bad dates

A story about self-worth and, for some reason, "Sesame Street."
One Tuesday night, after a(n) (amazingly heart-piercing) show by the (amazingly heart-piercing) Amy Kuney at the Bootleg
Just as I think I have been stood up, a lone chap arrives, clad in a lime-green anorak, looking anxious and slighter in stature than I was expecting. The barman points me out, and Home Boy steps up and greets me confidently with a kiss on the cheek. He's a bit on the skinny side, but not bad at all.
I've written before that I used to go on a lot of dates, and I've written more recently that I think I'm a pretty nice guy. Those two things -- one fact, one personal opinion -- converged over the years in my not saying some things on dates that I probably should have said. Here are a few of those:
My single friends recently shared what red flags they wish they had seen through their rose-colored relationship glasses. I set down my glass of wine long enough to take notes before the wisdom floated right out of our foggy memories.
Thanks to social networking, search engines, dating apps, access for a small fee to arrest records and the magical world of online hook-ups you should never suffer with the date from hell.
Anyone who has tried it knows it can be a unique form of un-fun. You start with a shiny optimism which you later recall with hollow mirth, as you become hardened to the God-awful chore of yet another "date" of jaw-dropping hideousness, later to provide grist to the entertainment mill for convulsed friends.
"Honey, ya gotta wanna kiss him," were the wise words of an older, drunk woman at Blondie's Sportsbar over a decade ago. And she was spot on.