On Bachelorhood --- Part II

I believe when last we spoke I was in the midst of dispelling the myth that man's fancy for bachelorhood was primarily a product of biological urges (I make this claim but I cannot be actively sure, as my recollections of the last three days are largely dominated by the time I spent looking at pornography.

As it were, I still maintain the point that men do not deign the commitments of matrimony and relationships out of a love for the promiscuities of the single life. Trust me, after the first few times, getting with your roommates' sister just isn't that cool.

The reason men fear the prospect of mating attachment is because we, at some level, know it will rob us of the treasured quality of self-determination.

I have a good friend, we will call him "J" who seriously dates my roommate (not Boots, the girl roommate) who herself is an absolutely lovely girl and dear friend. As for me, I am currently a bachelor, unattached and unmoored to anyplace but where the wind would take me. Look at how we spend our typical Sundays:

J

J wakes up at 9:30 (he had a good night's rest due to his going to sleep when his girlfriend wanted to --- while the rest of us still had 2 hours of playing SEGA and drinking PBR to do). J can't get out of bed because, well, someone has to cuddle with his girlfriend, dammit.

Resigned to staying in bed until his better half is ready to start the day, J lays prone in the "Big Spoon" position, hoping against hope to fall back asleep so that he might pass the time doing something besides reflecting on how badly he has to fart.

Just as the warm embrace of sleep is about to retake him, J's girlfriend stirs.

"Could you please get me a glass of water?" she groggily asks.

J complies, resigned to spending the rest of the morning staring at the cieling until she wakes up.

To be fair to J, he's probably going to get some action this morning, most likely a nice little tug. The flip side of that, though, is the fact that until then he's got to lay in bed with a huge boner --- a boner he feels very self conscious about every time it pokes into his bedmate's thigh.

Afterwards, J & his girl will probably lie in bed a little longer. Then, the'll get up and decide where they're going to brunch. J's first attempt to leave the house will fall flat.

"I'm not going anywhere with you dressed like that. Are you crazy?"

She'll say, as if black cargo pants are ugly.

Then they will go to brunch and J will have to pay for it. Don't get me wrong, I completely support the tradition of the guy paying for dates (Lord knows that in the intricate courtship rituals of our society you girls have to spend your money on all sorts of stupid shit) but this paying for two thing adds up. You don't think the guy you're with could find better uses for that $9.50? Buy two months' supply of toothpaste for his apartment (all men are constantly running out of toothpaste)?? Saving up to finally fix those fucking holes in his work shoes? Sure, women might only make 71 cents for every dollar a man earns, but when you factor in all the shit we buy, it's probably closer to 80.

Following brunch, J's girlfriend will call her friend (who is with her own boyfriend) and they'll all meet up to do something like go shopping for purses.

This brings me to my next sub-point (I don't know if I call it a sub-point because it is derivative of a larger point or because it can't truly be considered a "point"): The more serious your relationship is, the less control you have over who you're friends with. When women want to see their friends and hold social functions they simply bring their boyfriends/significant others/husbands in tow and the awkward social mish-mosh they've created by offering such nonchalant dismissives as "Oh, the boys will be fine. They can just watch the game." As if we are all 3-year-olds. Or worse, pets.

(Things like this show how stunningly obvious it is that women run the world. The 'man of the house' probably envisions himself as "king of the castle" when he is sitting in his La-Z-Boy drinking a beer and "watching the game." Guess what? Bovine, when they're outside grazing and "eating all the grass," they get that feeling too.)

I apologize, things are getting off-course (that wouldn't happen if this blog entry had a girlfriend). To return to the point, J's Sunday unwinds predictably from this point. Maybe he goes to see "The Other Boleyn Girl," maybe he comes home and helps his girlfriend clean the fridge. In any case, it is what it is --- a nice little Sunday.

Compare that with the Sunday of the bachelor.

Hollywood

I wake up at 10:45 a.m. My room smells. Maybe it's because I haven't done laundry, maybe it's because I just machine-gun farted my brains out. Either way, who the fuck do I have to impress?

In any case, I stumble into the living room just in time to catch the final 1/3rd of Meet the Press. It's my lucky day -- Chuck todd has pinkeye!. Now, not only does NBC's political director look just like Murray Hewitt, but now one side of his face is hilariously dominated by a squinty pink orb.

After MTP, I decide I'm going to eat cold pizza and listen to music really loud because . . . . because fuck you, you're not my girlfriend.


Once "Growing On Me" is over I decide I want to go pick up the Sunday paper. I throw on some track pants and a sweet hockey jersey and head out the door. Looking stupid and loving it.

While I'm at the store, I notice something. Yellowtail Riesling is buy one, get one free?! And notjust the normal bitch bottles, but the 1.5 Liter Magnums? Hell yes I'll have a beer some wine!


Back in the apartment, I'm rocking out and having a few drinks. "The Royal Tannenbaums" is on (this brings up another sub-point: try to watch an entire Sunday's worth of television and not encounter Gene Hackman. It's impossible. The man's been in more than 100 movies, each of them relevant in their own WGN/HBO/Lifetime Movie Network/ENCORE ACTION-WEST kind of way).

By the time I'm done flipping back-and-forth between the flick and True Life: I'm a High School Senior, I've got a pretty good buzz going. You know what time it is? That's right, time to casually lift weights.

I pump iron and continue drinking for a little while and from there on who knows what will happen.

In any event, it is what it is: an awesome fucking Sunday.

And with that illustrative contrast, I think it's time to draw this installment of "On Bachelorhood" to a close.

Check back soon for the series conclusion, which will further dissect the dichotomy between bachelorhood and a legitimage lifestyle and offer step-by-step instructions on how to effectively domesticate the bachelored breed.

Until then, dear readers, have a lovely weekend (especially Sunday) and remember: stay single (at least until you read Part III).