The Death of Tact, Essay II, or, Don’t Touch the Boots

Friends, I pickup where I left you but moments ago. As previously mentioned, they didn't shut up. Literally. It was two dude forms of Six from Blossom (which may be an antiquated reference, but I refuse to part with the 90s. I JUST REFUSE.) And that's never okay.

It turns out that the bald one was half-Honduran. Or something. And from California. Or something. Because strangers often feel compelled to share with me their life stories. And I often feel compelled not to care. So he spoke to me in Spanish. A LOT. He kept telling me that I spoke Spanish really well. I kept telling him that yes, that tends to happen when you're fluent. And then he'd tell me how well I spoke it. Again. I guess "fluent" is one of those words that is easily lost in translation. Or stupidity.

Either way, he then proceeded to attempt to unzip my boot, asking why "all you New York women wear boots." Well, compadre, here are some facts that might help you:

1) It's November. Flip-flops aren't generally practical footwear for 40 degree nights in a city.

2) I'm not from New York. I'm from Jersey. You're lucky I just smacked your hand away and said "Don't touch the boots." I could have gone native style and told to "Get your fucking hand off the fucking boots before I have Uncle Vito make YOU a new pair of boots. Of concrete." I don't really have an Uncle Vito. But it's New Jersey. I'm sure someone in a 10 mile radius does.

3) You're an idiot.

And then, we left. The moral of this story is that men are idiots and tact is dead. And more importantly, don't touch my fucking boot.

Fin.

The Death of Tact, Essay I

So I spent the weekend in the city with Roomie. Which usually translates to eating too much, spending too much, and watching hobos sing Livin’ on a Prayer in the park. It’s basically the perfect weekend, peppered with a hint of British comedy.

The background to this post is that the two of us have finally found a bar that doesn’t charge a cover on Friday or Saturday nights (which is the Village equivalent of finding Jimmy Hoffa holding the Holy Grail. I digress.) Anyway, this time we brought along a friend to have some drinks, listen to some music, and shake a thang or two. Or three. There were we, in our own little corner clusterfuck, singing our hearts out to Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, when who should arrive in our presence, but two ugly dudes pushing 40.

Now, I generally have nothing against men in their 40s. Or 50s. Or 60s. If you know me, you’ve probably taken a look at my celebrity crushes and realized that the mean age is somewhere around 65. And I’m cool with that. But unfamous, ugly, 40 something dudes, one of them balding, with no tact, I’m sorry. I’m just not “down” as the kiddies are calling it these days.

Regardless, there they came. Trying to talk to us. For hours. And hours. And hours. It didn’t matter that we all have boyfriends (well, at least that’s what we told them.) And it didn’t matter that we were very specifically having a girls’ night out. They made it their issue to spark up conversation, opening with, “Here’s our attempt at a really bad pickup line: How are you girls tonight?” Well, at least they realize their own faults.