Game, Set-up, Match

The singe life (remarkably this has not yet been the title of a short lived sitcom), a time that many in a long term relationship seem to romanticize… well I suppose romanticize what with its root word conjuring images of flowers, chocolate and a healthy dose of door holding, isn’t exactly the right word. It’s about the freedom, the seemingly endless options, and the lack of a significant other to argue with.

Myself (a long term relationship participant)… well I just don’t seem to remember single life that way. Sure yes like anyone I had my good single times, but really all I can remember is the amount of work.

There’s the whole asking a girl out… except, you know, you don’t just ask her out do you? You have to sound slightly more modern then Richie Cunningham asking a Mary Beth or Mary Sue to be his date to the Sock Hop. Yet you need to make it clear you’re not asking her to hang out as a friend.

You need to lay a ground work of flirting, but of course even this needs to be measured. You don’t want to come off as a “macho pig” (to quote Jessie Spano, naturally) but at the same time you don’t want to deliver some half hearted compliment about her shoes that gives off that flamboyant friend vibe.

If you pull off the proper levels and feel you’re winning her over and decide now is the time to convert this into something, well then you have to prepare yourself for rejection.

It happens… sometimes a girl will in fact deem you not worthy of getting a free meal, drink, or movie out of. But you know, that’s not exactly how they’ll put it. Granted I can’t really predict how you’ll be rejected. If I could I’d be pretty mad, that’d kind of be the worst superhero power ever. “What’s this? Rejection sense tingling… sir, do not approach that woman! She is going to tell you she is just getting over a really serious relationship!”

Superhero jokes, now maybe you can predict some of the reasons I was rejected in those crazy days of singledom. Let’s jump back a bit and pretend none of this has happened…

Granted I can’t really predict how you’ll be rejected. There are of course a few tried and true lines.

“Let’s just be friends,” a classic (with several variations). Guys let me translate, when a girl says let’s just be friends she’s simply saying “makeovers yes, making out no way in hell.”

Then there’s the next level of rejection, the “you’re like a brother to me.” Again allow me to translate. “You’re like a brother to me,” meaning: it’d be a crime for me to be with you, so don’t even try.

Don’t get me wrong, I really don’t view being single as all doom and gloom. Sometimes you really do connect with that other person and phone numbers are exchanged.

Or maybe not anymore? For all I know I’ve been in a relationship so long that I’ve become dated, maybe it’s all gone digital now. Exchange last names and Facebook one another. Which actually would be handy. I have to admit there have been times when I guiltily realized I didn’t even know the girls full name and we had past the point of asking.

But if sending a message on Facebook really is the in, are there rules for this? “Hey man, be careful, you don’t want to look over eager. Wait 1 day to add her as a friend. Now if your going to wall post that bitch wait 1 more day, but a private message man, 2 days.”

I haven’t asked around, but I assume there are rules. I mean with the phone number there were always rules; everyone had their own opinion, their own advice. “Wait this long till you call her…”

So no, I don’t miss the wild single days. For all the fun times, it really is a lot of work in-between. However I was recently asked to serve as wingman for a friend.

Oh to be a wingman. For a guy whose in a relationship the role of wingman is like retiring from professional hockey and then coming back to play in the old-timers game. You don’t want to come out of retirement, but you’re happy to strap on those skates for a night just to remember the rush, to prove to yourself you’ve still got it.

As a wingman you aren’t out to get the girl, you’re just there to make your friend look good. Which I guess thinking about it maybe old-timer’s hockey game isn’t the best analogy. You’re more the team that’s scripted to loose to the Harlem Globetrotters. Yeah, that works better… you’re the Atlantic City Seagulls.

Now for those of you unfamiliar, the role of wingman is a complex one. You are required to wear many hats all at once... though not literally as a guy who dons a lot of headwear all at once is probably not a good choice for wingman.

Here are the (remember figurative) hats:

The Coach

You’re Mickey Goldmill, the trainer, the motivator. Sure you’ve retired but you’re there to help those who are still in the game to realize their potential. If you can also somehow tie in a montage of punching hanging carcasses of meat and dramatically running up a flight of stairs this is always a fan favorite, however it may not improve your point man’s game. In fact some studies suggest fists soaked in carcass juice may turn off women.

The Secret Agent

No, you’re not James Bond. You don’t get the woman in the end. You’re 004 or something, the expendable character that helps Bond gather intelligence. Does the target have a boyfriend? Is she looking for something particular? Is her crazy-hot ratio off? It’s your job as wingman to get this information.

The Kamikaze

You’ve got someone to go home to at the end of the night, so go head first and embrace the crash. Open up the lines of communication at any cost, put yourself in the embarrassing or awkward position and don’t look back. If in the course of so doing you crash and burn, and this crash and/or burn sets your point man up perfectly, even better. Your buddy will be sure to buy you a Purple Heart from the bar for your sacrifice in the line of duty. And to clarify Purple Heart I am of course making an analogy of beer in place of the metal of honour awarded in the United States to those who are wounded or killed in the well serving their country. I am in no way making a reference to some sort of girly drink, as the good wingman knows that fruity drinks shall only be secretly consumed in the company of their girlfriend, not out with the guys.

The Blocker

From time to time your buddy will face obstacles while working his magic, another guy will try and get the girls attention, or maybe the girl’s friend will try and get her away from your point man. Whether you have to run conversational interference or you just need to tackle them, let nothing touch your QB.

The Hype Man

Like the guy in a rap group with the same name, the hype man is there to back up his point man. When he needs to take a breath, you jump in to fill the break in the conversation. When he makes a joke, you laugh. And like any good hip hop hype man you’re there to build up the excitement levels of your audience… though advisably not through the traditional rap method of call-and-response chants, this tends to confuse and scare the girl you are talking to, especially I have found if the girl your buddy is targeting is in a Starbuck’s and you begin your call-and-response by quoting a 1989 ‘2 Live Crew’ song, “if you believe in having sex, say ‘hell yeah!’” A more recommended advisable way of building excitement is to talk up your friend, really sell him. Though who knows, maybe it was just my delivery of 2 Live Crew that steered me wrong.

Yes sure it’s a tough job in its own right, but someone has to do it, and in the end, isn’t it a lot less stressful then asking the girl for her phone number? Or is that ask a girl for her name so you can search Facebook’s database for her and send a friend invite?

Call me old fashion but it just doesn’t have the same ring, I guess that’s what happens when you leave the game. There’s no way of predicting whether you’ve permanently retired or whether you’ll pull a Michael Jordan, nevertheless I’ll still be out there, serving as wingman. Setting my Globetrotter’s up to pants me as I go to take a free throw. It’s all in the name of entertaining the audience.

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A Cidiot By Any Other Name

There's a town in Minnesota that my girlfriend calls home.

A town on the banks of the mighty Mississippi, with friendly locals and... I better stop myself before Mark Twain's estate is asking for royalties.

It’s a place built on the history of nearly going to war with a group of Native blueberry salesmen. A town built on the back of the railroad. A town built on the back of the lumber industry.

It’s the kind of place where family and the high school football team are king, a place blessed with scenic wooded areas and more then it’s share of Minnesota's ten thousand lakes (the state actually has 11,842 lakes but they rounded it down to ten thousand for tax purposes.)

The natural beauty of the region calls to the people of nearby cities. Drawing them in every summer they come in their campers, SUV's, and hummers, clogging and congesting the streets, beaches, and ultimately after learning beer and 250 worth of horse power don't mix, the emergency rooms.

Granted when your town swells to triple its size and the end of the weekend means traffic jams at all exits, you tend to regard these visitors with a little disdain.

And so the first time I flew down to Minnesota I was greeted by my girlfriend's family sitting on the porch, musing over the havoc the tourists were wreaking this particular weekend, or as they called them, cidiots.

Cidiot: A city dweller in the country, a fish out of water, or as my girlfriend’s family would more colourfully put it: a person who left what little brains they had back in the city.

I laughed along at the stories of mishaps caused by ghostly pale city dwellers that got their brand new fishing lures hooked into themselves.

Then it hit me.

I was born in the heart of downtown Toronto, largest city in Canada, fifth largest in North America. I grew up riding the subway and eating dinner from a street vendor hocking hot dogs.

Sure for college I suddenly found myself attending a school in the midst of a cow pasture, but not without graduating before fleeing from a drug sniffing dog I confused for a wolf (an explanation for running that only made the campus security guard more suspicious).

To make matter’s worse, I once got a fish hook stuck in me…

Fine, I’ll say it, stuck in my butt.

Being in front of my girlfriend’s parents for the first time, sitting on their front deck as the dog ran around the edge of the woods, breathing in pine scented air (and no, my city dwelling friends, not horrible pine car freshener, I’m talking the real thing.) Sitting there sipping lemonade in a rocking chair… okay perhaps the lemonade part is made up by my big city stereotyping mind, but they’ve got two rocking chairs!

Sitting there I realized, I am a cidiot.

I feed off the hustle of the city, the countless faces with countless stories. The sight of a Starbucks on every corner feels like home, and yeah, so what if I call the smallest of streams a river, at least I understand the difference between a Grande and a Venti.

So maybe I am a cidiot I thought, is that so bad? Is it wrong to not know how to tie a knot or know the difference between poison oak and poison ivy if Wikipedia isn’t a fingers length away?

When you’re from a sheltered little corner of a big city, the world that isn’t a subway stop away may often surprise you. Even more so if it’s beyond taking the subway then catching the 192 bus.

So yes, the world is a misadventure waiting to happen when you grew up in a John Hughes film, but it is a misadventure that I invite you along on every Tuesday for the next few weeks, months, or years.

My name is Derek Robertson, I am a stand-up comedian, screenwriter and director, and these are the Confessions of a Cidiot.

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