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.