I'm Smooth.  No really, I am.

Feb. 13, 2004: Hello ladies.  If you're a woman, and you're decent looking, I am about to teach you a very important lesson.  Not about men, about me . See, I'm not much for the dating part of things.  I already know I'm a good guy and superior wangsman, it's just the sales part of the deal that I have to work on.  So, good-looking women, if you're reading this, I encourage you to do the right thing, and just start making out with me. No seriously.  Next time you see me, get ready to stretch out your tongue, and, if intact, your tonsils. I know that seems a bit irrational, but you've got to understand something about yours truly: I'm good at dishing out subtlety, I'm not good at picking up on it.  Hence: JEREMY: I just cleaned up my apartment. WOMAN: Really? I'd like to come over and check it out. JEREMY: You don't have to.  It's far away. JEREMY (several hours later): Damn it! This is the part where I'd like to get back in my time machine and go back, but in real life, all I've got is a Cavalier, and I don't think I can get it up to 88 miles per hour.  But even so, I'd probably just go back and concur with myself, and screw it up.  2 JEREMYS (several hours later): Damn it! (In unison) Ok, here's the part where I make myself out to be a real sweetheart: I've probably only been on 4 REAL dates my entire life.  Two of them ended up in relationships.  One of them lasted 4 1/2 years, during which I went out of my way to ignore and dispell any semblance of female lubby-dubbyness sent my way and turned into a wingman.  Interested in me?  Too bad.  Girlfriend is in the bathroom, ladies.  Perhaps you'd like to meet my friend, Frank.  I swear, his ass is only half as hairy as his back... Or so I'm told... Maybe the most dangerous thing for me is thinking that someone likes me, because that seems to get me into trouble.  I'm the king of getting the wrong idea.  Here's an example, which I swear is true: I spent the better part of three hours last night talking to a very good lookin' woman.  I bought her drinks.  She invited me to come with her to dance.  I did.  We picked up her friend, who I learned later, wasn't her friend, it was her boyfriend.  I learned this in quite possibly the most awkward way possible: GUY: Which girl are you into? JEREMY: The one with the black hair.  Man she's hot. GUY: I've been going out with her for about five months now. JEREMY (after long, awkward pause): You don't say. Not that dozens of dollars is too much to pay for a good story, but that wasn't quite the result I expected.  And in the end, the guy actually bought me a shot.  He asked for stricknine, but they didn't have that behind the bar, so we did Jagermeister instead. The whole point of this Pre-Valentine's rant is that I'm not smooth.  I'm not a ladies' man.  I don't hit a lot of home runs, because I don't often find myself in the batter's box.  But that's all going to change when you walk up to me and shove your tongue in my mouth.  I swear, I won't mind. Happy VD: Cyrano de Markovich