Stop me if you've heard this one.
I was in the restaurant/bar biz for thirty years or so in both NYC and New Jersey. It is a truism that when you open your doors to the public you take on all comers. So over those long, long years, I've seen just about every aspect of human behavior, good, bad or indifferent. But the saddest sight to see at a bar is a poor pathetic shell of a man making a complete asshole of himself when he tries to charm some pretty lady at the bar.
The scene usually begins shortly after he has had his third drink and having spent the previous hour or so in quiet contemplation of his miserable life, his thoughts turn to the good old days. You know. When he was the young buck who bestrode the bar and club scene like a Titan. The heat emanating from his mighty loins would melt the iciest of fair maidens. But came the day when he found THE one woman he believed was good enough for him and so joined with her in connubial bliss. Whence followed the three little ones, once the apples of their father's eye, and now, the looming enormous college expense. Just your average middle class guy. No more. No less.
But as the years fly by and the hair grows thinner as the waist grows thicker, he finds solace in the darkness and loucheness of the bar near his job. So about two times a week, he phones the missus to let her know he's got some last minute papers he needs for the next day's meeting and so will be a little late. He betakes himself to his local for some alcoholic refreshment and perhaps the kindness of a stranger. It's just about the time he downs his second cocktail that the imp in the back of his mind taunts him about the shambles his life has become. The imp must be silenced. The imp must be disproved. And what better way to prove that you are still a vibrant and virile man than by coming on to one of the pretty ladies at the bar. That's when the horror really starts.
He picks his target and takes aim. He trots out the same old lines he used to use when he was that dashing young man and the world was his oyster. In the the mirror of his mind he sees that handsome devil. In the mirror behind the bar it's another story. The scene always ends with him retreating back to his bar stool with his tail between his legs or quietly slipping out the door. It is a pitiful sight to see. But not to fear, he'll be back next week. Like the Vegas slots player, he's sure sooner or later he'll hit the jackpot one more time.
Those tired old white guys we are being treated to every day now during the Sotomayor confirmation hearings are a lot like our friend at the bar. They've got something to prove too. They've got to prove that they're still relevant. Though their problem is a tad bigger than our little friend's. They have to prove to the entire country that they are not impotent old men. They have to prove that they are still fear and awe inspiring giants who will once again return someday to rule over the masses.
And if that means attacking a woman, a Latina woman, for how unlady-like her demeanor and deportment is then so be it. That's one thing they can still get up for. But challenging her on her judicial career? Uh-uh. They'll lose that one. Big time.