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In OKCupid they send you emails like this:

Hurray! Someone chose you on Quickmatch. We’re not going to tell you exactly who, but it was one of these people! Log in and rate your matches to find out which one!

Along with an image like this:

quickmatch lineup

They are fucking with you


This is frankly annoying. It’s even more annoying that more often than not, it’s the fugliest lady on the page who gave you the magic five stars.

The annoyance is reaching teethgrindy levels when you realise that none of those images link to the profiles! Clicking just leads you to your normal homepage. So if you actually fancy one of the people in the email, you have literally no way of finding out who they are.

Until now. If there’s someone hawt, you need to dig into the source code. In Gmail you do it like this:

show original

Behind the scenes

You will be rewarded with a bunch of HTML uglier than the chick who started this whole mess. Persevere though and use your browser to search a few times for ‘alt=’, to find:


<a href=”http://www.okcupid.com/blahblahblahblah”><img width=”160″ height=”160″ src=”http://cdn.okcimg.com/php/load_okc_image.php/images/160×160/blahblahblahblah.jpeg” alt=”uniquenyilicous” style=”border:1px solid #cbdaea;” /></a>


BOOM. Don’t let them fuck with you – information wants to be free.

tipple

I've only had a few ales

Air stands up in front of the group, looks awkward for a moment, then says

“My name is Air, and I have been a drunk dater.”

Here is my full admission. Drunk dating is where the sensible limits of daytime decorum are breached, and – generally by unspoken mutual agreement – you and your date both launch yourselves into the wild unknown of untrammelled cocktail abuse, and hang the consequences.

Now don’t get me wrong: note the emphasis on a mutual experience. This is a wobbly dance for two.

I’m not the sweating, red-faced dude who’s downed a healthy glass of wine before leaving the house and sluiced three pints by the time you arrive, just as a pre-cocktail apéritif. The scent you catch from my neck is Creed Vetiver, not the tangy aroma of Bombay Sapphire. It generally takes no longer than a second for my eyes to converge in unison on your face.

My problem is that I’m a fast drinker, and I’m used to carousing with slow drinkers. My pacing is normally taken care of by watching the glass opposite and matching that. As a native Brit I’m quite capable of sucking down as many beverages as anyone else and still remembering what colour the 123 subway is (even if I can’t focus on the white squiggles). Reasonable level of alcobuzz, no embarrassment, job done.

The last couple of weeks have been problematic therefore as I’ve been matched with extremely irresponsible drinkers of Eastern European descent. Who would have thought that second-generation Ukrainian- and/or Polish-Americans would have been brought up on a liquid diet of neat vodka? My liver and professional To Do list are now painfully aware of that combination.

First was Bertha, who spoke and drank fluent Polish. We sat on a quiet night at Larry Lawrence and steadily got absolutely steaming. Without any real discussion about it; just a sly not-looking-at-the-time and lots of well-why-not eyebrow raising. Before you know it we’re waving goodbye to a battery of empty glasses and shuffling outside into the snow for some extremely enthusiastic but totally inaccurate fumbling through heavy coats. I distinctly remember thinking to myself, my brain has actually stopped working.

Following not long after was Celia, keeping it real for the Ukrainians and not calling into question their reputation for making ethanol disappear faster than Usain Bolt surfing a cheetah. I arrived at Angel’s Share to find she was two drinks ahead of me (one of them a Guinness, which should tell you something). After conjuring away several cocktails in embarrassingly short order it was off to Pete’s Tavern for pints and – WTF was happening – car bombs. On date one. Again inevitably there was some serious street-necking at the end of the night, some of the details of which escape me.

It’s no doubt true that some level of machismo came into it. Some stupid fear of being out-drunk, along the lines of, ‘even though you have the day off tomorrow to recover, I’m not going to be rendered a quivering alco-pussy here, another round!

Once the effects wore off though – and by god there were painful and debilitating effects the next day – it became clear this kind of nonsense is not sustainable. Let’s break down what it means so can make your decisions clearly.

Risks

Be prepared for:

  • Poor decision making. You may well get yourself tangled with someone who is considerably less hawt when the beer goggles are off.
  • You will have a terrible first kiss. Only if you are lucky (or unlucky, depending) will you remember it at all.
  • Fuzzy McMemoryTheft will visit you in the night. All that careful work establishing what kind of human they are will be flushed away in the surge of synthesized formaldehyde through your brain.

Rewards

It’s not all grim! No one’s suggesting you have to live like Bukowski, it was just a night out.

  • There’s a whole level of bonding over the OMG-we-got-crazy hedonistic romance of it all.
  • Extra bonding over the trauma afterwards. The shared pain is a struggle you’ve both survived.
  • Goodbye inhibitions! Whatever level of physical intimacy is appropriate for your date is going to be boosted by two or three dates. There will be pawing.

Drink safe, but more importantly drink sexy.

This is a response to Gaga’s sartorial post.

Actually it’s never occurred to me to do the ‘I am wearing’ chat beforehand. “I will be the gentleman in the scarlet fedora drinking Baileys from a shoe.” But then I’m not arranging dates with J-girls at the NY Asian Film Festival, so the task of identification is generally pretty easy. Take a good look at those profile photos before leaving your apartment.

Swapping phone numbers before the date is essential though. Did I tell the story of how I once arranged a date at a bar that did not exist? Oh how I laughed.

Tip: your date venue should actually exist in the physical universe

This was how I arrived at one of the vital first-date rules, specifically ‘at least one person must have been there before.’ As a young n00b I thought I would do some exploring at the same time as the date. Two birds, one stone. I fired up yelp.com to locate a venue. I trusted the internets.

So I turn up at this UES address – which appears to be a hotel – and ask the front desk lady if this was bar X. She looked at me a bit like Marty McFly had stumbled in from another century wearing an orange life preserver. Her bemused response was along the lines of, ‘that bar closed over a year ago.’ Turns out the last yelp review was over a year old and I didn’t notice. FAIL.

Without phone contact that extremely embarrassing incident could have been a deal-breaking disaster. As it was, I got away with it, just. Again I’d say the critical thing in the face of an almighty fuckup is to be mostly amused and briefly apologetic, rather than dwelling on it with cringing embarrassment.

Get to the clothes already

So here’s the thing: I am a bloke. I do not recognise designer. Well apart from if the article has those cutesy little wingding shapes on it, then it’s Louis Vitton. That’s about it.

Now we know there are some dudes who are all Patrick Bateman about the gear, unleashing withering judgement from the style and composition of every accessory. Not me.

That said, what you ladies wear absolutely makes an impression, even if I couldn’t tell you what the label inside says. It does register.

In fact as an exercise, let’s see if I can reconstruct from memory what some 2010 first-dates were wearing, and what effect it had on me.

What they wore

Annie turned up all in black: black sweater, black jeans, black boots. Like a ninja costume, an absence of information, I could fathom nothing about what lay underneath. She could have been any shape really. At the same time it struck me as classy and somehow adorable; I just wanted to put her on a sofa and cuddle. Big earrings looking cute under her hair.

Bertha had a punky-but-feminine thing going on. Lip piercing, bangs. Pale pink dress, a hint of cleavage and an abundance of skirt over chunky boots. Definitely got the impression this was someone in charge of their look.

Celia was similarly into the dresses, long patterned skirts this time. On top there were so many layers that again it was impossible to get a sense of her build; a definite negative if you’re trying to inspire lust in someone.

It was after meeting Daphne that it really occurred to me how important your choice of date clothes is. She struck me immediately as being shockingly under-dressed for the occasion; in the sense of, I just whacked on a pair of black leggings and this top, nice to meet you. Top marks for the low-cutness of the shirt, but the rest of it didn’t make me feel special at all.

Erica told me about how her friends had prepped her for the date. Their advice included the gem, ‘don’t wear a skirt or you will come across as easy‘. I disagree. Hawt yes, slutty no. So given that restriction she had a fairly vanilla setup with dark blue jeans over brown boots, and a nicely cut navy blouse with pulse-firing cleavage on show.

Farrah I’m kind of blank on, which is weird as it was recently. She wore a long summery dress and possibly-home-made artsy jewellery, I remember that. Nothing that blew me away or made me want to kill myself anyway.

What’s the summary from this? Feminine is good; don’t bury your shape unless there’s a good reason; boobs are important.

Tips for blokes

I mostly agree with everything Gaga said for guys; though personally I’d never go with anything involving a suit unless you have to come directly from work. A tie, maybe, but on the condition it’s loose and casual, not all Dwight from The Office (Gareth for British readers).

A shirt with a collar is pretty much the safest bet you can make. Roll the sleeves up, job done: sexy and relaxed. A great T-shirt can just about be pulled off (if you see what I mean) but frankly it’s a bit Jersey Shore.

My favoured setup is dead simple:

  • Clean shave
  • Dark-rimmed specs
  • Plain white buttoned shirt, skinny fit, sleeves rolled up neatly just below the elbow
  • Dark blue Diesel jeans, get some that fit you properly and don’t hang off your ass in shapeless fashion!
  • Slightly battered brown leather shoes, dignified without being too fancy

hangover

Socialising is not free

This intrepid reporter has been offline for a little while.

Last week was a Groundhog Day cycle of the following:

  1. Going on a date.
  2. Getting home late and/or/always slightly worse for wear.
  3. Being palm-clammingly hungover at work, achieving little, and devoting the few minutes of clear thinking to organising another date, with little or no regard for personal safety.
  4. Repeat from 1.

I think I’ve found my limit for parallel-dating; it’s not doing my professional life any good at all. So this week I’m dialling back from 11 to 8 – figuratively speaking, on the Spinal Tap scale – and keeping some nights for myself.

My brain is looking forward to lurching out of the pickle jar; my eye-twinkler can finally recharge, complete with tiny, flashing lightning-bolt icon. My aching cheeks can at last let go of that oh-so-appealing, eighty-per-cent-genuine grin of mischief.

The good news: it’s all in the name of research! I am collecting lots of data. And STDs.

Kidding. My view is that in the early stages, when you’re politely sipping on martinis and finding out how many brothers someone has, to not be parallel dating is a colossally inefficient way to go about your life.

Does this situation change when you transition to doing unspeakable things in darkened rooms? That’s an interesting question to which we’ll return. If I can stop throwing myself into bars for a day or two…

Worst opening email ever

Another cherce lesson from a reader inbox.

To: xgirl99
From: niteowl34
(No subject)
Aug. 1, 2009 – 5:48am

hah, it’s 5am and I just woke up and cant sleep for now, and then some “quiver” email came in because its not like guys gets messages on this thing (or they do? not really sure, to be honest)

Gaga: Do guys get messages on this thing? Guys other than me? Do those other guys make their Calvin Klein boxer briefs bulge more than I do?
Air: Oh the cold lonely Inbox of niteowl34. I can see him now, finger trembling over the iPhone app because every greyed-out envelope icon reminds him that again he has zero messages.

anyway because, you know, I like to send messages to every person i see online, and this will be my 34th OKcupid message sent in the last 24 hours, i was desperately hoping you might respond.

Gaga: Way to make a girl feel special.
Air: How many red flags in one paragraph! Fuck me. Including the word ‘desperately’ always multiplies your hawtness by a factor of 10.
Gaga: See, I got stuck at “34th OKcupid message” — anyone who has that much time on his hands is obvs unemployed. I’m such a golddigger.
Air: Completely! And look at the length of this message! Thirty-four of those is a novella per day. A bleak, heartbreaking novella that no one will publish.

kidding about that last part, really, i only send about 9 emails every half-hour. no, just kidding. i think i’ve sent 5 total in two weeks, no responses, how sad, lol.

Air: Digging a hole to China here. It’s email dude! Go back and edit the fucking paragraph!

desperation, for a guy, only really sets in when the IRS calls and the hair plugs don’t work and the toaster oven malfunctions. I, on the other hand, have none of those problems.

Air: *heart shatters into a million pieces*
Gaga: I’m slitting my wrists, J/K, but I just downed a bottle of sleeping pills, LULZ, you’re the only reason I might go on living, I kid! I need to fill your womb with my magical seed. Hahahahaha.
Air: Oh, the failed levity. There’s a real poetry in what he wrote there. So much insight into his life, his fears, with a paper-thin shell of faux sarcasm.

and finally to end my proposal to you for a possible chance at companionship i offer two things. one would be a suggestion of something to do (movie! go karts! trip to thailand! ok, maybe a dinner in chinatown at the dim sum place off mott instead of a flight to bangkok).

Air: ‘possible chance at companionship’, this guy’s sights are aimed so low he’s shooting himself.

and second would be a confession. i am not, actually, in any way, a creepy old man(god I sure hope not) but I am actually 36 and not 34. Which means if you are 24, then we are 12 years apart and might therefore both be the same chinese zodiac … Year of the Rat. Which i am fond of, by the way.

Gaga: I can’t parse this. Lying about age = creepy. 12 year difference = old. I am NOT a duck, but waddle waddle, quack quack quack quack quack.
Air: Exactly, viz. “(god I sure hope not),” which is basically an admission that he genuinely considers it a possibility that he’s a Montgomery Burns creepazoid of the highest order. And lying about your age = unacceptable and embarrassing as soon as it inevitably comes out.
Gaga: Also, Dennis is the RAT KING!

And i guess the final thought is that I could teach you how to play ultimate frisbee.

Air: BOOM. Coup de grace, case closed, job done.

cheerio,
Me

Air: Tell me this guy’s name is Mervyn. Tell me he didn’t just go so coy that he can’t say his own fucking name.
Gaga: I’m laughing, I’m laughing, I’m crying.

Got a terrible dating message you want to use to make Air and Gaga cry?  Turn your e-mail into a teaching moment for all the lonely people of New York by sending it to datesofwrathblog@gmail.com.  We’ll anonymize, demonize and proselytize.

Thanks to reader Cleo for suggesting we talk about date timing.

So you had your awesome first date. Well done! You are now itching to press face some more. What do you do now? How long do you wait?

When planning your followup, the implicit message is that the chosen interval will be a model for the future. That means, you are (on some level) staking out the distance between all your future dates. Shorter time = more keenness.

Second date timing guide

If date number two occurs:

  • the next day – you are psychotic.
  • after 1-2 days – you are either desperate, or sending a very intense signal that you can’t get enough of this person.
  • after 3-4 days – keen, but fine. It’s extremely likely you’re not dating anyone else though, whatever that might mean in the circumstances.
  • after 5-7 days – probably typical in NYC.
  • after a full week or more – you are almost certainly parallel-dating (that’s a post in itself) and/or this person is pretty far down your priority list.

Note, these numbers will be skewed if your job or hobby blows away your free time; this is pretty common (I’m looking at you, lawyers).

Notice that if (for example) the girl you are after is parallel-dating four guys, and you have no other dates lined up, you may well find yourself frustrated.

Day of the week? How could that matter?

Let’s talk for a minute about Scrabble.

You know how on the Scrabble board, it has DOUBLE WORD and TRIPLE WORD written on some squares? That’s how you should look at your calendar.

Friday = DOUBLE WORD

It’s a weekend night! No work tomorrow.
But, you only just got off work at 6pm – so time will be tight and you may still be stressed.

Saturday = TRIPLE WORD

The weekend in its full glory; the whole day to yourself. Also, what you do at night may affect your Sunday morning.

These are the valuable and coveted slots. Friday is worth more than a weekday, and Saturday is worth more than that. Don’t ask for someone’s Fri/Sat lightly, and be mindful to whom you give yours away.

Finally, though this won’t normally apply to your second date, you should definitely be aware of the following equation:


date-at-home + DOUBLE or TRIPLE WORD == BOW CHICKA WOW


And by BOW CHICKA WOW, I mean penetrative sexual intercourse.

A good first date: Annie

Let’s take a closer look at a good first date I had recently, lest there be some vital lesson going unlearned.

In fact, let’s obsess over it. Dissect every glance, exchange and fleeting touch. JUST FOR A CHANGE, you understand.

The date

Unlike Gaga, I’m not going to refer to my dates’ names by their occupations or we will rapidly end up Google hit #1 for WEB DESIGNER.

Instead, let’s call her Annie. That’s not anything like her name; I’m taking the same approach as those folk that name hurricanes, so we begin with ‘A’. And as a bonus, Agent Cooper would be interested in how things went.

Thanks to the wonder of OKCupid I had a few options to work with. Annie got to the top of my list by being cute, clever, funny (into Brit-comedy), playful and inventive with words. Also, I am not going to pretend that the email line, “I am a hobbit” had no effect on me.

First a couple of OKCupid emails, then the switch to GMail, WHAM BLAMMO! First date.

The location

As I’ve noted before, first dates must be kept to a monkey-proof level of simplicity, free from distractions or pitfalls. There is enough to worry about!

If you think staring blankly at a menu or sweating through a thirty-page wine list is a good way to spend the opening minutes of your date, then you are definitely still single.

We had emailed ideas for cosy lounge-type bars, discussed a few options and settled on Sample in Cobble Hill, Brooklyn. This was her territory, and totally new to me.

How I felt going in

Despite having not first-dated in a wee while (ah, relationships!), I felt confident going in to this one.

This was one of those luxurious times when – based on the emails you’ve pinged back and forth – you’re pretty sure that the conversational burden will easily be shared, rather than falling leaden on your shoulders. One of those times when the breezy levity of your combined chat fuels itself and you don’t have to strap on a forced, inviting grin.

A good match, in other words.
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