Why I Like Foreigners:

Back in college, the older, wiser friend who introduced me to the international set explained her social choice this way: they've at least learned one other language, so they must be smart.

Last night, I had a wonderful evening with the Potatoes (Mr. is Alaskan, so he's almost foreign.), The Flying Dutchman (he of the not calling; it was only momentarily awkward), and three new Indians (subcontinental). I can't think of names for them, since their very own are so melodic and interesting.

Anyway, we went bowling, and to dinner, and then a bar with matresses. It was trying to be chic, not ironically vulgar, but the way you got a matress was to buy a bottle of champagne, so in my opinion, they can have the most recessed lighting and cubist furniture in the world, but it's still a yuppie brothel. Not that I've anything against yuppie brothels.

You may be wondering if there were sparks between the Dutchman and I, and I'd have to say no, although I did insult him quite gratifyingly when he told me he planned to read Wuthering Heights, and I said wasn't that a bit gay, and he should only do so in private and not tell others. Then, one Indian overheard and lept in mock homophobic horror, which left the Dutchman quite discomfitted and pretending he wasn't. And he got several gutter balls. I must confess my malice and do penance. It's beneath me, really...