Am I the only one blogging re: Eric Schaeffer, right now?

Can it be that I am one of the only people blogging about Season Two of "I Can't Believe I'm Still Single?"

Come on, say it ain't so.

Really? I'm the only person blogging about this clown's quest for the perfect wife?

Link to last week's realization about Eric Schaeffer and Lauren,

Link to previous posts re Schaeffer's Showtime series "I Can't Believe I'm Still Single"

Oh, well. In any event.

To recap last week's, again, extremely strange, installment of "I can't believe...I can't find a better name for my shitty show than this" we got a weirdly defensive lecture on why Eric thinks he really is straight, I think.

He used a white board. He scribbled crazy things and circled stuff. He ran his hands through his receding hair line a lot. (Why doesn't anyone ever tell him the truth when he grills women on how they like his hair? )

Eric: "So, how do you like my hair? Like this kind of long on the sides, or all short and choppy like in the movie I did..." bla, bla, bla?

Me: "Actually, neither. Both look like crap on you because your hair plugs are wearing out and you can't hide it anymore. Every year your forehead gets bigger. It's called 'aging.' Find a place of Acceptance. -- Namaste."

You know, when I was a sophomore I had a geometry teacher like him.

One day during math class he paused to explain his theory to all of us who clearly were bored as hell and still "not getting it."

He impatiently placed his foot on the low windowsill next to his desk for emphasis and simply tumbled right out the window. It turned out that wasn't coffee in his mug. Another story. It was the best math class I ever had (Yes, he was fine. It was the first floor.) However, those crazy scribbles and the rambling sounded so similar.

Back to Eric's show. So, after his inexplicably odd, long explanation, diatribe on what Schaeffer's sexual orientation "really is" he agreed with his sidekick that maybe he is just a paranoid bisexual.

Oh, okay. Glad we figured that out.

Who knows what he was going on about. It's hard to say, since it was crazy and he licked his lips a lot, and it sortof scared me that people just let him spew self-congratulatory nonsense, without once calling him on his crazy douche-nozzle blather.

Coincidentally, earlier the same night, I caught some of some special MSNBC was running focusing on how wacky Charles Manson was. It was late at night I couldn't fall asleep, so naturally watching this scary documentary on how Manson was able to talk all those hippie losers into doing his evil deeds, wasn't helping, so I flipped over to something else mindless and amusing, like Schaeffer's show.

However, what actually happened as a result of watching these two unrelated episodes back to back reminded me that there is no end to people who will try to convince you the world is flat. And their passionate sales talks can either be quite funny or disastrous.

Anyhow, I think, what I really gathered from his earlier monologue was that he would have gone on to pursue his gayness as a young adult, if only his fear of getting AIDS hadn't impeded his curiosity. After all, he's far more worried about his safety than he is in trying new things.

At least, that's sort-of how it sounded to me, but it was late.

Also, later in this last episode he also made two different trips to Brooklyn (Hts?) to see two different women. And, lucky him, actually, ended up on three dates, unexpectedly.

One date was a nice, young woman named Adi, like some his other dates, too vulnerable for her own good. She had very kind eyes.

He described her as an Israeli, who was very honest and sweet, but in the end didn't really rank high enough on his emotional chart to earn her receiving one of his holy "Nemo-scat-bars." I think his reasoning was that "he could always just make her one." She may be a tough as nails Israeli, but she's still way to nice for that.

So, he left her at the table, alone in the restaurant in Brooklyn to move on to other people. Naturally.

Then he hooked up with a self-described "wonky-eyed gimp." Seriously. Not funny. Sad.

She was all of the above and as well as rather freakishly tall, and, in my opinion, way too stylish for anyone as dumpy as Mr. Schaeffer.

She broke my heart, too, by babbling on about how great her breasts were, which was sort-of like sitting through an audition for a Neil Labute film by a developmentally disabled actress. All it said to me was that it was her perverse way of trying to control a life inside a body she couldn't control at all. It made me sad to hear her talk about herself like she wasn't in the room. Of course, Schaeffer didn't seem to notice this at all and proceeded to pick up her friend, which the tall, physically challenged chick pretended she was just fine with and that it was even possibly all her idea, anyway.

(What is the matter with me? I just want to hug them, then sit them all down and give them a stern talking to about self esteem and respecting themselves. It's like I've gone all "Miss Jean Brodie," or something.)

Later, after he told the gimp to take a hike, the friend hung around (on camera) and Eric fawned on her at the restaurant. She was a dull, tattooed, I don't know, really -- a band groupie? Hard to say. Oh, yeah, she worked in a bar and commented that she felt out of place on the Upper West Side which always happens to the ultra hip, like me.

She may have had lots of tattoos, (all "done by her mother." Really? Terrific.) but she looked so young underneath all that work.

All I know was that I still like Lauren the best.

But, I really, really, really hope she is wise enough to mull things over during his insultingly long time to think about it all, since she's equally entirely capable of thinking, too.

And I hope she considers whether she can do better for herself than be a side kick to a sad clown, with thinning hair.

But, seriously, I'm thinking I may be the only person blogging about him, right now.

Well, if and when he gets around to googling himself, discovering this fact should really freak him out.

Oh, well.

-- Namaste.