Who let the dogs out?

So, there I was a thousand years ago in a rather boring dinner with a blind date that now blinded me with his bad taste – frat house ick… residual fashion for Boston business grads. I, still a fervent optimist then, who wore my Saturday best on a low exposure Tuesday evening, could not help thinking to myself how another perfectly good outfit will have to go on rotation for another year because of this.

Then, the penny dropped. In between me pretending to enjoy the syrupy wine he ordered for the sweet lady – I guess he meant me – he said something so entertaining and disdainful that it made my outfit worth the journey. He babbled on how he’s branched away from the family and that he’s his own man, then leaned over and said playfully "I’ll tell you how much I’m worth if you tell me how much you’re worth." How could I possibly break this earnest gold-digger’s heart and tell him that I probably had 2,000 bucks in my checking account? I demurred and told him daintily that I was not that kind of girl.

Needless to say, it did not go well, and I went home briskly thanking him for the dinner. (We paid dutch.) As much as I enjoy the odd embarrassing moment as much as any masochist in this town, the incident left me wondering: Chivalry is dead; so, did crass behavior take its place? I quickly realized that this kind of behavior was not only reserved for romantic overtures gone wrong.

In another group dinner in a chic restaurant – not so chic because things were flying around the table – I made the mistake of asking some tool my friend was dating how the beach was and her answer was, "Well we @#$%^& like bunnies on the beach." Silence. I’m not usually one to be stunned with statements that were so blatantly base, but this one got me punk’d big time. She laughed like she just said something really clever, maybe due to her implants and insecurities that was the cleverest thing she could muster. In a time where we are encouraged to wear our thoughts proudly on our sleeve and show them off as limited-edition Fendi Spy bags, is it being the new Germaine Greer thing to talk about prolific sex acts in the presence of pan-seared goose liver? Some people take this honesty bit to a whole new level.

Some wear their materialism, sexuality, insecurity, and proclivity for anything fascist or snooty right on their cuff. Do I really want to know? Not really. I was once stunned when this stunning and successful British model said to me in Hong Kong that she would never marry anyone poor. I looked at her wide-eyed, like Nell after she runs off from the forest and discovers running water. I asked her why. She looks at me incredulously and says, "I’m used to a certain way of living." I didn’t say much after that. I felt very provincial. Was I unfashionable for being a shell-shocked doe caught-in-the-headlights-of-bling? Apparently, because no one at the table seemed to bat an eyelash when she said this. They just went on to talk about more joyous things, like divorce and juicy settlements.

In a time when dainty is only used to compliment the sartorial sleight of hand of last season’s Chloe collection, it seems like brazen news flashes of insight that you don’t care to know the newest thing. Somehow, discovering the sex life of your friends or even the agendas of some chicks or dicks handed to you on a clear Tupperware bowl is not as much fun as finding out about it through old-fashioned snooping.

There is honesty (Honey, I cheated on you – in private) and crassness (Honey, I cheated on you – in a blog). As stark as the differences are, people seem to get confused. I remember when an imported Fil-Am actress would thrive on the shock factor of innocent Filipinos by talking about masturbation while guesting on Inday Badiday’s show. The next day, she got countless movie offers and became part of the Filipino colloquial. Now, that may be entertainment in the same way Bobby Brown’s new reality show with Whitney Houston is. But when I’m eating my foie gras, sipping some click-click, and wearing something fight, I don’t really care to hear about it. Dishing about others may be evil but fun. We are all guilty. But dishing about yourself is just plain desperate. There’s nothing cool about letting your prime numbers out.

It just seems that people have run out of ideas on how to be unique and capture people’s attention. Shock factor is their idea of how to stand out and give us the impression that they are worldly and sophisticated. Celebrities do it all the time on talk shows. Think Drew flashing David Letterman (Look, I’m a free spirit). Saying bizarre things, like James Spader extolling on Late Night with Conan O’ Brien the power of having gamey scents on men (I’m deep). Or sometimes, you don’t even have to talk about anything blasé to be blasé.

Take Tom Kat’s gross love epic. His behavior and talking about one of the purest things man could ever experience – love – is so excessive and plaintive that it becomes, yes, blasé – and says, "I’m gay."

Sometimes, all we need to do is to shut up. And maybe then we’ll be entertained.