It’s open for debate exactly why we stop wearing our wedding rings out every night. Safe to say, moral obligations are not part of the equation. Nor any doubts whatsoever about their effectiveness. If not quite horrified themselves, Pete and the other naysayers can shoot this down all they want, but there’s no doubt in some of our minds about the effectiveness of this strategy.
“Hell yes it works,” is Dylan’s candid yet levelheaded assessment, as he and I are discussing our next moves. “I feel like anyone who doesn’t believe that is in denial. Or else they don’t get how these chicks actually think.”
This isn’t to say we haven’t encountered some snags with this approach, however. Though it undoubtedly works as an angle for picking up chicks — as Dylan has said, he would argue that one to his deathbed — the one question we haven’t resolved with these wedding rings is what to do with these girls next. They lose interest if you magically break up with the “wife,” but they aren’t responding to blatant come-ons, either, our plans for making them our “mistress.” It’s like there is some third mode we need to find here, and we haven’t managed that.
Not only that, but you would have to keep them completely segregated from most of your friends anyway. The reason for this is that your story would soon collapse otherwise. Someone would eventually unravel the entire ball of wax without even meaning to. Either that, or, call it sabotage or what you will, but the idea that your comrades’ girlfriends were going to play along with this, that’s a preposterous notion, to put it mildly.
I wind up discussing this with Aaron, of course, albeit in roundabout fashion, the next time we meet for happy hour. The outing begins with a highly entertaining rundown of his last few dates, spanning an equal number of women. He’s frustrated by a certain pattern he’s detected, in that all these nights conclude in nearly identical fashion. Winding up back at her apartment afterwards, which would seem to imply things are going well — and indeed, he historically has a much better track record at sealing the deal faster and at a greater success rate than the rest of us do — except as they kick back on the couch to watch a movie or whatever, here comes her goofy ass canine clomping onto the scene.
“These dogs are the ultimate cockblockers,” Aaron declares, a statement so unexpected though pithily brilliant that a startled cackle escapes me.
“Really?” I question, once the laughter subsides, “how’s that?”
He screws up his face into a cynical grimace and explains, “eh, well, you know, you try to put your arm around her, here’s this fucking dog in between you. Try to make out with her, same deal. Of course, they know this, which is why they have the fucking dog in the first place.”
“You think so?”
“Oh yeah, dude. Totally. And it isn’t like, some big protection thing or whatever. They’re doing this shit on purpose to, like, fuck with you. I’m telling you, man, it’s the latest trend. They’re trying to see how long you’ll sit there through this horseshit, her baby talking and petting the goddamn dog constantly, every time you try to put the moves on her. Who’s a good boy? You are, aren’t you? Yes you are! Yes you are! And then glancing over at you with this little smirk just to see how you’ll react.”
“Wow. That’s funny. Can’t say I’ve experienced that one,” I admit, but then consider, “although, now that you mention it, Brooke has this gigantic ass dog…”
“See dude! That’s what I mean! Yeah well anyway last night I finally went out with that Layla from work and it was the exact same thing. We get back there to her place and what do you know, she’s got some stupid ass golden retriever, jumping up on the couch between us.” He throws up both hands and shakes his head, concludes “after about a half hour of that shit, I’m like, fuck this, nothing’s ever gonna happen, I need to get the hell out of here.”
Now we’re both cracking up, although his is tinged with knowing bitterness, the sour notes of rueful experience. “Eh, well, maybe that’s the first thing we need to be asking them, then, right off the bat,” I suggest, “you got a dog? Oh yeah? And would you say this is an indoor or an outdoor mutt, mostly?”
He offers another dark, gallows humor tinged chuckle and shakes his head. “No shit,” he says. Then, switching gears, offers, “so anyway…how’s married life treating you?”
And so I begin a rundown of our latest efforts, with Brooke and the others. To which he offers insightful color commentary throughout. He is secretly much more conservative than most would guess, concerning his tactical approaches with these ladies, is a big proponent of doing things as smoothly as possible, at least as far as what works for him personally. Pretending to be married doesn’t quite mesh with that style. Still, this isn’t to say he disagrees with us. Much like the ass smacks, he can appraise the validity of these approaches in completely neutral, objective fashion, even if never about to employ these maneuvers himself. Therefore regarding these wedding rings, he too is wholly convinced that such an approach is likely to succeed, if you play it right.
“I feel like these girls are all over the map,” he says, as we are discussing not just the wedding ring business but dating life in general. “They don’t know what they want, but at the same time, it’s your fault that they can’t figure it out.”
“Well, I mean, the thing is, they’ve got like four or five conflicting viewpoints in their heads, all at the same time,” I tell him, “what they’re telling their friends they want, what they’re telling themselves they want, what they’re telling guys they want, what they secretly believe they want, but then what they’re actually doing…these all might be completely different!”
Wagging a finger at me as he nods and considers it, Aaron declares, “you know what, you are really onto something there. That’s a great point, Sid. I like that. I need to remember that.”
So, yes, they can sit around over their Cosmos and their tapas, clicking their tongues and agreeing that this such-and-such is monstrous…even while, in practice, swarming to men with rings on their fingers. They can stand there and tell you with a straight face that they don’t go for married guys — and believe it! — as they then proceed to sleep with you later that same night. But then, yes, as Aaron has alluded to, this is all somehow your fault, that they are so confused. Either that or you were just such a smooth talking con man that they couldn’t possibly resist your charms. Although this too would also be our fault.
As we are wrapping up this concept and exploring others, for the time being anyway, I guess my final verdict on this wedding ring business is that it absolutely pulls in women, yet is best practiced with at most one other wingman who is on the same page as you. Otherwise there are too many complications to iron out. And even then, it probably works far better as a solo stunt, in a totally different city, or else at a place or two in some distant part of your own town where you are guaranteed not to know anybody. If these variables are all met, and you consistently stick to a simple story and a laidback, breezy approach, then you are just about guaranteed success.
Having said that, like anything else out here in the dating world, it still requires a mountain of time and effort. Magic bullets don’t exist, it’s just that some are more powerful than others. And so it is that while Joe tells us we are truly crazy now, and there’s no way in hell he’s dressing up as a cowboy, Dylan and I are eager to move onto the next outrageous stunt. It’s something else we’ve also talked about for years, and remain equally convinced will prove effective, while at the same time introducing us to a potentially different crowd.
He and I laugh ourselves silly all over again picking out these costumes, on a sunny yet cold Saturday afternoon, with designs on wearing this garb out on the town later this same night. We hit one country & western apparel outlet for the planned major purchases, although settling for merely a couple fancy belt buckles upon viewing their outrageous prices. Thus shift instead to hitting some nearby thrift stores, where we soon obtain our expected ten gallon hats, leather boots, rhinestone buttoned shirts, nearly new and much more affordable.
Dylan is referring to this stunt, or more specifically our destination(s) for enacting it, as Back Ass America. And surely, this is part of the thrill, this opportunity for examining a seldom seen though surely fascinating subculture. However, it’s true that we both think the whole cowgirl look is extremely hot, and hope to strike a backyard oil well in this regard. As far as our outfits are concerned, though all the aforementioned pieces are great, as well as the dark, tight jeans we cram ourselves into, the best part of my costume is that belt buckle, a large silver oval depicting a rodeo rider with one hand in the air, hanging onto his bull for dear life with the other. As we prepare to leave and climb into Dylan’s truck, I glance down at said cowboy, tilting it up toward the light, as I laugh and wordlessly ask him, are you saddled up, dude? This is bound to be one bumpy ride.
We already have our first hitching post in mind, too, of course: Pardner’s, a hotel bar not too far from where I now live. Though never visited, it’s been on our radar for months. Cowboy establishments come in a few different flavors, among them the line dancing variety, or the weep in your beer hole in the wall, and this one is more well-known for its country karaoke. While neither of us figure to give that angle a spin any time soon, grabbing the mic to belt out a Toby Keith number or something, there’s no doubt it draws that all too crucial female element, whether singing or observing themselves.
And anyway, we already have plenty of concerns, without adding vocal critiques to the mix. Namely wondering if, as we had initially with that wedding ring business, they are going to brand us as frauds the instant we step into the building, in these garish, never before worn outfits. Figuring that this might be too large a bull to lasso, we have if nothing else left the gold bands at home this evening, preferring to focus on one horseshit angle at a time. Still, something about these dude ranch getups seems like they might set you up for open ridicule — whereas anyone suspecting you were bogus about the marriage status would probably just snicker and roll their eyes, it’s easy to envision, say, a table full of cocky ranch hands, kicking back with beers and their boots upon the table, laughing their heads off and telling us to get the fuck out of here.
Yet it appears that these fears are misplaced, at least here in the early going. Breezing into this murky establishment with all the wilted confidence we can muster, he and I make a stately gallop directly to the nearest unoccupied stools, on the closest short side of a suitcase handle shaped bar against the right wall. Nobody even so much as glances our way, so much as we can tell, until the friendly bartender drifts over to take our drink orders. To our relief even he isn’t trifling with the frontier look in the slightest, is just some clean cut looking kid of roughly the same age as us.
Better still, once our eyes adjust to this relative, electric blue gloom, we can see that while a good half of the crowd is indeed dressed up for a good ol’ fashioned hoedown, a sizable portion are not. This would make sense for the simple fact that it’s a hotel bar, considering that those staying here and drifting downstairs for a drink are mostly not going to such extremes. As such even the karaoke offerings skew along these lines, with the country classics or even more modern cuts running neck and neck alongside the pop or rock standards. Although it does seem a good idea to attempt brushing up on country music somewhat, in the future, if we are going to continue trying this.
However, while we halfway expected a secret society here of coded signals and secret handshakes, our fears have thus far proven unfounded. Vaguely meshing from a distance and assimilating with the clientele are two different things, though, so it may take multiple visits to see how this all plays out. Advance scouts sent deeper into this prairie would have helped a great deal, but lacking that, all we have are our own observations. There’s a cute blonde girl in a white cowgirl hat singing some sassy and remotely familiar, female led country tune from the 90s, in the dance floor corner which passes for a stage here. She has a table full of friends who are watching and cheering her on, halfway across this spacious room. But as far as actual people in our vicinity to converse with, those are distinctly lacking.
“I guess maybe we’ll bump into some chicks when we get up to take a piss?” Dylan speculates, “or if they come up to order a drink or something. I mean, do we go up and ask them to dance if a slow song comes on, or what?”
“You think we should tip our hat and say, evenin’, ma’am, when we meet them? Or is that a bit much?” I joke. At least I think I’m joking.
“I don’t know but I pray to God they don’t expect us to know any line dances! If that’s the case then we’re probably fucked…”
“Or would it be square dances? How country is this place?”
As though directly answering this question, an overweight, grubby looking guy wobbles into our midst, wearing just a plain light grey tee shirt and baggy, darker grey sweat pants. Plopping down a couple of chairs around the corner from Dylan, in the second seat on the long side, he holds up his fingers and nods down at our barkeep, then almost immediately strikes up a conversation with us. If not exactly the hoped for result, it might nonetheless move us farther along the spectrum. For one, it’s great to see that even a guy looking this shabby and not the least bit fit for rodeo action has no qualms about fitting in here. Yet also, in chatting with a potential regular, we are inching that much closer to belonging.
This is the thought, anyway. In reality, as this guy introduces himself as Paulie, it turns out that he’s from Youngstown and is just here visiting family. So much for gaining a toehold with the inner circle. However, appearing as though you’re having a great time no matter what is always attractive, we are told, so this can only help — and this is in fact legitimately more entertaining than the two of us staring into our mixed drinks, scanning the room, and straining for conversational material. Particularly as, in pouring us our second, the bartender, Greg, chimes in with our discussions as well.
We must pass the smell test with him as well, which is another encouraging sign. Otherwise — beyond the alcohol, that is, and the distant eye candy — Dylan and I keep ourselves occupied by muttering critiques of every person bold enough to grab the microphone. Most are at least competent, which they are surely aware of, which is why they’ve risked venturing out there to begin with. Or at least, at the very worst, they’ve figured out some angle to make themselves sound non-terrible. Of course, every once in a while you find yourself subjected to someone who’s thoroughly potted and has no idea what he/she is doing, was only prodded into stumbling out there by a friend. But even these trainwrecks are amusing, and it helps that, like any karaoke DJ worth his salt, this guy has wisely cranked up the reverb to the max. Really, the only performances truly earning our snickers are these creased and spotless dudes who saunter up there, dressed to the nines in their gleaming barn dance finest, to belt out some sappy country ballad. You’ve seen these guys, too, with their eyes visibly closed even in the shadow of those massive hats, head tipped back and chin bobbing along in exaggerated fashion with every extremely touching syllable.
“Is this guy for real? Or do you think he’s just as full of shit as we are?” I wonder, concerning the latest specimen, delivering his very special rendition of Garth’s big hit from the Frequency soundtrack.
“I don’t know but if it’s working for him, then I guess it doesn’t matter either way,” Dylan replies.
“You guys are like the Siskel and Ebert of karaoke,” this Paulie character tells us, chortling, somewhere between his second cocktail and his third. A dated reference, maybe, though surely an apt one.
But is this truly what we came here for? Granted, there’s no reason to panic, and it might behoove us to just chill and blend into the scenery until we become one with this scene. Except there’s no harm in appraising the prospects, and pondering, in much lower voices, where we might potentially make our moves. One intriguing candidate is this pale redhead with voluminous freckles, her bright orange hair in long twin braids that fall down both sides of her body. It’s only natural that we refer to her as Pippi Longstocking. Although unable to decide whether she’s truly attractive, or simply compelling. And yet if you find yourself continually looking her way, then whatever the reason, this is an answer in itself. She’s here with a totally average if somewhat heavy brunette — which is also perfectly acceptable — who approaches the bar at one point, and introduces herself as Shelly when she winds up chatting with all three of us.
The blonde in the petite white hat is up singing a few more times throughout our stay. She has a sweet if unremarkable voice, and at one point tackles Nobody by one hit phenom Sylvia, a track I remember from my parents’ own extremely distant country phase. This woman — the blonde, that is; I’m not sure about Sylvia — has a cute face, and although slightly chunky, damn, there’s something about the way these prairie lasses cram into a pair of jeans that is truly a jaw dropping sight. As she looks slightly younger than us, I’m not sure how she even knows this song, but am hoping we eventually have a chance to discuss this in detail.
Paulie is telling us something about being in town for his birthday, that the family is throwing him a party. Although suspecting there’s more to the story than that, or even that it’s 100% bullshit considering that he’s here alone, we don’t know or care enough to press. And who are we, anyway, to call someone out on a fraudulent cover tale.
Such distractions aren’t just great on their own, however. Much like these other props, external focus points keep our attention diverted elsewhere, and in the case of us men out here on the prowl, it also prevents one from merely leering all night at girls. So long as this clowning doesn’t become your only or even primary aim, and you keep your end goal in sight, this can also assist your cause. Providing you don’t find yourself talking about Charles Barkley or habanero peppers all night.
This approach hits nearly immediate paydirt, too, if not quite for us. The next time Shelly approaches the bar, she talks Paulie into dueting with him, as he soon slurs his way alongside her more competent rendition of I Got You Babe. The two of them only met an hour ago, yet it seems like there’s a strong chance he will wind up taking her back to his hotel room tonight. Score one for the apparent good guys.
“This karaoke crap’s pretty cheesy, but if it gets you laid…” I observe.
“I was just thinking the same thing,” Dylan concurs with a nod, then concedes with a sigh “I guess this could be another bullshit angle to look into. Get up there and pretend like we’re reeeeeeeeeeally into this stuff.”
Yet unlike the marriage experiments, nothing of note really happens during this season’s first big cattle drive. We have seen just enough to warrant continuing forward with the experiment, though, a smattering of solid points to rally around. Like how somewhere along the line, we wind up meeting a sharp, classy looking, inky blank haired stable hand named Betsy, who’s probably in her early 30s. She leaves here before us, on the arms of some other dude, but turns and offers us a huge smile along with a finger shaking wave as they’re heading out the door.
As though needing to cleanse ourselves of whatever trace elements this scene may have left upon our outrageously dressed souls, Dylan and I stop at another new place on the way home, Club 151, to shoot some pool in a normal old boring and decrepit bar. Though there’s nothing we can do about the remainder of our outfits, for example these reddish brown leather boots of mine that are a little too small and already hurting my feet, we are able to leave the ten gallon hats in his truck, as well as the unnecessary belts with their garish buckle — unnecessary because these black jeans are plenty tight enough anyway. We don’t meet anyone here, but this is essentially the point. Especially and predictably considering we did after all leave the wedding rings at home.
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