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Nothing Personal
Y2Wrap it up!
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Complete archives for People

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I venture to a place called Beauty Bar, in San Francisco's Mission district, which is packed with local hipsters. After downing a few bottles of courage, I'm ready.

I try to warm up to a girl in a big furry jacket. I have to say "excuse me" three times before getting her attention. When she finally turns, I flash a huge smile and say, "I just wanted to meet the person who'd go out in public dressed like that!" She stares at me. I'm not sure if I've knocked her off balance or bruised her ego.

I say the line again, this time not smiling as much. "I just had to meet the person who'd go out in public dressed like that!" She insults my jacket and walks away. I'm knocked off balance.

Working the other end of the bar, I spot a bad party girl with blond, spiky hair and a red halter top. "I'd like to stick a needle in my tongue and sew up those jeans nice and slow," I say.

"Fuck you!" she says. If she wasn't sneering before, she is now.

My bad boy approach is going poorly, but I persevere. I careen across the room toward a pretty woman in a race car jacket. Time to insult someone's intelligence!

"What's your opinion of the Marxist theory of surplus labor?" She laughs in my face.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she says.

Rubbing my chin, I let out a derisive "hmmmm." Then nothing happens.

I'm not sure what Faskell would want this bad boy to do next, but who cares? Happily, his methods are not working here in the baddest party city at the end of the baddest party millennium. And that's cool with me ... True! True! True!
salon.com | Dec. 10, 1999

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