If a gentleman places his hand on your knee under the table at a dinner party with the intention of signaling you to shut up, stab him immediately in the eye with a fork (salad fork, place fork, oyster fork or dessert fork are equally apropos).  Use sufficient force to penetrate the meniscus. If eyeball juice squirts onto your food, discreetly push your plate to the side and wave the server over to replace your tainted victuals. 

It’s okay, I’ve dated worse.

Yes, I know he’s fictional. Yes, I know that’s a flaw.

Like the fountain of youth many have sought the perfect band name, but all have fallen short. However, let us honor now the seven bands that have fallen the LEAST short, and examine how they could have achieved perfection.

I am a connoisseur of Diet Coke. A gourmand. A maven. Even a snob. My palate is supremely refined. What a sommelier is to wine, what a nose is to perfume, I am to Diet Coke. I drink it every day. All day. Some days it’s the only beverage I drink. Diet Coke is my wake up call, my “Hello world,” my “I’m ready to interact on a sentient level.” I drink Diet Coke with burgers, with pasta, with salad, with pancakes and eggs, with bagels and lox, with croissants and scones. I don’t drink it with cereal, but I don’t eat cereal.

You remember that weekend you decided to build your partner a dining room set inspired by the work of William Morris? How you went to the National Gallery to do archival research and found the original designs? There were the ladderback chairs made of oak that you cut down and milled yourself and the rush seats you taught yourself to weave. And the reformed gothic style table you knocked together, the one with mahogany and walnut inlays—you were pretty sure he was going to flip when he saw it. Especially since he was always quoting Ruskin and going on and on about the glories of the arts and crafts movement.