I'm a fucking poor shot.

Disclaimer: The title to the entry is written in the present tense, but I have since redeemed myself and feel a whole lot better. Still bearless, but better.

I'm a fucking poor shot. After going out last Tuesday on a bear hunt, I came back home feeling upset, inadequate, and mega sexually frustrated.

I started my hunt at what was supposed to be the premiere bear party thrown in NY, Big Lug. Having visited the Luggers at their prior location over a year ago, I thought it was time to check out their new digs (and hopefully find a new furry friend). Since I was unable to go the previous Tuesday night, I was especially eager to be in the company of flannel-clad big boys. As sunset drew near, I strategized the quickest way to get down to the BIG party.

"It used to be here...", the smallish man told me outside of the venue.

"... It closed down about.. a week and a half, two weeks ago?". With these words uttered it seemed like my night was doomed to furless agony.

The guy told me that the organizer of the party got in bad with the community and a boycott of the Luggers ensued. My friend Adam thinks the party was dirty. Boo. I couldn't believe that I had waited so long to attend the beary bacchanale. My door guy said that the closest thing around the area was the "Boy's Room" a couple of blocks away. He also said there would be NO bears. That was strike one.

Where to go next? It was still early and despite the misty, autumnal weather, I was resolute in finding a big man to hug up on. The next, most obvious, bear hangout in my mind was "The Dugout". And so I traipsed cross town to the West Village, cocking my rifle and proceeded with the hunt.

The Dugout had, literally, 3 people inside. That's including the bartender. Yeah, it was early, but... Strike two.

"Ty's" is a little bar on Christopher Street that is usually frequented by an after-work, butch clientele. I popped in to see what the haps were there on the way back from The Dugout.

An aside: I walked on the opposite the side of the street from some NKOTC that I witnessed trying to attack people with their flailing arms and voguish ways. Clearly one of the gurls in the posse had too much Red No.. 40 that day. I'm sayin'.

While there were some bears in suits at Ty's, I stayed put and drank my Corona. Perhaps it was the let down from going all the way from the East to the West Village and being disappointed both times. I think my soggy demeanor was taking shape and people could tell. That, or the daddy with the goatee just wasn't into little Asian man-boys. Oh well... Strike three. Had this been baseball, I would've been out. But, com'on, it's this is hunting we're talking about.

I had remembered seeing my final stop of the evening, The Gym, packed with some brawny dudes once before. Stepping into The Gym, I thought that I had struck gold. Intellectual, bespectacled bears were to my right and older, daddy bears were to my left. As Doc Marvy, my clever bear from Omaha, would say, it was a veritable smorgasbord. I ordered a drink and relaxed in the crowd. As the night wore on, though, the fur dwindled. I clearly wasn't projecting the energy I had at the beginning of the night, even though I had found the party. Ugh, I thought. And with that sigh, I decided to trek it home. Boo hoo kalamazoo.

If there was to be a moral to this story, I suppose it would be that nothing ever materializes when you expect and or want it to. That, or Thursday is a better bear hunting night than Tuesday. Whatever, I'm reloaded.