I recommend pleasant.

Elwood P. Dowd: I'd just put Ed Hickey into a taxi. Ed had been mixing his rye with his gin, and I just felt that he needed conveying. Well, anyway, I was walking down along the street and I heard this voice saying, "Good evening, Mr. Dowd." Well, I turned around and here was this big six-foot rabbit leaning up against a lamp-post. Well, I thought nothing of that because when you've lived in a town as long as I've lived in this one, you get used to the fact that everybody knows your name. And naturally I went over to chat with him. And he said to me... he said, "Ed Hickey was a little spiffed this evening, or could I be mistaken?" Well, of course, he was not mistaken. I think the world and all of Ed, but he was spiffed. Well, we talked like that for awhile and then I said to him, I said, "You have the advantage on me. You know my name and I don't know yours." And, and right back at me he said, "What name do you like?" Well, I didn't even have to think twice about that. Harvey's always been my favorite name. So I said to him, I said, "Harvey." And, uh, this is the interesting thing about the whole thing: He said, "What a coincidence. My name happens to be Harvey."

James Stewart circa 1950, I'm all yours.

If I could ever meet an Elwood P. Dowd, a Bill Samson, a Joe Gillis, or even a Joe Bradley, I wouldn't think twice about it. That was my problem as a kid, I watched too many old movies. There's an argument flopping around that says girls around my age are living in a romantic delusion because they watched too many Disney princesses live happily ever after. First of all, Walt Disney didn't create happily ever after, but I won't go there. My fantasy is different. For me, it was the noir couples. Even Fred and Ginger, George & Gracie, to speak nothing of Carey Grant and whoever he wanted.

Since I was old enough to discern it, banter has been what makes me melt. I can't help it. I grew up around vaudeville pranksters and their descendants. And then I found Ethel in third grade, then Katherine and Bette. They all blew me away. They weren't giggling into their cleavage, they were keeping the tempo. They were sexy because they were sharp. And whenever they interacted with men, it was like fireworks. And it wasn't just the women, the men knew how to fuel the fire. Flirting doesn't happen like that anymore.

For instance, in Double Indemnity, when Phyllis says "I was just fixing some iced tea. Would you like a glass?", Walter Neff says "Sure, unless you've got a bottle of beer that's not working."

When I say it, arbitrary college date says "Nah babe, I'm cool" and proceeds to smoke a bowl or bitch about Kierkegaard or check his facebook.

Flirting these days is whack, yo! Seriously. I look around and I see nothin' but tricks and hos. There's not a shadow of class. Some playa can just roll up and be like "damn grrrl, u fine" and she might damn well end up sleeping with him three jager bombs later and whaddaya gonna do, it's 2007 ya pansy! Get with it.

But I can't. That's my delusion. Because I prefer something with a horn section and cheek to cheek to something with phat beatz and ass to crotch. Because I want to grab someone by their tie and kiss them. Because I still get a little woozy when I see a fedora. Because, sue me, I want a crescendo, not a tornado.

For sanity purposes I'm going to assume that any guy I meet who has the wit, sophistication and style of the 40s is gay. Although I'd love to be convinced otherwise.