The Hooter

What is it about men?

I mean seriously, what the fuck is it with them? I know much has been written on the subject.; women are from venus men are from mars or whatever bullshit is marketable to women who watch Oprah in elastic pants. But really, when it comes down to it, they are just plain, old-fashioned weird. It started in grade school, some bully on the playground pushing you into the teeter-totter, fracturing your pelvis and laughing, all because he liked you and didn't know how to take the funny feeling in his pants and articulate it in a non-violent manner.

Things are essentially still the same.

Case in point: tonight, I travel with two of my girlfriends (I'll call them Amber and Maureen because that's what their parents named them) to a new favorite hang out, the Town Talk Diner. I know every single person in this joint, mostly because once upon a time I worked as a concierge at the same hotel in which the owner used to manage a restaurant. The grammar in that sentance was horrible, but I'm a wee bit tipsy, so begrudge me the poor English and move on. Anyway, it's like old home week- I feel like someone is going to yell Norm when I walk through the door. However. There is a gentleman, and I use that term loosely, sitting at the bar who I do not recognize. He looks to be about 37, not bad looking, but nothing to write home about. He smiles at me and winks, like he knows who I am.

Gentle reader, he does not know who I am. I do not know who he is. But for the next two hours he unleashes a campaign of oddness that even wild gorillas attempting to attract a mate would be ashamed of. He does the whole catch my eye and wink thing like seven times before I order my first drink. He's elbowing his buddy like it's third period French class- I keep waiting for him to pass me a note. I would find it flattering, if it weren't so damn creepy. There is a very thin line between flirting and stalking, and this guy has not been aquainted with it. At a certain point in the evening he takes his two first fingers, dips them in his drink, sucks them (all the while looking right at me) and proceeds to hoot.

I'll repeat that for effect: hoot. As in hoot and holler. He lets out a wail that some hogcallers might be interested in hearing. Then looks at me again, leeringly, as though the hoot was what I was waiting for. Oh yes, be still my heart. All my life I've waited for a hooter. Take me, I'm yours, hooting-man.

Who hoots? This guy, that's who. Now please, someone tell me why this was a logical response. When I find myself drawn to a young man, I do not bellow at him like some creature from the Black Lagoon. I do not wink at him like I'm having an epileptic seizure and stare while he is trying to enjoy a perfectly decent grilled cheese sandwich. No. I smile, bat my eyelashes, perhaps even stop by his seat at the bar on my way to the restroom to have a casual chat. I do not hoot. This guy, again, not bad looking, could have come over to me, said, "hey, how you doing", or even, *gasp* pulled out the old chestnut of buying me a drink. But no. I attract men that think putting their hand in a cocktail and licking it off like some bad Jenna Jameson impression is the way to win my heart.

So I return to my earlier question: What the fuck is it with men?