Kale was trying to get laid. He'd never admit it, especially to me, but all the signs were there. He wouldn't even admit that there were signs, but he was young. I wasn't as young. Nor was I particularly unfamiliar with what he was doing. It just irritated me--mainly because the method he was using usually worked so horribly.

I'd met him through my cousin, who had said that I'd probably like him just because he thought we were similar. If he had said it in another tone of voice I would have taken it as more of a compliment. But then again my cousin has always been a bit of a jackass. In either case he'd introduced us a couple weeks before and I'd seen the resemblance: he was introverted but sly, a romantic cynic and all sorts of other paradoxes that seemed very complex and deep to me ten years ago. Now, well, now they were quaint. But the kid was smart and funny when he wanted to be.

I'd found myself in a rut and was trying to infuse some new blood into the little circle of humanity I traveled in. Kale made me laugh and reminded me of all sorts of interesting and noble things that I used to stand for--you know, before taxes and mortgage payments and 40 hour work weeks. Getting back in touch with my own inner idealist was long overdue I figured. Maybe it was just a pre-emptive mid-life crisis.

I'd see him once a week or so, usually in a group of other folks either intent on commenting on the absurdities of modern society and the meaninglessness of life or happy to sit back and nod and remember having the same conversations a decade before. Perhaps I thought I was going to be a sagely elder figure to this strange little collective, or at least could bide my time before dropping some sort of metaphysical brilliance into a debate like a conversational sniper. Usually I just drank too much.

I should have known better the night I ambled in to the regular meeting spot and in our discussion spot sat Kale and a early twenty-something bombshell who was trying desperately to appear bookish and literate. Of course, it's moments like those that I either prove to myself that I'm not as old as I think I am, or I'm considerably less cool than I think I am. As I approached Kale gave me a sideways glance with just a glimmer of something unpleasant beneath the surface.

"Hey guys. Room for one more?"

The girl smiled at me and slid over in the booth. Kale looked at me more directly and nodded a brief acknowledgment.

"Where's everyone else tonight?"

Kale took a drag off his cigarette and sighed a stream of grey. "Bryce couldn't make it. I couldn't get a hold of Craig and Pez said he might show up later."

I settled in next to the girl and nodded and smiled. She beamed back, "I'm Larissa."

Kale had mentioned her a couple of times. He went to great lengths to say what great Platonic friends they were and that they could share anything without all that relationship bullshit. He said that she was the first girl he had respected as an equal and that she just needed to believe in herself more.

Again, if I had bothered to pay attention, I would have noticed the clear double talk of a would-be intellectual on the prowl. Let me translate:

I really like her and she still talks to me and I keep telling her more and more revealing things about me in hopes that by being open it will be mistaken for actual intimacy. I say nasty things about relationships in hopes that you'll argue with me to indicate that you like holding hands and such as well as hopefully baiting you enough for you to say you'll hold hands with me instead of making me ask. When I say I respect you what I mean is that I get very dumb when I talk to you and go home for hours afterwards examining every tidbit, anecdote and lame attempt at humor I spouted the entire night and kick myself for not being smoother. It also means that you're not a total idiot, but I feel the need to inflate your credentials in my own mind so instead of saying that you're smart or funny or observant I say I respect you because, honestly, there's no way in hell you're better than me. When I say you need to believe in yourself more, well, that's more or less crap because I've fallen for your version of my "baiting" trap. You say little demeaning things about yourself and I swoop in and reinforce your positive self image with a vengeance in hopes that you'll realize that I'm actually saying that I think your pretty and would like to hold your hand. And by "hold your hand" I actually mean "hold your hand" because physical intimacy intimidates the hell out of me.

Now, after having ignored all this wisdom and knowledge of how the young intellectual works, I still had the audacity and try and contribute to a "philosophical conversation about love." Yeah, I know, I feel dumb about it too.

Kale started the conversation proclaiming that love should, in effect, be majestic and graceful and full of meaning and happy thoughts just like in old books and that various institutions associated with it like marriage or courtship or whatever, were all silly and actually impeded the path of true love. Larissa nodded and agreed whole-heartedly that societal norms kept people apart instead of bringing them together and kept people together when they shouldn't be together.

Now, that was where I show what a dolt I am. I told them I thought their definition of love was wrong. I said it wasn't happy clouds and deep conversations and a sense of personal and spiritual one-ness, but a horribly difficult marathon of pragmatic obstacles, personality conflicts, cellulite and flatulence. Now I can't speak any foreign languages. I've tried with no small amount of effort, but with no success. At that moment, however, I would have sworn I'd been speaking an obscure Indonesia dialect from the look I got from those two. And that wasn't the worst part. After looking me over for a moment they continued their conversation as if I hadn't said a word.

And then I got it. I hung out for an obligatory twenty more minutes of sitting quietly as they debated non-essential issues of syntax in order to say the same things over and over and over again and then excused myself and went home. It was a long twenty minutes. I wanted to tell him that she wasn't anything that special--in ten years she'd be voting Republican with two rugrats darting around the starter home in the suburbs and a husband with an acceptable mid-level management gig at the flavor of the month industry. I wanted to tell him that for as clever and subtle as he thought he was being he was wasting his time--conversation and speculation are only substitutes for action when there's a rain delay in the game you're watching. Besides, he wasn't willing to admit to himself that he wanted the hottie just like she wasn't willing to admit to anyone else that she wanted the nose-pickers and the minivan. I wanted to tell them both that chatting about great ideals is nice and all, but you really don't understand what life is all about until it kicks your ass half a dozen times or more and even then you're more apt to realize that every time you thought you were clever and insightful you were just trying to mold your own shit into a coffee mug. But I knew that I wouldn't have listened if I were them. It's so much nicer to believe that the great sweeping concepts and ideas somehow have a deep methodological key to making sense of it instead of realizing that your best bet is just learn to endure and pass time without thinking about it too much.

Maybe I'm too much a product of my own time. Maybe it's just the jaded outlook I was fated to have through global events, pop psychology and too much angst in high school. Maybe I'm just getting too old.

Either that or I'm right, which means damn was I annoying back then.