Recently I visited Louisville KY. It was my second visit. On my fist I learned from the Louisville Airport PA system that Louisville claims to be the 13th largest metropolitan area in the USA…..Really who is proud of that? I also learned there are like 6 correct ways of pronouncing Louisville….Yep 6, it is on tee shirts, billboards and shot glasses. Oddly, in only one of the 6 pronunciations does the “s” get fair shrift. Lastly, I learned that the quickest way to freak out in an airport is to pay some random woman 10 bucks to inject you with the flu shot (read Ebola virus)..she was at a collapsible table and only took cash. 5 seconds after I walked away, I was so sure I was dead, I needed a shot of liquor.
Which brings me comfortably to my second visit. This time around, convinced of my impending disappointment I was informed by a dear colleague that the Kentucky Bourbon trail has several stops in Louisville. Furthermore, since my colleague was about to embark on a very personal campaign to seriously kick some cancer ass, it was my duty to sample lots of bourbon, at lots of bars, in her support. Dutifully I complied. So on my second visit I learned that good Kentucky straight bourbon is a beautiful thing. Disappointment abated. Good bourbon is a great thing, smooth, rich, and usually pushing 100 plus in the proofage department. Bourbon, real bourbon, is like the company of the friends I enjoyed it with; Complex, Natural and there when I need it.
Ok. Louisville has the slugger, the liquor, a horse race, the funky name thing….And a huge art scene, who knew? Downtown had some local theater, art galleries, and what has to be the oddest men’s room in the world. Just past the video installation of a woman stuffing her bra with meat, on the right; complete with one way mirror urinal (it’s like your peeing on the people in the hallway, on the other side of the mirror). It’s also a college town, complete with Hip Hop, shake it where it counts, drink in a plastic cup, bars.
The shock of leaving a table serviced leather chair surrounded by rich mahogany for a hip hop dance club where the Basil Haydens was on a shelf so high the bartender needed a ladder, was intense. However, it was a necessity since ridiculously any bar with a bourbon list closed at 11PM. With Basil languishing in the plastic cup I found an empty space just under the bass cannon I sat down and began feel the music. Before you freak out with scary visuals of my Yeti like self getting my freak on, rest assured there was no shakin of this booty, Basil was stressed enough, I didn’t want to do that to him.
However, the 65 year old silver hair professor type guy had no Basil, and had no trouble trying to keep up with the 18 to twenty something chickies on the dance floor. They raised the roof, he did his best not to push up daisys. The music jumped smoothly from one pulse bender to another, it was loud enough to scald the skin, my heart matched the beat, oddly I wanted a “bar drink.” “Must stay with Basil” “bourbon is your friend” became my mantra. A bar drink would have brought booty shakin and I didn’t want to wreck the professors groove.
I don’t know anything more about the professor, but I knew what he was doing. The chicks were digging his moves, it was evident, he was in. It was a pleasure to watch. He was a pro.
Writing this I remember being a teenager, terrified of what the gaggle of girls in the mall was thinking, worried that I might say the wrong thing. What I didn’t know then, I kinda know now, and the professor mastered, was women. Older guys know girls are just as messed up, insecure (more so) and freaked out by the dating thing as guys are. Experience gives this silver haired guy all he needs to crowd out his younger competition. He knows how to use his strength and the woman’s weaknesses to break out of the confines of awkward eye contact, into contact at a whole new level.
If for some reason, my wife tires of me and I find myself single, I would like to think I might be able to pull off the professor look and game (for those of you who have seen me dance, you know its unlikely). However, I honestly don’t think I will have the wherewithal to get back out there, and use my experience to prowl the night clubs…honestly it’s just too much work. So for me it is not so much a question of using whatever knowledge of the female species I have acquired, but how and if I give it to my sons.
Experience builds character, and character builds men, or at least is a key ingredient. My dad taught by example, and since he remains hopelessly committed to my mother, I learned how to be committed. The rest I fumbled through…..blundered even. (be nice please, readers who I’ve blundered) But it turned out well, I learned my lessons. I can tell my sons what I know, and they might believe me, or I can let them learn the lessons on their own, and surely remember them. I guess time will tell. Till then, If you ever get to Louisville, drink the bourbon, drink lots of bourbon, Top Shelf, neat please, small sips, enjoy it and let the world slow down….this too builds character.
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