Dear Diary, I Had a Date with This Guy, and Here's What Happened

It's about time I regaled you, dear reader, with highlights of my date last weekend.
We shall call him Tad (real name only slightly less offensive).
Tad was 30 minutes late.
Our reservations were at 10 (he's French Canadian) at this seafood place in SoHo. His shirt open to 3 inches shy of his belly button (no undershirt), his chest hair yielded to the wind like the grasses of the Great Plains as he explained why he was late (traffic--investment bankers take only cabs).
Dinner was nice. Good conversationalist, good conversation. We talked about books a little (I would call him literate), and he likes classical music but nothing else really. $23 crab leg appetizer. Rare tuna. Lavender creme brulee, and espresso a precise 15 minutes post-dessert.
Afterwards we walked, indecisive about what to do now that it was 1 am. He got a call from his high school friends from Montreal who were drinking in Tribeca. So we hailed a cab, and during the ride I learned that his mother sends him clothes. He learned that I buy mine from Target. He also asked why I go by Liz when "Elizabeth is such a pretty name."
We arrived in Tribeca and made our way to the Brandy Library. Outside this establishment stood a friend of a friend from Middlebury (we shall call him Bob- very harmless). Bob had a little too much brandy and was interested in talking and obtaining my phone number.
After Bob and I parted ways, I rejoined Tad and Tad's friends, who had appeared to greet us. I apologized and explained to Tad that Bob had been drinking and that I doubted whether he even remembered my name. Tad responded with a witless cutdown about Bob's haircut and pants being bad.
Tad introduced me to his friends as Elizabeth.
The Brandy Library was lit only by the illuminated shelves of scotches and brandies and other fine liquors. Stumped by the menu's pages-long litany of whiskey alone, I ordered a fancy version of whiskey and ginger. Tad was surprised I liked cocktails; I explained that they're tasty. Tad replied, "I like to taste my what I'm drinking, unadulterated." Tad swirled the sniffer and took an unadulterated sip.
I was waiting for Tad's friends, by the way, to say "Ha Ha, just joking, I'm not really like this. That was a parody of myself that I was doing back there." But they didn't. Tad's friend (we shall call him Penis) leaned over to me and asked, "So do you like this place?" I nodded. He remarked, "It reminds me of an airport lounge. Tacky... Speaking of tacky, get me OUT of the upper west side--UGH. If I had to live in this asscrack of a city I'd only consider the upper east."
I guess the face that I made then, when some of my dinner crept back up past my uvula, had suggested to Tad that I didn't like his friends.
The night ended with...well, with nothing. I got in a cab and went back to Brooklyn. I drank a Snapple, read a few pages of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and counted all the money I'd saved going on a date with a Lehman Brother's drone.

Okay, um, a TPWHAEINTUS moment? ...okay, another subway moment:
Last night, my roommate/friend Rachel and I were on the 2/3 coming home from a teacher colleague's party in Harlem. Across from us was a Eugene Levy lookalike with very short denim shorts on--a la Tobias Funke, the nevernude. His legs were spread wide open and underneath those daisy dukes was....NOTHING. Nothing but what God intended. And it was just so THERE, you know?