How to alienate California women

I once went to a shrink who told me, "You're a pessimist. You see the glass as half empty, whereas I see the glass as half full."

I thought it over a few seconds then said, "Well, I was going to drink from the glass. What were you going to do, piss in it?"

Maybe he's right. Maybe I am a pessimist. Maybe I do see things for the worst. Maybe I only think I alienated every woman I met during my trip to California. For example:

Michele and I were drinking a beer and catching up with our lives at a bar called Chevy's in Santa Rosa, California. It was my last night in town and I had scored tickets to the San Francisco Giants that night, so that only left us half an hour to chat.

We picked up where we left off years earlier, a brisk conversation about politics, old friends, book publishing (not much shoptalk, though) and relationships. It was good to see her, and I thought it was good for her to see me until she said, "You know what? You look a little like Billy Bob Thornton."

I turned to the bartender. "Is my lip bleeding? Cause I think I just took a right cross."

I don't get it. After all, I was wearing my black baseball cap. What went wrong? For example:

Two nights earlier I was sitting at my bar stool (yes, it's still mine) at Jasper O'Farrell's in Sebastopol, when who strolls in but my old friend Alan. Or as I like to call him (but not to his face) Super Yuppie.

Alan cracks me up. He reminds me of a drunken Jim Backus. Which I guess is what Jim Backus was. (Note: Jim Backus was the millionaire on Gilligan's Island, for the unenlightened. What's Gilligan's Island? Stop reading now.)

"I see you're still wearing the same hat," he said.

I was wearing my black baseball cap, the one with bold letters that spell out P-R-E-S-S across the front.

"Works better than a press pass," I said.

About that time, a woman sat down at the stool to my left. She was about 30, Hispanic-looking and gorgeous.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Mike Jasper."

"Are you the one who wrote the song for Billy's album?"

I told her I was. A friend of mine -- Bill DeCarli, the night bartender at Jasper O'Farrell's and a singer-songwriter -- had just recorded a CD and covered one of my songs for the album. Apparently, word got around that I was the writer of "Blue Tonight," so all day I had been given the celebrity treatment as guys bought me pints of Guinness and women asked me my name. All the while I wondered why, until Jack put the CD on the bar stereo and I caught on. Once catching on I milked it for all it was worth.

"Yes," I told the comely woman. "I wrote one of the songs. Great CD, huh?"

I turned from her to talk to Alan some more, when she grabbed me by the arm.

"I'm meeting a friend here. An old friend. I'm a little nervous, but I've got to see him. Do you know why?"

"No, why?"

"Cause he's a great fuck."

"I understand. I'm getting nervous just thinking about it."

I turned to Alan to continue our conversation, when I felt her hand reach over my lap and squeeze my cock. I turned to her and said, "Thanks for noticing," and she fled. As she headed out the bar I yelled, "It gets bigger, you know."

I turned to Alan and he asked, "Did she just grab your cock?"

"She did."

Flustered and disgusted he said, "You know what it is, Jasper? It's not your writing, and God knows it's not your looks. I think you'll agree that it's not from the charm of your abrasive personality, either. Do you know what it is that attracts women to you? It's that fucking hat."

I thought about this a minute and decided he was right. For example:

On the plane to California, I sat with Shay, a 22-year-old cello player who was moving from Boston to San Francisco to study at the conservatory. She was attractive, in a studious, Bryn Mawr style, and the glasses she wore worked to enhance that image. I talked to her the entire two hours to San Francisco, reeking of Jack Daniels and nicotine all the way. The theme: Listen to everyone, even weirdos, especially me, right now.

There wasn't much she could do to stop my diatribe.

I'm sure she was thinking, "God, I hope this guy doesn't latch onto me at the airport." But when we landed, I grabbed my carry-on, mumbled, "Nice meeting you, gotta go," and quickly left the plane. As I looked back, I'm sure I saw a trace of disappointment cross her face.

My point? I was wearing the damn press hat. I tell you, women just love that hat. For example:

After leaving the airport, I grabbed a seat on the Airport Express to Sonoma County. I took the back seat of the bus so I could drink my plastic travel bottle of Jack Daniels with impunity. A 26-year-old coed from Berkeley took the seat in front of me and we struck up a conversation. She loved weirdos, apparently. And I was still wearing the hat. Before she left, I asked for her number.

"Let's get together Saturday," I said. "You can show me the town."

I woke up the next day with that, "Oh, no, I think I fucked up" feeling, until I realized I had only promised a future fuck-up the coming Saturday. I found her number and threw it away. Damn hat.

Although I hadn't alienated the coed immediately, I succeeded by Saturday night. On some women, my powers of alienation are more direct. For example:

Friday night, I drove to San Jose for a party at Valerie's house, a writer I had known for two years on the Internet. That night, I met her face to face for the first time and it went well. Valerie was a gracious host and introduced me to all of her friends, most of them employees of TalkCity.com, an Internet company. After she introduced me to everyone at the party, we drank beers, smoked cigarettes and... talked. I guess that was inevitable.

Unfortunately, one of the women I talked to was Valerie's devout Irish-Catholic roommate.

"I understand you write jokes for comedians," she said. "I think that's strange. Why don't they write their own material?"

"Well, that's not entirely true. I don't write for comedians so much as edit or produce them. They send me material and I tell them what works or what doesn't. Lately, I've been producing CDs for a new lesbian comedian. She's been a comedian for awhile, but she's only been a lesbian for about a year."

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I've got inside information," I said. "I fucked her a few years ago."

"Ohhhhh, that was more than I needed to know."

She soon ditched me. I shrugged my shoulders and took a long sip from my half-empty beer.

When I finally returned home to Austin, I allowed myself some quiet time to contemplate the events of my journey to the West. I decided there was nothing much to write about, so I opened a beer, sat on the couch and tuned on HBO to watch a movie I had never heard of called "Pushing Tin." Fifteen minutes into the movie, Billy Bob Thornton appeared on the tube and I bolted upright. Staring at Billy Bob was like staring into a mirror. He could have been my twin brother-- same short beard, same beady eyes, same drawn face. And if that wasn't enough, he was wearing a black baseball cap.

Then and there I had a moment of clarity, an epiphany really, and realized two things: 1) Michele wasn't putting me down after all, and 2) Billy Bob Thornton's a really good looking guy.

Or is it just the hat?

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own.