There I was, with my good friend Don Julio on the rocks in hand, mingling amongst a couple dozen movers and shakers at a low-key event on a Downtown L.A. rooftop lounge…and I saw something spectacular that stunned me frozen like I just got tasered. What did I see? Quite frankly, I saw one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever observed – so smoldering, so breathtaking, that I thought for a second that if I didn’t look away, I might forever burn my retinas (where is that cardboard with the a pin-hole when you need it?). I had Michael, my main Musee (those who I muse and inspire) with me and he immediately spotted the same thing and knew exactly what just captured my attention. However, it didn’t take long to notice an extremely evident flaw. No, it wasn’t bad fashion because she was dressed impeccably! It wasn’t BO or halitosis, for her scent was as fresh as Chanel No.5 and Binaca. Nor was it body-art or multiple piercings because this Ferrari had no bumper-stickers or dings! She was like a fine automobile should be: 100% factory stock, fully loaded and showroom glowing.

Yet, she had one flaw that quickly surfaced and was impossible to ignore. This poor heavenly body seemed to have an abnormal growth; it probably just started as an innocent Stage 5 Clinger but soon must have mutated to a full-feeding sycophant. Yes, this beautiful creature had a guy sucked onto her like a pesky Remora that was able to hitch the ultimate ride on a Blue Marlin. I didn’t quite understand it…she being darn near flawless had this stooge who seemed to be tethered to her by a 2-foot invisible umbilical cord.

Now, don’t peg me as a superficial ass just yet. I support and have given many an average guy mad-props when he has reached far above his orbit to snag some insane catch; but usually I admire such guys because they seem to be oozing a certain charm or personality and carry the swagger of an Adonis even though their mere physical appearance would not reflect it. Although they may outwardly appear like a mortal plebian, they possess a certain j’ne sais quoi that can captivate and woo, the most militant evil woman. However, this fellow in question didn’t seem to boast any redeemable trait or skill that could convince me of worthiness. He didn’t seem to be holding a scholarly conversation with anyone, he wasn’t David Blain entertaining or cracking any jokes, there wasn’t any indication of any bit of deep intellectualism and didn’t seem to have the physical prowess to impress even the average soccer player.

I was curious and wanted to shake his hand, introduce myself and strike up a little convo, but the only place his right hand seemed to have any interest in being was clutched firmly around her right shoulder; and I mean clutched…you could actually see his knuckles flushed white from the kung-fu grip he had on her upper arm. She turned, he turned. She took a step, he took a step. She went to the bar, he went to the bar. She walked to the heater, he walked to the heater. She went to the bathroom, he waited at the door! Seriously?!?!? Throttle back there Terminator, that ain’t Sara Conner! I imagined him observing the surroundings through the eye of a Robocop/Terminator type heads-up display, scanning his environment for potential threats to his catch, for he seemed to act in such a manner.

As my Musee and I stood and observed this incredible display of body language, her stock plummeted from a hard 10 to a soft 6. All of a sudden, I couldn’t help but become a little judgmental, jumping to the conclusion that she must be a 49er with shovel in purse and found her man-mine. I don’t know what it could have been…maybe that multiple karat rock the size of a small meteor she was sporting? Or maybe, could it be that she saw this Armani Exchange, Ed Hardy Skinny Jeans wearing fashionista as the rock of stability and security? He really could have been a great guy…but I sure wasn’t seeing it. Then something my mother used to tell me came to me:

“If you want to see the content of someone’s character, look no further than his/her friends.”

I’ll take it a step further and say: your significant other should be the ultimate reflection of yourself; after all, he/she is not referred to as a “better half” for nothing.

With all these observations and thoughts swirling around my dome, I turned to my peeps and remarked, “Water seeks its own level.” Michael looked at me with a perplexed expression on his face. (Being an etymologist and the ultimate wordsmith, I’ve never seen him get stumped when it comes to the English language, although my jive always jacks him up.) I explained that regardless of the size of a container, with all things being equal, water finds a level that will be the same no matter where in the container it is poured. So the level at one end will be exactly the same level as the other end…be it a lake or a bath tub. Metaphorically speaking, in a liquid social container, the superficial ones will find a match of their level; those with depth usually end up with other profound ones. This could be either physical, intellectually or emotionally, or more likely an average of the three. And, for the most part, it is a subconscious thing – Like attracts like.

The reality is, so often we see couples that esthetically or on the surface do not match, however it really doesn’t matter how different their surface appearance might be. I’m willing to bet that their depth and substance are usually a pretty good match. To put it in the simplest terms and the most convenient definitions: that smoking hot gold-digger usually ends up with a shallow cheese-monkey; that silicone botox status-jumping Barbie eventually finds that Time-Warner exec on Wife 4.0; that Snookie J-Wow Chanel Guidette winds up with that juiced-out Jersey Shore gym rat. We attract who we are – not merely based upon our outward appearance – but more so based upon our inner-self. So when we keep on wondering why we end up with the asses, the crazies, the wall-punchers, binge-drinkers, etc., check yourself, recalibrate and step your game up…Eagles don’t hang out with pigeons!

There are two points that I feel I must address. First off, it may seem that I’m not a huge fan of Public Displays of Affection but that isn’t completely accurate. There have been many of times and relationships where I have enjoyed and embraced PDA. True, some of it really depended on whom I was with, but what was more important was whence it was coming. Meaning, if it felt like the clinging and petting was coming from a place of possession, insecurity, neediness or territorialism, then I would begin to feel uncomfortable, smothered and turned-off. However, if it came from a place of genuine love, affection and desire, then it wouldn’t bother me (unless it became inappropriate, full-fledged macking at table P7 at STK). Secondly, when I walk into a room with my girl, it doesn’t offend me, threaten me, nor make me uncomfortable if every guy in the joint checks her out and mutters comments. I want them to look and gawk. If they speak or act inappropriately, then it’s curb-stomp go time, but I like to think that I’m secure enough in myself and my relationship that I won’t lose my mojo over some random. I feel bad for the guy who displays either—or both—of the aforementioned points…because it’s going to be a long, difficult, paranoid life spent c-blocking the world.