HEY, UM, DIDN'T JOANIE LOVE CHACHES?: Notes From Conversations About Jack and Shit, Chin-Up Bars, and Sexual Cockroaches

CHACH (alt. sp. CHATCH) - n. A younger American male who overly relies on shallow and often superficial things to compensate for intellectual deficiencies, sexual inadequacies, basic dignity, socially acceptable etiquette, and/or understanding of human interpersonal relationships.

For better, more creative definitions, check out the various entries at Urban Dictionary or this stellar commentary from an Ohio campus newspaper, The Independent Collegian.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I'm not a college student anymore. I haven't been one for many years. And I never attended the Local U., never experienced many of the things students here experience as part of their development from children into men and women.

I moved to Oxford Fucking Ohio not from my parents' house or some boarding school but from a tiny little apartment in Baton Rouge, one with a stellar view of both Tiger Stadium and the State Capitol Building.

I left behind the last of my college years back in the Pelican State. The days of tailgating, of running over to Ichabods for shots after - and often immediately before - Thursday evening classes. I experienced the crawfish boils, the pink flamingos of the Spanish Town Mardi Gras.

I left behind those downtown trips to Tabby's Blues Box (No. 2) and Red Star to drink cheap beer and party 'til Last Call, the ones made while everyone else was cramming for their comprehensive exams, pretending like those silly reference and cataloging classes were actually challenging.

And there was this one very hot waitress from Lake Charles at that sports bar across the street from my apartment, the one with the shirts cut so low you could see her...

Er....yeah.

And that was graduate school. There are days I'm grateful that I didn't start blogging in college.

Needless to say, I have really no idea about what it feels like to be a student here in Oxford, beyond what I've witnessed or what I've been told.

Hell, I just work here, folks. No ties whatsoever, other than the ol' job. I'm a transcontinental foreigner, a single guy who, through some quirk of fate, ended up accepting a position in this little town.

It's not a bad little town, really. Never once worried about getting mugged, never once have I worried about rush hour traffic, and I really enjoy the nice, peaceful summers.

But I've never given a shit about Green Beer Day, a once-a-year annoyance that leaves my facility's plumbing fixtures clogged with vomit and beer shits. I've never celebrated Ghetto Fest, never experienced one of the famed Toasted Rolls in a dining hall, never had to suffer through perhaps one of the most tedious general education schemes known to Man.

I've never even thrown up in The Alley, never worn a Muck Farshall tee to the football stadium, and I've yet to log a single hour passed out on the couches in the ZenFo Pro Library - all seen as benchmarks of the Local U. Experience. I've never cried over rotting water towers or whined to city council about outdoor drinking game bans, either.

Without having been a student here, well, there are several local phenomena for which I have no frame of reference. There are concepts that I can't seem to grasp, no matter how hard I try.

Sadly, the chach concept isn't one of them.

* * * *

The first time I heard the term chach, "Britney" and I were sitting in my new apartment, back in late November (when I began writing this damned post), chatting away about her experiences transitioning from undergraduate to alumna.

She'd come back to visit Oxford for the same reason many recent alumni return to visit their alma maters post-graduation. While out in the working world, adjusting to a 40-hour work schedule, the decreased socialization, an the inability to sleep past the asscrack of dawn, she'd grown a bit nostalgic. Sadly, coming back reminded her of why she'd said she never wanted to return in the first place. Too much drama, bad memories overwhelming the nostalgia.

Over dinner, she even told me that seeing all of the drunk students staggering down High Street, from bar to bar, made her new boring life - up at 5 to go spinning at her gym, in the office by 8, and hanging out at a Barnes & Noble drinking coffee and reading away her evenings - seem like a vacation from the reality she'd once known as a student.

One of her former roommates called while we were sitting at the kitchen table. I laughed as "Britney" made faces and obligatory obscene hand job gestures while she talked, occasionally kicking my leg to remind me that she'd much rather be talking to me.

The two didn't really like each other; they kept in contact, it seemed, primarily out of a sense of obligation. I guess they missed arguing over unpaid utilities and, er, certain former flings who'd once, er, accidentally removed a showerhead with a pair of handcuffs.

Long story.

Yeah, I don't think I'm going out tonight. I'm over at J's apartment right now. No, we're just talking. No, I've got a hotel room....I don't think that's any of your business really anyway. Later babe!

"Britney" hung up her cell and flung it down onto the table.

Can you believe her? She wanted me to come down to Brick Street because she's not sure if she should hook up with some guy. Un-FUCKING-believable. She's 23 and hitting on fucking chaches and thinks YOU were a bad influence on ME!

Having never heard the term Chach before, I asked "Britney" what the term meant. I thought she was talking about Scott Baio's character from Happy Days.

It's one thing when someone laughs with you. It's another thing completely when a former "fruitcake sex" partner laughs at you for being so ignorant of local slang, points and giggles at you like you're the dumbest guy on the planet.

And she absolutely refused to define the term beyond never mind...this is too fucking funny.

"Britney" explained, through the snorts and tears, that, well, the idea of the oh-so-smartypants librarian not knowing the meaning of Chach was one of the funniest things she'd ever seen or heard - especially since I'd been suckered by something called chachbait quite a few times since she'd last seen me (see this post for one example).

Very humbling experience.

We ended up hanging out in my apartment all night, drinking my last very good bottle of Tobin James, a 2004 Estate Private Stash (a $50 bottle of reserve-bottled Bordeaux. I'm not a wine drinker, but, well, I know how to buy the stuff. Great flavor on this one.) and watching Justice League Unlimited on my laptop.

At one point, she excused herself to use my john. Five minutes later, I heard more hysterical laughter from my bathroom. Apparently, the chin-up bar I'd recently installed in the bathroom door frame was chachish - "Britney" even asked if I secretly pop the collars on my polo shirts and flex in the mirror when nobody was looking, a closet chach.

At one point in the evening, she popped her own shirt collar, put on my Stetson, and did her damnedest to convince me that her impression of the Chachformation Professional was as funny as she thought it was.

I walked her back to her hotel at well past three in the morning, unable to pick a meaningful definition of Chach from her oh-so-smartass brain.

As I walked back to my apartment, the only thing I could think of was Charles in Charge, Fonzie jumping the Shark, and Joanie Friggin' Cunningham.

* * * *

I tried researching the origins of this particular, uniquely Midwestern term in a more scholarly fashion. I tried finding an answer in various slang and contemporary language dictionaries during my lunch breaks.

I finally called a language expert, a buddy of mine, who responded by laughing hysterically, questioning my sanity, and suggesting that I ask the locals - something that, well, someone studying regional dialects and its unique identifiers would do.

She did, however, put me on hold while she asked her teaching assistant - an apparently charming 26-year-old who my friend has suggested, in less-than-scholarly IMs, represents the kind of woman I should be dating, should I continue my professional career here in Oxford Fucking Ohio.

The language expert's probably right. I really do prefer educated women who listen to the Clash and the Dropkick Murphys, have a particular fondness for industrial techno but no longer enjoy going to clubs, enjoy hiking and target shooting, and who sport nose rings.

But I digress...

The TA, a Hoosier State native who attended an Ohio university as an undergrad, thought it was, well, fucking hysterical that that blog guy was calling from across the country to learn about Chaches.

After some delay, the faculty finally put her protege on the phone.

According to the Indianan, roughly 60-70 percent of Ohio male college students fall into the chach category - at least the ones she knew when she was an undergrad at her Ohio university.

Here in Oxford Fucking Ohio, at the Local U., she estimated that as many as 90 percent of the male students fit the bill, based on her experiences partying with and dating several Local U. students.

...Basically, chaches are guys women go home with in college because they're cute, frigging adorable, on the outside... Women wake up and literally feel like their IQs have dropped because they've just hooked up with a Metro version of a Neanderthal... Chaches are like the sexual cockroaches of college, they're everywhere and don't ever seem to go away.

Wait...

So I have metrosexual sexual cockroach caveman tendencies?

I explained to the TA how, exactly, I'd become obsessed with the Chach. That only led to more laughter.

Dude, if you have a chin-up bar in your bathroom...yeah, that's kinda chachish. But you don't seem like a Stadium Toad, at least online.

Wait...

Stadium Toad?

* * * *

I finally admitted that I needed, well, a Local U. perspective, a perspective that I could trust to cure my obsession.

So one night, while bar-hopping at way past my normal bedtime, I asked a few male friends - none of whom seemed to be the type to have chin-up bars installed in their bathrooms - for a better explanation.

One guy, a larger guy who I'll call Mr. Molson, laughed as we stood out on the balcony of this one particular bar. Mr. Molson, I knew, used the term frequently.

I'm pretty sure you're not a chach, Mr. Molson said, pointing towards a group of younger bar patrons.

Now that, my friend, is a chachfest.

A group of guys, all dressed in matching neon polos and overpriced jeans, staggered out of the bar, drunk girls in tow. Their hair hardly moved, gelled like mine but...not. Their faces seemed almost waxed, nary an ingrown hair in sight, eyebrows plucked and perfect. The whole group reeked of expensive cologne and Natty Light. The air was filled with the sounds of hey-bras and what sounded like rich white kids who'd heard one too many Dem Franchize Boyz tracks.

And, yes, they looked like the kind of guys who would have chin-up bars installed in their bathrooms.

But unlike the ol' ZenFo Pro, they didn't seem to be the kind of guys who kept Whitman's Leaves of Grass on the nightstand or who'd list The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari as one of their favorite films, or would, well, think twice about whether or not being called a chach was a bad thing.

Oh, so a chach is basically a preppy douchebag? Wow.

Mr. Molson looked up from beneath his ball cap. We were both drunk as skunks, standing in the cold, smoking cigarettes and watching as the chachefest migrated back to whatever horrid, vile place chaches take their chachebait.

Yup.

I guess being a college student in Oxford Fucking Ohio is no different that being a college student anywhere else.

* * * *

While the slang may change, there have always been chaches. We had them at LSU when I was a grad student, at Cal Poly and Northern Colorado when I was an undergrad - we just had different names for them.

Yeah. Chach works. And they really are like sexual cockroaches.

One day, maybe, I'll unearth a good definition for Stadium Toad.

I'll save that one, however, for another post.

- # # # -

DOGS PLAYING CARDS ON A SICK DAY: Conversations with Ghosts of Myself

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I did something very stupid Tuesday.

I took a prescription medication on an empty stomach, didn't read those pesky do not drink alcoholic beverages instructions, and ended up puking my guts out for seven hours straight.

As punishment for my very, very stupid mistake, I was sentenced to two days sick leave, in order to recover from dehydration, extremely low blood sugar, and overall ickiness. I'd already been recovering from an upper respiratory infection, so the added stress on my system pretty much guaranteed that I'd be forced to take time off for - gasp - health issues.

I don't do sick days very well. I'm a lousy patient. I'd rather just work through it, keep chugging away until something breaks beyond repair. I'll rest when I'm off the clock or when I'm dead.

* * * *

By the time I could finally hold down anything solid, I was too jittery to sit through any DVD, too annoyed to listen to music.

I wrote long-winded emails, responses to comments on the ol' blog, and caught up on just about every open access journal in my research area.

Well, that killed a whopping five hours of my life.

Boredom is my enemy. And nothing screams boredom like five hours' worth of LIS literature.

* * * *

I crawled out of bed Thursday at around 10 (I normally get up between five and six), had one Lean Pocket and a cup of coffee for brunch, took a shower.

I started to get dressed. Couldn't do it. I crawled back into bed, defeated. I felt like the main character in Dalton Trumbo's Johnny Got His Gun, a helpless cripple damned to an eternity of dreary solitude, waiting - begging - for sweet death.

As I stared at the ceiling, my bedroom too bright to sleep, I decided to do what I used to do as a kid when I'd get sick, those lonely days when I'd be left bedridden back on the family farm, 20 miles from civilization and with only three snowy network television stations to keep me company.

I'll play a game.

Hmmm... what sort of game?

For shit's sake, dude! Got it. Let's play Interview!

Interview was one of my favorite sick day games as a child. Actually, Interview was more of an an exercise in imagination than a game.

I'd pretend to be a reporter, a regular Walter Cronkite, interviewing an older, famous version of myself. The television studio was completely within my mind, laid out like those old network news desks, clocks from a hundred time zones covering the walls. I could see clearly the cameras, the Teleprompter, the shining lights.

When I had chickenpox, I'd interviewed Jason, the famous scientist who'd cured cancer. Once, when I was in middle school, I'd interviewed retired Rear Admiral Jason, the hero of the Cold War who'd single-handedly destroyed the Soviet Empire.

In junior high, I even interviewed Jason, winner of three Academy Awards... and husband of Cindy Crawford (we had 12 children, I believe.)

I laughed out loud with what was left of my stomach-acid stripped vocal chords.

Dude, this is gonna be fun.

But I think we'd better mix this shit up a bit...

* * * *

Instead of interviewing my mythological older self, I decided, for shits and giggles, to interview my younger self.

Honestly, the idea of interviewing the 48, 54, or 68 year-old versions of me didn't seem appealing.

I mean, for chrissakes...

Did I really want to think about the divorce back in 2014, the sex scandals of 2043, or that dead hooker in that Vegas hotel room in 2051?

Or what about the possibility of that love child, the one living down in Mexico in 2032, the one I never knew I had, from that very real one night with that daughter of migrant laborers, back in in a very real 1997?

Dude, you'll have nightmares for a week if you interview Future Jason.

You're too damned pessimistic and paranoid to have an imaginary bright future...

* * * *

So, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, I let my mind wander into that dusty, long-forgotten newsroom one more time. I put on the ol' anchor's blazer, tested the microphone, cleared my mental throat.

I thought I'd share summaries of my first round of Interview in more than 15 years:

* * * *

The Motherfucker was 17, a passionate kid with a huge chip on his shoulder. The Motherfucker liked to fight, smoked way too much weed, played in a punk band, and had a taste for MD 20/20.

"Man, I remember once, at this party, I was so fucked up I couldn't see. We was all outside, all jus' chillin' around this bonfire. Me an' ______ snuck off with this one chick, 'cause she had this dusted bud she'd picked up in Charlottesville. She got so fucked up, she like pissed on herself an' shit. Fucking hippy rich chicks, man. She offered blowjobs if we'd give her a ride home, but I was all, like, shit, white girls from private schools carry all kinds of diseases."

The Motherfucker was known to most adults as a bookish, level-headed kid. He excelled in scholarly activities, as a member of the track team, in academic competitions. But he had a dark side, a lust to be accepted, to be the badass, the instrument of God's Wrath. He hung out with some good kids, but mostly ones destined for lives of trouble.

According to legend, the Motherfucker once broke a guy's knuckles with a ball-peen hammer, gangster-style, because the poor college first-year couldn't pay his illicit pharmaceutical bill. He once took a baseball bat to some poor kid's stomach at a house party, retaliation for the merciless beating a friend of his had received on a school bus.

"That cocksucking redneck had it coming. If we hadn't fucked his shit up, he jus' would've called some brother a coon or somethin' and ended up gettin' capped. I prob'ly saved his sorry ass. Eye for a mothafuckin' eye, homes. You wanna trip some shit, I'll trip shit like a fuckin' electric chair."

The first girl the Motherfucker ever French-kissed ended up killing herself - after doing time in a women's prison for her role in her parents' murder. His childhood best friend was relocated to an undisclosed location as part of a plea agreement, in exchange for testifying against a narcotics kingpin. He knows that several of his friends from those years are now probably dead or in correctional facilities for the rest of their natural lives.

Through some act of God, however, the Motherfucker made it out of his hometown, outgrew his rage, cleaned up his act. He'd been saved only by the unconditional love his family had provided him and by the faith his teachers had in his intellectual gifts.

* * * *

Dog Juan loved playing savior to just about every troubled young woman who showed him even the slightest attention.

In high school, he'd been a late-bloomer, losing his virginity at 17 accidentally to a woman whose exact identity he'd been too drunk to recall. By the time he'd reached 20, he'd overcome enough of his awkwardness around women to be at least somewhat romantically inclined.

Unfortunately for Dog Juan, he learned too late that there were some women he just shouldn't be involved with romantically. As an undergrad, he mastered the art of the one-night stand while simultaneously mastering the art of dating women who were completely nucking futs.

"Once, I was like seeing this girl, T_____. I'd met her through one of my roommates. T____ had her problems, sure...I mean, she'd survived being a prostitute in Colorado Springs, had managed to get into college. So what if she was still stripping to pay the bills? And its not like I'd never done coke before.

"C'mon. The sex was fucking awesome. Wild shit. And she was older than me, old enough to buy beer.

"Fuck, we drank a lot. Actually, she drank a lot. And the fucking suicide threats. Yeah, those sucked.

"But dude! Wait. The fucking sex, dude. One time, I went down on her in an Italian restaurant. We did it at three o'clock in the morning, butt-ass naked on the hood of my truck, smack dab in the middle of an intersection. We're talking three to five times a day, seven days a week. Nothing wrong with that.

"I mean, I've faked it a couple of times, when she gets pushy - the fucking coke messes my shit up sometimes, but she gets it free and won't do it alone, so what am I s'posed to do?

"I mean, yeah, she gets violent an' shit. Lots of women do. And so what if my female friends hate her - they're just fucking jealous because I'm fucking happy.

"C'mon...you never had a chick pull a knife on you before, homes?"

By his 21st birthday, Dog Juan had accomplished two things that few men can claim:

He'd won his first award as a sportswriter, and he'd managed to become a certified victim of domestic violence, complete with restraining order against his one-time fiance.

Researchers have long sought interviews with Dog Juan. The mystery of how such an intelligent young man with such charm and passion could be so goddamned dense sometimes has puzzled numerous people for more than a decade.

* * * *

Talk Radio Guy knew he was in trouble the first day he'd gone into work after the Corporate Radio Juggernaut had finally cleared their FCC hurdles and had taken control of day-to-day operations of his station.

He knew he was a fairly popular sports anchor in his market, but he also knew, somewhere deep inside, that the Corporate Radio Juggernaut had no use for silly little things like women's sports coverage, Major League Baseball broadcasting rights, and colorful sports commentary.

The future, he'd been told, was in nationally syndicated talk radio - conservative talk radio. What use did the Juggernaut have, anyway, for unbiased coverage when its advertising gurus had research to show that America had no use for such things.

Talk Radio Guy knew, somewhere deep down, that some idiot would one day get the idea for liberal talk radio, the same nationally syndicated bullshit, only spun a different way, to sell more worthless airtime to gullible sponsors.

He felt sorry for his listeners. He knew they were smarter than the Juggernaut's advertising gurus.

He sat in his new Program Director's office and listened to the new management's pitch for his talent, a lecture about the fame that would come with moving to FM, to an afternoon drive slot on an Urban Contemporary station that had been faltering for years in the ratings.

"We all called this pile of goatshit P.D. Mr. Backstreet Boy. Homeboy was pushing 40, single, living off tanning salons and expensive hair gel. He used words like "bro" and "hella" in a vain attempt to stay hip.

"From the first day I met the motherfucker, I knew by all of his flattering comments that, for all of his talk about me being a valuable member of the C________ Family, I was nothing more than a local personality that they were slowly trying to push out of the business. He talked about how valuable I' was, but there was no talk of a pay raise.

"I knew my days were numbered the moment I told Mr. Backstreet Boy that I had no interest in spinning bad hip-hop for imaginary listeners, waiting for Big Fucking Brother to finally install the new receivers for the syndicated shit out of New York."

As Talk Radio Guy sat in Mr. Backstreet Boy's office, he looked over at a picture on the new program director's desk - a beautiful portrait of the P.D. and his girlfriend of two years, a former cheerleader with a certain professional sports team.

He grinned from ear to ear, interrupting the P.D. to ask him a question about the woman in the photograph.

You see, Talk Radio Guy had met the Cheerleader, a sweet woman - not very bright, but sweet - at a dance club three days prior to what was to be his last face-to-face meeting with Mr. Backstreet Boy.

She'd told Talk Radio Guy all about how she loved his funny sportscasts, how he made her laugh while she was in the shower. Talk Radio Guy had pretended to be shocked when the former cheerleader claimed that she was in her late 30s; he'd told her that there was no way in hell such gorgeous woman could be a day older than his 22-year-old self.

The Cheerleader thought Talk Radio Guy was cute in person, that he reminded her of a short, cuddly teddy bear. She kept saying how her boyfriend had never once held a door for her, or bought her a drink, or even asked her what she wanted out of life. She told Talk Radio Guy that she was sure Mr. Backstreet Boy was cheating on her with a younger woman, a college student at Talk Radio Guy's Alma mater.

In fact, she apologized several times over several hours' worth of conversation for telling Talk Radio Guy so much - she claimed that the few Fuzzy Navels had made her tipsy, and that she couldn't believe how connected she felt to Talk Radio Guy, and how she wasn't sure why she felt the way she felt, the attraction...

"I think that's probably the downright meanest thing I've ever done to another man. And I don't regret it one bit.

"Feel bad about using her - I mean, she was cute, but wow, was she dumb. And pro cheerleaders are rarely dumb - I've known several over the years.

Besides, I think she was using me a bit, too - she was a new girl in town with a cheating boyfriend, and I was a voice on the radio, the guy who made her laugh, somebody who listened. Lord, I'm naive but not stupid.

"You know, that's always been the power of local talk radio. It's not about the guy behind the mike, the guy ranting and raving. It's about the listening. That's the seduction, my man.

"You should've seen the look on his face when I asked him about that tattoo on her ass.

He knew, knew instantly. I don't know if it bothered him more that, well, I'd screwed something that meant something to him in retaliation for screwing something I cared about, or that he just never thought a fat guy could ever pull one over on his overgrown Boy Band routine.

"God, California really made me an evil bastard, didn't it?"

Years later, Talk Radio Guy would find irony in the fact that he actually slept around a lot more as a fat guy than he does now, 85 pounds lighter than he was when he was at the end of his broadcasting career.

He also finds it fucking hilarious that people sometimes wonder why he just can't find anything attractive about dumb women. Dumb women are easy to manipulate; they don't make him feel the least bit self-conscious. All he's ever had to do was to just listen - there's no challenge in just listening.

Smart women, on the other hand...

Well, he's still just as dense as a lead brick.

* * * *

For some reason, after finishing my first-ever adult game of Interview, I started to feel better.

I took a rather long nap, downloaded some new MP3s, and even started to clean the wreck I'd left the bathroom.

Hell, maybe taking some time off from work is a good thing, taking time to just let old wounds heal up the way their meant to heal.

After all, time is supposed to heal all wounds, right?

# # #

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL:How To (Intentionally) Avoid Sex in a Land of the Oversexed and Undersatisfied

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- So I'm standing outside of one of my favorite watering holes last night, smoking a cigarette in single-digit weather.

It was a friend of mine's last bar shift at this particular establishment, her last hurrah before getting the fuck outta Dodge for a much-needed change of scenery. Several of her friends had gathered to pull a drunken "all-nighter" at the bar, to commemorate her special evening, to keep her company and provide mischievous entertainment, and to, well, make sure she tipped out for the night a wealthier woman.

My intention was to just hang out and to have a good time with a few friends. I don't go to bars for any other reason - not to seek female bedwarmers, not to check out the usual meat market, not to find true love in some drunken haze.

As I'm standing out in front of this bar, out on the steps in the freezing cold, chatting away with one of the cooks, an attractive younger woman walks up and asks for a light. The cook goes back inside, leaving me alone, on the steps, with an intoxicated marketing major.

Per the typical Local U. male undergrad standard, the woman would probably qualify as fucking hot.

Artificially tanned, well-built brunette - the kind of girl who has probably spent more of her collegiate career in the gym doing cardio than actually learning anything.

If I were a typical Local U. undergrad, I might've been interested. But I haven't been an undergrad in six years. Hell, I haven't been any type of college student in more than three.

I figured out said woman was hitting on me pretty quick into our brief conversation. The signals were pretty straight forward, almost exaggerated for comical purposes - the leaning against the wall, the downright silly As Seen on the WB eye contact and lip chewing, the rubbing my bare arms to "get rid of the goosebumps." Her speech, slurred by obviously too much alcohol (and the white powder on her nostrils explained her linguistic speed), was loaded with less-than-subtle innuendo and rather blunt flirting.

Examples of her side of the conversation somehow managed to stick in my mind, despite my own intoxication...

You know, I've always wanted to fuck a guy in the library...

...You're sweet. Can I take you home?

Sometimes a girl just needs an older guy...

Aww. It's Valentine's Day weekend. You need a sweetie...

I'll bet you read lots of girls bedtime stories...

Wow.

Original.

* * * *

I think she thought I was smiling and looking away rather impishly because I was somehow planning how to get this fucking hot girl home for a night of drunken, pointless, sneak-out-before-dawn sex.

Actually, I think I remember laughing to myself about how I'd wished I'd told her I was a mechanic, just to hear her inanely chatter on about lube jobs, tune-ups, and body work.

The whole "conversation" lasted maybe ten minutes, the time it took me to smoke my first Marlboro and to get two-thirds of the way through the second. Aside from answering her questions, I didn't get in more than maybe 20 words.

I made a polite exit while she answered her cellphone.

* * * *

Back inside, I returned to my seat at the bar.

One friend of mine, who I'll call Lao Tse, stirred his umpteenth cocktail slowly.

He seemed annoyed that the bar was packed, filled with what seemed to be the most preppy of the preppy J. Crew U. crowd.

"I guess its good _____ gets a busy last shift," Lao Tse said. "But I really wish there weren't so many fucking annoying people."

I looked around the bar. The place was packed with groups of girls, whole tables' full of single fucking hot girls like my intoxicated marketing major.

Yup.

The weekend before fucking Valentine's Day in Oxford Fucking Ohio.

* * * *

I don't do drunk girls. I don't do stupid women. And I don't tend to go for the same fucking hot girl personality types that many male bar patrons typically seek out around these here parts.

If one were to hunt through the Zenfo Pro archives, one will find numerous references to these concepts in numerous blog posts. Offline, I've had numerous conversations about these concepts with close friends for more than a decade. These personal rules of sexual engagement have been carefully crafted over years' worth of bad relationships and one-night mistakes, through way too many trials and excessive numbers of errors.

So it shouldn't shock anyone who reads this, anyone who's known me for some time, that the revelation I had last night, while doing shots of Johnny Walker, has been a long time in the making.

I'm finally comfortable admitting that I've become a Woman Snob.

And I'm damned proud of it, too.

Wow, I thought, sitting there at the bar, just admitting that makes me feel so much more at peace with the world.

Or maybe it was that Long Island Iced Tea I put down before the Johnny Walker.

It's amazing the types of revelations one can have while completely blitzed, sitting on a bar stool and staring into a room full of female bar patrons that one wouldn't even consider going home with unless they could prove they weren't just another fucking hot girl.

I felt like naked ol' Archimedes, ready to streak across the countryside, screaming Eureka! at the heavens.

* * * *

Another friend, this one I'll call Zhuang Tse, had told me a story about a woman earlier in the evening, a tale about woman he'd finally decided to cut out of his social life. The woman in question, over the course of their friendship, had been willing to basically use him to get whatever she wanted without giving anything of any substance in return.

While in the midst of my revelation, while staring into the mirror behind the bar, I noticed for the first time that my intoxicated marketing major was sitting at a table behind me.

The fucking hot girl had gotten over my abandonment. I watched, in drunken amazement, as she snuggled close to another guy, a guy who looked like just another typical male undergrad, fresh from a weeks' worth of classes as the Local U.

Well, somebody was getting laid, I guess. And somebody else was getting what they wanted out of another guy.

Not only is it amazing the types of revelations one can have while intoxicated, but it's also amazing the profound parables a 21st century Zhuang Tse can tell without even knowing it.

I don't think I've ever been so excited to watch somebody else stagger out of a bar with some fucking hot girl instead of me.

Let that guy develop his own rules of sexual engagement, figure out for himself that dumb women are just about as worthless as lead shoes in quicksand, that drunk women are just as likely to puke on or piss in the bed as be memorable, that all of those pointless one-night things tend to lead to more questions than boastful exclamations.

Somebody else can catch the Clap for a change. I gave that up when I was an undergrad myself.

* * * *

I looked over at Mr. Zhuang and Mr. Lao. They were both chatting away with our female bartender friend, cracking jokes and bemoaning the fact that she still had a few hours left until she could count out her drawer, could call it a night here in Oxford Fucking Ohio for the last time.

The woman behind the bar looked at me and smiled, her silver necklace swimming across her Hustler tank top as she laughed, her cheeks glowing and bright and...

For fuck's sake, dude, you're not checking ______ out, are you?

Whoa dude. You really are fucking drunk. Better slow the fuck down, chief.

Remember that time back in college, that time when you accidentally hit on that riot grrl deejay friend of yours by mistake? Remember how you woke up in her apartment, only to find out that she and a few other female friends decided to get their revenge by letting your drunk ass strip naked and pass out drunk in a pink Hello Kitty bathrobe? Dude, ya gotta focus and remember how ugly you look in an avocado mud mask...

Women can be merciless when their guy friends get a little, er, confused.

I laughed out loud at the memory, hoping to God that ______ didn't notice, that my twin philosopher drinking buddies hadn't noticed, either.

Life's not too shabby, dude. Just think... if you hadn't had a revelation tonight, you might've ended up like that fucking preppy dude who left with the fucking hot chick.

Drunk girls. Dumb...drunk...girls.

There's nothing empowering, nothing invigorating, nothing that screams out for the lust of life in the temporary embrace of skanky women.

And man, you're just smart enough to realize that Empowered, independent, confident women just ooze with the lust of life, nothing more invigorating than waking up next to someone you can talk to, someone you can learn from and can share in the exploration of the universe.

Err...

Dude, you're really, really drunk.

* * * *

After last call, after wishing one of the few Fucking Hot Women (yes, there are WOMEN here) in Oxford Fucking Ohio a good night and reminders to call when she gets a chance, Mr. Zhuang, Mr. Lao, and I made our way to Zhuang Tse's condo.

We kept drinking and philosophizing until the wee hours of the morning as we watched reruns of Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, ate pizza, and drank tequila.

I made my way home just before sunrise. My apartment was cold but welcoming, quiet and, most importantly, fucking hot girl - free.

* * * *

I stretched out on my bed, enjoying the peace offered by its emptiness, its lack of baggage and drama. I thought about the various women who've spent the night here with me, the ones since I adopted my steadfast rules.

I've had some of the best sex in the history of this goddamned town with some of the most intelligent women I've ever known. Call me a bastard if you must, but I'm damned proud of that.

I've had debates about evolutionary theory naked. I've listened as a nude pixie compared the stories I tell to Frank Miller and Mike Mignola graphic novels. I've argued against the historical importance of the Beatles, read Walt Whitman aloud, and gotten lessons in the influence of French designers on American women's fashion.

Once, I had an Italian woman wrestle me to this very bed because I refused to accept her theory that Americans were more responsible for the plight of Sub-Saharan Africa than the continent's former European would-be conquerors. I've lost shirts to women who claimed they couldn't kiss me hard enough, simply because I told them that watching them think was sexy.

Sure, there have been a few mistakes. But, well, thanks to having even the simplest of standards, those mistakes are getting fewer and farther between as time progresses.

Dude, you really are a hot fucking guy sometimes. Downright sexy. Way too sexy to waste any time with fucking hot girls, the young, horny, drunk, and stupid.

Okay, so sue me.

I realize that's a rather arrogant statement coming from me, something that - trust me - feels much more unbelievable writing out than could ever feel reading.

What can I say? I really am a Woman Snob.

# # #

THE OXFORD (FUCKING OHIO) DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS

"You know... a muffin top."

- A colleague's wife, caught off-guard by my
not knowing a particular slang term.

Colleague in question demonstrated said terminology with hand motions and references to the decline of Hooters.

* * * *

"A buddy of mine from my old unit called last week and asked me if we'd ever be forgiven for the things we've done. I told him, no, we wouldn't. But I'm sure we'll both be on point, guarding the gates of hell forever."

- The Cop.

No explanation needed.

* * * *

"I don't think I could hook up with guys sober. They don't like me unless I'm drunk."

- Female, Local U. Undergraduate.

The ZenFo Pro advice to anyone who feels this way? Don't do that. The guys women end up "hooking up with" while intoxicated may provide momentary creature comfort, but, well, they don't respect you. And respect is so much more important than a few nights' worth of what amounts to worthless sex.

* * * *

"Drunk bitches rock. I could go home with a different one every fucking night."

- Male, Local U. Undergraduate.

Why the hell would some idiot feel the need to yell this beneath my apartment window at two in the morning? And how insecure does a woman have to be, in order to become one of this idiot's "Drunk Bitches?" So glad I'm no longer a student.

* * * *

"I keep a jar of pickled herring in the refrigerator for when I'm feeling stupid. It's the Omega 3s - keeps you smart."

- A friend, reacting to the ZenFo Pro's salmon addiction.

Yep. Would rather eat the salmon than pickled herring.

* * * *

"Ninjas. Midget ninjas. They live above the ceiling tiles. Vicious bastards."

- The ZenFo Pro, explaining his library's security system, to a patron who almost believed him.

* * * *

"Blogs have voices & styles, much like magazines. Nobody is screaming that House Beautiful isn't covering the war in Iraq - and no one seems to care that Time magazine doesn't offer decorating tips."

- The Well-Dressed Librarian

- # # #-