Let's continue to get this over with

In my last post, I set the stage for a night of intrigue and woe. I assure you, at least one of those will continue to be involved in tonight's post.

For those of you who don't remember and/or can't scroll down to the next post, here's a basic outline of what we've got so far:

• I meet a girl.
• She seems nice.
• We go to the theater.
• She brings a vodka Red Bull.
• She tries to interact with the actors.
• I am mortified.
• I am still on this date.

Yeah, at the end of the theater thing, she was apologizing and, weirdly, trying to clean up? If that's her drunk habit, maybe she's not a terrible roommate. That seems like a solid gig.

"No, man, just one more layer of grout. I'm cool, man. I'm cooooooBLURGHL."

One thing I did NOT mention is that she apparently went into Anne Bonny's dressing room and was apologizing. Anne Bonny being one of the nicest people ever was apparently pretty gracious. I found this out several weeks later during one of the early recountings of this tale. It adds something to it, I guess? (Mostly, it adds that I apparently can't tell when somebody is drunk.)

Anyhoo, we finally get outside the theater. I suggest that we get a drink- I know a nice place in walking/driving distance that does very good cocktails and has a solid ambiance. Also, it's a public place where people will likely be less concerned about a girl affecting a southern accent and trying to do her best Scarlett O'Hara impression. Despite being, you know, blonde and not Vivien Leigh.

Note: We do not consider Vivien Leigh to be in any way insane. Please don't smash that glass in our faces, Ms. Leigh.

She... mumbles something and starts walking? Well, okay, I got her out here, so I suppose I should get her back home. Maybe we can get that drink. (You may have noticed that I think a drink will somehow fix things. I still have apparently managed to not pick up on how sloshed this girl is. You could probably sell her at a 7-11, she's so sloshed.)

WOCKA WOCKA. That's right, puns are back.

She starts walking around the block. I assume that we're going back to my car so either drive us to the bar or drive her home. She is surprisingly quick for someone so inebriated and in heels (okay, fine, wedges. What am I, the shoe guru? The shoe-ru?)

"Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Just like a good pair of pumps."

We arrive at my car. I unlock it with my fob, making a nice series of beeps. She keeps on walking.

"Hey, um, this is my car? How about that drink?"

"NO IT'S NOT."

"I'm pretty sure it is? I made it beep and everything."

By this point, she's about fifty feet ahead of me and may have responded, but I can't tell. I proceed to give my car another couple of beeps to lock it and walk after her.

Around this time is when we enter the morose part of the evening. She stops on a street corner, turns to me, and says, "We have done nothing." Well, slurs. Text doesn't really convey how bad this is. I remember it as how Robot Chicken portrays Lindsay Lohan.

She says this a few times, and we keep walking. The thing about the area where we are is that there are lots of old-timey churches. Historical churches, you see. And what do historical churches have? Well, they have historical cemeteries. You may see where this is going.

She picks one in particular and says, "In that cemetery... there is a maaaan... who fought in the American Revolution... who served... on the Continental Congressss... who was the governorrrrr.... of South Carolina..." I'm not sure why she's channeling Lou Gehrig, but whatever. I nod and smile and inquire again about that drink we were going to have before we found a bunch of dead old white guys.

"We have done nothing," she continues. "This man only lived to be 35, and he did all of these things. We have done nothing." She seems to think that she's saying something particularly profound. I'm not particularly impressed and am beginning to wonder what I've gotten myself into.

That's right. It wasn't the vodka Red Bull, nor was it the general what-the-fuckery in the theater that set off any red flags. This isn't even setting anything off that hard- it's just making some part of me kiiinda think that maaaaaaaaybe there's a slight possibility that I should have gone for another night.

At this point, I guess she notices that I'm a bit blasé about this whole thing. She decides that she's going to show me this dude's mausoleum. I'm sure it's a perfectly lovely mausoleum, but I'm not overly interested in graveyards on the best of days, much less in the middle of the night. She, however, is intent on getting in. Thankfully, the gate is locked.


And then she notices the ghost tour. Using a surprising degree of reasoning, she surmises that the ghost tour had to have gotten in somehow. Since this door is locked, there must be another door which must be UNlocked.

"Good show, drunk brain."

Great, she's off. She's already through the gate trying to glom onto a ghost tour. Because, you know, the guides haven't been trained to deal with folks who just appear and try to get a free ghost tour. I explain this to her (following it up, of course, with, "How about we get that drink?"), and it seems like she's responding! Unfortunately, responding seems to mean crouching down in a somewhat shadowy portion of the cemetery to (I can only imagine) wait out the ghost tours. Because there's nothing suspicious about a blonde lady in a pastel sun dress squatting by a tree in a cemetery. You see that all the time around these parts! It's just some local color!


I, of course, squat down next to her. After about five minutes of prodding, she finally decides that maybe we should leave. FINALLY. Let's get out of her and get that dri- THE EXIT IS NOT IN THAT DIRECTION.

Yep. She went for the mausoleum. She gives a few more tearful "We have done nothing"s while caressing the friggin' mausoleum. And, yes, caress is probably the best verb for what she did to it.

Emma Stone, you wouldn't run into graveyards on the first date, would you? That's really a third date sort of thing.

To her credit, when we leave the cemetery (which, of course, really knocks out any credit she could get), she apologizes and explains that it's the anniversary of one of her friends' deaths and that she's pretty sad because of it. Well, that makes a lot of sense. HOW ABOUT THAT DRINK, HAHA?

We step out of the cemetery onto the street, and while I'm getting my bearings to figure out how to get back to my car and get us to the bar, she sees an Irish pub and is off like a shot. I take a quick look for Nately's whore before I trundle off after her. We get some drinks, have a seat, and the conversation begins! What sort of conversation, you ask? Well (BULLET TIME):

• "I don't need men. I just need a vibrator." I give what I think is a sound rebuttal to this, but nothing doing.
• There was something about a monkey/devil on your back? This gets important later. FORESHADOWING, DEAR READERS.
• She does this weird sort of reverse CPR thing where she tries to give me water by kissing me? I mean, words just fail.

Okay, fine, the bullet time really wasn't necessary. But, hey, we're talking, and things (I think) are going pretty great. (These are actual thoughts at the time. Let it never be said that I don't think the best of people.) Hey, we're even talking about Archer again! She identifies as Lana.

Lana, for those of you who don't watch Archer, looks like this:


They also make jokes about her hands. They're apparently really big. My date, on the other hand, has average sized hands for a skinny pale blonde. Let's see... skinny, pale, Archer character... oh, Cheryl.

For those of you who don't see the mistake coming, here's a good image for Cheryl.


Yeah. And, of course, I think it's a good idea to mention this in a joking tone, because banter.

Then she has a hand around my neck.

Let's review. She talked in the theater. She ran into a cemetery. She is currently choking me in a public place. Geez, what part of any of this sounds like "pretty great?" How do you even react to that?

Well, I know now, and apparently my reaction is to put on my best, "Really? What do you think you're actually doing?" face and stare. I can stare for a good long time.

Emma Stone, you are my spirit animal for this date.

Eventually, she lets go, and she heads to the bathroom. I have now made a critical error in turning my back to her return route. On a normal date, this would not be a critical error. I mean, who stares at the angle from which his or her date will return from the restroom? Creepers, that's who, and I gave that up in first year of med school high school.

Did you know they can forcibly remove you from a delivery room?

On this date, though, this is a mistake. Apparently taking my lack of eye contact as a sign of weakness, she comes up behind me, throws her arms around me, says, "How's this for the devil on your back?" (LIKE I SAID, FORESHADOWING), and tries to go Mike Tyson on my ear. Again, I do my best nonplussed stare. After she lets go, I drive her home and the date is pretty much over. There was some weirdness back at her place that, honestly, would probably make David Lynch say, "That's a bit fucked up." But we won't go into that, because it's late and I'm tired.

Anyway, you'd think I'd maybe give the classic "Oh, yeah, I'll totally call you" and then not call, right? This was certainly a shitshow. No reason to go back for-

Oh. Yeah. This is an idiot we're talking about. I figured that, hey, it was an off night. If we were to start on a level playing field (i.e., both of us sober), then things might be a bit more reasonable. She was a nice girl, after all, and we seemed to get along. Maybe if we picked a venue that wasn't so specialized (because, I mean, who knows how to behave in theaters anymore? Do they even exist in this era of Xanga and Myspace?) things could go well.

Well, despite my attempts at securing a second date, because I don't get the whole "pattern recognition" thing, I was rebuffed. Why, you ask?

Well, near as I can tell...

"Say, Olga, where is the gun I left on the mantle?" -Anton Chekov

No love for Speedos? Good riddance.