Robots Make People Happy

Maybe I’ve completely lost touch with the universe, but I’m nearly certain that Usain Bolt is a machine created by the universal panel for peace.

First, the machine part. This is pretty easy to prove. I, for example, run 4 or 5 times a week. I don’t over-exert myself (I’m probably out there for 30 minutes or so, and that includes a calisthenics routine akin to what an 80 year-old retiree in Arizona would do in the park). My diet consists of sale items at the grocery store. I probably drink too much, and my lack of commitment to difficult tasks is probably limiting my progress. All things considered (I gave NPR a $2 donation out of guilt for writing that), I reckon I’m in relatively good shape. Despite my attempts at staying above the curve (I even bought a yoga mat a few weeks ago to, uh, do yoga I guess) I will never be able to run anywhere near as quickly as Bolt.

He’s officially the fastest man ever to live on Earth, right? Sure nobody kept track of these things back in the day, but they also didn’t have trainers, pumas, frictionless bodysuits, or performance enhancing drugs back then. I don’t quite understand how, as time goes buy, these records keep on getting beat. Does this mean that eventually, a man will be able to run 100 meters in an infinitesimal amount of time? (I should say that I’ve been economizing way too much this week, so maybe my worries are completely pointless, but it’s fun to think about).

So, ok, he has to be a machine. Now, point 2, I think he was made by a group of well wishers in a constant struggle to keep all of the world’s ills at bay (bay? is that really how you spell that type of bay? is it literal? like, I’ve hopped in my boat and am going off to the distance and they are being held at the edge of the bay?). Here’s why I think this. Over the past decade, after the tremendous fun of the 1990s has shattered to pieces, everyone in the world hates each other and themselves. How better to cheer everyone up than to create an athletic phenom?

His last name is Bolt. What the hell are the odds that someone from the Bolt family (how many can there be?) would become the fastest man in the world? Pair that with a name that has been associated with evil totalitarianism as well as unprecedented democracy (I know it’s not spelled the same, but most people can’t spell well, so phonetically, it’s the same). Usain Bolt was obviously created to make the world happy….to make the world get along again. Everyone in the world can like this guy.

The thing is, I think it worked. Maybe it’s my complete isolation in the uncomfortably semi-urban Pacific Northwest, but everyone seems to be getting along much better than they were a year ago. Granted, a year ago I was in London, where everyone hates everything. Either way, I’m sort of glad Bolt was created. In fact, I sort of can’t wait till we all start hating each other again. Who knows what kind of sports start we’re in store for next? Homer Kim? Muqtada Hatrick?

This was really lame, I’m sorry, but I like to think the world is capable of producing robots…robots that make everyone feel better about everything.

My Departure into the Abyss of Online Dating

So, I think enough time has past now for me to describe my sole experience with match.com. I joined this ridiculous service several weeks ago for the reasons I described in a previous post. My hopes were to find someone with relatively similar interest that had a similarly difficult time finding someone with said same similar interests. As luck would have it, there isn't a single person within 45 miles of Eugene that subscribes to this service with said like and dislikes, turn ons and turn offs, specified eyecolors, heights, negligible religious preferences, and drinking habits. I am apparently the only single person that likes the things I like.

Despite e-mailing 12 different women that sort of fit into the category of "my matches" I have had only 1 response. That one response was from a Costa Rican divorcee that likes her pug a bit too much and salsa dancing even more (I'm skeptical of people that like their pets a lot, and I find salsa dancing to be a chore...if we're going to sleep with each other lets just do it, no need to simulate the experience on a sweaty dance floor with miserable music in front of several other awkwardly "open to the experience" couples....too many pleated khaki pants on salsa dance floors if you ask me).

Anyway, the day i signed up, a seemingly darling minx holding a blowtorch "winked" at me. I decided to cut the virtual suggestions and sent her an email. We wrote back and forth a couple times, even had a 30 minute phone conversation before deciding to meet up for a drink.

She got there before me despite my being 5 minutes early. She sat at the bar. It was a pizza place. Much more of a restaurant than a bar (there were 7 stools, 5 facing the bar and 2 off to the side at an obtuse angle from where we ended up sitting). Upon my arrival, she seemed disappointed, the sort of look I imagine people give when they go to Hardees or Carl Jr.'s after seeing their commercials only to be given just another fast food burger that will inevitably give them heart burn, diarrhea, and low self esteem.

I tried all I could to engage, ENGAGE, her in conversation. It was one-sided to say the least. She gave me nothing but one-word answers to some of the most compelling questions uttered in the last decade. I gave her ridiculously fertile fodder to inquire about (while not seeming over-confident in the lest). I mean, come on! I save the world from environmental peril for a living. I just moved here from London, LONDON! My parents are Greek immigrants. I was in a mother effing band. I wear glasses. I tend to not eat meat. I paint portraits of historical thinkers. Give me a break. Seriously. Nothing? She says she's 29, but I speculate that she's much older. Either that or the threat of skin cancer never persuaded her to wear sun screen. She lives with her parents in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Her car doesn't have AC (like, it's not broken, it was just built without it).

After 2 beers and a rather lovely conversation with the old couple sitting in the adjacent bit of the bar about the quality of McDonald's sundaes I decided it was time to ask for the bill. Did I mention she was missing a tooth? Yeah, a canine. Top left. One would think that she would strategically position herself so that I wouldn't notice it, but now, it was in my face (like, I could see it all night, it wasn't literally in my face, I would never get close to that thing...it could have been a bacterial infection or something....I don't need that).

When the bill came, I counted to 10 in my head. 1.....2......3.....4.....5.....6.....7.....8.....9.....10. Nothing. NOTHING! Not a hint of fiscal responsibility. She had to have known I was having a miserable time. By making no proactive gesture toward conversation I can't assume she was having a miserable time. I can just assume that she, in general, doesn't care about conversation (maybe she was just hoping to shack up with me.....I doubt it....not with that missing tooth....). Anyway, she was obviously not intending to pay for the wine she drank or the dessert she insisted on ordering (it was ice cream, not soft serve, the hard stuff, and I have sensitive teeth, I only had like a bite, maybe two).

All in all, I paid $40 to have an excuse to go home and get drunk as all hell from my own fridge. I would have rather spent $40 paying someone to make fun of my most vulnerable uncertainties than redo the experience. It was awful and I am furious at match.com for charging me to be able to participate in the event.

To top it off, the woman that is my "top match" has a profile picture with a gun. A handgun. This isn't, like, an ironic handgun. It isn't cute, like how Zooey Deschanel would look if she were holding a gun with her hip clothes and mother effing adorable eyes and aloof smirk. It's for real, like she's about to shoot her ex-husband for being short $5 on the alimony he left in mail box area of the trailer park.

I mean, after reading this, wouldn't you want to date me?