While traveling the New York City subway lines last month, major league baseball pitcher Randy Wolf had an encounter with a beautiful young woman. Their moments together were fleeting however, as after she asked him for directions they were separated and she was out of his life.

Of course, this has happened to everyone. Why should a baseball player be any different? A seemingly perfect 10 moves on without saying goodbye or allowing a chance for a second hello. Unfortunately, it is one of the sick games of the fates.

But Wolf attempted to change his fate and give destiny a second chance. He appeared on at least two nationally syndicated sports radio talk shows attempting to find the woman. He openly went on the air describing her appearance, her clothes, everything about her.

“There was something about her eyes,” he said.

Wolf also planned to place ads in several prominent New York newspapers in the hope that she might see them, remember him and reply, according to an ESPN Web site.

Besides tugging on the heartstrings in an almost Hollywood-esque way, Wolf’s search reminded me of the great power available to public figures. They often have numerous media channels at their fingertips, each capable of helping find a possible social interest.

Although definitely not of the public stature of Randy Wolf or of a sports radio talk show host, I like to think of my column as a media channel and of myself as a public figure in the Florida State universe. I guess that means I have a little power.

But, to quote the movie Spiderman (which was on HBO every day last month), “With power comes great responsibility.”

Would I ever dare use this column in order to get the attention of a certain young lady? If so, I would only get one chance. I couldn’t write to a different girl every semester and beg them to talk to me.

“Dear girl in the 2nd row, 4th seat of Professor Smith’s 11:15 English class, please say hi to me tomorrow. Thanks, Mike.”

Not only would that kill the “romance” of the search, but it would make me pathetic and desperate beyond belief.

I mention Wolf’s search and my own ponderance of power because a situation I was in on Memorial Day has forced me to contemplate using my column as a social tool.

As I was driving down Highway 19 (Apalachee Parkway) on the way to my grandparents’ house for a Memorial Day dinner, driving either behind me or along side me was a very attractive Florida State female student in a white Toyota. For over two hours, we (if I may be so bold as to use a pronoun that puts the two of us together) wove in and out of streams of holiday traffic on the way to our respective destinations.

As we eventually came to a stop at a traffic light in the town of Crystal River, I rolled down my window and thanked her for driving “with” me. She smiled and said, “You’re welcome.”

Then the light turned green and away we went again, with me eventually turning onto another highway in route to my grandparents’ town.

So should I use this column as way of getting in touch with her?  Maybe I already have.

Four years ago, like many incoming Florida State students, I stood in line outside the FSU bookstore, waiting patiently to get my FSU ID card. After what seemed like hours, I finally got my picture taken and was handed my brand new, hi-tech ID card.

As I proudly left the ID Card Center, I slipped my new card into my wallet. There it joined the other inhabitants of my small, black leather billfold – my driver’s license, military ID card, ATM card, a couple of dollars, and a recently placed Trojan condom, which I thought wouldn’t be a bad idea to have on me. After all, Florida State University was just named the number one party school in the nation and its student body was, and still is, over 50-something percent female. It couldn’t hurt to be prepared.

In the days and weeks that followed, the condom made a home in my wallet. It befriended already established residents such as the ATM card, who every time it left brought back with it money – those transient presidential portraits who never seemed to stay more than a day or two. Money surely could never be called a “wallet fixture,” a title the condom hoped it too would never have.

When was its day in the sun, the condom quickly came to ask. There were nights, Fridays and Saturdays in particular, when it would get its hopes up. It would watch as the ATM card would get money before going to the club, the driver’s license was used to get in the establishment and the money would leave and never return once inside the club. The condom knew its role was in the closing act of a fortunate night that never seemed to arrive, the final runner in a relay race that never seemed to reach its last lap. Patiently, it awaited its baton, its imaginary arms outstretched.

Bad luck seemed to plague the provalactic. Its mere existence was cursed. Months turned to years as the condom recalled legends of unfortunate “rubbers,” as they were called in the early days, which had “dried up” and had to be discarded before ever being used. Its lack of use was not from lack of trying, the condom was told. But after the first dozen or so wrong phone numbers and several mismanaged dates, the condom started to count down the days to its expiration, like an inmate on death row awaiting execution.

Why was it here and not in the wallet of a more socially fortunate soul, the condom wondered. Others formed in Trojan factory, those with whom the condom had an almost brother-like bond, had long served their purpose, protecting their masters and dying on the frontline with honor and dignity. The condom tried hard not shed a tear of despair.

The only source of pride the condom had was in an unmistakable ring it was leaving on the outside of the wallet. A ring that if the condom was used quickly it would have never had the opportunity to make. A consolation prize in the losing game that was the condom’s depressing existence.

On May 2nd, 2003, the condom joined me as I walked across the graduation stage. With one flip of a tassel, I became an alumnus and the condom, with its four-year birthday quickly approaching, was now an institution in my wallet. It had seen many changes sweep the wallet landscape and survived them all. My driver’s license had been replaced twice, ATM cards had changed banks, military ID card expired and even my shiny new FSU ID card had fallen apart, only to be replaced with a newer, more hi-tech card.

Thank goodness the condom has two more years left until its expiration. Two more years of keeping hope alive.

Picture from this Sexual Health site.

With each new tool, website, or social network staying in touch gets more complicated.

For example, I have family members I can only reach via phone, friends I only talk to via email, Twitter friends, Facebook friends, organizations I follow only on MySpace, a boss who only reads my office reports if they are printed out, and folks I text on a regular basis.

As to be expected, the use of communication tools often varies on generation. Younger friends, family members, peers, other people in my age bracket or younger tend to be more online. I don’t expect my grandfolks to be on Twitter any time soon.

Then there is the frequency of how often people check their communication platform. Although almost everyone has email, that’s doesn’t mean they check it. Same with voice mail.

Of course I make things exponentially more difficult by having multiple accounts on many of these platforms. I have four personal email addresses (I’ve only dropped two since I started emailing in 1996), four work email address on various servers and networks, two Twitter accounts, two MySpace accounts, and one Facebook account. And my phone, which has a Facebook and a Twitter app.

All I am missing is the firepit to send smoke signals.

Communication tools have also vastly changed the dating game. I remember back when an hour long conversation meant girl and I may have a few things in common. In the last two years, I haven’t dated a woman who didn’t rely heavily on text messaging.  I think the days of the hour-long phone call are long gone. I was getting good at that.

Calling now seems awkward. Like I have to really know someone first or they have to be expecting my call. Or maybe I have to text to let them know I am going to call.

Apparently, I am supposed to text a woman a lot sooner than I was supposed to call. There used to be a 24-hour rule on calling. Not that I was that great at following that, but do I text first now? What is the “correct” time I should wait before texting?

The last thing I want is to be this guy:

One of these days, I going to go Thoreau and be reachable only through mailed postage. Either that, or I am going to end up like the bad guy in Wes Craven’s Shocker and live in the grid.

(In care you are curious, however, here is a quick synopsis on my worst ever date: I picked her up in my military uniform after I got off work – she was not impressed as she told me her dad was in the service. Then we went to eat. I ordered a dinner, she ordered a side salad, ate two pieces of lettuce and a carrot slice and then watched me eat. After “dinner”, we were supposed to go play putt-putt or something, but she claimed she needed to go home as her friend had an “emergency” and she need to go see her. So I drove her home. The end.)

With all my experience in first dates, I figured I would endow my readers with some wit and wisdom and a couple of creative ideas for your next first date (or, if you are married, the next time you take the Mrs. out).

The Ultimate Cheap Date

Remember in the movie Half Baked, when Dave Chappelle takes Mary Jane out on a date for a few hours and only spends eight bucks (after robbing the homeless guy)? Well, this date is sorta like that, only without pilfering from the down and out. The goal and theme of this date is to make it as romantic, meaningful, and thoughtful as possible while spending as little as possible. Because face it, a woman who demands you take her to Red Lobster so she can order a 20 dollar salad is probably not the type of girl for any reader of this blog, is she?

The first step in the Ultimate Cheap Date is to buy a few cheap candles, placemats, and maybe a table cloth. Trust me, you can get most of this stuff from the Salvation Army or wherever. Then bring your date to Taco Bell or anywhere else with a dollar menu. Or if you want to go really cheap, aim for less than 99 cents – a McDonald’s hamburger and cheeseburger or a hard taco at Taco Bell. Then, after you pick the restaurant, set up a table like it is a real high class date. Lay out the table cloth, placemats, and light the candles. It will look sharp, trust me. Then play the date like you are taking her to the most expensive place in town.

The Consensus Date

These days we are all about open source things (programs, designs, etc). We are becoming more and more open to the idea of people we don’t know contributing to what we do. Why not bring this concept into dating?

We have all been on dates that don’t start so well. You sit there, trying desperately to connect and find something to talk about. You try news, sports, school, jobs, personal history, family, and even the weather, but the conversation is still as flat as 50-year old soda. Whatever you do, nothing works.

Time to open source and let the people decide your fate.

Once you realize the date is going nowhere fast, walk over to the nearest couple and ask them for help. Make it quick, and don’t waste their time, but still get them to offer you some advice. People love giving advice, especially relationship advice. After you get that couple’s suggestions, go to another table and ask them the same question. Try and get a popular consensus on what to do. Then, after you have a few suggestions or an overwhelming opinion on what to do, go back to your table and see if the people around you are smarter than you are. If anything, you just extended your date by telling your date what you just did. Maybe she will see the humor. What do you have to lose?

Now I can’t say I have done either of these ideas. I am just saying that I think they could work. They might even get you a second date.

(Image from ancestry.com.)

- Black Sheep, The Choice is Yours

But what if you didn’t know where “it” is at? What if you can’t make up your mind? What if you spent so much time thinking about which choice to make that both choices eventually passed you by?

You have now entered the realm of Buridan’s Ass.

Buridan’s Ass, not to be confused with Burciaga’s ass (mmm… purty), is one of those intellectual, sociological, philosophical dilemmas that originated from way back in antiquity. According to the almighty Wiki, “Aristotle mentions an example of a man who remains unmoved because he is as hungry as he is thirsty and is positioned exactly between food and drink”. These days, French philosopher Jean Buridan is best associated with the theory, and a donkey has replaced Aristotle’s human example. In the most extreme case, the theory posts that a donkey will die due to its inability to decide between two equal piles of hay.

Personally, I can’t even begin to count how many times I have fallen into Buridan’s Ass.

Three in the morning and I have the late night munchies, do I eat or sleep? Sleep or eat? If I eat, I’ll be tired but might not be able to go to sleep. But could I sleep on an empty stomach?

Then, of course, there are the times at the grocery store when I am thirsty but feel the first inclination of a number 2 coming on, do I buy beer or toilet paper? If I buy the toilet tissue, I’ll be even more thirsty after I take care of business. But in the time it takes to sip that sweet brew I could have a very embarrassing accident.

But the absolute worst of the Buridan’s Ass incidents are those that affect my love life. There are those few times when I make eye contact with not one, but two beautiful women at a bar, club, or other social scene. Quickly, my mind goes into overdrive. Which one do I talk to? If I pick one then the other is out of my life forever. What if I pick the wrong one? What if the one I pick is a psycho hose beast? But can I tell which one is normal? Can I possibly determine which one will I click with the best?

I’ll admit, my typical response to ponder for few minutes, drink another beer or two, flip a coin, say my eenie-meenie-minee-moes, and then finally ask the bartender his or her opinion. Usually that’s when the bartender asks me if I am talking about the girls who just started talking to the guy who just bought them both a drink.

Yup, that’s when I know I am an ass.