I'm 34, practically broke, experiencing a bad case of the winter blues, and haven't even held a girl's hand in over six months. But I just moved to Greenpoint, home to some of the hottest Polish women in these United States. Determined to find a date, I threw on my best mock turtleneck, splashed on some Drakkar Noir, and sauntered over to Johnny's. Glancing over the clusters of young ladies seated at wooden tables throughout these two large, dimly lit, chalet-like rooms, I ordered a refreshing Lezajsk lager ($5) and remarked to the bartender, "Check out the pierogies on that one, huh?" He proceeded to stare at me, stone-faced. As I coolly bopped my head to the slightly outdated dance grooves that blared through the sound system, two perfectly sculpted blond girls walked up to order some drinks. I turned to one and said, "I'm a quarter Polish, you knowaI've got a cousin named Stashu." She rolled her eyes, turned to her friend, and in perfect English said, "What an asshole," before walking away. "Fuck it," I thought. "One down, 20 to go."