Sometimes you don't realize you've been cursed, but you suspect it.  It takes some time to verify it.  Like the Curse of the Bambino.  It wasn't immediately evident, was it?  It took several seasons of suffering for the extent of the thing to become apparent, didn't it? 

And then once you realize you've been cursed, you have to figure out why, and what the conditions of the curse are.  Of course, you may never know.  That's the nature of curses. 

I want to start by saying I have enjoyed many drinks and dinners at The Red Fez over the years, and I encourage anyone who has not been there to check it out.  It's a nice atmosphere, the grub's pretty good and it's reasonably priced.  The ventilation system's a little weird, but it's an aesthetic, not a public health risk, so far as I can tell.

My Curse of The Red Fez has to do with going there on first dates, I've surmised.  Like I said, I've been there with friends and never had a problem.  And the restaurant itself is not the problem, either.  It's that anytime I go on a first date there it ends in shambles.  Granted, a percentage of first dates do anyway, but when the ones that do all have The Red Fez in common, what am I to make of that?

I myself have never suggested it for a first date, but on more than one occasion now my date has.  And I'm not about to be like, "Oh, no!  Not The Red Fez!  That place is cursed!"  In the future I will just politely decline, I've decided.  I mean, maybe we can go there on the second date, if there is one.  If we go there on the first date, it's for sure there won't be.

My first inkling that I had been cursed and that The Fez played some part in the curse, was back in '04 when I met a guy I'd met online for drinks there.  He was a tough little SOB from Southie, all covered in tattoos.  So far so good.  But, get this: they were all tattoos of Loony Toons characters. Which is something he revealed over dinner, after a couple rounds of drinks. 

We're talking Bugs and Daffy on one biceps and Elmer Fudd on the other.  And a very elaborate full-back Yosemite Sam with handlebar mustaches reaching all the way to his scapulas!

But this time—last Monday—although I had serious misgivings about going there, I thought, I'm not going to let some silly superstition stand in the way of what could be a perfectly lovely evening.  And I'm pleased to report it didn't.  Dinner was actually very nice indeed. 

But somewhere in my soul there was a creeping feeling.  It was so pleasant—the food, the drinks, the conversation—that if the curse had not been reversed, this was going to be ten times worse than Loony Toons was in the end. 

Not surprisingly, the evening ended like it did with Loony Toons.  I won't get into the gory details, but, you know, it takes an awful lot to deter two grown men who have met online looking for a match not to go there.  Even Sylvester and Tweetie on your ass cheeks won't stop the inevitable.   

In both cases the romantic portion of the evening was, well, to put it in Hobbesian terms: nasty, brutish, and short.   

Which I'm not opposed to, either, necessarily.  It's just, why spend fifty bucks on dinner for that?  I mean a 30-pack of PBR is, like, nine bucks.  Works just as good. 

I don't only meet potential mates on the internet, of course.  But I'm not going to pretend I'm above it.  These websites are the singles bars of the noughties, and, personally, I find them a damn sight better than the old-school alternatives.  You don't need a wing-man, first of all.  You don't stumble home drunk, broke, and stinking of stale cigarettes, like in the old days, either.  

I was talking to my mom the other night—I called her for Valentine's Day, of course.  She's had a pretty rough coming on three years now since my dad died.  She went through breast cancer herself shortly after he passed on.  Now she's at a point where she's thinking of dating, something she hasn't done in almost forty years.  I'm all for it, but when she starts talking about going online, even though it's match.com and eharmony, I get a little nervous. 

We've all been on the look-out for potential matches for her, but she seems to want to check out the whole online scene herself—and why not?  She assures me whenever we talk about it that she knows all the rules: the red flags, how to go about meeting up, and all that.  She tells me she has girlfriends in their sixties (she's 61 herself) who are having fun with it.  And she says she doesn't have any unrealistic expectations, but, come on, who doesn't have those these days? 

Still, as long as she's safe—in every way—you know, stds in seniors are on the rise—I'm all for it.  But you've got to kiss a lot of sociopathic frogs with freaky fetishes before you find a regular guy, never mind a prince these days.  But who knows?  Maybe she'll get lucky.  I'm certainly not gonna rain on her parade.  She deserves a little adult-type fun. 

Myself, I'm not one to give up when the odds are against me, but I did get to reflecting on my date in its aftermath (and there have been much messier aftermaths, physically and psychically speaking—there's been no PTSD with this one, but it has given me pause), and I'm thinking, maybe I should stay away from the internet for awhile.  (I read in Harper's this month that "Researchers found that excessive use of computers and other technological devices can cause people to suffer a loss of IQ more than twice that observed in marijuana users.")

My friend Robert does contra dancing and belongs to a book group, and keeps urging me to come along.  But that seems a little too lonely hearts for me—I mean if you're doing it for a date.  I'm not so desperate for one I'll dance for it.  Yet.

Being single has a lot going for it, actually.  Not least that you can go out on dates when it suits you, and when it doesn't you can lock yourself in your attic with a thirty-pack of PBR you were saving up for a special occasion, three or four quarts of chunkie monkey, season five of Smallville, a tarp and a tub of Crisco.  It's at least as much fun as going out.  Trust me.

Especially when you've got The Curse of The Red Fez to contend with.