So I've been lucky enough to be in the wonderful city of New York for the last few days. This event is particularly fortuitous because yesterday was St. Patrick's Day, the Holy Day of Obligated Alcoholism. While I spent most of the day locked in a conference room like a gerbil in a PetCo glass enclosure, I was eventually released to the freedom of the throngs of buzzed, glassy-eyed, Shamrock-draped New York City denizens.
I proceeded with a few colleagues to a bar nearby the office we had just left, and we proceeded to mark the holiday with giant mugs of too-expensive German beer (I didn't choose the bar). I was having a deep conversation with one of my female companions about the glories of straigh vs. curly hair when a couple of young men decided that our topic of conversation was so fascinating they absolutely could not prevent themselves from rudely entering into it.
"Hey" said the chubby guy with a bright green afro, Knicks jersey and Shamrock-shaped sunglasses.
My female companion (not being a New Yorker but a wonderfully polite British gal), replied back with "Hi."
Before I could rescue her from her fate of entertaining a conversation with such a specimen of humanity, I was verbally accosted by his companion.
"Hi there," said a young man with painfully crooked teeth, smiling like he'd had braces for the majority of his adolescence and clearly not realizing that someone had forgotten to pay the bill.
Sigh. Now I must speak.
"Hi there."
"So, where are you from?"
Ooh, my FAVORITE topic of conversation.
"Cambodia"
"Oh, yeah? Where is that, like Ohio?"
Oh Jesus.
"No, it's actually right outside of Sheboigan, ever heard of it?"
"No. So what are you doing in New York?"
Can I say I am here chasing down leads on another race that lives in a parallel universe that is on a collision course with ours without infringing on JJ Abrams copyrights? Eh, probably not.
"Working."
"Oh that's cool. What do you do?"
"Advertising."
Clearly this one-word answer tack isn't working with this kid.
"What about you? What do you do?"
A sly smile revealed the broken piano keys behind his lips again.
"Let's just call it finance."
"Finance."
"Finance."
Perfect, I am being hit on by a drug dealer. Look dad, dreams DO come true!
"How long are you in New York for?"
And now he has moved on to sussing out his potential for getting me into the sack. Time to go.
I could no longer bear this entirely inane conversation, and was a little disappointed in myself that I hadn't kept up with replying ridiculous answers to all his questions, because that could have been a little more fun.
So, despite being raised by parents who strongly stressed the importances of social grace and good manners, I simply turned around and walked away. Only when I got to my group of companions did I realize I left a fallen soldier behind, desperately trying to end a conversation politely with the green 'fro man.
I have to hand it to the British, they are POLITE sons of bitches. Polite to a fault. Even the woman who was being aggressively hustled by a giant sweaty leprechaun-man who had no concept of personal space was still saying "Please" and "Thank You" and seeming genuinely intersted in whatever drunken drivel was spilling out of the gentleman's mouth. Not knowing her well enough to bodily lift her up and remove her from his presence, I figured she'd find her way back eventually.
While I waited, I pondered over the deep thought of the utter unintelligence I had just witnessed. Before you write me off as a heartless bitch, let me just say that I realize that approaching a woman at a bar is not an easy thing to do, and that it can involve the consumption of multiple alocholic beverages, and the risk of ego deflation is approximately 90%. Which is why I try my hardest not to be a massive bitch to whichever poor sap strikes up a conversation. But when you stick to a script that is so tired and vapid, don't understand when I try to crack a joke, and smile like you are the slickest thing since Valdez, I reserve the right to void myself of your company without so much as an excuse. It was almost painful to watch the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out the next thing to say that might end in the possibility of nakedness and bad decisions.
So, after that period of deep reflection on life-changing matters, I deduced that the lowest common denominator for males in bars is a level just above that of a highly intelligent monkey.
Fortunately for me, I have the rest of the weekend to enjoy the men of New York City, so I'm brushing up on my story-telling abilities so that the next interaction I have with one of these brilliant creatures ends up being much more blog-worthy than this one.
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