Cliff Golden
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Posts by Cliff Golden
Why it’s not a good idea to use writing as a pick-up gimmick
I am not a writer, but I often play one in bars. That is to say, sometimes I bring my notebook to drinking establishments and “write” in the hopes of generating interest from a fellow patron (hopefully female), who might inquire into the content of my scribbles.
Scribbles is the key word here – I have practiced the art of illegible chicken scratch lest they see the empty words and discover my fraudulent scheme. Ambiguity is mystery, and that’s what I’m going for. This works better in Los Angeles than in most other cities, because the only writers there are movie writers, and are therefore glamorous and rich as apposed to the lonely, broke, and socially awkward “print” set that resides largely in New York and other depressing cities like Vancouver.
So whenever I’m in L.A. I always bring a notebook fresh stocked with hand crafted scribble and make my way to the singles bar. It’s a crude analogy, but the practice is not unlike fishing.
Yet my most recent trip was a troubling…
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Finally! Time to masturbate!
At long last! That special hour of the night has arrived – no more TV, no more reading, no more folding laundry.
It’s time to masturbate!
Some people choose to do it before showering, right after work, or even during work. Not me. I prefer to make it very last thing I do before falling asleep, serving as a reward for getting through the rigors of the day and a sort of natural sleeping pill.
Let me tell you, this path can be exceedingly difficult and takes a remarkable amount of restraint and discipline, but the reward is well worth it. You see, just as there’s a mental component to making love with a ‘real’ person, there’s a similar mind game I play with myself (ha!) which comes from holding out, all day, until the very last hours of consciousness. Thus, I estimate my orgasm is 11 – 23% better than my contemporaries who masturbate, say, before dinner.
Another benefit to this ‘finish line’ technique is you avoid the typical post-masturbation loneliness and depression, simply…
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I guess I’ll just wait till over-sized belt buckles come back into style
Dammit, happened again. I find myself on the wrong side of a fashion curve – in this case, those over-sized western belt buckles, of which I own at least 135.
Over-sized western belt buckles had a good run, spearheading the neo-western movement with its trusty sidekick, the snap button western plaid shirts. The trend began roughly five years ago; I unfortunately caught on just last year.
In my enthusiasm I went on a spree, snatching up every over-sized belt buckle I came across. My collection includes 13 naked women, 8 Woody Woodpeckers, 3 with my first name (Jim), 14 marijuana leafs, 24 guns, 2 penises (don’t ask), 11 Jack Daniels, 4 Jim Beams, 2 George W Bushes, 3 middle fingers, 1 crow on a telephone wire (very artsy), and many others.
As I proudly displayed my Marlboro belt buckle (one of five) at a bar last week, several of my friends informed me of the trend’s demise. I was defensive, and even punched my friend Steve in the throat (was going for his arm), and…
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Should I stand like this, or like that?
Should I stand like this, or stand like that? Arms folded, giving me an air of stalwart decisiveness, or does it make me appear closed-off, inaccessible, remote? Though isn’t being remote considered sexy, as in “the puzzle” that someone would want to “figure out”?
It’s always a bit awkward at these parties, finding yourself standing alone and are forced to make decisions that might in fact determine if you will find a mate for the night, or, indeed life? Should I eat one of these Cheese Puffs, or will that look corny, as in “the guy standing alone eating the Cheese Puffs”?
Fuck it, I’m going to eat one. Oh Christ, that group of girls is looking, although to be fair they seem to be looking around everywhere. Who chose the food anyway? Couldn’t they think of something sexier than Cheese Puffs? Like something that doesn’t leave a thin layer of neon orange goo on your fingers? Trader Joe’s offers a bevy of frozen options that are both delicious and reasonab –…
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Guest post on Chicago Now
Make your way over to Chicago Now’s sex blog for LITD’s guest analysis on the One Night Stand.
10 thoughts that go through your mind on a bad date
Ah, bad dates. Time slows to a crawl, the drinks seem never to deplete, and the world stops turning. It is, in most ways, the worst kind of hell. Single Girl Blogging captured the essence of it with this story, and below we dig deep into the psyche with actual thoughts that go through your mind:
“Christ, I really am going to be single forever.”
“Please God, please don’t let anyone I know see us. Please please please please.”
“If I could just replace this turd with the hot bartender, everything would be hunky dory.”
“I’m way too hot for him/her.”
“Is this what it takes to have a baby by 33?”
“If he/she was 30% cuter, 10% less annoying, 5% more interesting and 13% more stylish, I would be in a lot less pain.”
“God those chicken wings look good.”
“Missing at this very moment: 30 Rock, Kardashians, the Mets vs the Pirates, and Anderson Cooper. Fuck.”
“No no no! I’ll never settle.”
“Sigh. Fine, I’ll settle.” *
*thought results in marriage…
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Sunday Morning Comin Down, part 3
The final installment of Sunday Mornin’ Coming down (first episode found here, second episode found here). This is part of the Dysfunction Junction series, in which single New Yorkers playing out funny and poignant scenarios.
Dateability in real life: it seems so long ago
Looking at this comic, it’s sad to think how internet dating has denigrated so many of these classic rules. Since a date is just a few clicks away, you don’t have to be alert (panel 1), NOBODY sets people up anymore (panel 3), everyone is looking for the next best thing (panel 5), and we’re pretty much assholes to old people (panel 6). Second of all, I wish people still said stuff like “it is a pleasure!”
Recipe for Disaster part 2: the Accosting
This is the second and final part of this story.
Recipe for Disaster part 2: the Accosting
As we continue on this dark journey, I want to back a bit to the date, pre-barf, during which we discussed writing (she is a writer). I had mentioned my site, Love in the Dumps, which is humor for singles; she seemed genuinely interested and said she would check it out. These were of course the happy hours. As we know from part 1, she got drunk, sick, and embarrassed, thanks to a new set of meds that don’t go down well with Merlot.
After the next-day round of ‘how do you feel’ texts, and later some flirty Facebook chats, I got this message:
The challenge of reconciling one’s creative projects with his personal relationships is well documented, but sister – please. I have a website with satirical, and sometimes R rated (but never X) material. You mix meds with booze on first dates then projectile vomit while your date watches Cops in…
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Recipe for disaster? Just add wine and meds.
It was one of those Internet dates you keep putting off because of the vague premonition of doom surrounding it. Deep in your gut you know it will be a waste of time. But like a gambler throwing down his jack of hearts in the hopes of winning a big hand, you force yourself to do it. Because as anyone who’s done it knows, Internet dating plays upon our weaknesses and addictive nature. It taps our desire to get something for nothing, seduces us with adrenaline rushes from the extreme highs, and taunts us with the carrot of a big reward for small risk. So I threw on some designer jeans, doused myself with nauseating cologne I stole from my 12 year old nephew and stepped out into the crisp New York autumn, rolling the dice once again.
I staked my claim at the bar and ordered a Chilean Carmenere; she arrived five minutes later. Cute by most standards, and definitely cute enough for me, she ordered a Merlot. Our glasses clink, signaling the starting…
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