Walking down 18th street to meet up with some friends for dinner a young fellah wearing really not enough clothing for the weather (something that is usually the domain of the girl with fake ID) hopped out of a cab not to far in front of me. He was wearing hip-hugger jeans and a thin button-down shirt that was buttoned down (dark curly chest hair, thank you) and a courdoroy suit jacket. It was in the 30s out, and windy. Thick, dark, curly locks and aviator sunglasses (it was 8:30 in the pm, people). As he walked towards me he smiled widely and said (with an Italian accent) "Ciao, Bella!" It took everything in my being not to guffaw loudly. So I gave him a cocked eyebrow, which spurred a disappointed "aaaawwwww." Sorry, cupcake, but I don't take anyone home who hasn't learned how to dress themselves.
The next night I was in one of the 18th street bars late and a drunken guy of about, hmmmm, 22 said, "I like yer glashesh." Uh, thanks. Polite smile. "You look schmart." Polite smile. (I mean, what does one say to this? Option one: Well I should bloody hope so after all that schoolin'. Option Two: No, I just started wearing glasses after the labotomy.) Pause. "I like yer dresssh." Uh, thanks. "You're pretty." Pause. "My friends (indicates a klatch of drunken frat boys) and I are going schomplaysh elsesh. You wanna come with ush?" blinkblinkblink. Pause. "Are you here with yer boyfriend?" Mercifully, this is when the bartender gave me my credit card back.
It's good to know that I've still got it going on among the semi-retarded European and drunken frat boy crowds.