Caleb whuffs a dry little chuckle at that and silences Common poetically detailing the virtues of his lady and her assets, tucking the earbuds away into a pocket. "Hey, don't bag on Sir Mix-a-Lot. It's a little before my time, but I can appreciate a classic."
That particular classic also ............well, also detailing the virtues of assets, one assumes. "I bet you could pick up a record player on the cheap, though, probably easier than you could get--let's say a Blue-Ray player. I kind of wonder what happens to hipsters here, do they start listening to everything on eight-track? Or grammaphone, if you want to get really old school."
A beat to let that sink in, in all its uh, whatever it is, accompanied by an easy, dark-eyed grin and a step back, not enough to particular telegraph meting out the distance of a stranger's personal space, but providing some all the same. "I'm Caleb. And I'm going to take that commentary on my musical taste as a compliment. Unless I'm wrong, in which case you can tell me, I don't think I'll cry or anything. You go to Whitecliff? It's right on the border of asking 'what's your major,' I know, but," he shrugs again, looping his thumbs through his belt loops, "college town, there are only so many opening conversational gambits."