some observations

I ate at a popular bar on the LES last night, which turned out to be an exercise in hipster anthropology.

First: it doesn't matter how attractive you are—if you look like you might barf on me, I'm not interested. Really.* (See below. Suffice it to say that drama comes to me.)

See? Still disgusting.

Other observations: beards are IN among the LES/alternative music crowd. Like, on seemingly every other guy I saw last night. Is it because it's getting colder and scarves don't fit into the aesthetic? The price of razors is too high? There has been a spate of contagious eczema?

Finally, don't walk behind wildly gesticulating Eastern European tourists--you never know when one of them might fling a hand backward without looking and stab you in the Adam's apple with a sharpened acrylic fingernail.


* Especially if you do any of the below:

1. You initiate contact by flicking my cuff and smiling at me in a way that suggests you know me. Since you remind me vaguely of my English Ex, I confusedly ask if I know you.
   
2. You don't respond, just grin expectantly, so I roll my eyes and go back to my reading.
   
3. You continue to benignly touch me—caressing my sleeve, poking at my hair in drunkenly gentle manner—even though I am both reading Bakhtin AND ignoring you.
   
4. You continue to do this even after I've asked if I can help you. Really, is there something you want? Some reason you're provoking me?
   
5. You don't answer the above question. In fact, you don't speak at all, leading me to ask, in sign language, if you are deaf.
   
6. After again flicking my jacket cuff (which I am wearing), I say, "Really, WHAT IS IT? What do you want? Because otherwise, QUIT." Loudly. And you grin stupidly. I go back to my reading with renewed vigor.
   
7. The bartender takes pity on me and says, "I think she's busy reading and doesn't want to talk right now." She probably says this because I am about to start screaming at you to shove fuck off and instigate a barfight if you touch me one. more. time.
   
8. After discovering that the bar doesn't accept the card you gave the bartender, you can't figure out how to pay your $88 bar tab. Allow me to repeat: You can't figure out how to pay your $88 bar tab. As in, you try to hand the bartender a $20 bill and ask if that's enough.
   
9. Upon hearing you speak I discover that you're English. You remind me even more of my English Ex. This is not really a good thing.
   
10. A tip: if you hear the following monologue from your bartender that goes anything like:
    

    Sir, we don't take Maestro. Do you have another card?
    [mumble mumble. Present $20 bill.]
    Sir, that's not enough.
    [Present $20 bill AGAIN.]
    No. [She waits for the penny to drop. It doesn't.]
    Do you have a different card?
    [Pulls random dollar bills out of pocket.]
    Noooo. Do you just have a different card? If you give me a--
    [Presents $20 bill. "Thasss not enouf?"]
    A different--grrrr. Do you--Do you have a wallet? Give me your wallet.
    [You are befuddled by its inexplicable presence in your pocket.]
    I'm going to use this card, ok? [She runs card. You put your head on the bar.] You need to sign the receipt, sir. [You don't look up. She mutters: I'm putting my own damn tip on here.] Sign here, sir.
    Sir. Sign. Here. THANK YOU. ... ... Sir? Sir, you can't sleep on the bar.

    ...you need to go home.
    
11. What's that, you say? You don't have a place to stay for the night? You were trying to find someone to go home with at the bar? Jerk.