Wednesday, April 28, 2010

fratrosexuals.

i like a manly man who talks shit.

nothing tickles me more than a big swinging dick who talks loud and makes jokes and tries to tell me what to do.

last night i was downtown. standing on the sidewalk at the corner of ohio and lasalle eating a burning hot merkts burger from lasalle power company in the middle of post-rush hour, early dinner-date traffic. i don't believe in eating outside. seriously. and everyone who knows me KNOWS THAT. i'm sure two dozen people had heart attacks reading that i ate a cheeseburger on the street. streets are fucking dirty. and smelly. and pigeons, flies, car exhaust, and other poop-covered carcinogenic toxic pollutants are flying around getting all over your buffalo wings or whatever. then there is the problem of messiness, and what to do with one's dirty-ass grimy fingers and mouth. wipe them on your pants or sleeve? pshaw. how is THAT going to look while standing in line outside bar deville later in the evening? fucking awful, that's how.

plus, most people look totally fucking gross while eating seated at a table with available napkins and wet wipes and maybe even a bib. it's nearly impossible not to look like disgusting goddamned pigpen while slathered in barbecue sauce and licking your fingers on the bus. your fingers that have touched filthy money, your dirty transit card, supergross key ring, your swine flu-covered debit card, a whore with ebola, two snotrag seven year olds, your dog's poop bag, your shoelaces, the sink in a gas station bathroom, a nasty condom, and a used syringe since the last time you washed your fucking hands. and even then you probably only did a perfunctory rinse because you wanted to hurry up and get out of the bathroom before your coworkers realized IT WAS YOU who took a shit and didn't replace the charmin.

so i just don't eat outside, okay? unless it's an emergency. i'm still on this liquid business for two meals a day because i still am about to fucking DIE (i sort of wish i could just get it over with i'm really fucking tired of my life right now), but i can have a little meat and a little bread once a day. and i wasn't prepared, because PREPARED is something responsible adult people are, and i am not amongst their ranks. want to know what's in my fridge right now? not a goddamned thing. so making a dinner for myself out of the three pieces of salami i have left from the good italian butcher and whatever rye crackers or le sueur peas are in my cupboard wasn't really going to happen.

i went to meet cara downtown to have a drink with her before a blind date she was going on, and as i was on the train it hit me what a stupid fucking thing i'd been cajoled into doing. helping my stupid friend waste the time before her fabulous dinner at opera with some handsome stranger, then getting back on the fucking train to go home to my evil feral cat and phone that never rings. awesome.

so cara was late and i was hungry and i wandered into lpc, which i've read about but never gone into for fear of being douchebagged to fucking death. it wasn't so bad, because it was early on a tuesday, but i decided i couldn't stay in there the second i heard a dude shout, "bro, did you get those cubs tickets?" over my fucking head. so i took my burger out to the sidewalk. it's not that cold, and i have this beautiful coat that i love so very much and soon it's going to be too hot to wear it without looking like some sort of vagrant. i keep two bottles of purell in my day bag, and i beat the germs crawling all over my grubby mitts to within an inch of their lives before opening my delicious, steamy beef. which i kept wrapped so i could maintain something resembling nice, clean neatness.

it's worth mentioning that i looked pretty fucking hot yesterday,  dark red-lipped and shiny crimson manicured nails left over from the weekend and not chipped too fucking badly. and even my turtlenecks have cleavage, so you can only imagine how my party shit looks. tits on fucking TOAST, baby. or, in this case, a garlic bun. so i'm standing there, minding my own 100% angus business and thinking about how stupid every fucking day of my life always is, when this hugely tall giant-type fella sidled up next to me.

believe me when i tell you that no one ever is in love at first sight with me EVER, so my immediate thought was that he was going to try to take my cheeseburger. my cheeseburger that i just paid seven thousand dollars for because everymotherfuckingthing south of fullerton and north of 15th has a "you're an idiot for buying anything downtown" surcharge attached. i thought, "shitballs, i am going to have to swallow this bad girl WHOLE before this asshole takes her!" and took a giant bite, eyeing him suspiciously.

"you seem like the kind of woman who would enjoy a whole lot of man as well," he said.

WHAT?! that was fucking brilliant, mister! gold star for the best making me laugh semi-pickup line i've heard in a while! i didn't even say shit, just laughed and kept chewing and dug one of my cards from the recesses of the fucking garbage bag i carry around as a purse. i'm incredibly self-sufficient, and the way that trait manifests itself in the most obvious way is in the shit i choose to carry around with me at all times.

for instance, i always carry with me: a book (something that, at a glance, proves my smartness and awesomeness to casual passersby who probably don't give a fuck anyfuckingway; right now i am reading "mathilda savitch" by victor lodato but i think we might have already established that you hoes don't give a fuck about what i read or listen to so i should just shut up but i WON'T), many bottles of purell, two ipods, a le sportsac full of makeup, a ziploc bag full of cereal, a notebook (i like to pretend i write shit down), a cell phone that doesn't work anymore, my real cell phone, so many keys, a gigantic red leather coach wallet that has seen better days but that bitch cost me two hundred bucks and i just can't let it go, a dozen inky black pens, a notebook because i read somewhere that writers carry notebooks with them at all times (pretentious bastards), a book of fill-in puzzles, and a spare pair of hotsox. it's horrifying.

BUT. you'll never have to worry about me chapping your dick off because you've left me to wait somewhere and i'm so bored by my own thoughts that i can't sit alone for five minutes. first of all, i should probably say that will NEVER happen because i am late 99.9% of the fucking time. but just in case i beat you wherever it is we've decided to go, i can entertain myfuckingself. the shit rattling off the walls of my brain is usually enough to keep me occupied for at least a half hour, but if it isn't i can just read my book. or listen to that new rufus wainwright i just downloaded. or finish a puzzle because i always start them and abandon ship halfway through. or i can text someone less awesome about how exciting my life of sitting around waiting for shit to happen is.

i also have a baggie full of business cards. because investing in a twenty dollar case is obviously too much of a hassle. forget that i spend large amounts of my day ordering shit online that looks cute but fits wrong or isn't the right color or smells funny because i am incapable of shopping for clothing in an actual brick-and-mortar store. i could get a cardholder in three clicks of a mouse, yet i choose instead to walk around with a holey plastic bag that would be better served stuffed with cashews or spare buttons, not glossy black ambassadors of myself and my art. i have two kinds, ones with my phone number and blog, and ones with just my name and email. those are for dudes, as NO ONE ON EARTH would put his penis near me after reading what i write here. not a single one. nor should any of them, really.

so i laid an email-only card on him and said, with cheese i could feel congealing on my face, "i'm bored with stupid dudes right now, but you can email me if you feel like it." so far he hasn't felt like it, which seems to be the way things are going for me these days.

while we were standing there he asked me, "what do you like in a man?" and i actually took a few minutes to think about it rather than blurting out "large testicles" or something else dumb as hell. too bad my brain doesn't work that way.

"i like a man who doesn't know shit about mascara," i said through a mouthful of burger (that thing was fucking HUGE). "i want someone who thinks i am an exotic creature of mystery, who doesn't know shit about handbags or expensive sunglasses or italian shampoo. i don't like it when a dude knows that my lipstick color today is different from the one i was wearing yesterday."

"i like the lipstick you have on," he said. "red suits you. although, it sort of looks like the meat is bleeding all over your face. do you want me to go in and get you some napkins?"

the truth is, i had a pocketful of napkins, but i was tired then and am still of embarrassing myself in the presence of an attractive dude, so i said "yes" and hailed a cab as soon as he walked inside. which probably explains my vacant inbox. but i'm sick of making a giant ass out of my giant ass and i had the cabbie just drive around for a few minutes before dropping me off IN THE EXACT SAME SPOT. he gave me the "bitch, are you crazy?" face but complied nonetheless, and i tipped him double what his trip was worth. as if that would somehow delete the insanity. pshaw.

i listened to cara nervously babble for an hour and a half about a dude who sounded so incredible that it was impossible that he was even real. and thank god for all your iphones and fancy gadgets, as i got to confirm his realness through reading his facebook interests ("building things with my hands," HOT) and look at no fewer than seventy-five pictures of his seriously good-looking face. all while hearing about some shit called venture capital (?) and whatever else he does to make a million dollars an hour. you know my last genuine romantic petition was from a fucking security guard, right? just checking. don't fucking forget that tragic shit.

eventually i started to think about smashing a vodka bottle on the bar and dragging the jagged end across my wrist the long way, so we split a cab to the restaurant and i lived it up aristocrat-style by taking that shit ALL THE WAY HOME. seriously, lifestyles of the rich and famous over here. that was a twenty-five dollar cab ride. (i should really consider moving to a more happening part of the city. sheesh.) she texted me before i even got upstairs to tell me 1 that he was better-looking in person 2 that she saw him valet a porsche and 3 that i really should have ended it all with that vodka bottle idea back at the bar.

when amanda and i went to that beach house show a few weeks ago, by the way that was one of the most amazing shows i have ever been to in my life, i was wedged next to this weird fratty-looking dude in a peach popped-collar polo who looked like he'd be better served upside-down over a frosty keg than at a moody hipster concert. even more disconcerting, he knew all of the WORDS. and was singing them so loud! i didn't even know what to do with myself. it was like a monkey just strode out of the forest and asked for a gin and tonic.

that made me coin my new favorite term, "fratrosexual." a dude who looks like a frat boy but sings along to bands like beach house at the top of his lungs. we followed him to a bar after the show, and i was mesmerized by his double-shirtedness (why are you dudes always wearing seven shirts?) and confounded by the beach house poster he's bought and was CARRYING WITH HIM. amanda sort of wanted to fuck that dude, while i thought he was amusing and confusing and should be in a lab somewhere getting his brain (and his closet) picked apart and analyzed by medical professionals.

i hate confusing dudes. why y'all gotta be like that? are you gay or what? do you want to have sex with me or not? i can't even tell you all of the mental energy i've expended trying to figure out some goddamned shit a dude did or had to say. the picture above is of me and the debonair dlv, the least confusing man i have ever fucking encountered in my entire fucking life. he eats meat, drinks beers and the occasional manhattan, bangs girls (although just one at the moment), dresses fly, and listens to cool music. and he's funny and smart and reads good books. and never have i ever, in the four years i have known him, wondered if he was a closet queen. or not laughed at his jokes. or thought he was a stupid motherfucking letdown of an asshole. i don't do this often, because i hate dudes and want most of you to die, but dlv is the non-bitch of the week. maybe the month. of all time, perhaps.

that said, that picture was taken as my tender flesh was being fried to a crisp last summer at the gay pride parade. sigh. no homo.