Cued Up (The Dating Life As It Were)

I wish I had said this first but I didn't.

Dating in your thirties. It ain't easy. Not like it was in your twenties when you basically go out, get drunk, come back to your place to have sex and then go out again to figure out if you like each other. Now you spend a lot of time and money and somewhere around the eighth date when your topic of conversation has gotten on to English history if Cromwell hadn't toppled the monarchy, you get a tentative good night kiss.

Friends of mine and I are out at a bar about a week ago and, while we're dating, its not each other so there's that relaxed quality to the conversation that allows us to cast a gimlet eye on our surroundings without fear of saying the wrong thing and watching another relationship head south.

The wine is good, the beer is better and the company is described above. Goes without saying we're all having fun. Trouble is we got there late and after scouring the place for the last four seats, we re-arrange the stools in the last empty corner. Not actually a table but a large wooden shelf next to two empty pool tables.

Pool is a great game. I used to play it myself at a place called "The Bank Shot" in Hoboken, NJ. Classy joint right above a sports bar and right across the street from the Hoboken Police Station so Steve, the friend of mine that owned The Bank Shot, never worried about trouble.

Imagine how stunned I was not only to see a familiar locale but to realize the abject stupidity being played out on screen when I was watching "Cops" from Hoboken and there was a call for a fight at a bar.

Yep. Sports bar. Just downstairs from The Bank Shot. See the action as the camera slowly pans across the street to the Police Station and about a thousand uniforms come across the street to see what all the fuss is about.

America's Most Stupid Arrestees is what the fuss was all about.

But last week I'm several thousand miles from The Bank Shot when, far from the local PDHQ, a date breaks out around a pool table.

He's handsome in an English Milquetoast way. Someone fair of feature and pale enough to get you believing he was locked in a closet from birth until last week, about thirty two years total. She's olive skinned with cheekbones you want to hang your hat on and yell "Honey, I'm home!" Plus she's sprayed a sweater on for the evening and has a tight fitting skirt made of a material that will resurrect the shag carpet if she keeps wearing it like that.

To that, his pants are too short. Way too short.

So they set up the table. I can't bring myself to say "Rack" but I'm thinking it. Over and over as a matter of fact. He breaks. Which is to say Sir Pants-a-lot knocks the cue ball into the rack and sends balls skittering across the bloodshot red felt in all directions but towards any of the pockets.

Her shot.

She's a little better but makes the mistake of taking his advice and again is chasing solids and stripes across the blood red felt. Did I mention that that's just the WRONG color for a pool table? If I want to play a game that pisses bulls off, I'll get my red knickers and head for the streets of Pamplona.

Pants-a-lot shoots.

Now, I'm trying to feel sorry for the guy because he clearly sucks and he's trying to impress Ms. Shaggy Skirt and he's all over the table and adjoining bar and to compensate, he's trying trick shots.

Wrong-o!

Look, if you're failing miserably at something, you don't go for the gusto. You re-trench to the basics, try and be competent there and get yourself out of the mess without a face as red as, let's say, a badly covered pool table.

Not Pants-a-lot. He's shooting behind his back, drawing his stick so far behind him that all the men in the area are walking away quickly muttering "Thanks, I'll let my doc check the old prostate." under their breath.

Then he shoots and in a series of events that just about spells out "I'm getting a peck on the cheek and hugging my pillow tonight" on the wall, he launches the cue ball into the foursome curled up by the roaring fire.

Buzzer. Game over.

Meanwhile, my friends and I still trying to be generous, have suppressed so many guffaws that we have pressured our palates to the point of blowing out into our cranial cavities if Sir Pants-a-lot scratches one more time.

Thank God we're down to the eight ball. Call it Pants-a-lot. Thats right: Eight ball, side pocket, off the Bud Light mirror behind me.

Now repeat after me: Charles would have eventually granted the liberties petitioned for and Oliver wouldn't have hung.

Oh and the comment about dating in your thirties? Yep, makes you realize how anxious we are to bring Finn's Space back.

Bunny on.