Don’t Buy Your Lines at Wal-Mart
I know I haven’t dated much. I know I freeze up when I walk into those meat market type clubs where the women wear shirts for dresses and the men wear enough cologne to paralyze small animals in their wake. But thank god I have my senses to know a worthy pick up line. So I know that even if you have the look, the confidence and the cash…those things make no difference if you have a cheap, under-developed or mass market fishing line.
Like the youngster who decided to tell me how classy my bracelet was and from that he could tell that I was classy…now could he have a kiss? That whole incident…not classy. And of course, when you picture that…you have to do it by imagining a pre-pubescent boy with the fake ID, trying to drink Crown Royal on the rocks but choking a little every time he takes a sip, who’s trying to look deeply into my eyes with his eyebrows raising up and down doing that eyebrow dance that is so unfortunately popular with inexperienced mate-seekers, his hairless and feminine hand touching my arm and his fish-like lips smackin‘ around. And all the while he’s trying to wink at me. You know, I can get as drunk and easy as the next girl but I’m no longer 15 where any unique compliment makes me swoon, no matter what Maxim says.
Yes, I do recognize that I am a tough customer and I have high standards when it comes to acknowledging a high quality pick up line. But I do give points for funny. I give bonus points for smart. And I’ll give you my phone number almost immediately if you render me momentarily speechless with a unique grand gesture or on the floor laughing with your wit. But also know you’ll find yourself in the same boat as Chachi up above if you can only live in the world of the obvious.
Like the San Franciscan we met on the MAX. He was tall, attractive, well-dressed, conversational and friendly, many of the things we have not found Portland men to be (no offense to our personal friends, you know we’re not counting you in this discussion). And we laid it out for him on a platter (i.e. we were very approachable) as two of us were dressed in very feminine Santa suits and the other in a friendly elf outfit. Inconspicuous we were not. Trying to avoid attention…not us. We were brightly lipsticked, recently mimosa-ed, bearded in all the right places and with fresh holiday beverage in hand. With the environment both our parties brought to the table, very few in his shoes should have failed with the woo.
He started off well, showing interest, trying to learn about our days’ activities, outright wishing that he wasn’t on his way to the airport to catch a flight, showering attention to each of us equally… but as the train ride wore on, his material got weak. You know, I empathize that it’s tough. I do. I understand that he’s in a situation where he has to make things up on the fly. How could he have known he was going to run into 3 women who were dressed like they just came from the North Pole while he was on the way to the airport? What could he have done to prepare for that? Nothing really. I recognize that. But he could have used a wingman or a bell or a wingman holding a bell. One that told him to quit while he was ahead.
I should have seen it coming when he started commenting on the elf outfit and how it was very Irish and how her presentation was like a joyful amalgamation of Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day. Okay, interesting observation. Brought a chuckle. 2 points. Then he turned his attention to me and had to say, “And you, you’re bringing out the Asian Santa thing.” Wow…really? Did you really just say that? What am I supposed to do with that? Draw my hand up to my mouth, shrug my shoulders, avert my eyes and giggle like your stereotypically concubine? Could I have forgotten I was Asian? I mean…I know I’m pretty assimilated and I joke that I hate Asians…but seriously.
I guess I just didn’t realize that I put so much effort to “do” an Asian thing that it required commenting. I’m surprised that he didn’t also ask me where I was “from” or tell me about the Korean girl from Montreal he took out on one date 15 years ago and then act like I should know her. I’ve never been Montreal. (Yes, my head was moving from side to side just a little bit as I typed that last line.) Sorry buddy. Go to Jail. Do Not Pass “Go.” Do Not Collect $200. And you will also not collect my phone number, my email or a way to find me on MySpace or Facebook. You just don’t get to play anymore.
I know, I know. Many of you are out there shaking your head thinking, “No wonder.” Hey, I’m just sayin‘. And believe me, I’m not the only Asian American female who thinks this. Pick up the book The Dim Sum of All Things or if you’re ever in Seattle when an episode of Sex in Seattle is playing, get a ticket. But I digress. (*Unfortunately, Sex in Seattle is no longer playing; however, it did have a very successful 20-episode run that ended in 2012.)
To make a long story short, cultivate your lines fellas. You can buy them off the rack but don’t use them straight out of the package because chances are, we’ve either heard them before or they never worked in the first place. Give ’em some personality…your personality. That’s what we want insight to. And for me personally, well…I think you get the idea of where you shouldn’t go.
— Ballyhoo Backcaster
