HurryDate: The Shock of the Real

This post first appeared in JMag, the publication of JDate. Its introduction said: JDate member Van Wallach writes candidly about how he found success using HurryDate, an alternative that brings online dating offline.

Despite my experience with online dating, I still felt nervous heading toward my first speed dating event in New York. Compared to the layers of emotional cushioning communicating online provides—a Jewish speed dating party promised to close the digital distance in real time. Participants have five minutes to go on 10-15 dates. The image came to mind of cake ingredients thrown into a blender; we’d either mix or not.

I thought carefully about presentation. The women would see the 3-D me, not just pictures. Deciding to go upscale, I wore a sports coat, a blue button-down shirt and a confidence-inspiring Jerry Garcia tie. The ensemble said, “I pay attention. You’re worth a guy who dresses nicely for our first encounter.”

I hoped speed dating would work better than other singles events I had attended. I wilt in loud, crowded, alcohol-driven venues where men are challenged to blast into a tight circle of women friends standing together. Typically, the noise, the crowds, and the lack of information about the women inhibit me. I feel adrift and out of my element.

I walked into the bar on Bleeker Street in time for the half-hour of socializing. I scanned the group to check out the women, and the men. The organizers waited a few extra minutes to let stragglers arrive, then began. They explained the mechanics: women stay seated, men rotate every five minutes to the next table for a new date whenever a whistle was blown.

The first date got the speed dating concept off to a very pleasant start. The woman was intelligent, educated and attractive. Information about her children suggested she was probably older than me, but I wasn’t going to let that be a hindrance. I marked her “yes” on my score sheet, which offered only yes-and-no choices. A HurryDate party leaves no room for ambiguity.

I moved through other dates, with each conversation having its own rhythm. What do you do? Where do you live? What do you enjoy doing in your spare time? (I asked that, but nobody asked me). Several times I had to explain the origins of my highly un-Jewish name, Van (and yes, that’s my real name; I’m named after a car, but that’s a story for another time).

I kept my eye on the approaching women as the whistle-signal led to another round of musical chairs. You see, I recognized two of them. One I had met on JDate and dated a few times several years earlier, and another I had written to on JDate and never received a reply. I had contacted her in recent weeks after she changed her picture—I told her I liked the new picture. I never heard back from her.

Two women had the same name and I couldn’t tell from my notes which I was interested in, so I marked both and rolled into a date with the no-reply woman first. We did the usual getting-to-know-all-about-you chatter, then I said, “You know, I wrote to you on JDate and you never responded.” She explained she had had computer problems, and other people had also been concerned when they didn’t hear from her. Our conversation had more of an edge to it, based on a history, albeit a one-sided one. I marked her as a “yes.”

My very next date was the woman I met on JDate in 2004. We went out a few times, then I got involved in something else. She also remembered me, and even mentioned an old screen name of mine. We knew enough to get caught up on work and kid issues, and that felt good. I marked her a “yes,” also.

At home, I logged on and cast my votes. I marked “yes” for four, “no” for the others (I would have marked only three, but two women had the same name I couldn’t tell from my notes which I was interested in, so I marked both). I couldn’t fake enthusiasm for women where I felt no connection. I could tell when I would be interested, on emotional, social and, yes, physical grounds.

A day later, I had three matches, the three I wanted. The evening achieved exactly what I wanted; the confidence-building Jerry Garcia tie worked its magic.

Matthew Polly: Transformation in China

Here's a Princeton Alumni Weekly profile of Matthew Polly '95, a martial arts expert who wrote a book about his experiences. The story says:

Polly’s book, American Shaolin: Flying Kicks, Buddhist Monks, and the Legend of Iron Crotch: An Odyssey in the New China, is a raucous, wry look at his transformation from a “weakling” to a fighting machine. Despite his lonely status as the only English speaker at his academy, Polly persisted in the training and language study so that after a year, he says, “I began to understand the culture. The people let me in.” Published by Gotham Books in February, the book recounts his picaresque adventures as he traveled, clashed with Communist Party functionaries, and switched from kung fu to kickboxing.

In-Q-Tel: Spookily Responsible Investing

Year's end always makes people think of their investment portfolios, and that makes me think about the unique investment strategy of In-Q-Tel, the non-profit venture fund supported by the CIA.

While the In-Q-Tel name is horribly clunky, the corporate mandate is a big winner in any game of Buzzword Bingo:

In-Q-Tel was established in 1999 as an independent, private, not-for-profit company to help the CIA and the greater US Intelligence Community (IC) to identify, acquire, and deploy cutting-edge technologies. In-Q-Tel's open and entrepreneurial venture capital model gives it the agility - lacking within traditional government contracting approaches - to help the IC benefit from the rapid pace of change in information technology and other emerging technology fields.

In-Q-Tel's mission is to deliver leading-edge capabilities to the CIA and the IC by investing in the development of promising technologies. Because early-stage technologies are often unproven, In-Q-Tel takes the calculated risks necessary to develop, prove, and deliver them to the Intelligence Community.

And the company uses an arresting tag line on its highly informative site: "As outside the box as government gets."

I can't evaluate In-Q-Tel's investment strategies or success, but I like to think of this as a War on Terror version of "socially responsible investing." The folks at the Social Investment Forum probably wouldn't be too keen to list In-Q-Tel as an investment vehicle, even if they could. The Social Investment Forum's perspective is:

Your savings and investments can help create a better world! Our new guide gives you hands-on advice and information to help you put your dollars to work to build healthy communities, promote economic equity, and foster a clean environment.

I would like to see In-Q-Tel reframe its value proposition in these terms, as a declaration of "spookily responsible investing." That would have more punch than cutting-edge, leading-edge, bleeding-edge, etc. Why not:

"Your savings and investments can help create a more secure, terror-destroying world! Our new guide gives you phasers-on advice and information to help you put your anti-jihadist dollars to work to build healthy listening devices, promote interrogation equity, and a foster an environment that's more deadly to terrorists and the evil forces that support them."

Doesn't that work better? Where do I send my check?

Wendy Sayvitz: Singing Underground in New York

Here's an alumni profile from the Princeton Alumni Weekly of Wendy Sayvitz '81, who has made a good living as a musician performing (and selling CDs) at Grand Central Terminal.

His Perspective: The Functional Value of Heartache

The following first appeared in JMag, the publication of JDate. The introduction said: If you’re an experienced dater, you’ve probably had your share of heartache. JDate member Van Wallach argues that opening up about painful lessons can show someone new that you’re looking for love, not just a good time. (But save the blow-by-blow of your last breakup for your mother.)

After my divorce, I had to readjust to the dating world. The stability of a 12-year marriage vanished into the constant flux of new contacts and opportunities. I found that telling stories about myself—my history, interests, and hopes—was a recurring theme in this strange new land.

Much as in a job interview, the stories we tell on dates are designed to make good first impressions. In fact, so much of this adult dating stuff seems like nothing more than the recitation of preset narratives. Two people make an acquaintance and, as they proceed, start talking. Initially, conversations rarely progress beyond the standard questions posed and reliable answers proffered. If the elusive chemistry exists, the masks slip down so a less polished self may emerge. Then the real connection begins. If the elusive chemistry exists, the masks slip down so a less polished self may emerge. Then the real connection begins.

The masks slipped quickly last spring when I met a woman I’ll call Sandi. From our first encounters on JDate and then in person, I sensed something special about her—and, about us. We revealed bits about ourselves that very few others know. I allowed plans for what we could do, what we could be, to form in my mind. That’s what happens when a woman touches the reptilian boy-girl attraction node deep inside my soul.

It didn’t last. Sandi thrashed in a spider-web of complications involving parents and exes that thwarted our relationship, so we constantly took one step forward and two steps back. Finally, she decided to take two steps back and no steps forward. I was abruptly left to thrash on my own. I could take only meager solace from changes she made to her online dating profile, which now read, “Sometimes you meet the right man at the wrong time.”

Months later, the heartache of Sandi remained with me in a surprising way. During JDate conversations, I would talk to some degree about my marriage or my nuttier dating adventures (such as separately contacting two women who turned out to be sisters, or the woman who pestered me for confidential files from my employer), but never about Sandi. The whole sequence was so baffling and hurtful, so close to my dreams and expectations of what life could hold.

But, I am finding that heartache carries a functional value. That value emerges in response to questions that singles tend to ask. For my part, I never inquire about women’s dating experiences, online services to which they subscribe, or anything else that crosses into the realm of “none of my business.”

However, some of my dates are curious about these personal and pertinent details. Do I date much? What’s my online personals experience been like?

Indeed, Sandi and I had that type of conversation in our relationship. Strolling along the lakefront one lingering summer afternoon, we talked freely about our pasts. After a deep breath, I told her about a profoundly upsetting episode in my romantic history. I held nothing back from Sandi in telling the story—nothing. We held hands and she responded with great empathy. From those moments in the dappled sunlight, I knew our relationship could be based on a level of true trust and support. But the ice floes of life moved us apart, not closer.

Reluctantly, I moved on. The first time a woman asked me, post-Sandi, whether I had a steady relationship since my day in divorce court, I didn’t know what to say. I finally said I had known different women, made some good friends, but nothing really serious had resulted. Buzz! Wrong answer for this woman, who expressed concern that I may not be serious in my pursuit of romance. These kinds of questions are anything but casual. They aim to sound out whether I’m merely a male hummingbird sipping the nectar of available blossoms or actually serious about this business of romantic cross-pollination.

Afterward, I thought about what she asked and my reply. Treating this as an “it’s none of your business” question may not be the right approach. What was she truly asking? What have I truly felt and experienced? I decided these kinds of questions are anything but casual. They aim to sound out my past and intentions, what I’m seeking, and whether I’m merely a male hummingbird sipping the nectar of available blossoms or actually serious about this business of romantic cross-pollination.

Before long, the issue arose again. This time, I was ready. Combining honesty and discretion, I replied, “Yes, I had something that looked very promising. We really connected. But the timing wasn’t right. It just didn’t work out.”

That basic response may evolve, depending on who’s asking the question and the amount of tequila accompanying the conversation. Sandi and I did have something potentially serious, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to downplay what it meant – what it meant for me, anyway. No, I’m not going to offer my heartfelt confessional to every complete stranger I meet for a drink. But now, if asked, at least I have a narrative that shows I am indeed capable and serious.

Do You Have a Relationship Resume?

Most people on Jdate and other dating sties have a resume for their work life. Lately I've been thinking about the value of a resume for my love life. It makes sense: you go through phone screenings, initial conversations, more formal interviews ("dates") with the goal of getting something valuable in your life. We jump through similar hoops in the quest for finance and romance.

So we can all benefit from a "Romance Resume" to provide to targets here on Jdate. The profile does some of the work, but it doesn't go far enough. "What I've Learned from Past Relationships" can be overhauled to provide much more detail. Think of the great conversations that would start if we could exchange relationship Resumes with love interests here.

What would they look and sound like? Since I'm throwing out the idea, it's only fair that I go first. Here's disguised example:

2005-2006: YettaFromYonkers, New York
Overview: YfY and I formed a dynamic, mutually supportive relationship based initially on our shared interest in kung fu movies. It blossomed through our discussions of children, parents, exes, personality-altering medications, and Jdate experiences.

Key accomplishments in this relationship:

* Social: Successfully took YfY to museums, concerts, and exotic restaurants where we ate with our hands while sitting on the floor.
* Emotional: Provided key support to YfY during late-night crises involving intestinal distress due to visits to exotic restaurants.
* Physical: Can discuss details during oral presentations.


See what I mean? We can all think of our pasts as a series of emotionally enriching engagements that let us develop knowledge and capabilities that will delight our next romantic "employer," so to speak. That will give us all an edge in the competition against all the other job applicants applying for the same job.

Some people aren't seeking full-time romantic employment. They are more like freelancers or consultants, interested in a series of less-defined short-term engagements. An honest, detailed romance resume will make that employment history clear, so readers can evaluate you on that basis -- whether you want to sign up for the whole package with an office and romantic employment contract or a more casual, in-and-out engagement.

And of course your romance resume will include references, so readers can check out its accuracy first-hand. Doesn't that sound fun?

Rescuing the Littlest Angel

I've been silent for a while. On July 31 I got laid off from the job I had held since February 2002. The blow came unexpectedly for myself and over 30 colleagues. We learned in a four-minute listen-only conference call that our employer no longer needed our communications skills and we'd hear from HR.

The end.

So I haven't been in the mood to blog here, about personal matters. But with the fall, soon Rosh Hashanah, I'll start early on new behavior, including this.

In the aftermath of the lay-off, two collegues and I rushed back to our New York office from Boston, where we were for an assignment. Our other colleagues had already completed the doleful packing of personal items. I found boxes waiting by my office. I knocked some together, flipping flaps to make a tight cardboard fit, then began dumping in books, CDs, Jdate profiles I had printed out, insurance papers and anything else I wanted to get shipped to my home in Connecticut.

After two hours, I was done. I took final photos, said good-bye to friends, took the elevator down 39 floors, walked down Park Avenue, got the train in Grand Central, and came home. I had packed everything, needing only to return on August 1 to turn in my laptop, keys, Diners Club card, and other professional flotsam.

I was wrong. I forgot something precious.





To understand what I left behind, you have to understand my life long before employment, before New York. I grew up in deep South Texas, a heavily Catholic region on the Rio Grande at the far edge of America. College took me far away, then after graduation my career in jouralism planted me in New York. I hardly ever went back.

I did return for high school reunions, which I always enjoyed at the 20th reunion in 1996 I got the award of a ceramic angel for being the most distant alum of Mission High School to return to the reunion. It would safeguard me on my long trip back home.

The littlest angel, as I call it, means a great deal to me. It speaks of an abiding affection among my classmates and me, a token of the place where I grew up, left, and at times returned.

On the day I returned, I took one last look at my office. The boxes were packed and taped, CDs stowed, everything ready for the last journey home.

And then my eye fell on the littlest angel, guarding my possessions from a bare shelf. Somehow, in my rush to pack, I forgot her. There she remained. I grabbed the ceramic guardian and gently placed her in my Lands' End bag for an escorted trip home under my direct care.

How strange -- the one item with the highest sentimental value to me was the very item I forgot. Had I not gotten laid off while I was in Boston, had I not had to return to the office to do paperwork chores, I might have totally overlooked the littlest angel and left her forlornly on the shelf.

But my last trip to Park Avenue connected me again with my ceramic guardian, and we'll watch over each other from now on.

"Rose Colored Glasses," Hitting Too Close to Home

Radio station WFDU played a country song this morning that hit a little too close too home emotionally. But some country songs do that. I had the presence of mine to jot down enough of the lyrics to find the song. You can hear part of the song on singer John Conlee's website, where you can hear part of the song, which is powerful:

Rose Colored Glasses

I don't know why I keep on believing you need me
When you prove so many times that it ain't true
And I can't find one good reason for staying
Maybe by leaving would be the best for you

But these rose colored glasses that I'm looking through
Show only the beauty cause they hide all the truth

And they let me hold on to the good times the good lines
The ones I used to hear when I held you
And they keep me from feeling so cheated defeated
When reflections in your eyes show me a fool

These rose colored glasses that I'm looking through
Show only the beauty cause they hide all the truth

So I just keep on hoping, believing that maybe
By counting the many times I've tried
You'll believe me when I say I love you and
I'll lay these rose colored glasses aside

These rose colored glasses that I'm looking through
Show only the beauty cause they hide all the truth

That's So Random

One aspect of parenting I enjoy is to hear the trends and times reflected through my son. Just as I had my G.I. Joes and 007 gear, Shmoikel has his Magic: The Gathering cards and video game systems.

I pay attention to verbal trends, too. Lately the phrase I hear, in various versions, is "That's so random." His mother indicated that he says that to her, too.

Case in point: Last weekend we visited the fabulous Greenwich Library, where I scoop up CDs by the dozen every week. Outside the library stands a metal sculpture of that beloved indigenous Connecticut animal, the long-haired yak. Short, squat, and bronzish, the Greenwich yak mystified Shmoikel.

"Why a yak?" he mused. "That's so random."

This hints that "random" is a synonym for "unexplainable."

To reduce the level of randomness in the universe, I said we should do another sculpture for the library of a "generic animal." It would be non-random, indeed, non-specific entirely, just a generic beast that wouldn't look like anything in particular.

This provoked the hoped-for bafflement and laughter as we attempted to define the characteristics and appearance of a non-random generic creature, with either two or four legs.

And that kind of father-son interaction is not random.

Newsweek Rethinks "The Marriage Crunch" -- But Whatever Happened to "Luscious and Looking"?

Digging into its archives, Newsweek magazine has re-examined the data and the daters in its notorious June 1986 cover article "The Marriage Crunch." The article spun statistics in a study called "Marriage Patterns in the United States." Women across America got hit with the "traumatic news" about the relationship of aging and marriage prospects:

According to the report, white, college-educated women born in the mid-'50s who are still single at 30 have only a 20 percent chance of marrying. By the age of 35 the odds drop to 5 percent. Forty-year-olds are more likely to be killed by a terrorist: they have a minuscule 2.6 percent probability of tying the knot.

Newsweek took a fresh look at the article and tracked down 11 of the 14 women interviewed in the 1986 piece, and found eight were married, three were singled, and none divorced. Overall, Newsweek found the marriage odds are much better now.

However, for all the rethinking and reinterviewing, Newsweek ignored the one followup story I most wanted to read.

As background, I'll confess that I saved that issue of Newsweek. I stuck it in a folder I called "The Love File," stuffed to overflowing with magazine articles, photographs, the 1980 wedding announcement of a high school flame thoughtfully sent to me by my mother, "The Mensch Shortage, Or, What Do Women Want?" from the Village Voice of February 1986, a heartbreakingly beautiful picture of Amy Irving on the cover of the New York Daily News Magazine, and much, much more. And Newsweek had its place of honor.

Many of the articles came from New York Magazine. Back before the Internet, its personal ads were the big game in town for singles (in addition to the scruffier Village Voice). Around the time when "The Marriage Crunch" ran, New York made a radical innovation in personal ads -- singles could run their picture with their ad, for a price, of course.

The first pictures broke through the concrete-like wall of anonymity that always guarded the ads in New York. Sure, you could read the terse notices and get a very slight sense of the person, but learning the appearance of the other person had to wait until the slow-motion process of sending a letter with a picture, then waiting for a call, then wrangling a meeting. The process could take weeks. I couldn't imagine the nerve required to reveal yourself with a picture on your personal ad.

Newsweek also took notice of New York's approach. A sidebar article, "The New Mating Games," scanned the techniques of singles, including New York's approach, which cost "$500 for a picture and 12 lines of copy."

What Newsweek did in 1986 was reprint the actual ur-photo ad, the one I remember because I found the woman quite attractive. Under the headline "Luscious and Looking," she wrote copy that seems ludicrously brief by today's epic-length standards on JDate and Match, but Luscious still hit the classic themes and underlying neuroses of urban singles ads:

Divorced, 40, feminine, sexy, slender, 5'2", athletic, successful, great cook, cuddler, Jewish, enjoy intimacy, desire committed relationship. You: 34-45, tall, Manhattanite, handsome, successful, strong, masculine, caring, non-smoker."

The new Newsweek article has nothing about the role of technology in shifting the dynamics of dating and mating. Compared to 20 years ago, men and women have extraordinarily more choices thanks to the Internet. In 1986 Newsweek inadvertently touched on the revolution to come, with a passing reference to "video dating" and the pathbreaking picture of Luscious and Looking. While her photo is utterly demure compared to the bikini-clad vixens who can be found today, Luscious and Looking took the first tentative step beyond anonymity to say, "Here I am, guys. Take a good look."

If I were at Newsweek, I would have got on the horn to New York Magazine and tried to contact Luscious. She's 60 now; what's happened in the 20 years since she bravely shelled out her $500 to break through the columns of type in New York? Is she still luscious? Is she still looking?