So, I laughed myself silly over this NYT article titled It's not you, it's your books (http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/30/books/review/Donadio-t.html?8bu&emc=bub1). It took me back to the good old days (sigh) when I was playing the dating game too. There was this guy who was hotter* (in the looks dept.) than an active volcano. Gosh, he really smouldered. On the first date, he said we'd have a small drink at home and then pop out to a restaurant. Cool so far? I ring his doorbell and he answers it with a copy of Ayn Rand (The Fountainhead, I think it was) in one hand-hey, can you get more obvious than that? Ew! Ew! Ew! My first instinct was to run, but I was way too stunned to think up excuses like, 'Oops sorry, gotta go, forgot to feed the hamster.' There was, needless to say, no second date. I couldn't even bring myself to talk on the phone with Mr. So F***ing Pretentious anymore!
*Truth be told, he was the hottest living man I've ever had the fortune to meet! Too bad about his taste in books, though. It could never have been. Not for me.