To be a dog. Live like 10 years and only worry about eating, pissing, shitting and getting your rocks off. Think about it, no bills, no lies, no financial arguments or bitter divorces. Even the homeless dogs I’ve come across seem happy, poor and malnourished but happy with their counterpart nonetheless. Had to be what Dr. Monroe had in mind when he was building that island. This got me thinking what if dating and meeting people was that easy? You know, just walk down the street, stop for piss, bark and go up and sniff somebody’s ass without the threat of Pink Eye in your mind. After a few awkward seconds of courtship they sniff your ass back and boom you’ve got a match, waaaay simpler than downloading Bumble, Tinder, Grinder or Match. No terrible conversation, meaningless moments or emotional letdowns and the best part? Even if you don’t get a sniff back there’s another pug or pit bull half a block away for you try again. No harm, no foul just sniffing away.

I’m on this rant partially because I recently adopted a wiener dog with no worries in the world and partially because the dating pool I keep going  back to now shows signs of drying up. Drake might be in the club, going up on a Tuesday while some of us are sitting across from a person with a squirrel tattoo, a drug problem and more father issues than I care to write about. But hey, she’s pro Bernie, believes all lives matter, drinks Pabst and wants to discuss the disillusion of the American Dream while we smoke Organic Cigarettes. Not marijuana but cigarettes not infected by Corporate America. Her name was Winter. Of course she had actually been birthed and christened Amanda but a Game of Thrones addiction and  her need to rebel against some system led to the name change(Real Life Winter, if you read this, I’m sorry.) Living in the Hipster Capital of Sacramento has privileged me to meet these characters on a regular basis. Most often we only nod in passing, acknowledge the other’s dog or sweet bike and keep moving. Every so often though the people who are “too cool” to care what others think get tired of drinking discount wine and talking about theories with each other. Apparently even they have their limit to how many times it’s acceptable to debate the impact of French culture on American cinema. Eventually they need a connection, one that makes the other feels as if they truly matter in the big scheme of things. The funny thing is we’re all nothing but spark in the night. See what I did there?  Apparently we have a problem these days where everybody wants to be Hough Grant in “Love Actually” but nobody wants to actually be the known as the guy  with the prostitution colored elephant in the room. So how did we meet? Tinder of all places. Like there’s anywhere else to meet these days. Yeah, you can get out but it always pulls you back in.

We’d both been actively swiping for some time now and had made a match over a year ago. Wow, as I write this I’m realizing I’ve been doing this way too long. After series of picture exchanges, late night messages and the review of each other’s social media accounts we finally broke. Now normally I’d recommend my bar The Virgin Sturgeon but she was anti animal abuse and Sturgeon being caught for their eggs fall into this category. Very serious stuff people. Catch and release guys, all lives matter. We settled on LowBrau, a local hipster hotspot filled with bright shorts and people with shoes but no socks. Think about it as the Pokemon Hotspot where all the smartphones go to find the elusive Jiggly Puff but instead of lost gamers it’s Hipsters and craft beer. The kind of place where they have Motown Mondays but nobody in there knows about David Ruffin and associates “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” with Julia Roberts in “The Step Mom”. Speaking of Pokemon, I do tip my hat to the app. I’ve never seen so many people out walking and enjoying the streets of Sacramento before. It even managed to change my swiping habits from right to up and to the left. Only lasted a few days before I relapsed back to my perversions but it was nice break while it lasted. Anyhow back to Winter and our current situation. Tonight she went all out and really owned the part. Winter wore a big ol floppy Breakfast at Tiffany’s hat, a floral/seagull covered long shirt and plum colored leggings. She smoked a mean cigarette and had Fran Dressure type of laugh. Maybe it was all those GMO free smokes were staining her voice?

As these things go, drinks began to flow and Bernie’s dying campaign was discussed and dissected. She didn’t appreciate my pro Hilary stance much but we agreed anything was better than Trump. Seriously, anything is better than Trump. Prop up Lenin’s frozen corpse, John not Valdimir’s just in case you were wondering. Three Pabst, a few American Spirts, something about the problem with the media later and I’m not paying attention anymore. Not that I didn’t enjoy her company, believe me, I’ve been in situations much worse than this. It was the damn tattoo that threw me off and peaked my curiosity. See Winter had a curious squirrel drawn behind her left shoulder with nose slightly poking over, taking a casual sniff if you will. I first noticed it when she excused herself for a restroom break. The thought of that tattoo started gnawing at me.  The shit that gets the juices going, I tell you human sexuality is a dangerous thing. Right when one thinks they’ve experienced it all there’s a new fetish that seeps into the wrinkles of your mind. Further  pushing you down the rabbit hole. One min I’m contemplating a fake family emergency like “I’m so sorry my brother’s parakeet just died. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you.” the next minute I’m full blown “I need to see this squirrel. What kind of person tattoos a squirrel on themselves? What other tattoos does she have? Is she pierced? Maybe there’s a monkey knife fight happening somewhere on her body? What’s wrong with me? I need to see this!” Spoiler alert, there was no Monkey  knife happening but with any luck I’d be doing my best Hmong impression and trapping some stew meat. I had to give this date my all.

When she returned the two Pabst in front of had already transformed into Eye of the Pig, Diablo Piss or whatever other craft beer you fancy. The conversation about her dabbing in expressive poetry as a way to protest troops in the Middle East was that much more meaningful. I made sure to keep eye contact, nod, say things like”Yeah? How so? Tell me more” making sure to indulge her takes on things that didn’t matter to me in the least bit. Before you make me out to be a bag of shit let me remind you that I’m not out here breaking up happy homes or praying on the recently divorced. Nobody’s here to split the atom so calm down. We both were on a smut site and I just wanted to see that rodent on her back. We talked, we laughed, we drank. 10:30 turned to 1am and the eventual  walk back home. I would need to be sure that my brother wasn’t asleep on the couch and that the parokeet was nowhere in sight. Easily accomplished via a text. Then a Snapchat when the text goes unresponsive and finally a phone call when the bastard doesn’t know how to take a hint. Try leaving a voicemail about needing to taste a rodent while in a drunken stupor. Trust me, the next day will leave you reaching for the penicillin.

You and Winter know exactly where this went, no need to share the worst of the details.  Just know that eventually I stared that squirrel in it’s cold dead eye and the tattoo’s owner made some unusual requests involving spit and choking and called me a bitch. My brother? He stayed on the couch having ignored all previous requests to do otherwise. Demanding the next day that I not invade his living space again, being that he pays rent an all it seems like a fair request. Come to think about it why did I need to explore this tattoo? There’s a 165 pound raccoon on my couch already. What did I learn from all this? I can write some grandiose exposition about the quality of people we meet and break down the multiple layers of human attraction but the truth is not too many people are comfortable with those conversations. So, I’ll keep it simple and say Hipsters are real people, real people have their own unique fetishes and more importantly, you’re more comfortable hunting Pikachu in dark alleys with strangers than admitting you swipe right on what really gets your rocks off. If only we could just go around sniffing asses freely. If it could all really be that simple. Swipe safely friends.