Tuesday, April 13, 2010

the wind beneath your wingman.

so last night was the florence show. and WHAT A PUSSY PARTY. you dudes just don't get it, do you? standing around banging your dicks together at indie rock shows and underground hip hop ciphers while a thousand drunk vaginas cram together in a small, hot space and writhe and sway to hippie girl music, ripe for the picking.

what the fuck is wrong with you boys? if ONE marginally good-looking big swinging dick had walked through the house of blues last night he would have had to peel bitches off like fucking leeches. and i mean that in the hot way. for cereal. and it would be SO EASY. i saw this bitch wearing twelve headbands, hemp bracelets (barf), earth shoes, and a long flowy skirt, and i'm willing to bet everything in my 401k that if a dude wearing sensitive pants and an emo beard walked up to her and said, "doesn't 'cosmic love' just destroy you?" in his most sincere voice she would have taken her menstrual cup off and banged him right then and there. speaking of menstrual cups, my period is not due for another two days, but guess who knocked on my cervical door at 730 this morning? you guessed it. THAT BITCH. i was like, "for real, asshole? i have nice panties on today!" thank sappho for my whore drawer at work, i guess. always (yes ALWAYS, tampons make me feel like i'm riding a stubby cotton dick all day) and banana chips are saving my morning.

i blame swimming through that goddamned estrogen pool last night for aunt flo's early arrival. i mean, i went to the shit with four of my hot snatches; it wasn't like i was expecting crowd surfing and a mosh pit, i was just sort of surprised that so few of my enlightened brethren had shown up to pick these bitches off one by one. i ran into my friend josh ferguson, who is a super-smart and hip magazine writer/house dj, but he had a girl with him. bringing sand to the beach, eh? well, whatever works. you kids never listen to me ever, but if you find yourself down on your lady luck and you don't mind sticking your dick in a bitch who wears a lot of scarves and crystals and shit, just buy a ticket to an ani difranco or tori amos show. it's not like they're playing huge arenas, so you won't have to pay very much or travel very far. those florence tickets were twenty-nine dollars, INCLUDING THE FEES. i'd pay 29 bucks to make sweet music with a reasonably decent dude. are you better than me? no. no you are NOT.

i don't even think you have to be one of those emaciated navel-gazing cardigan wearers with pink shoes to get laid at shit like this. frat boys, goth dudes, smiling preppies, whatever. just have a working penis you don't want to put in a man, and you could have gotten sucked off at that fucking show. no problemo.

i am totally old. but i go to a lot of shows. the thing about being old and going to live shows is that you have to know how to pick your spot. and my spot, at pretty much every venue in the city of chicago, is at the BACK. except at the aragon, because i know a dude there and he lets me hang out in one of the boxes. i stand at the back 1 because i like to breathe 2 because i like to dance 3 because i like to not be hot 4 because other people with no rhythm like to crowd the stage and dance off the beat while bumping into me 5 because it's easier to get to the bar 6 because if i'm close to the bar i'm probably drinking beer and i hate to fight through a crowd to pee that's how i almost pissed myself at that sufjan show and it's not like anyone would hold your spot anyway so why not stand in the back where you don't have to fucking argue about it?

standing in the back at house of blues RULES because that means you get to stand by one of their juicy security dudes. house of blues is a pretty sexy place to see a show, with all that frisking-bag searching-patting down foreplay followed by hulking slabs of beef floating around the room and posted up near the bars and exits. "yes you MAY check my pink old-enough-to-drink wristband, handsome!" i'm old enough to fuck, too. what do i wrap that bracelet around? oh, naughty! the back bar at hob is where i usually stand, because people think it's too far away so they don't really hang out around there. but i always get a really good view of the stage and have plenty of hip gyrating room and stuff. because black people swivel their babymakers, in case no one ever told you. more on my dance lessons in a minute.

i was dressed, of course, like someone's alcoholic aunt, lest anyone get the wrong idea and confuse me for someone young and hip. these tattoos don't even do it anymore. especially since all your fucking mothers and grandmothers are out getting inked the fuck up and ruining my street cred. STOP IT. i am rapidly shame-spiraling toward whatever the opposite of cool is, and that sucks. so STOP. in the name of love, okay? jesus. anyway, i looked pretty cute and all my ladies looked cute and jen's ass was wearing red patent leather peeptoe fucking heels which made my rubber ballet shoes look like cat food or something in comparison and i was like, "goddamn it, i need to get some more SHOES" when lo and behold, a big tree trunk-looking freed slave in a red HOB security t-shirt lumbered up to the back bar and planted himself RIGHT NEXT TO US.

he smelled INCREDIBLE, and i was halfway out of my jeans when i saw rachel making that googly-eyed swoony face, too. i always forget that this isn't 1957 and that white girls can ogle field hands all out in the open now, and i was like, "bitch, you're into that? well then let's get him for you!" and that is why i am a GOOD FUCKING FRIEND. because if you want to holler at someone i'd consider hollering at i will GET OUT OF THE CAR and GET IN THE BACK SEAT. i mean, i might show him my boobs first, but that will just bring more attention to you, kittenface. i started talking, and not in a secret way, about the bouncer and his fineness. i mean, he had fucking earplugs in. how the eff am I supposed to know that he could hear everything we were saying?! besides, it was sort of the point. i'm trying to get my girl between his sheets, you feel me?

this is what amanda had to say about it on facebook this morning: i mean, it was a little awkward after sam announced the gawking to him before the headliner even took the stage, but you handled that admirably. it wasn't awkward, it was sexy! he totally caught us talking about him (and by talking i mean SHOUTING INTO HIS EAR), but that was after he'd already laid this killer fucking smile on rachel that was so intense i could hear one of her bra clasps pop open. well, maybe it was before. but i'd had a couple drinks by then so who the fuck even knows when that shit was.

speaking of drinks, does anyone want to go halfsies on a concert venue with me? because i paid SEVEN MOTHERFUCKING DOLLARS FOR A GODDAMNED 312. you didn't read that wrong. that's why i made it big. then six dollars apiece for several CANS of mgd! i am in the wrong fucking business. when the bar bitch was like, "would you like that in a cup?" i was like, "for seven motherfucking dollars i would like that in a crystal fucking chalice." preferably one that the goddamned pope drank from. of course i want that shit in a cup! that way at least i can pretend i'm drinking a beer worth six fucking dollars! the inside of my mouth was like, "stupid bitch, what's this shit? we don't drink THIS."

well that's what you get, tastebuddies. i saw rachel pay $9.75 for a jack and ginger and was like, "cheap" beer it is. i only had thirty bucks in cash! who would have thought i'd spend it all on beer? come on, you. we could make a KILLING, you hear me? and meet lots of cool bands and shit! i'd charge bitches through the nose AND make them pay out the ass to see insane clown posse and what's left of bone thugs-n-harmony. you know you want to. we could get SO RICH. wouldn't that be fun? i want to be rich enough to buy and sell people like cattle. i've already told you that. and THIS is our opportunity. bitch, i would just fucking BUY DUDES. and get SO MUCH SURGERY. not on my perfect face (bitch, are you crazy?), but i would get some sort of intestinal transplant and install some sort of STD blocker (don't front on the future, kittens) so i could rub my dick on whoever i want with no fear of burning it off.

anyway, back to that barbecued beef. i'm doing this vegan thing at the moment, you know, so my meat references are about to be OVERWHELMING. sorry in advance. but this shit is HARD. right now i am eating brown rice with a little bit of peanut sauce, and i wish it was meat rice with a little bit of meat sauce. this is going to take some getting used to. so this dude looked kind of like mekhi phifer, but taller and more muscle-y and with a bigger dick. i'm just guessing. i really have given up hope that any man on earth will ever find me sexually attractive, so i don't even think about it anymore. i really don't. i talk a lot of shit, but that's why i dress like i collect trash. that way, i don't feel like i've wasted any effort when a dude's like, "i love you, you're so FUNNY! really, you crack my shit up. now who's that blonde girl that walked in with you?" i just tap dance and crack jokes and try to get my friends laid.

because i'm not selfish. yes i am. but not about this. i'll sell you and make him laugh so long as you let me write about how he cried while you were fucking him or whatever. it's like a reverse wingman situation. i don't go get dudes, my winning personality does THAT. i reel these jagoffs in then help them get into some sexier bitch's boat. this one time bitchass and i were at easy bar a million billions ago (when it used to be called something else) and this dude laughed at my jokes and complimented my jukebox selections for forty-five fucking minutes before he was like, "can you help me talk to your friend?" i much prefer it this way, when i spy my homegirl gawking at a gentleman and making mental plans for him to rearrange her guts and can facilitate that happening. i'm only bashful when my own feelings are involved. embarrassing you? not a problem.

so while gorgeous was being all coquettish and shy, when he caught us talking about him i leaned forward, put my hand on his arm (you dumb y-chromosomes LOVE that silly sex kitten shit), batted my eyelashes, and said, "you're a hot dude and my hot friend wants to see what you look like naked." it might have been a little more tame than that, but not by much. i'm fucking GROSS. rachel must have been trying to hide in my stomach fold or wherever, because when i turned around to pimp her out i almost had to break my neck. laura, jen, and ginger didn't say shit, so i just kept talking. blah blah blah you're hot she's awesome blah blah concert blah what's it like being a bouncer (who the fuck CARES?) blah blah what do you do in your free time blah.

well, turns out adonis (not his real name) has a girlfriend. that he remains faithful to! i guess. whatever. i still told him what hot fucking shit rachel is. you know, just in case. NOT A BITE. at least we got to spend the night staring holes into his back, which was a welcome diversion from all the dead fish in the room. florence was fucking amazing. she had on a unitard and this lacy robe/veil kind of thing and she stood next to a drum and pounded it throughout the show. and she "drumming" AND "cosmic love" which are my jams. and it was funny to watch all of the white people dancing. there were MAYBE six black people who weren't being paid to be there at the show. including my black ass, who stood there snickering at the crowd, each person in it dancing to his or her own beat.

this sexy middle-aged dude was on the floor below us swiveling his hips and popping his booty and it was fabulous. then i did my interpretation of his dance (hysterical), then i grinded up on gorgeous to see if a little lesbo action might change adonis's mind. watching bitches with real breasts fondle each other is exciting, isn't it? at least that's what i heard. there was no cursing or fighting as the show let out (seriously, i only see hip hop shit there and there is ALWAYS A FUCKING FIGHT), and there weren't fifty negroes in baseball caps trying to force after party fliers into our hands. good lord, that is the WORST.

besides, there's a better after party at my house.

we got on the train and there were two methed-out dirty rockabilly types on our car. drinking from a bottle of red wine (why not?), heads lolling around in that "i just did some heroin" way. seriously, the girl looked like she was about to fucking DIE. amanda will back me up. that shit was terrifying. rachel and amanda got off at belmont and i sadly bid adieu (for realsies, i heart those girls) and sat down just in time to watch these dirty bitches START TO FUCK. i wouldn't have believed it if 1 i hadn't heard him rip out the crotch of her leggings and 2 I HADN'T SEEN TWO JUNKS. really, guys? train junks?! gross gross gross gross gross. it is the absolute opposite of sexy. akilah demanded a video, but i can't figure that shit out on my fancy phone. so i took a picture instead and sent it to the last five people i'd texted. it's like the train fuck lottery, and YOU WIN.