizzle and fog, and I can tell you that after a few months of being pelted by rain the only thing I wanted to smooch was an exhaust pipe.

No one feels better in the rain. Not only is it a psychological downer; it afflicts you physically. That knee you twisted in pee-wee football? It’s fine in the summer. But let it start to pour a little: suddenly you’re limping and hating your dad for assuming that every fat kid is a born right tackle.

Doctors do not prescribe wet, gloomy climates for any ailment.

Depressed? Prescription: sunshine.

Arthritis? Prescription: sunshine.

Respiratory problems? Prescription: sunshine.

And winter isn’t much better. Sleet and cold are only sexy in the song "Baby, It's Cold Outside" (the most lascivious song ever). In real life, cold and sleet is a formula for a night alone watching deadening Internet porn.

People have to invent “romantic” activities—sitting by the fireplace, etc.—to help them cope with the horrible effects of rain. Sunshine on the other hand is romantic in and of itself.  Hot, sunny weather means less clothing, which is a thousand times more romantic than the most form-fitting raincoat. It is amazing that soggy deathtraps like London and Seattle have sold the world on this notion of drizzly romance. I should get the head of Seattle tourism to revamp my Internet dating profile.

If women are allowed to say rain is romantic, men should be allowed to say that gangbangs are romantic. At least gangbangs encourage human interaction. Rain causes people to burrow away like anti-social rodents.

And if you do get "caught in the rain," that apparently romantic event, the first thing you do is DRY OFF. No one gets soaked and says, "Well, we both look like wet dogs...time to hop in the sack!" 

Any day you have to carry an umbrella is a day you should have stayed in bed. From now on I’m only staying in hotels called The Four Summers. The only rain I want to see is the kind Travis Bickle talked about: “Someday a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets.”

Heckled by a Prostitute

Once upon a time I was in Amsterdam, and like any sane man, I found my way to the Red Light District. Any guy who sneers at the Red Light District is a disingenuous sack of novelty dog plop (not even good enough to be the real thing). Even the ones who go there "for a laugh" are clearly being titillated in some way. It's not like they're just there to see another canal.

The Red Light District is a legal sex buffet where a bunch of attractive, half naked chicks stand around waiting to service you. Don't pretend that's not exciting. Next these guys will be telling us they go to Bourbon Street for the hush puppies...

So I journeyed to the RLD, but was undecided about what I was going to do. Of course I wanted to partake, but wasn't sure I could actually go through with it. Also, being a comedian, I identify with prostitutes. An open mic is only a hair away from open legs. Hookers should be asking me how I got trapped in that life.

As soon as I made my first turn down the Red Light, I was given the hard sell by a woman who looked like a slutty Famke Janssen (Bond Girl from Goldeneye). She was all smiles, and as I walked by, she opened the glass door they stand behind and said, "F*ck and suck. 50 euros. All the positions. I f*ck you good."

Much more appealing than the pitches I get from credit card companies.

I desperately wanted to accept, but sadly, couldn't muster the courage. I even tried giving myself a pep talk, which I should have known wouldn't work. If you're about to punch someone, you can always psych yourself up by shadowboxing. But when you're standing in the middle of the road shadowjerking, it typically doesn't end well.

I continued to browse the scene, but didn't find any girls as sexy as the one who cold called me. In fact, I probably passed her seven or eight times while making the rounds.

Two doors down from the Bond Girl (the doors are very close together) was a glamorous looking chick who was tall, dark, and handsome. Hot, but about three inches too tall for my indefensibly diminutive frame. She rapped her window at me a few times, but never said anything.

That is until I made maybe my eighth trip past. Mind you, I hadn't even made eye contact with her since my first glance, so I was quite shocked to hear a sultry, exotic voice say, "Hey, I ask you question."

I turned around and the woman shouted: "You. Come here!"

I am used to hot chicks aggressively soliciting me for sex, but they usually aren't already in their underwear. The Too Tall Chick continued:

Her: I ask you, why you walk by every two minutes? (It wasn't THAT frequently, but yeah, fair question)

Me: I'm a tourist.

Her: But I show you something.

Me: No, I don't think so.

Her: But I show you something.

Me: (Dying to say yes) No, sorry.

Her: But I show you something. (Hopefully where to find my manhood, which had obviously gone missing)

Me: No, just looking.

Her: Then go on back to your hotel, man! If you're tired, go back to your hotel!

As she said that, the slutty Famke Janssen who first approached me banged on her glass and yelled, "Yeah, go back to your hotel!"

And with that, they both threw their heads back in laughter.

Inexplicably, I still couldn't find the strength to have sex with them.

Even more inexplicably, I couldn't find the strength to throw myself in the canal.




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No Prenup, No Peace

Males, I am about to give you the most important retirement tip you will ever receive. Do not get married without a prenup. Ever. I'll say it again for the guys who like to feel strong and old-fashioned: Do not ever get married without a prenup.

I don't care if you are both on welfare. If you get divorced, she'll walk away with all your government cheese.

Even the male feminists who spend 23 hours a day regretting their testicles are vaguely aware that the alimony system is rigged against them. What they may not understand is why.

Alimony originated before women were routinely part of the workforce, so the system developed to subsidize women who wouldn't otherwise have an income. Of course that has changed, but the courts haven't caught up with the times. In fact, the alimony system has merely worsened as part of the overall American trend toward excessive, predatory litigation.

Now our old-fashioned friend Johnny Broad Shoulders is asking himself: "What does this have to do with me?"

Well Jonathan, you too are likely to end up divorced.

The divorce rate in America for first marriages isn't far from 50%, and statistically, that is your best shot at getting it right. After the first flop, each subsequent knot-tie becomes more and more precarious. Hear that gambling fiends? Next time a friend makes his second stumble down the aisle, blaze a trail to the nearest bookie and bet the farm on a nasty split. It is the surest bet you will ever make.

Now Johnny B. is muttering aloud: "Okay, so divorce is the rule, not the exception, and courts punish men disproportionately, but how does this fit into my retirement portfolio?"

Here's how. The days of traditional retirement are over. Social Security? CANNOT BE FIXED. Private sector pension plans? Might make a comeback about the same time as the Studebaker. Dollar-denominated assets? There’s a reason four of the faces on our currency are also on the side of a cliff.

In other words, the traditional paths to retirement have been pulverized, and there is no turning back the clock. What that means is the only form of retirement you can hope for is one financed by a nest egg of your own device.

Establishing that nest egg is becoming harder, as people are living longer and are therefore in need of a larger cash pool to pull them through their lengthened winter years. So Johnny Broad, when you hit 65 and are thinking it might be nice to cease being an Excel slave, you're going to need a fat pile of completely self-generated capital to undo the spreadsheet shackles. And guess what: if you have to start from scratch at 42 because the former Mrs. Broad Shoulders defoliated your bank account, YOU AREN'T GOING TO MAKE IT. YOU WILL WORK UNTIL YOU DIE. Any tax savings accrued from being married will be more than plundered by the long hard march through divorce.

Now J.B. Shoulders, Jr. thinks it over and says: "But isn't asking her to sign a prenup a signal I don't think it's going to last?"

Her not signing a prenup is a signal she doesn't think it is going to last. If she is so convinced you two are forever, why should she be gun-shy about signing something she'll never have to use? All you are doing is documenting that the marriage is based on love, not money, which is a true sign of romance. Get on one knee and have her sign it with a platinum pen.

Think it through, gentlemen. Is it worth losing most of your assets because some chick hates you for not transforming her into a fairy princess? Is it acceptable to work until you're 110 so your mom can see you in a tux for a few hours? Besides, men only get married for the sex, so what alimony amounts to is a tax on the male sex drive (yet another slap in the face to the Founding Fathers).

If you care about someone, never say "CAN WE STILL BE FRIENDS?"

The other day a woman gave me the old “Let’s be friends” kiss off. Why do people still bother with the "friendship" alibi? Neither of us got into this looking for a friend. We got into this looking for romance, so why bother pretending either of us actually thinks friendship is a suitable compromise? It's not like we met on okpenpals.com.

Besides, I've already carved her name across my chest. We can't go back to being text buddies.

Instead of wasting time on the "Let's be friends" charade, why can’t people just say: "Nice meeting you, but there are other people I'd rather have sex with while I'm still hot enough to pull it off."

And believe me, she wouldn’t want to be my friend. I treat my friends like donated pillowcases. The only reason I was nice to her is because I wanted her to be my girlfriend. If she had been my friend, all that stuff I consoled her about would have had me rolling on the ground laughing.

Furthermore, she hasn't even met my friends. If she did, she'd quickly understand it isn't a club she'd want to be in.

Blind dating with my eyes open

I have started Internet dating again (back by popular demand). It continues to be a misadventure, mainly because the women I like spend the whole date planning their exit and the ones I don’t care about come back for more.

When it comes to first dates, it has reached the point where as soon as I start to like a woman, I have to repress grim chuckles, because I know in a few weeks I’m going to be walking down the street, my head tilted slightly, wondering how I bungled it…

Right now I am nursing one of those glum bits of reflection.

Recently I arranged a date I had a good feeling about, and by good I actually mean bad, because I kept thinking if I like this woman and it goes poorly…how am I going to pick myself up for the 10 millionth time?

Day-to-day I’m a sour, saggy guy, so perking up for first dates is a full cardio workout. First dates demand even more pizzazz than job interviews. You can't be a grouchy vegetable and expect another shot. This puts overwhelming pressure on a killjoy like me. Normally, if I smile more than five times in an evening, I have to go home and ice my cheeks.

When my date entered the bar, I couldn't keep from blurt laughing. I knew I was going to like her. I think I even muttered, “Not gonna go well.”

But it did go well, and I wound up liking her even more than I expected to. I could have spoken to her all night. And for my part, I was absolutely on fire. No crabbiness, no ill-timed sighs. Somehow I kept matching her crackling energy. I was fighting above my weight class, but I never clinched. I was like Billy Conn in his first 12 rounds against Joe Louis.

When we said goodnight, my first thought was, "That is as well as I will ever be able to sell myself. If that wasn’t enough, it just ain't gonna happen.”

Of course it wasn’t enough. She didn’t buy what I was selling. Not even the unusually upbeat and spicy version of me she was treated to was sufficiently intoxicating.

If I were younger, I could reassure myself by saying: "At least I know I gave it my best." Too bad I'm old enough to know better. It is far more comforting to fail when you didn't rise to the occasion, because then you have this trusty excuse: "If only I'd given it my best...it would have worked out."

When you deliver the goods and still flop, you are forced to endure the cruel fact that your best still wasn't good enough.

Another youthful rationalization is the classic line: "Hey, it's a learning experience!" Sorry, but after a while your failures stop bringing you new wisdom. No one ever erred their way into Mensa. “You mean I made exactly the wrong decision yet again? Cool, now I can take that job teaching particle physics.”

At some point you need some victories to round out your knowledge base.

Just as nothing succeeds like success, nothing fails like failure. Eventually compound interest takes over and every little misfire wounds you down to your marrow.

I have no further need for “learning experiences.” I have learned quite enough from failure. I have fallen on my face more times than a drunken kangaroo. I need some wins, because I am all out of rationalization juice.

I'm still here though, so I must have rationalized it somehow, right? Would you like to read that rationalization? You just did.



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The Still Ugly Duckling

Recently went on another Internet-begotten blind date, and must say I have never been on a date where it was so clear so quickly the woman didn't want to be there.

We met for a movie (first time I've tried a movie blind date. I'm sure there are warehouses of books advising against this), so we didn't have much time to feel each other out. Judging from her greeting, it wouldn't have helped if we'd had a lifetime.

Got off the train and strolled to the theater. The two of us arrived and recognized each other simultaneously. When she saw me, she didn't ask, "Are you Mike?" She asked, "Are you Mike?!"

This wasn't an inquiry. It was a confession of instant disgratification.

I don't know what she was expecting. As I've discussed before, my dating profile has an unimpeachably accurate photo, and fully discloses my unsightly stature. Who knows, maybe she was hoping I'd made a typo. What I'm saying here is my conscience is clean. This wasn't a bait and switch. I am not the Bernie Madoff of Internet dating.

Like I said, it was a movie date, so we had about ten minutes to chat before it started. Don't know about you, but I find it hard to get romantic traction going at a concession stand. It's a safe bet that the discussion of Twix vs. M&Ms has lead to no more than zero unplanned pregnancies.

The movie, a weighty number about preparing for premature death, also wound up being a poor choice. Never plan a date without doing plenty of research, gentlemen. Haste makes chaste.

After we'd hit the sidewalk and clumsily shared our thoughts on becoming maggot-chow, I said, "So, you want to grab a beer?"

Her response: "Welllllllll, oooo-kay."

Sure sounds like chemistry to me.

At that point I really should have intervened and said, "Look, it's okay if you go home. I won't cut myself."

But I didn't. My instinct is to always try and push through.

She lead us to an extremely happening bar. We ordered a round, and miraculously, started having a decent conversation. She had a wide range of interests and interesting things to say about them. The date seemed to be turning around. The Titanic was going to miss the icebergs after all.

The bartender queried about a second round:

Me: "Yes-"

Her: "NOOO, just this!"

Never have I seen a second beer so firmly rejected. If nothing else, she probably discovered she could launch a second career as an AA sponsor.

We left the bar and plodded to the nearby train station. We talked over each others' awkward goodbyes and insincere pledges to do it again sometime.

I remain confounded as to what this woman thought she was getting into. My dating profile contains no fine print, and she was old enough to know that frogs don't turn into princes. Maybe it's time I uploaded an audio file of me saying, "Ribbit, ribbit."

You Lost Me at Hello

So I've been going on a lot of Internet dates lately (yeah, I'm judging me too). What's strange is that my profile has generated a lot more traffic and response than I expected.

I say it's strange because my profile is well, honest. The picture is a full-on face shot (not a pretty picture). My true and typically dealbreaking height is spelled out in plain view. Everything else is honest as well. No allusions to bulging Swiss bank accounts or reference lists of sexually sated ex-conquests.

Yet a goodly number of chicks have come out to meet me. Some from as far away as Brooklyn. Many with decent pedigrees and lots to offer. The fact that my looks, height, and absence of achievements didn't scare them off is almost enough to make me question why I need Internet dating in the first place.

But here's the rub...very few second dates. No urgency for return engagements. One dose of Mike Payne and all further investigation is off. Seems these women can look past the ghostly face, the Hobbitish height, the lack of accomplishment. What they can't look past is my losing personality. They're like: "Yeah, I was all set to give a 5' 5" failure a shot, but after meeting you in person...well, let's just say you give charity a bad name."

Red Wine and Long Walks on the Ledge

Enabling hopeless romantics never goes out of style. As we sit here, someone, somewhere is confessing to being a hopeless romantic, and some enabler is gushing: "Aw, it's so nice in this world of cynics to see someone searching for true love."

First of all, any term with the word "hopeless" in it is not a term of endearment. If someone told you, "Oh my uncle Bill, he's a hopeless drunk," you wouldn't say, "Aw, it's so nice in this world of detox to see someone pickling his liver!"

When you admit to being a hopeless romantic, you’re admitting to the world you're an eager victim. You're saying when you enter a relationship, you're like an old coot with Alzheimer's wandering on to a user car lot. You're letting us know that one day, you and your romantic hijacks will be part of a '60 Minutes' exposé. You're making a promise to be as naïve and helpless as you were before the relationship. What you should be saying is: "Hi, I'm Fred. Experience teaches me nothing."

The reason hopeless romantics don't get the public ridicule they deserve is because countless industries feed on their vice; greeting card companies, florists, divorce lawyers, guard dogs, morning-after pill manufacturers…all the essentials.

It is time to dispense with this "true love" superstition. Love, like everything else in the universe, is largely random. If you were born in Afghanistan, you would find "true love" in Afghanistan. If you took a job in Idaho, you'd find someone to complete you in Boise. Love didn't bring you together. The credit crunch did.

In some cultures, the cause and effect relationhip between intercourse and pregnancy is a relatively new discovery. So was all that previous mating based on celestial romance? Was it star-crossed love? Or were folks just f*cking what was available?

Now look at your own romantic past and consider how different it really is.