So I just moved to Berkeley a little more than three months ago, and my social life is for shit. Until recently, my internal reaction to that little nugget of truth has been hovering around "whatever," because I've been busy concentrating on other things. Like how small my apartment is (bad), how intensely fab the Bay Area is (good), how bitchin I look naked now that I've been going to the gym with all my newly-realized free time (depends on you), and how I have to conclude that work is going to be Not Fun no matter what I do for a living and I'd better just get used to that fact (eh).

Lately, though, not having any friends is starting to piss me off.

Now, I don't like to sit around and whine about things (I don't LIKE to do it, I'm saying), so, last Friday, I decide to go out and scare up some human interaction. A friend from my previous life in DC impolitely referred to this mission as a "poon hunt," but that seems rather vulgar to me and, really, my goal was to meet a couple of my East Bay neighbors and maybe start a friendship. Would I have resisted if some attractive person -- who I'm sure is very smart and has a fully-integrated personality too -- wanted to take me back to her place, rip off her clothes, and tie me to the bed? Probably not. But that wasn't the main purpose of my mission is the point I'm trying to make.

First stop (7:07 pm): La Strada coffee house on Bancroft, right across the street from UC Berkeley. This seems like a convivial place, and what better way to start a conversation than over a nice cup of joe? So I get my non-fat latte and raisin bran muffin ($3.10) and settle into a table-for-two on the patio. It's a beautiful night and I've got R.E.M.'s "Fall on Me," swirling around in my head (plus a residual buzz from the joint I smoked three hours earlier), so I'm feeling great. Time to just sit back and wait for the babes...um...the friends to come running to my table.

.

.

.

.

Hmm. I guess I'm going to have to do something to get the ball rolling. Then a thought enters my mind that I probably should have repressed: I'm not really very good at this. My family moved from place to place all the time when I was a kid, and I have changed locations myself more than once as an "adult" (let's just use that word and move on, OK?), so I'm not totally unfamiliar with making new friends. I am, however, a little out of practice. When I moved from DC to Key West in 1992, I went with my girlfriend Kathy and she did most of the meeting-and-greeting (she was a god at that sort of thing). Consequently, I was able to glom on to the social circle she created. But now it's Me Against The World; no Kat to pave the way for me. How am I going to be able to do this?

Then I start giving myself a little pep talk: "Jesus, Larry, what are you so worried about? All you do is go up to someone and start blathering -- it doesn't matter what you say in the beginning. Just remember to pay attention to their body language, measure their vibe, react accordingly, and the next thing you know, you and your new pals are slapping each other on the back and planning a fishing trip. Fer crissakes."

Ok, now I'm ready. But whom to approach? One's social circle consists of people of all shapes and sizes, of course, the bold and the beautiful, the good, the bad. The ugly. One chooses one's friends on the basis of strength of character, integrity, personality and wit. Physical beauty is totally irrelevant in this particular decisional calculus, it's true, but why not, as long as I'm approaching a total stranger anyway, start at this table over here where the outrageously cute purple-haired girl is pounding away at her PowerBook?

"What are you writing," I ask.

She looks up. I hear something that sounds almost exactly like "fuck off," but I can't be totally sure because a passing AC Transit bus provided just enough background noise to obscure her words. She goes back to her typing.

Now, I'm faced with a bit of a dilemma here. One the one hand, she's not acting like she wants to be my pal, that's for sure, no matter what she said. But then again, if I just turn around and go, I'm not only a huge loser, but a pathetically easily-discouraged one to boot, and I can't have that.

"I'm sorry, that bus went by and I couldn't quite hear you. What did you say you are working on, if you don't mind my asking?" Now, I was begging for trouble being so tentative like that. If you don't mind my asking. Sheesh! And, dammit, I know that very well. But I was nervous all right? and I forgot.

"Oh," she said with a very sweet smile. "It's a novel. Yeah." Another smile. "I've been working on it off and on for the last three months, and I'm almost finished. I've just got the last chapter and some minor revisions to complete, and I also have to come up with a title. It's not entirely settled yet, but I think I'm going to call it, `THE IDIOT WHO DOESN'T KNOW WHAT FUCK OFF MEANS.'"

"Ah." I pause. "Well." I pause again. "Good luck with that." Bing! I got in the last word. Heh, heh, heh. Secretly, she's regretting her haste because, god knows, she's got to be attracted to me now that I have shown an unflappability that would make Bogart himself envious. But why rub it in? She's made her bed, now let her lie in it. Alone.

I slink back to my table and desperately try to maintain the fiction that I didn't just get shot down in a most brutal fashion. I scan the tables in the vicinity of my personal debacle and nobody appears to be laughing at me directly, but that one fraternity-looking guy might have a smirk showing. Better play it safe and take off. Besides, I've had enough coffee at this point; time for some alcohol.

Second stop (7:52 pm): Blake's on Telegraph Ave. Blake's is a multi-level bar/restaurant where local bands play in the room downstairs. I was here a few weeks ago to see the SF band Train, because I'm pals with the lead singer. Well, I guess I'm more a friend of the lead singer, not actually pals. Really, a friend of a friend, but I drunkenly told him, "dude, sh'your band ish great," and patted him on the back the last time they played here, so now I figure I'm in.

Anyway, the crowd at Blake's is pretty sparse tonight, but it's early, so I take a seat at the bar and order a Guiness Extra Stout. I keep forgetting that I should never order a Guiness at a bar because it takes about 20 minutes before your beer comes. There's such a pouring ritual involved with these things: they fill the glass until the head breaches the top, then they shut off the tap and wait for the head to settle a bit. While it's settling, they wait on other customers, make a few phone calls, cash out someone paying by credit card, do that again because this fucking credit card machine doesn't fucking work and I don't care what the fucking manager says, and sit down and have a smoke. Next, they pour some more beer into the glass, which causes the head to rise again, so they have to shut off the tap and talk to the guy at the end of the bar who's sporting that kind of Xer hair you get when you don't take a shower for three months. Finally, the head settles again, they top it off, and you get your beer. Phew. But whatever. The BoDeans are blasting their own kind of mid-western tunes from the stereo and I'm still feeling pretty good.

But I'm also feeling slightly self-conscious just sitting at the bar so I wander down to the lower level to see what's up there. What's up is really nothing because there are a grand total of three people in the basement, counting the bartender. As I said, the lower level hosts the bands, but they aren't scheduled to go on for another couple of hours, so this is nowheresville. But there are pinball machines and a juke box down here, which gives me something to do. I pump a couple of quarters into the juke box and select some favorites: Sonic Youth, primarily, because it's one of those kinds of machines where you can choose any track on the CD, but I also go retro with some Led Zep, and round it off with everyone's favorite, Nirvana. Time to order another beer ("what pours really quick?") and waste fifty cents on the pinball machine.

Now, I suck at pinball. I always have. But this particular machine presents a Star Wars theme, which I find amusing, and what's fifty cents to a man like me? And guess what I'm doing pretty well. On my first ball, I hit Jabba's Hut three times in a row for 1.5 million bonus point. Woohoo! Next, I shoot the ball through R2D2's, um, opening, and off the left flipper into the Death Star and I've released two extra balls. "Cool Thing," which happens to be pumping over the bar's speakers, exactly matches the rhythm of the three balls as they cascade through the bumpers and by now I've got crazy flipper fingers, I can't hear no buzzers or bells. I do NOT see lights a-flashing, goddammit, I'm playing by sense of smell!

A Cute Girl descends the stairway and settles in at the bar. I'm only peripherally aware of this, of course, because I'm watching the digits counter fall, but I do notice. Presently, she wanders in my direction and starts watching me play. I'm too cool to pay any attention, and besides, I'm playing pinball, so she edges closer. Finally, she abandons pretense and walks right up next to the machine, giving me an encouraging "HI!" She obviously wants me real bad. Well, "HI!" back, baby, but please don't distract me because I'm very cool.

"Hey," she shouts. "R2D2 is bigger than the Death Star! What IS up with that?" To emphasize "IS," she bangs her fist down on the glass, just hard enough, it turns out, to tilt the bastard. Then her boyfriend shows up. He grabs her ass, sticks his tongue down her throat, sneers at me a bit and spirits her away.

Well, that was fun. I go back upstairs and order another beer from the bar. And a shot of tequila. Time to reflect on the evening's events. First, I decide, screw this "find some friends" crap, I want to get laid. Second, it's not looking too good. Third, I'm starting to get a little buzzed here, which, as I am fully aware, is NOT the condition I want to be in when I'm trying to pick up women. For one thing...

Wait a second, why isn't it? Expanded sense of self esteem -- that can only be good. Relaxed inhibitions -- yeah, I like that. Enhanced ability to delay ejaculation -- well, we're possibly getting ahead of ourselves, but, sure, why not? Ok then. One more shot of that delightful Mexican liquor that nowadays seems to come in more varieties than Snapple and then let's go talk to those girls sitting by the window. The blond one just looked over here.

All right, it would probably have been better not to have tripped on the bar stool when I got up, but all is not lost yet. And, granted, having the bartender yell very loudly, "hey, you want to take care of this, loverboy?" because I forgot to pay my bar tab, may not be exactly the thing to give me that extra boost toward success, but I think I can still recover. But now, now that I've bumped into the table where all those pierced guys are sitting, spilling, in the process, two of their four beers...now I'm thinking, let's just bag this. Especially since blondie and her way-too-cute Asian girlfriend are laughing very, very hard.

Third stop (11:23 pm): My apartment. (Actually, I stopped off at The Bison Brewing Company brew-pub before really really calling it a night, but there's nothing to report about that adventure. Plus, my memory of events after leaving Blake's is sketchy at best. Some beer and, I think, another joint were involved).

Third stop (11:23 pm): My apartment. I don't remember. At some point, I feel asleep. When I woke up, I noticed that a Penthouse magazine was on the floor next to my bed, so maybe I got lucky after all. Fuck an A!

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