Jerry Seinfeld once bemoaned the lack of physical contact in his relationship because he and his love interest had yet to experience an awkward silence.

But if being awkward is the solution to a lack of physical contact, I should really be knee-deep in smoking hot chicks. I'm more of a music scene guy than a dating scene guy.

My awkwardness began a new chapter last week at the Penn State-Virginia Tech men's basketball game, which I decided to attend with my friend ... who also happens to be my ex-girlfriend. The occasion itself was perfectly normal; I had fun watching a competitive basketball team in the Bryce Jordan Center and explaining that booing a referee is just home-court advantage.

But then came the Kiss Cam, the BJC's way of forcing anonymous pairings of people who may or may not be romantically involved into exerting public displays of affection. I think you know where this is going. Thank God I didn't sit with my sister.

The awkwardness was so palpable it was hilarious. But shockingly, that was just one instance in a long history of dating gaffes.

One of the more historical ones in my life reared its ugly head on Friday night.

As some friends and I had dinner at a fine Italian dining establishment called Pizza Hut, something seemed familiar about our waitress. As it turns out, that was because last summer, I'd gone on a date with her -- and her allegedly dying roommate.

Long story short, the girl told me her roommate had diabetes and was allergic to insulin, a situation I immediately deemed dubious in my head, but one which was too serious to call someone out on. The three of us enjoyed our dinner at Allen Street Grill, and the girl I'd intended to take out alone went to see Clerks II with her ex-boyfriend afterward. I still haven't seen Clerks II.

These events happened within two days of each other. I'm beginning to understand what Morrissey's thought process must have been when he decided to become asexual. (And, coincidentally enough, Morrissey's music with The Smiths was one of the major topics of discussion during that ill-fated affair at the Allen Street Grill.)

Hopefully, this weekend will bring me a little less awkwardness. And if I'm looking to feel a bit better about myself, I can at least check out Kenny G at the BJC (see page 19). No matter how bad things get, at least I'm not a man with crimped long hair and a soprano saxophone.