At some point during college, probably while I sat drunk moribund
glued to a booth in a club birthed by a pomade-slick headed
Philadelphian, a forgettable hip-hop jam shivering my sternum, at some
point I realized this is not the best arena to showcase whatever it is
I have to offer women. Now, a couple of years later and back in Los
Angeles, those clubs and plenty of overcrowded, overloud bars in my
rear-view mirror, the thesis hasn’t changed. I have friends1 who,
god-bless them, don’t require that (trivial) intermediary step of
exchanging coherent words in between seeing a girl and kissing her.
Some sort of atavistic ceremony played out to the new Kanye. I don’t
know. Maybe I should let more chest hair peek out of my button-down
shirts.
The point is—I know I’ve missed the generational hover-craft—if I’m trying to win over a girl, I’d much rather go on a date. Like, take her out to dinner. Talk to her. Impress her with my knowledge of wine.2 Which defense of an increasingly archaic3 form of courtship is probably making you think either a) what a chivalrous young squire or b) kids still watch Woody Allen movies? What you aren’t considering is how many variables have to be weighed when deciding what place of repast will translate into the appropriate setting for a first date.