New Scientist: “Women found the men who were being smiled at suddenly more attractive, while men who apparently elicited no such smiling approval were pronounced less attractive. Men, meanwhile, behaved in a strikingly different manner. They rated men who had been smiled at as less attractive. ‘Within-sex competition promotes negative attitudes towards men who are the target of positive social interest from women,’ the researchers conclude.”

The Gray Lady has helpfully drafted a series of questions that couples should ask each other before marrying. I don’t know anyone who would base such a pivotal life choice on an article that could be easily clipped to the refrigerator, but in the interests of furthering many happy marriages, I present seven more questions:

16) If I were to take up a dangerous hobby like knife throwing, would you support me and possibly be my assistant? Even if it meant taking a hit on our life insurance rates?

17) Am I your sugar daddy/mommy? If I do not provide enough cash for your hobby/pipe dream, what might I be able to expect in the way of makeup sex?

18) If times are tough and we have no other way to get by, would it be okay with you if I put our five year old daughter on the meat market?

19) My inner sociopath is likely to kick in the minute you say, “I do.” Various sentiments that were fashionable during the Eisenhower administration might be in the cards. Still want in?

20) One of us is likely to gain weight shortly after we get hitched. Are we both committed to endless Lenten Dialogues and considerable pretending on the other’s part that we’re still physically attracted to each other?

21) There will come a point in which one or both of us will have an existential meltdown. Are you willing to help me emotionally and financially with my midlife crisis? Even if it means enduring an outdated muscle car parked for months in the driveway?

22) Would you marry me solely because I answered every question in a silly New York Times article?

Airtroductions: “Make your next flight more interesting, and choose the person who sits next to you! Build a profile, enter your itinerary, match, and sit with them on your next flight! It’s that simple! You’ve found AirTroductions™.” (via Fimoculous)

The Australian: “In what is billed as the first study of its kind, two academics at a British university found there is no short cut to true love, it was reported today. They calculated that for every inch taller a man is than his speed-dating rivals, the number of women who want to meet him goes up by about five per cent.”

Fascinating article on Ukranian mail order brides. (via MeFi)

A man badgers a woman for $50 for dinner because she wouldn’t agree to go on a second date with him. Sociopathic behavior ensues (with audio!). The hell of it is, this was after she offered to go dutch on the dinner bill.

Girlfriend 6.0 vs. Wife 1.0: “Wife 1.0 installs itself such that it is always launched at system initialization, where it can monitor all other system activity. He’s finding that some applications such as PokerNight 10.3, BeerBash 2.5, and PubNight 7.0 are no longer able to run in the system at all, crashing the system when selected (even though they always worked fine before). During installation, Wife 1.0 provides no option as to the installation of undesired Plug-Ins such as MotherInLaw 55.8 and BrotherInLaw Beta release. Also, system performance seems to diminish with each passing day.”

Craig’s List: “You’ve heard of speed dating before where x men and x women meet at a bar and spend 10-15 minutes getting to know one another, right? Well, Naked Speed Dating adds a simple twist. All of the participants are Naked….The format is a Wine and Cheese/Veggie format.”

Aside from porn, videoblogging has reached the inevitable territory. Enter PodDater, whereby people upload videos of themselves for dates. This sounds hollow and dubious, I know, but, for some reason, I’m particularly fond of this video, which reaches near dadaist proportions, in which “Sophie B” does not speak at all and merely eats a banana.

Jesus. (via MeFi)

If, like me, you are a Single Bipedal and Sentient Mammal Over Thirty (to which I shall apply the term “schlott,” if only to abridge such a pesky mouthful to a clearly ridiculous and monosyllabic term), inevitably there comes a point where a certain fatigue sets in. Schlotts of all ages experience a certain malaise, not exactly a hopelessness per se, but a lengthy moment in which the warm, witty and wonderful entity that a schlott has established themselves to be is compromised by the fact that their warm, witty and wonderful advances are wholly incompatible (often mistakenly perceived as incorrigible) with the fellow schlotts they flirt with – in short, the act of being rebuffed despite multiple attempts. This is what’s known in the retail world as the law of averages: the expectation that 10% of everyone you pitch will in fact buy something (read: go out with you) regardless of what you have to say. (See Figure 1.)

But what happens in the dating world, alas, is something more diabolical and complex. The law of averages does, in fact, apply. But what often happens is that, no matter how soundly hygienic, complimentary, scented, or scintillating you are, the fish, so to speak, often do not bite in any predetermined order. Meaning that it is possible for a schlott to flirt with 90 prospects, only to discover that the remaining 10% who will inevitably fall for the pitch, regardless of how frequently you flub your compliments or mangle your language (aided, no doubt, by nervousness and the ascension of intoxicants in some settings), resides at the end of the long and winding road. It is the inevitable moment of success which cannot be accounted for. Or the moment that arrives when a schlott finds someone, only to see his voicemails runneth over with other prospective ex-schlotts and somewhat embarrassed explanations to the compatible spirit and warm body who was kind and/or attracted enough to lie next to the initial schlott that the relationship is still nascent and exclusive, that there’s nothing here to worry about, and that the recently ex-schlott in question is the apple of the eye, the cat’s pajamas, the cream in the coffee, insert your affectionate term of art here.

But where the salesman often has a carefully selected list of leads at his disposal, the schlott, by contrast, only has eyes for the type of schlott he’d like to mate and cohabitate with at any particular moment. And his targets are often occluded by any number of failings (the amount of liquor imbibed, the veritable randiness which shows no sign of abating, and, in some schlotts, a telltale desperation) – in short, an arbitrary concern for aesthetics which often overrides the more common goal of finding someone nice to be with for a while or more.

Indeed, with a schlott, there exists a certain question of standards. If the schlott has sufficiently rebounded and pulled his act together after a bad breakup, then initially these standards work against the law of averages, while simultaneously operating in tandem with them. This may sound somewhat self-defeating of my basic hypothesis, but allow me to explain. As Figure 2 illustrates, in the early stages, where the schlott has perched his head like an groundhog affably surveying his surroundings on February 2, he may feel initially quite confident, settling for only the very best (i.e., to carry the metaphor further, the lingering shadow of his confidence may in fact allow that initial drop between the 10 and the 7 to abstain from effect for about six weeks or so; this is assuming, of course, that the schlott does indeed see his shadow). But perhaps the groundhog…er…schlott is possessed of certain delusions of grandeur. Rising above and beyond the sensible all of realistic expectations, he looks only for the potential 10 and completely abandons the more reasonable 7.

But in settling for the 10, the schlott precipitates his drop into the 2s. Because he is only setting himself up for disaster. Further, there is the question of whether the schlott’s overestimation of his own appeal may contribute to his decline and inevitable desperation. This certainly goes against the established law of averages. Thus, we have a situation in which the groundschlott should probably be more reasonable in his expectations or thus fall asunder.

But enough of these moribund dating projections! I am an uncredentialed scientist and I am already contemplating my own potential slide into the abyss. I blame the people who encouraged me to probe deeper into human coupling. And frankly, I try to leave my feelings out of these analyses. No doubt someone is having a laugh at my expense! Let us turn briefly then to the process of attraction.

Figure 3 illustrates the importance of first impressions. In some cases, a schlott may approach another schlott and fail to consider that his aesthetics should be thoroughly optimized to ensure maximum conversational potential. If the schlott has had too much to drink or is allowing a minor depression or abstraction to interfere from his initial conversational approach (sometimes referred to as “a pickup line”), then his likelihood of meeting the schlott law of averages will dramatically decrease.

Such is considered the norm at any rate. But there are often fluke scenarios whereby the “bad” impression may in fact yield a positive outcome, particularly if the other schlott shares in common the abstraction, depression, or, most likely, a high inebriation level. Experts in schlott social dynamics often refer to this as “the drunken rebound one-night stand” or the “mercy fuck,” but, more often than not, the sheer preternatural outcome of it all cannot be appropriately accounted or tabulated, save through the carnal biological impulses embedded within schlotts (and often married bipedals) which cause them to consummate with anything that moves.

Indeed, it goes without saying that the schlott dilemma is an overlooked and often depressing subject to dwell upon. Which is why the Society to Further Schlottism has asked me to not only produce these statistics, but provide a rosy bow with which to wrap this informational bauble. Yes, human beings need to procreate. Yes, they need companionship and affection. Yes, they need to break out of the misanthropic isolation chronicled in Mr. Putnam’s book, Bowling Alone. But for the schlott who is inhabiting the lower-right hand area of Figure 2, we have one bona-fide piece of advice to offer: Never underestimate the immediate benefits of masturbation. Also, if it’s time to lean, it’s time to clean.

(NOTE: This study has been paid for by the Society to Further Schlottism, in collusion with a grant from the Department of Half-Baked Empirical Research.)

Here is a theorem for single men:

Where subvariable (s) = single, subvariable (c) = coupled, and T = frequency of talking:

M(s) = [T(c)/45] + [T(kids) * 722]
M(c) + F(c) = [30 * T(c)] – T(kids) ad infinitum*

Equations assume 35 > M(age) > 30. M(c) + F(c) need not have kids, but variables need have participated in stable relationship for at least two years in order to qualify. See notes below.

* — T(kids) in this equational context excludes talk and M(c) + F(c), if applicable, looking after one’s own children, which, if properly caluclated, is T(kids.own) multiplied by negative six billion.

For those of you too addled from the weekend to do the math, let me explain.

Every so often, I go to parties and social occasions to meet people, check up on friends and ensure that they are doing okay, and that all is right with the universe. But I’ve found that something quite interesting has happened at these affairs. Namely that I am, for the most part, the only single man there.

Oh, sometimes, I’ll bring a girlfriend along. But because I am not engaged or betrothed in some vaguely Judeo-Christian way to said girlfriend, because there hasn’t been any “life partner” status assigned to the relationship (with the apparent imprimatur only detectable by those who have met the accepted prerequisites, which is two years of stability and other ancillary variables best not revealed here), it usually does not count. The relationship, by dint of being under the two year mark (which seems an especially interminable time to obtain this social credibility), does not permit single men to legitimately socialize with bona-fide couples. After all, these couples are the ones buying the homes, starting the families, having the babies, and undergoing incredible neuroses which genuinely pertain to burgeoning careers. What are single men over thirty doing? Flirting with women, drinking beer without a life partner enforcing Stasi-style regulations over the precise quantities imbibed, not yet giving up on the more obscure offerings of contemporary music (and, in some gloomy cases, console video game systems), and perpetually delaying that moment in which they’ll eventually have to settle down. These aren’t bad things, per se. But compared with the couples, these lifestyle choices are rather pedantic by comparison. Not in the single man’s mind, of course. Then again, one can’t imagine revealing these so-called “accomplishments” to one’s family without getting back serious reservations, let alone interminable titters.

What does happen, however, is that if I am one of the only single men at a party, inevitably I find myself surrounded by kids. And not only surrounded by them, but actively engaging them in conversation about the nature of the universe and contemplating some harmless Dennis the Menace-style mischief. I am not sure if these children look at me and say to themselves, “This guy is fun. He can be trusted.” I am not sure if it is because I talk to them as if they are my peers, often scaling down my ten-cent words to ensure that they’ll understand what I’m talking about (strangely, a substantial cluster of adults are prepared to speak belittlingly to kids at every opportunity and I’ve never understood this, given that kids are often capable of the most original perceptions). I am not sure if it’s because their young and nimble minds perform the pivotal arithmetic, seeing Single Man Over Thirty negotiating the tricky waters (read: trying to transmute beyond third wheel status) of a conversation with an M(c)+F(c) coupling or three, and immediately ascertaining that they are going to be a more effective draw.

Whatever the reasons, I generally end up talking with kids.

I really don’t mind this, as I remain a bachelor and an urban dweller. In my neighborhood, if I see a child, he is often strapped down, whether by a seatbelt or by duct tape only the parenting experts can say, in a moving vehicle, with some vigilant parent urging the child not to look at the glitz or the riff-raff and remain focused, no doubt, on abstractions related to domestic well-being. In other words, if I do see kids, it is not generally in their native environment, which involves curiosity, play and the formation of associations. I see children congregated in the backs of MUNI buses, remarking on the latest hip-hop prodigy or that boy they like or that bitch getting all the attention in fifth period, or, particularly at cultural functions, under the martinet eyes of protective parents hoping that this restriction will make the experience of processing art somehow enlightening and favorable upon the child.

I should point out that I am not adverse to kids (far from it), that I am not jealous of other couples who are together and happy, and that I am quite happy to be single. I am merely bemused by this all.

Almost the minute that I turned 30, all of my friends suddenly revealed themselves to be married. Never mind that I had attended weddings. Six year old kids appeared out of nowhere, as if they had been quietly kept from my knowledge, presumably locked in closets like feral children from the wild that are only just adapting to civilization. Perhaps the fault here is mine, given that the endless well-wishes and gifts I offered over the years were, indeed, more seminal than I estimated. But the kids eventually grew up and, in turn, these children began seeking me out as if I were the 21st Century’s answer to the Pied Piper. And it all happened almost immediately after I turned thirty. At twenty-nine, the couples still talked to me, perhaps finding some explicit disparity between the lives they once lived (single) and a living exemplar of such (me, a single man). Perhaps thirty served as the line of demarcation. Any unmarried and unattached man beyond that mark was either an embarassment, had little in common with these pristine and hermetically sealed family lives, or was left to flail his arms on his own in the cold and choppy oceans of singledom.

Now for those of you who paid attention to the initial equation, you may have noticed the thirty-five cap. This is because once one’s hair has mostly receded, and once the flecks of gray in one’s hair are more promiment, there is apparently a detente in relation to the previously unabated struggles in talking with couples. One has marched long and hard into the jungles and emerged from the other side, mostly unscathed and certainly with far too many empty scotch bottles behind him. The post-35 single male is either “eccentric” or mature enough to be talked to by other couples. Keep in mind too that there are inevitable dissolutions of some of these relationships, meaning that a 35 year old single male is a hot commodity among divorcees of the same age and those looking to set said divorcées (and, for that matter, divorcés) up.

Presumably, at 35, there is also some change in the relationship between single men and kids. Since single men over 35 are suddenly more palatable, the kids now pass this type of single man over. Being well-adjusted (har har), the kids look towards the fresh meat of single men within the age of 30 and 35.

The rest of us pre-35 single males must then either find a mate, certifiable as a “life partner” for the appropriate peers and authorities, or must contend ourselves with children, the latter certainly not a taxing proposition. Until, of course, we then have to clarify to certain unscrupulous couples that we are, in fact, not gay, despite living in San Francisco, our love of showtunes and our apparently quite strange single status.

Heather Harvrilesky has the perfect response to a passive long-distance relationship:

This is how you find the man/woman of your dreams, stupids: You refuse to waste time on the man/woman of your loneliness-fueled spreadsheets. And if you can’t get worked up over anyone… well, Jesus, what is wrong with you? Can you get worked up over anything at all? Here in LA, lots of people wax romantic about movies, but when it comes to their real lives, they’re fucking numb and alienated and don’t see the raw thrill, the breathtaking drama of every little minute. Blahblahblah boringcakes, motherfuckers! The girl who made you your coffee this morning has beautiful green eyes, and she paints weird portraits of her customers and keeps chocolate and rope stashed in her nightstand and she reads books about gardening and she knows what she wants. You could spend the next two months in bed, honkwinders, getting tied up and eating chocolate and watching old movies in the middle of the night. You could be swooning and sighing and feeling like the world is opening up like a flower. So why are you watching “Survivor” with that guy who bores the shit out of you, and pisses you off, and doesn’t give a flying fuck about how you feel, ever, and mostly just wants you to get to the point and stop crying? Why are you heating up canned soup and wondering about the long-term viability of negotiating a reasonably satisfying coexistence with someone 3,000 miles away?

All it takes is a broom.