How Not to Pick Up Chicks

I've been hit-on in many a way in my day - and seen friends and family members be hit-on even more often - and rarely have I been more annoyed with someone's approach than I was by Hollywood Poseur on Sunday afternoon. I hate being so judgmental of someone, but I was unable to detect even a hint of sincerity in anything that the guy said, so I can't really beat myself up too much for having such an adverse reaction to him.

First off, he let his friends Blue Shirt and Baldy do the major leg-work before attempting his own swoop. It felt a little like an ambush for some reason - like he knew he needed to let them go in first and grease the gears before he could try to make a move. Secondly, he made the exact wrong move by badgering The Sister and I about our tattoos. I think this passage from The Beach by Alex Garland, kind of sums up how we feel about explaining our tattoos:

"As she cupped her hands to cover the flame from the ceiling fan, I noticed a tiny dolphin tattoo half hidden beneath her watch strap. It seemed like a strange place for a tattoo and I nearly commented on it, but to do so seemed too familiar. Scars and tattoos. You need to know someone fairly well before asking questions."

I know the arguments. I put this tattoo in a place where people can see it, therefore I must want it to be noticed and commented on. Well, that's crap. People who don't have tattoos don't understand, but for me it's something I did for myself, because that's what I was feeling at the time and what it means to me is my business. And Hollywood Poseur seemed unwilling to let it go, until I pointedly changed the subject.

Of course, I changed the subject in the wrong direction, it seemed. I mentioned (while trying to nudge The Sister to get her attention) that we should be going, as we were heading to a barbecue (the plans changed when we left the bar, but at this point that was where we were headed). HP asked where the bbq was, and I told him it was somewhere in the south Hancock Park area. He said, "Oh, at Shane Black's house?"

For those not stuck smack-dab in the middle of Hollywood, Shane Black is a pretty famous writer/director/producer guy. For some reason, HP thought that blatant name-dropping was a good idea and that somehow that was going to impress my panties right off. I don't know if I look like I just got off the bus with starry-eyed dreams of "making it in Hollywood" - but I have been in this town much too long (five years on July 1) to be impressed with crap like that. I told him no, that we were real-live people, not Hollywood social-scene hipsters. After (I thought, obviously) striking out with me in two separate conversational attempts, he should have just given up. But, as I turned my focus toward the other two boys and The Sister to join in on their conversation, HP just moved in closer. He created a couple of pathetic excuses to make physical contact: touching my shoulder, leg, and swinging his arm around me without invitation, before I was able to grab The Sister and make a run for the door.

I guess the Moral of the Story is: if you want to pick me up in a bar, at the very least be sincere about it. And please, please don't start touching me unless I have indicated in some way, shape, or form that I find you attractive - or even interesting.

Lyrics of the Day

"No I don't want your number, no I don't wanna give you mine, and no I don't wanna meet you nowhere, no I don't want none of your time." TLC No Scrubs