The poor slob didn’t have a chance. As I walked into the B St. Pub(not its real name, but one never knows who is reading; haters abound), I hoped it was the cute pretty boy I cruised. He had short slick dark hair, dimples, wearing a track suit but he looked too young Latin. Then my date arrived, nearly 10 minutes late, huffing and puffing(never a good sign), looking for all the world like Baby Huey meets Grizzly Adams. Yes he still had big blue eyes but I lost sight of them as I stared at his shaggy beard, sagging belly, and (God forbid!) black flipflops. I thought the brown suit was a nice Beat touch(we initially bonded on Beat literature, having crossed cyberpaths through an online support group) but otherwise, he looked nothing like his picture(which he had admitted was three years old). Fortunately(or unfortunately), it was open mic night and we were treated to a rocking guitarist and a mother-daughter pair of ballad singers. I ducked out after 40 minutes during which we had exchanged about five sentences.
Sure he reads. Sure he’s wrapping up his graduate studies to be a psychotherapist. Sure he grew up in the East Bay. But I dashed into my car and started talking to Jesus about sending a St. Joseph type my way. The sooner the better.