Weekend Beach Bum:  

Last weekend, over mango margaritas and quesadillas at Iguana Grill, my friend Bob and I lamented our less-than-stellar love lives. I’ve encountered three jerks in the past two months, and I know I should let it go, but a tiny little part of me wants to track those men down, pluck out their wandering eyelashes one at a time, and tie their lying tongues in knots. (OK, my ego sustained substantially more hurt than my heart in each of these cases, but the damage is done.)

Recently, a comic on BET suggested a wonderful idea. She said all men ought to come with a side effect label. "WARNING," she said one such label could read. "This man is subject to running up your credit cards, eating all the food in your refrigerator, and sleeping with two or three of your girlfriends." Even with their new, stricter food labeling rules regarding fat content, I don’t think the FDA would approve mandatory warning labels on male homo sapiens, so I’ve come up with an even better idea—a pre-dating questionnaire. Best of luck to you in the wild world of dating!

May I see a driver’s license or other form of picture ID?
First, you have to make sure he is who he says he is, and that he is the age he claims. I don’t understand why so many gay men and people in general lie about their ages. I’ve earned every (virtually undetectable) wrinkle on this 28 year-old mug, most of them from dealing with men. And, by the way, don’t waste a minute more on this man if his given name is something like "Bernstein Arnold Tallywagger III," and he goes by something like "Skippy."

Do you have a boyfriend?
While volunteering at Bingo-a-Go-Go last Saturday, I thought I saw the man of my dreams. He had jet black, wavy hair, gelled in just the right places, piercing green eyes, a killer smile, and a pretty hot bod. Being the consummate bingo professional, however, I did not approach him except to say, "Would you like to buy any extra cards for the next game?"

Later that night, he walked into the Blue Moon, and I thought, "Finally, Kismet!" We talked for three and a half hours, I met all his friends, and we even discussed my favorite book, which is sacred to me. We flirted and bought each other Coronas all night. At 2:00 a.m., when I finally conjured the nerve to ask him on a date (OK, I asked him back to my place), he quietly responded, "I’d love to, you’re really cute, but I can’t. I have a boyfriend." "You have a WHAT?!?" I responded. "I have a boyfriend," he confirmed, his head hung in shame. "That’s nice," I smirked. "Thank you very much for leading me on all night." At least I got a buzz out of the deal.

Do you have a girlfriend, wife, husband, partner, lover, significant other, soul mate, an obsessed fag hag, a pet with chronic separation anxiety, an invisible Siamese twin, or a perfectly healthy mother you talk to three times per day?
If he has any of the above, his life force is being drained by this being, and there will be no energy or time left for you.

Do you have any obsessions, including, but not limited to: Cher, the gym, Madonna, soy products, Britney Spears, Speedos, Lynn Redgrave, your laptop, Joan Crawford, your cell phone, Elvira, grocery shopping every Sunday morning at 7:00 a.m., Nathan Lane, slings, Elvis, feather hats, The Nanny, AOL, or Charo?
Once again, an obsession with any of the above persons, places, or things is sure to put a damper on your relationship. I once had a boyfriend who, I suspected for a while, was more concerned with using a squeegee on the shower walls after every use and making sure I left the toilet seat in the proper position, than he was with my all-encompassing needs.

Have you ever been diagnosed with any of the following conditions: manic-depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder, "cutting," borderline personality disorder, schizophrenia, severe mood swings, any venereal disease, kleptomania, narcolepsy, pathological lying, fear of commitment, or snoring?
I’m not narrow-minded, and I sometimes think I have more issues than People magazine, so any of the above is not necessarily a caveat. It’s just nice to know what you’re dealing with up front. Except snoring. I’d rather sleep with a doped-up schizophrenic than a boisterous buzz saw any day.

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?
This is a kind of ink blot test question. There’s no real underlying meaning, but this may give you a general idea of his age, his sense of humor, and how far his mind is in the gutter.