I don’t really watch a lot of TV, and I’m not a big movie guy. But a few nights ago, I was sifting through the channels, searching for golf highlights before hitting the hay.

I stumbled across what I think was an old “Train Robbers.” I’m not exactly sure why, but whenever I stumble across kitschy old westerns, I feel a certain need to tune in. They don’t make movies like that anymore, and I’m not entirely sure why. There probably isn’t a market for films based heavily on visual landscapes, stock characters, simple plotlines, good guys, bad guys, G-rated language, bloodless violence and hanging conclusions.

This to say nothing of the way in which men related to women before some bunch of politically correct, wayward muck-ups decided to make everything complicated.

I just wish that, for once, things would work out for me like they worked out for John Wayne.

Granted, he was in Hollywood when Hollywood didn’t try to dress itself up as anything other than Hollywood. But was there ever a time or a society or a guy who just had it all figured out to the point where he could simply grunt, spit, tip his cap, hitch up his pants, say something snappy and really urbane like “G’Evening thar, lil’ lady” and end up getting laid five minutes later?

I, on the other hand, tend to grunt and spit while simultaneously trying to enunciate something urbane and snappy like “Hi, my name’s Eric.”

—

First day of class, last semester. Huge lecture hall for a class I’m not terribly excited about and not terribly worried about. I walked up and grab a seat in the front-left corner, my routine positioning in lecture halls.

Brooks Bollinger sat down next to me. Interesting enough, but there was a noisy air-conditioning vent right next to me, and Brooks wasn’t very talkative. Next lecture, I slid back and over a couple rows to the most readily available empty seat. Not 30 seconds later, she plopped down gingerly right next to me, as if on cue.

Well, frankly, I was screwed from moment one. Beautiful women don’t just sit down next to guys like me in lecture hall. We don’t get picked out of a crowd. And on the off chance God is in a good mood, the stars are in alignment and your desirable female forgets to put her contacts in, we don’t come prepared.

Needless to say, I muffed the intro and fumbled the getting-to-know-yous. I got into some dry, journalistic line of questioning on the level of “Where do you live ? cool … where are you from … neat … what’s your major ? oh, that sounds interesting.” All the while I’m staring at the laces of my shoes, picking my middle fingernail with my thumb, tapping my left foot and clicking my pen on my arm rest.

And I was conscious of all this! I knew I was behaving like a deer in headlights, I knew she knew I was acting like a deer in the headlights and I was hopeless to do anything about it. Thinking myself a man of action, I decided it was time to turn on the charm.

“So, is my seat as comfortable as yours? Man, these are great,” I said with a knowing smile as I squirmed.

John Wayne must know something I don’t.

For whatever reason, and I think it was pity, she kept sitting next to me. Every class, in fact. We even conversed on a level that surpassed the particulars of cushioned upholstery.

Yeah, I asked her out. A good six weeks later, which was problem No. 1.

Yes, I got canned. No, I wasn’t surprised.

Yes, I did it while staring at my toes, clicking my pen, zipping up my jacket and tapping my foot as class was letting out and it was noisy. As soon as the bell rang and the prof wrapped up, she let out a sigh, “Finally, I can go home and get some sleep.”

Well, there was the golden opportunity I had been waiting for. “So-you-have-any-plans-for-lunch-or-may-be-not-so-much,” I squeaked.

“Oh, sorry,” she said. She had forgotten she had a really big paper due the next day that needed immediate attention.

Second effort: “I can’t, I have to work.”

Third effort, it got worse: “I really shouldn’t, I’m pretty tired”.

Fourth and final desperate effort: “Look, there’s this guy, who I’m kinda seeing, and he might be mad.”

That information would have been handy three months ago.

I chalked it up to experience and convinced myself she wasn’t my type, walking away with my head held high.

And I think I got my wish. Anybody ever seen a decent western without some proud, punch-drunk Irish buffoon or otherwise-foolish sidekick who doesn’t know when he’s beat?

Me neither.