This is the first in an ongoing series of personal essays that exist purely as a direct outlet for my ego, unhindered by the braying and gnashing of my superego. The species referred to in the title is not cats or lizards or whatever.

Half of my early evenings are spent writing on this very computer in this very spot at this very coffee shop. I sit where I can watch the door and the people who come through it. I know some of the regulars by their habits, by their coffee orders, by the websites they view on the shop’s free computers – there’s Slouching Spreadsheet Guy and Christian Dating Site Lady and Weird Latte Drink Girl.

There is one particular barrista that strikes my fancy, even though she’s rather completely inaccessible. I harbor no icky fantasies or ideas about her, and she appears to be in a very nice relationship with a very nice young man. Despite the boyfriend thing, she also has the service thing, which makes for a weird social dynamic. The Hot Barrista has to talk to me. She doesn’t have to be nice, but it’s in her professional interest to exchange polite words with her customers. I have no idea whether or not she’s attracted to me, and I doubt it’s even crossed her mind.

When people are being nice to each other, they introduce each other to each other. The lucky ones have someone else to do the introducing. The shy ones rely on this in order to expand their social circles, but I’m not as shy as I used to be. I’m equipped to make those sorts of introductions myself. In fact, I’m pretty good at them. Just today, I turned a potentially awkward, fumbling new employee introduction into a light, friendly meeting between smart, interesting equals, just by saying the right thing at the right time. I didn’t do it consciously – it just sort of came out. For the first time in my life, social graces come easily and without a lot of consternation. I’m not as easily embarrassed, and I don’t avoid social things like I used to.

But Hot Barrista is a completely different story. I fumbled and misspoke and spoke too quietly and I wasn’t witty at all and the most interesting thing I could come up with was a giggling, blushing agreement with anything she said. It was weird and I felt weird after it. It was also intensely familiar.

There is no chance that anything whatsoever is going to “happen” between me and Hot Barrista, but I still acted like she caught me trying to put my finger down her cleavage.

But no, I just introduced myself. “My name is Jim,” I said. And then she made small talk over the mug of piping-hot coffee she was preparing while I made an ass of myself.

I’ve had a few negative dating experiences lately, the sorts of experiences that have the capacity to turn people away from the stuff for a while. The Old Jim would have been so discouraged that he would have given up completely, at least until the next personal ad idea came to him.

But a funny thing has happened as a result of these experiences. Rather than discourage me, they energize me.

I was talking to Ape last night, relating my experiences and complaining about my luck, when I came to a weird, unexpected conclusion about this. “All of these mistakes and missteps and stuff aren’t making me feel depressed, they’re making me a better person,” I said. “I learn what I did wrong, think of a better way to do it the next time, and I feel pretty ok. Who knew that failure could lead to strength?”

Her reply?

“Everybody but you, James.”

This is the first in an ongoing series of personal essays that exist purely as a direct outlet for my ego, unhindered by the braying and gnashing of my superego. The species referred to in the title is not cats or lizards or whatever.

Half of my early evenings are spent writing on this very computer in this very spot at this very coffee shop. I sit where I can watch the door and the people who come through it. I know some of the regulars by their habits, by their coffee orders, by the websites they view on the shop’s free computers – there’s Slouching Spreadsheet Guy and Christian Dating Site Lady and Weird Latte Drink Girl.

There is one particular barrista that strikes my fancy, even though she’s rather completely inaccessible. I harbor no icky fantasies or ideas about her, and she appears to be in a very nice relationship with a very nice young man. Despite the boyfriend thing, she also has the service thing, which makes for a weird social dynamic. The Hot Barrista has to talk to me. She doesn’t have to be nice, but it’s in her professional interest to exchange polite words with her customers. I have no idea whether or not she’s attracted to me, and I doubt it’s even crossed her mind.

When people are being nice to each other, they introduce each other to each other. The lucky ones have someone else to do the introducing. The shy ones rely on this in order to expand their social circles, but I’m not as shy as I used to be. I’m equipped to make those sorts of introductions myself. In fact, I’m pretty good at them. Just today, I turned a potentially awkward, fumbling new employee introduction into a light, friendly meeting between smart, interesting equals, just by saying the right thing at the right time. I didn’t do it consciously – it just sort of came out. For the first time in my life, social graces come easily and without a lot of consternation. I’m not as easily embarrassed, and I don’t avoid social things like I used to.

But Hot Barrista is a completely different story. I fumbled and misspoke and spoke too quietly and I wasn’t witty at all and the most interesting thing I could come up with was a giggling, blushing agreement with anything she said. It was weird and I felt weird after it. It was also intensely familiar.

There is no chance that anything whatsoever is going to “happen” between me and Hot Barrista, but I still acted like she caught me trying to put my finger down her cleavage.

But no, I just introduced myself. “My name is Jim,” I said. And then she made small talk over the mug of piping-hot coffee she was preparing while I made an ass of myself.

I’ve had a few negative dating experiences lately, the sorts of experiences that have the capacity to turn people away from the stuff for a while. The Old Jim would have been so discouraged that he would have given up completely, at least until the next personal ad idea came to him.

But a funny thing has happened as a result of these experiences. Rather than discourage me, they energize me.

I was talking to Ape last night, relating my experiences and complaining about my luck, when I came to a weird, unexpected conclusion about this. “All of these mistakes and missteps and stuff aren’t making me feel depressed, they’re making me a better person,” I said. “I learn what I did wrong, think of a better way to do it the next time, and I feel pretty ok. Who knew that failure could lead to strength?”

“Everybody but you, James.”

I’ve been watching a lot of House lately, which is a phrase that would make no sense if spoken aloud. I borrowed the third season DVD set from my parents, who are really interested in smart, funny things. That’s part of how they came to have six smart, funny children. You can figure out the other parts.

I also watched Terminator 2 recently. That’s a movie about a pair of time-traveling robots who duel over the life of a 10 year old boy. In my mind, those two are related. They’re two sides of the same coin – a tuppence of badassetude.

A terminator is an implacable killer. It is indestructable (mostly). It is really strong. One of them killed an entire police station’s worth of heavily-armed cops.

House is the same thing, except with his mind. He’s capable of brilliant deductive reasoning, but he chose medicine, so instead of solving murders he’s solving diagnostic medical conundrums.

Their abilities are only half of the fantasy, though. Being super strong and super smart and super invulnerable and exceedingly capable are all really neat, but there’s more to it We know that a terminator is invulnerable physically, but he’s also immune to social damage. He’s a robot. He has no feelings. But he’s also immune to legal repercussions (see dead cops, above).

But where the robot is simply immune, House is super-smart and capable of fighting back. He does this mostly through sarcasm and awesome puns as can only be delivered by a brilliant British comedian speaking in an impeccable American accent, which is kind of a super ability all its own.

House is really, really good at an entire field of study. He apparently knows everything about medicine, about the human body, about psychology, and a slew of seemingly unrelated subjects that all help him diagnose the undiagnosable and to generally wreak havoc on the personal and professional lives of his coworkers. He makes daring, impulsive decisions that almost always prove right. That’s the thing about House – he always gets his way and he’s always right.

That’s a powerfully attractive fantasy – to be so completely, unstoppably capable at something. I’m a decent writer, but the things I say about stories aren’t simply taken as truth. When my friend Becky talks about legal matters in the presence of her layperson friends, nobody questions it. There are probably people in her life whose legal opinion she accepts similarly to the way we accept hers. I bet that guy has someone he defers to, as well. That’s what it’s like being House – he’s the guy that other doctors defer to.

I think that’s better than being a terminator. Sure, you can kill whomever you want with total impunity and you are super strong and you have detailed files on human anatomy, but you’re not an uber-super-genius.

It’s a fantasy of being intellectually powerful rather than physically powerful (especially in this case, since House is crippled). That’s the kind of fantasy that nerdy, white kids have.

Hi, folks. I’m a nerdy, white kid.

If there is a genetic component to verbal skill, it’s a dominant gene in my family. Even though my sister has pursued the laudable path of reason and logic, she’s the best writer that WVU’s psychology department has ever seen. I’m easily the worst writer in my family, which says all you need to know.

I have four brothers, but only one of them is as active online as I am. His blog is funny and full of insight, much like David himself. It’s mostly about his family, which David is also. An excerpt that caught my fancy:

In discussions in the car after the film, we agreed that the theme of Jumper is that cool people need to kill the religious people that are trying to kill them first because cool people have the right to be cool, even if they routinely violate the laws of physics and time-space in compleete disregard to the will of God.

His wife is Arwen, who immediately ingratiated herself to me by being named after a character in my favorite book. Since being born and named, she has started a blog about one of my other favorite things: food. Although recent recipes came from the Food Network, Winnie is someone wholly more authentic than anybody on the Food Network, which naturally means she’s pretty much way more awesome than anybody on the Food Network. I am loath to reduce my darling Nigella below anybody, but I’ve never eaten Nigella’s cooking. I’ve eaten Winnie’s cooking, and it wins.

I wish my brother Rob had a blog, but he doesn’t. Get on that, Rob. I know he’s reading, though, because he linked to me from his class’s blog. He also says in his comments that he often disagrees with what’s written in this space, but I think he mostly just means the political stuff. In matters that matter more, we agree. For instance, something that is funny to one of us is funny to the other one. This is always true. For instance, I know Rob will laugh at this:

This is obviously impossible, because a tincture of awesome still amounts to a few metric tons of regular.

- Here’s the first, and it might just make you excited: the teaser trailer for the next Indiana Jones movie. Brilliant.

- old video for my newest favorite band is very awesome. You should watch it.

- There are still a few minutes of Valentine’s Day left for me to show you this shipment of sad.

- Goodbye, freedom! Behold, another group of politicians who think they know what’s good for you better than you do.

- Want a spoilery, visual synopsis of the Indiana Jones movie? Look no further.

- Chippenfail

The day quickly approaches. Saint Valentine’s Day. It’s about 1.5 hours away by my clock. I don’t know why I’m counting it down. Let me think about it.

Ok, got it. The acquisition of a partner in romance has occupied my time in fits, starts and stumbles. I am currently in a period away from the occupation, as my tolerance for the vagaries of internet dating has been reduced to nil and as my social involvement simply hasn’t been what it should be.

But right now, shit’s ok.

I sit alone in my little house, in my little living room, on my little couch, in front of my little laptop. I have headphones on my ears and Rasputina, Beck and Tori Amos playing in them. Much to my surprise, I am content.

I spent much of my first year of college in my dorm room in much the same state, writing in a notebook with a little lamp on the top bunk next to me. Picking the top bunk was an important choice when I made it – now, I don’t even remember making it.

I think that’s how life is. Shit just isn’t as important as we think it is.

I got news for you: shit ain’t important. We live in an eternal present. That’s the shit that matters. I hope you can parse the shits.

Getting terribly depressed was one of the top three best things that ever happened to me. I’m not only better, I’m better than I was before I got depressed. I’m the best I might have ever been.

I’ve felt so good lately that I thought of digging out a wedding picture, maybe of one of me and my ex-wife kissing, and emblazoning the words “EPIC FAIL” on it. I’m not actually going to do it, but the mental image made me laugh.

Yeah. Sank Valentimes Days can come with chocolate squeezed through white-knuckled fist fingers, with diamonds and roses and flowers and redness and hearts and romantic dinners. I’ll be rubbing my hands together in anticipation of the next sunrise.

Get ready, humans of earth. I’m coming.

And I’ve got a bad-ass beard.

And a hoodie.

The day quickly approaches. Saint Valentine’s Day. It’s about 1.5 hours away by my clock. I don’t know why I’m counting it down. Let me think about it.

Ok, got it. The acquisition of a partner in romance has occupied my time in fits, starts and stumbles. I am currently in a period away from the occupation, as my tolerance for the vagaries of internet dating has been reduced to nil and as my social involvement simply hasn’t been what it should be.

But right now, shit’s ok.

I sit alone in my little house, in my little living room, on my little couch, in front of my little laptop. I have headphones on my ears and Rasputina, Beck and Tori Amos playing in them. Much to my surprise, I am content.

I spent much of my first year of college in my dorm room in much the same state, writing in a notebook with a little lamp on the top bunk next to me. Picking the top bunk was an important choice when I made it – now, I don’t even remember making it.

I think that’s how life is. Shit just isn’t as important as we think it is.

I got news for you: shit ain’t important. We live in an eternal present. That’s the shit that matters. I hope you can parse the shits.

Getting terribly depressed was one of the top three best things that ever happened to me. I’m not only better, I’m better than I was before I got depressed. I’m the best I might have ever been.

I’ve felt so good lately that I thought of digging out a wedding picture, maybe of one of me and my ex-wife kissing, and emblazoning the words “EPIC FAIL” on it. I’m not actually going to do it, but the mental image made me laugh.

Yeah. Sank Valentimes Days can come with chocolate squeezed through white-knuckled fist fingers, with diamonds and roses and flowers and redness and hearts and romantic dinners. I’ll be rubbing my hands together in anticipation of the next sunrise.

Get ready, humans of earth. I’m coming.

And I’ve got a bad-ass beard.

And a hoodie