Today's sign that the apocalypse is upon single women

That's me. I apologize for the I-look-like-death appearance, but I had just gotten back from running. Yes, that's a big ole milkshake-type drink from Starbucks in my left hand, thereby negating whatever I had done to healthify myself by going running.
I wouldn't ever feature myself in this state, but you're at the scene, witnessing my little smirk, courtesy of iSight's built-in camera. I assure you, it may look like a smile, but it's not. It's half-grimace, half-condescending smirk. If you saw it full-on, you'd definitely think I'm bitchy. But whatever.

Let me set the stage. Starbucks. 9th and South. Getting some work done. People-watching. Just now, I had not one, not two, but three young gentlemen pull up and ask me to come converse with them. That's the tame way of putting it.

Actually, it was this:

Enter Minivan. K-Fed One is driving. Wife beater tank. Big-ass silver chain. Yankees fan. I know this because his Yankees hat is cocked to the side in that way that makes me want to smack the ever-living crap out of him, sending the hat flying off into the hereafter. His seat in said minivan is so far back and so low, it looks more like a small bed. K-Fed Two is riding shotgun, and has a slightly different, yet equally obnoxious outfit on. I can’t see their pants, but I feel confident in the fact that they’re nowhere near their natural waist. K-Fed Three, who I’m guessing is the tagalong of the group, is technically riding in the backseat, but is sort of perched in between the two bucket seats in this hot little whip, which I’m guessing is a 1999 Dodge Caravan. All three model citizen teenagers are sporting haircuts that confirm the fact that many hairdressers in certain suburbs make a killing off of the “Growing Up Gotti” haircut.

Yes folks, this van has Jersey plates.

The van’s stopped at the stoplight at 9th and South, which seems to take for-EVER to change. While I’m typing away, I suddenly have that little stomach-turning feeling that EVERY female who has ever walked by a construction site knows all too well – the eyes burning into your I’m-not-looking-anywhere-near-you side of the head.

And then…

“HEY ARMY”

“HEY ARMY GIRL. COME OVA HERE SO I CAN HOLLA AT YOU”

I’m wearing a gray Army PT shirt, so yes, I’m fully aware who they’re serenading. I intently pretend to be both completely engrossed in my computer and deaf.

The cross street light is, of course, not turning yellow in the immediate future, which would set off a course of events that might prompt the soccer-caravan-turned-thugmobile to move further down South Street.

“HEY BITCH WHY YOU SO SNOBBY? WE JUST TRYIN’ TO HOLLA ATCHOU!”

Because I don’t want to divert my attention and thereby risk some other thug in the unseen periphery stealing my very precious and unreplaceable computer, I keep on ignoring them.

This light has to be broken.

And then, of all things…two girls who have undoubtedly skipped school to come to the city meander by on the other side of the street…and I kid you not…

They holler at the Federline Trio themselves. I thought for a split-second that the two groups might actually know each other, but no. The thugmobile PULLS OVER to my side and they all engage in a flirting session that’s still going on as I type this. They’ve already traded Nextel chirps or whatever.

I’m shocked at a few things here.

First. REALLY – does this strategy of shouting at complete strangers at Starbucks from your minivan WORK? Do men actually succeed in picking up women in this city with this tactic? I know I’ve just ripped on them, but I’d like to know why I’m the bitch – that is, if most other women these days are romanced by this kind of pickup. I know a Southerner like me is somewhat of a fish out of water in these parts, but really, I think we’ve advanced a little past this, which I’d consider only slightly above clubbing a woman over the head and bringing her back to the cave.

Secondly, how did this look and attitude come about? You’re what, sixteen years old? My mom raised four boys and not ONE of them wore those kinds of clothes, talked like that or emulated virtual wastes of oxygen like thugs and former dancers who succeeded only by knocking up former pop stars. Do parents in New Jersey actually put their foot down or say – God FORBID – NO to their child when they decide they want to integrate this look into their daily life? I'm all for self-expression, but this is...I don't know.

Finally, directed at the girls who look like they robbed a Hollister store and own stock in LA Looks Hair Gel - while I thanked my lucky stars that they interrupted the gaze of the Gotti Trio in my direction, I wonder - is this what the girls their age are going for? And worse, are they literally stopping traffic to chase these kinds of guys down on a regular basis? Is this specific to the next generation, or is this some sort of sick omen that dating has come to the demand that I allow potential mates (ugh...that just sent chills down my spine, in a very literal sense) to "holla" at me when they use the B-word?

No wonder I haven't had a date in forever.