Barny, whenever you start a thread, I always look for the underpinning - almost as if you're not introducing an honest query, but setting everyone up before detonating an intentionally provocative statement or a vector through the guardrail and over the ledge.
It is amusing to read you crow about the difficulty of cutting down your regular golfing suitors to six; I guess ol' Barny drops the hanky and the Rust Belt elite stand in line to throw balls in the air and flip a tee with you. Poor Stephen, well there must be something seriously wrong with him because even a crazy schizophrenic in Hoosier country has no problem getting a game. The data point you left out is that your regular coterie have never met Mr. Hyde - nor have a clue he exists.
Personally, when I go out to dinner alone - usually in a strange city on a business mission - I ask the hottest looking stewardess where she goes out when stuck for the night and go eat at the bar there. Sometimes I meet a fascinating person and sometimes not, but the worst outcome is a nice dinner, enough vino to soothe my jangled nerves and a time investment of no more than 90 minutes.
Playing as a single is largely dependent on context and circumstance. If I'm doing a G.D. rating, chances are I'm with another rater or a member of our Treehouse. If not, the Golf Professional is usually kind enough to arrange a game with a knowledgeable member with some insight into the history of the club. I've made some terrific friendships this way - most of the time they eventually appear on my doorstep so we can repeat the fun at Olympic.
Wandering out alone to a CCFAD or public track is something I avoid at all costs. The problem is that, similar to flying coach cross-country, the chances of being stuck with a chatty dullard for five hours increases exponentially when leaving the private sector. Yes, there have been a few lucky draws over the years - in coach class and places like Doak's track at Riverdale - but after suffering through a series of five and a half hour death marches with middle-management cubicle refugees sneaking away from a plastics convention, I'd rather pound nails in my johnson than cast my fate to the whims of daily fee purgatory.
Lest I am branded a snob (again) or a puerile wingnut (again, though it was a funny insult), there are few better experiences in life than a late-afternoon wander at a delightful, low rent muni with my childhood friends. This can include left-handed cigarettes and beer cans stuffed in my golf bag, but it is guaranteed fun. Even at a fancy CCFAD, the odds are too thin to take a chance filling out a foursome of corporate clowns . . . . I must be getting old.