"I own a cat!" "Me, too!"

"I own a cat!" "Me, too!"
Originally uploaded by Jay_wood.

My divorce buddy Paul and I went to a single's mixer last night. It was one of those 25 3-minute, round-robin date deals. Being an opinionated, reckless loudmouth with my friends, you'd think I wouldn't have trouble striking it up with women, but I do, which just goes to show you my brash personality is just a shield for the tender-hearted manchild that I am. Either that, or I'm gutless. Or quite possibly both.

The event was at a martini bar in Grosse Pointe, an enclave of high-level auto executives, old money and Motown stars, what passes for swank in these parts. Robusto's was something out of Cigar Aficionado -- private humidors sunk into the walls, $7 dollar Bombay's and tonics, blonde dolls with serving trays. I told people at work it'd either be fun or funny, and while I believed deep down the night would end up being fodder for the John Woodward recreational outrage machine, I had a swell time.

It was hard not to like most everyone there. Perhaps it was because we were like bald men or Red Sox fans or Zany Brainy shareholders, part of a fraternity held together by a common, low-grade misery. I met the usual brand of auto people, advertising types and sales reps, but also a medical photographer (one of the few jobs that's actually as grim as you'd imagine), a burlesque singer (love those fishnets) and an electrician. Hobbies included: shopping, science fiction movies, fishing, interior decorating, reading (Tolstoy to Rand to Cook) and, my favorite, "not much, just hanging out, I guess." Shine on, rock star.

After each "date," you had a scorecard and checked a person either up or down; if you and someone both voted for each other, you'd be emailed on how to contact them. My score: I voted for two girls out of 24; one of my selections voted for me; another 6 women voted for me but not I for them. Divorce buddy Paul: ten yesses out of 24 (the man slut); four of his selections voted for him; another 8 women voted for him but he did not. One other woman, who arrived late and missed our three minutes together, struck up a conversation with me after the show. After a minute or so, she asked me if I wanted her business card. I managed a "that would be great" instead of the "oh, fuck yeah!" I could have sworn was going to come out of my mouth. She looked at me like I was a hunk of meat the entire time we talked. It was great.