I was never much a bachelor. You would have noticed me had you been up at the rail on one of the few occasions I ventured into a singles bar: I was the one in the parka, looking like I just stopped in to smell the leather. I never mastered the art of small talk; maybe it was my tone or something, but my "What are you drinking, there?" usually got a "What's it to ya?" Even when I was afforded a civil "Harvey Wallbanger," it was usually with such perfunctory sideways glance (a limited rotation of the sternocleidomastoid that the liquor soothed? -- but they couldn't all have sore necks) that it was clearly not worth discussing, let alone escalating into the possible levels of interpretation of the Little River Band's latest. In short, I always felt like leaning over to a woman and saying, "Can I leave you alone?"

Now that I leave the same woman alone, my singular attempts seem like they never happened, which was pretty much the case. Still, on the rare occasions when I'm left unattended for a weekend, I must admit to once in a blue moon slipping out into the nightlife to alienate the young crowd by playing entire Deep Purple CDs on the jukebox, or riveting on a married couple at the bar having an interaction so familiar that, should she excuse herself, I could stand in for her until she got back, were it not likely to be misinterpreted.

I am undeniably more approachable, now, though: When I go to the Crystal Corner, say, the young bucks regularly flash me the "V" and say "Peace," respectful of the fact that I'm the one the girls leave their coats and purses with when they get up to dance (sensing, when they smell Bounce instead of Stetson, I can be trusted). Since they never carry more than a few dollars, though (what -- does somebody buy their drinks?), there's not really much in it for me, so, once their articles are safely claimed, I put the old hood up and pad my way home to catch the tail end of Nightline and maybe bake up a batch of Toll House chips (Consuela's favorite).