But I tell you when you’re alone and you’re prowlin’ you make the jukebox your wingman. Like I see you here making yourself look all approachable. Kid like you, I know you got needs and these college girls running around spending daddy’s 100K it’s a no-brainer where your head should be. It’s barrel fishing with a pistol in here, my boy. I was your age I’d put the book down and start notching that belt up. I’ll even give you some pointers so as you don’t have to worry ‘bout how to handle yourself.
See first you scope things out you read around a bit like you would with your buddies, but this night you just punched the timecard and want to kick back with your thoughts and maybe a pretty face so you work the room from your stool while you throw a few pints back and you see what you see and chances are it being a Thursday night in the pub next to this preppy private university you see the fur from those designer boots reflecting off of glossed bottom lips.
Now you see the locals, too, the guys bred in ’84 whose beards brush the top buttons of their flannel while they sip their micros and chew the usual cud with the homey gauged eared tatted chicks with tears in their jeans in that undefinable zone where leg ends and ass begins. You nod to em since I know you know em and they know they know you, even if you don’t know their names or talk their conversation other than Phillies cheers and roaring when that jukebox turns the place into a time machine to the ‘90s and you’re all smashing glasses together all glossy-eyed and denying 2-eh-em’s existence and so that’s why you nod, I know. I know.