My Wingman.

Every guy has his wingman. No exception here. However, I like to think I have the best wingman out there. He's one of my best friends from college who has quite literally been a lifesaver for me.* Separately, we are simply awkward, but together we are better than Maverick and Goose in a smokey bar surrounded by 30 homosexual men. Seriously, my buddy George has lent a hand in about half the girls in my life. You see, I have a small problem.

Despite the fact that I possess an incredible ability to mindlessly carry a conversation on any subject a girl speaks of,** I am deathly afraid of approaching a girl. Like first day of Kindergarten scared. If I see a cute girl at the bar do you know what I do? I stare. I stare and conjure up every excuse not to walk over. You might wonder how I get dates. Simple. I either go on Match, wait for a drunk girl to approach me, or have a friend start up a conversation. I am, by all admission, a little bitch.

This is where George comes in. The guy approaches anything - high school girls, milfs, the chick behind the Taco Bell counter about to serve us a Chalupa. He decided a few years ago he just doesn't care anymore. He set himself free. He doesn't know how many times he has struck out - nor does he care. This obliviousness has benefited him greatly. And, as a result, it has benefited me in cities ranging from Toledo to Charleston and all sections of New Jersey.

George hasn't yet helped me out in the city of Philadelphia, but that was only because we hadn't hung out there - until Saturday night.

It was our friend's birthday and a bunch of us surprised her with a group outing in Philly. It was a perfect weekend to go bar hopping throughout the City of Brotherly Love. Our journey eventually placed us at a diner/bar/dancefloor called the Silk City Diner. It was an old-fashioned beat-up diner with a dance floor attached which had some surprisingly good music playing. Although the place was quite novel, it seemed to attract the type of crowd that not only would dance to a Miley Cyrus song, but might actually be in class with her. Whatever. Four of us guys squeezed ourselves into this one diner booth and proceeded to down some PBR when, walking right past us, went this one cute blonde with a tattoo covering her whole upper arm. George knows I dig tattoos.

"Hey! It's my friends birthday! Aren't you going to wish him a Happy Birthday?"
"Huh?"
This girl looked awfully confused. When she twirled around there was more than a hint of stink eye in her face. Rather sardonically she stated, "Uh, Happy Birthday." and proceeded walking.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa... Come and sit down. Ask him how old he is."

I was motioning for George to cut it out. I felt some snappy sarcastic rejection coming on. Unlike George, I don't have the 'I don't give an F demeanor.' I slinked back in my plastic booth, waiting for the Philly-girl charm to spew forth, when she turned around again looking kind of bemused and said, "So how old are you Mr. Ricardo?"

She sat down, and that was that.

The next morning I found myself waking up on a small couch with what felt like 11 bulging disks in the space of my lower back. My buddies had her promise not to harvest my organs when she took me back to her place in a cab - or to at least give them a cut of the proceeds. As I fumbled through the kitchen looking for any sign of hydration, I heard her come downstairs to greet me. Much to my delight, she looked 82% similar to what I had remembered her looking the night before.

We had some laughs and she mentioned she didn't expect me to call, but I truly wanted her number. I had a ton of fun Saturday night. There were loads of stupid dances with my friends, walks to various shady bars and a flirtacious debate about something or other to do with being vegetarian that led directy to some sloppy drunk second base action on Gary Coleman's personal pull-out couch.

When my twisted back and I stepped out onto South Street in search of the Mariot that I was supposed to be at, I honestly hoped I'd be making a return trip. There is something really groovy about this girl. She's funny and she was wearing a Mickey Mouse T-shirt sans bra in the morning that made me smile like a fat kid with a doughnut.

I returned to the hotel to find my friends all eating at the cafeteria ready to make fun of me for various things I had done the night before. I wasn't too concerned though; I had just received a text from my groovy tattoo girl saying she hoped I had found my hotel safely.

Another assist from George!

** Despite wearing more madra shorts and sandals than Jack Johnson, I can't swim. Of course, this didn't stop a younger Mikey from entering the water during Spring Break in Daytona of '02. Lucky for me, George knows how to pull someone to shore.

** Much easier than you think. Basically, ask questions that would allow a girl to talk more about herself while dropping a line that makes you seem clever and conflicted. i.e. Make the Robert Pattison, "I just smelled a wet fart face" and utter something totally nonsensical like, "It's a paradox of the highest order of lies ...")