You know that Eddie Murphy skit from "Saturday Night Live" when he paints his skin white and pretends to be Caucasian? He discovered that when minorities aren't around, white folks give things to each other in stores and party on public transportation?

I suspect that's how pretty people treat one another when folks like me aren't around. How else to explain why they shut up when I approach or look away when I pass? Hot women are getting offed by their boyfriends and husbands all over the country and I can't get a date? Here's a selling point: I won't kill you on Christmas Eve and pretend I was fishing.

It is highly disheartening to walk into work, church, the grocery store, or soup kitchen line and get the feeling that none of the single women there have any interest in dating you. Thus I sense a feeling of rejection before I can get rejected.

I really noticed this in college. My best friend and roommate, Steven, met his girlfriend -now bride - Jenny, less than a month into our four-year journey. From then on, he was free to flirt with any girl on campus, and they were completely comfortable with that because they knew he was taken. It was awkward with me, as I always had the feeling all of them believed I was stalking them for a date (really, I promise, it was just half of you). I would stand five feet away, neither attempting nor receiving any "friend" hugs.

Every time I tell a married man this, he gives me the "grass is greener" shtick. No, no it's not. The grass over in my world is tundra.

Why did I even host this Pity Party? (Your dip stunk, by the way.)

There’s a little movie out there that reminded me of what life is like for those of us who inhabit the big city but aren’t part of it. You probably haven’t heard about this one, and isn’t in your local theater, though you know all the stars well. It’s on one screen here in Atlanta, and I had to drive fifteen minutes from my usual theater to find it.

	I'd like to see what you're wearing ... at the foot of my bed.

The movie is Shopgirl, adopted from Steve Martin’s novella (yes, The Jerk can write), and features Martin as a wealthy fellow wooing salesgirl Claire Danes, who’s also the love object of a scruffy wannabe musician (Jason Schwartzman). Danes is actually the center of the movie, although later I’ll talk about why that’s a question mark.

The most obvious comparison I can make is with last year’s Lost in Translation. I exited under the same mood, which wasn’t sad though not joyful, either. Maybe “reflective” works best.

Although it’s not the only comparison, the easiest to make are the May-December romances, pairing a young and unconventional Hollywood doll with an aging funnyman making a turn for the dramatic as their careers continue to evolve.

The difference is that in Translation we rooted for Scarlett Johansson and Bill Murray to be bosom buddies and perhaps intimate, but in Shopgirl we’re not sure if the relationship between Claire Danes and Steve Martin is good for either participant.

Not that it matters. Continuing the movies’ similarity, what increasingly becomes clear is that neither relationship matters in a sexual context. Both are about getting comfortable in your own skin. Danes is magnificent and may actually get some Oscar buzz, she was so perfect for this role.

Her Mirabelle works in the stuffy overpriced section of the already fancy Saks department store. She’s bored out of her mind, not stimulated one bit, and just wants to take her shoes off, draw, read and find a life in the vastness L.A. where she's just another pretty face.

Danes has a very expressive face, more so than Scarlett who is a blank slate most of the time, and you actually believe that she, like Mirabelle, comes from Vermont where people aren't nearly as flighty and shallow. Hard to believe she was in Brokdown Palace with Kate Beckinsale. What a disappointment. An Asian women’s prison and no nudity? Atrocious.

Want to take the comparisons between Shopgirl and Translation to the next level? Claire even one-ups Scarlett by actually baring her lovely bum, whereas Scarlett was content to allow her shapely rear to be filmed in pink panties. Okay, maybe this only mattered to me. (<--- Chauvinist pig.) At least she’s not the typical Hollywood starlet, clearly out of everyone’s league. Danes could be defined as attainable if you saw her on the street. I mean, to y’all, not me. Remember, no confidence here.

Who can blame Martin for trying to hit on Danes when he sees her behind the counter? What guy hasn’t seen a million women like that whom we really, really, wanted to ask out but could only smile awkwardly, say “thank you” and hope our credit cards weren’t rejected.

On Claire’s other hand, Jason Schwartzman (Rushmore) is a total disheveled loser in Shopgirl. He doesn’t open the door on his jalopy or clean up the front seat for his first date with Danes. He’s awkward, says all the wrong things and yet at least he has the guts to ask for her phone number, even if he has to borrow a couple of bucks from her on their first date. Instead of taking her hint to get lost later, Schwartzman acts assured and lets her mind wander, so much that she decides, “Are you the type of person who's great getting to know and once you get to know them, they're fabulous?” Okay, sure, she’s desperately lonely and just wants to be held, but I can’t even find that kind of woman in this big city.

You know, couples are always meeting on trains. Maybe I should take a trip somewhere via Amtrak. Or ask out the crazy homeless chick on the subway.

And yes, I’ll try anything if it means the chance at finding a single woman who will walk past me and not throw up. If that means taking a road trip using a hot-air balloon, where do I sign up?

Or I could walk in every shop in the mall and try my hand. Then eat out at a decent restaurant every night in the hopes of hooking up with a waitress.

Or I could make an overly artsy flick. Where the comparisons are a little too spot on is that Shopgirl takes on the same sense of self-importance as Translation. The movie sincerely wants us to notice the dialogue and the cinematography. The little slow-motion shots only serve to remind us that the director, Anand Tucker, has the hots for his own work.

Not that it’s a bad thing. The director shows the little moments that matter, a hand on the back or a questioning glance. You can tell when a kiss means something. Our three protagonists are framed in a positive light as much as possible.

Because Shopgirl was adapted from Martin’s novella and he’s in the movie, he provides narration for several scenes, which was for the negative in my eyes. Such methods focus the movie on Martin, not Danes, for whom the film rightly spends all of its relevant energy and focus.

Otherwise, Shopgirl is well acted, gorgeously filmed and gives off a positive vibe in the end. There’s none of that “what did he say, what will they do” like the end of Lost in Translation. In that way, you could say, nothing is lost in translation between the beginning and end of Shopgirl.

Me? I’m worried about stupid crap. Literally. Like, are there rules on single men and their toilet paper? Flowers seem too frou-frou, but I don’t think Angel Soft makes designs with spaceships and footballs. I mean, seriously, how can I be a hep cat when the cheap toilet paper in my bathroom (as opposed to where?) has a flower design! Women can sense this sort of thing, can't they?

I know, I know, “Jeff, get your undies unbunched,” you gloomy wanker.

The verdict: