under Date Night
The phrase “searching for Mr. Right” is very common. Women use it whenever they discuss their lucrative plans for finding and marrying the unattainable and incorruptible male. To date, no woman has found such a creature, yet their determination is strengthened every time they find any perceivable flaw in any man they come across. They are too stubborn to realize that “Mr. Right” does exist, but only in movies, novels, and other fictional products of imperfect male imaginations.
There is no comparable phrase that men use when searching for a companion of the opposite (or same) sex. You don’t hear guys at some dive bar giddily talking about their search for “Ms. Right.” Men have been through too much to believe in the fantasy of perfection. Most guys (me) will settle for anybody that seems nice. I think, instead, guys use the phrase, “I’m still searching for somebody tolerable,” which sometimes devolves into, “I’m still searching for a breathing female”.
Some men think that they have met “Ms. Right” in the past, but she is really the glossed memory of a first love that has been enhanced by time. Seriously, who doesn’t look back kindly onto their first kiss or first love? Granted, I do not want to get back together with the first girl I kissed, or the first girl I thought I loved. Okay, I kind of do. Yet, though their memory lives on in our minds as unrestrained perfection, the truth is often marred by reality. For example, the first girl that I kissed was also kissing three other guys, (though not at the same time). Though I know this now, the memory is still too strong to be tainted by truth. She was still perfect.
under Single Life
Once upon a midnight dreary, those in possession of various area codes left their nine-to-five fabulosity behind and headed to Hollyweird, better known as the belly of the beast. Saturday night’s a veritable playground for those whose appetite is not quite satisfied by continental cuisine, and in pursuit of all things unholy, twenty somethings congregate in carnal couture, consumed with their quest to eat, pray, love. So scandal and its cohort debauchery seep into the city and suddenly L.A. is a feeding ground for the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to be free from weekly restraints, unless said restraints hold the promise of a little pseudo self-indulgence.
My fave nights to prowl around Hollywood with the girls often involve the sheer amusement I get from witnessing the hunt through a cosmopolitan haze. Girls it seems are just as guilty as guys in their sordid methods of getting what they want, even if it’s just a new number to enhance the mundane Monday through Friday scene. The scandalously-clad city of sin becomes this mockumentary from National Geographic and the urban jungle is less forgiving and much more cut-throat than the silly little Sahara scene. Guys lurk by the bar checking out the fresh meat and when the head-to-toe once over officially meets the kissing criteria, they pounce, hoping to go from Jane’s house, to my house, back to his house. It’s a funny thing to watch this guiltiest of pleasures, but those lucky enough to live in the valley of the dolls know it’s eat or be eaten, and girls on the Cali diet are always hungry.
It’s a race to meet Mr. Right, or sometimes – Mr. Right Now, and whether you’re aware or not, the city is swallowing us whole. But hey, something has to keep us on our toes.