Nate's total disbelief that Dan is so pop-culture clueless is really adorable; he explains that Olivia Burke (who's going to be with us for a third of the season, so settle in; and trust me, she's a lot easier to take once you get a load of Ursula Fucking Nyquist) plays "Guinevere, but like a hot, blood-sucking Guinevere." Dan reiterates that he has no idea what she or her ginormous Candies-shilling pearlies look like, and Nate goes, "Hey man, I gotta run, I got a ten o'clock class." Dan promises to help Nate edit his Hawthorne paper, and Nate... Runs? To Columbia? If my friend Martha were here she would be telling me how retarded that is, but I'm going to guess and say the usual amount.
There's a girl in a fedora -- and what says "I want to be left alone" quite so much as a ridiculously inappropriate pimp hat? -- staring at Dan while he jiggles his poor man's pockets looking for change for his coffee, and then she buys his coffee for him, of course, and they meet-cute. Except it's more like a visit from Meet-Cutes of Xmas Past, because whenever a person meets a famous person and they fall in love with mistaken identities, there is always coffee. I mean, I'll take Dan Humphrey over Hugh Grant any day, so I'm not complaining. Oh, and you know what, often there are also large teeth. (I'll let it go, I promise, I just keep getting stuck in this one year where all I could think about were Hilary Duff's teeth. I drew pictures of them on things. They're also how I used to keep her separate from Mandy Moore until Hilary Faye's Jesus mullet caused me to fall in heterosexual love with Mandy Moore.) Anyway, she says her name is Kate. Kate's just a girl, standing in front of a boy, wondering if he's as gay as he appears to be.
You know how there's just the one coffee shop in New York now, where Vanessa lives in the floorboards and harbors orphans and overhears conversations? That's the one. So Blair comes into that one coffeeshop and sees some nerds talking about nerd things like what the heck kind of feline is Battle Cat. A better question would be, what kind of feline was Panthor, his evil purple nemesis. I loved that cat. I used to obsess on the fact that Prince Adam -- whose velvet vest was a total fashion coup in the relatively backwater environs of Eternia, equaled only once the Secret of the Sword opened up the portal to Etheria, where fuckin' everybody dressed like the bomb -- was a better match for Panthor than stupid Battle Cat, just in terms of accessorizing ability alone. I used to give Battle Cat to Ram-Man so they could be miserable and sucky together and play backgammon. Panthor also, I believe, lies at the root of my lifelong love affair with flocking.