Mad Atoms

I met Troy on an online dating site. That was my mistake – spending an evening having dinner with a complete stranger. But everything else that transpired that evening, I simply cannot take credit for. 

I had to pick him up because he didn’t have a car. How do you live in Los Angeles and not have your own car? Strike one. When I met him, he was cute enough. But despite being five years older than me, he was also an inch shorter than me. Strike two. (Sorry short dudes. It's the harsh truth.) Troy lived right next to the Hollywood and Highland mall, which is crawling with street performers, tourists and chain restaurants, which is exactly where he decided to take me: California Pizza Kitchen. Way to impress a girl on a first date. Strike three.

Troy’s dinner conversation was decent, but after one strong margarita, he got drunk. Strike four. I don’t mean tipsy, either. He couldn’t walk straight. The tall midget paid the bill, and then proceeded to harass the salespeople in American Eagle as they were locking up. Strike five.

Still drunk, and deterred from finding the perfect argyle sweater-vest, he tells me, “I bought you dinner. You should buy me another drink!” Strike six.

As easy as it is to just think the words “Are you out of your fucking mind?”, it’s much more difficult to say them aloud. So I said okay.

He took me to the complete opposite of family-friendly CPK – The Powerhouse, the diviest dive bar that ever dived. Strike seven. This is the kind of bar that tries to distract patrons from the holes in the wall by putting in a pool table. Charming.

After one more awkward drink, we walked down Hollywood Blvd back to my car as I was rehearsing excuses in my head. “I have an interview tomorrow morning” is my go-to winner for getting out of a date early. On the way, he would stop and pet every single dog being walked. He would stoop down, shake the dog’s fur, and talk to it in puppy-talk (a version of baby-talk, but with dogs) for at least five minutes. Every. Single. Dog. Strike eight. The dogs’ owners and I would share perplexed looks, and I would just shrug: I don’t know, either. 

Troy then sees some German street performers with long blonde hair playing guitar. Troy goes up to them and asks to sing a song with them. 

They hand him a microphone and play The Eagles’ Hotel California in its entirety. Strike infinity. A crowd of tourists form a semi-circle. One throws change at him, which he pockets.I am standing there, mortified, while he screeches out the entire seven minute song, still drunk, mostly with his eyes closed. This is the part of the romantic comedy where the girl thinks, “Oh, what a free spirit!” and then joins him for the last chorus, ending the song with a kiss and the crowd applauding! But in real life, this is the part where I slowly back away and hightail it to my car. I don’t think he noticed. I doubt he even remembered I was there.

This was, and always will be (barring the possibility I might get date-raped in the future) the worst date of all time. Now I can never listen to any song by The Eagles without shuddering and becoming immediately celibate. Thanks, asshole. You ruined Desperado for me. And Desperado is a fucking good song.