It's the postseason in Major League Baseball. It's time to contemplate what sexy outfit you'll be wearing at the end of the month, knowing full well society will deem it acceptable and pass judgment. And it's also time to get ready to bounce and move your body to the sound of electronic dance music in the heart of Hollywood.

Within the confines of its legendary walls and its sparkling chandelier from yesteryear, I engulf the blonde beauty before me to protect her from the errant asshat who threatens to occupy our private space. As I listen to the music, I close my eyes and let the booming bass pulsate my chest. Rays of neon light dance in space in perfect harmony with the German beats as they fail to penetrate my shut eyelids with all their photonic might; thank for you playing, try again.

As the show ends and the night draws to a close, the crowd scatters like an army of ants that's just been discovered. The food trucks are outside, waiting for the masses to come and feed off their greasy food that always tastes better after midnight. But instead of dining on the gum-stained sidewalk, we make our way to a place that never closes: Norm's.

Comfortably situated in a booth and eagerly awaiting an early breakfast, I begin to notice an interesting situation developing across the room. Male, late 40s, well over 2 bills, and enough grease in his hair to lubricate an entire revolution. He's sporting white shoes, white pants, a light pink shirt with--you guessed it--a white collar. On his way to the little boy's room, he noticed 2 young ladies sitting at the table just before the bathroom doors and decided to chat them up, because clearly they're looking to give out numbers at 2:30 am; eating is really just a bonus.

As he strikes up a conversation with one of the damsels in distress, I overhear her name: Kira. Early 30s, long, auburn hair, a short white dress symbolizing either her innocence or the basis of attraction for Mr. Douchenozzle Turdface III (DT3). One after another, she's inundated with questions while keeping her arms firmly crossed across her abdomen. Whether DT3 was listening or not is a mystery, for he was leaning against the wall and shamelessly staring down her dress and salivating over her supple breasts. Creepy to the extreme, seedy as it seems folks.

Across the cold, barren table, Kira's friend sat alone, pretending to be preoccupied by the contents of her mobile cellular telecommunications device. For a while she was kept company by one of DT3's wing men who apparently came from a Fonzie look-alike contest. Unable to handle the immediate rejection, he quickly scampered back to his sanctuary. But that didn't deter DT3 from continuing to harass Kira whose resolve would not be broken.

For a solid 15 minutes this pathetic effort continued and shattered records of desperation previously witnessed by this guy. No, she's not interested in the balance of your checking account or the diameter of that fake Rolex you're wearing, though I recommend keeping it somewhere safe where no one can see it, right next to your dignity and sense of respect.

No, she's not going to join you and your posse regardless of how "large" your table is, though it's fair to assume it's inversely proportional to the size of your one-eyed trouser snake. But seriously, since when did table sizes become the basis for pickup lines?

And yet, despite his incessant badgering and his deplorable imploring to convince her that he's worth her time, Kira, who gained my admiration, never surrendered, never gave in, never gave up.

Churchill would be most proud.