Wednesday, September 8, 2010

music for douchebags.

it's really a total fucking shame that the majority of mexican dudes i run into are shorter than a yardstick and more devoutly catholic than the pope, because GODDAMN do i love me some mexican food. i had approximately 6,947 tacos this weekend. and every single one of them was DELICIOSO. i also did a lot of other shit, too, and THANK FUCKING HORUS for that because this blogging is always a little easier and more interesting when i actually do shit worth writing about. like going to fancy places, seeing a couple shows, and giving my phone number to a dude whose first name HAS MORE THAN FOUR SYLLABLES. a review:

friday. it was cold as BALLS friday night and, while i got the memo, a good percentage of the ladies partying in and around chicago friday night most certainly did NOT. or they're at that age where you don't give a shit about warmth and comfort. remember those days? getting frost-bitten in all of those too-small pinchy skyscraper heels and corseted bustiers? bare toes and miniskirts in the dead of winter? well i don't, because i'm fucking sensible. and i party dressed like a bag lady. i met jenny and ginger at big star friday night because i can't help but love that place, even though it's filled with noisy cockbags and asymmetrical hipster haircuts and twangy country music gets on my goddamned nerves, but I LOVE IT. i'm sorry. i totally do. and i fucking SHOULDN'T, because it's so crowded full of jerks clad in t-shirts they bought yesterday that are meant to make you believe they're original circa 1974 with weekend mohawks and girls that are just trying so fucking hard that it's GROSS but i'm in love with it despite all of its pretentious flaws. i really would go there every single day if i could, but i don't own enough ironical cowboy boots and my male companions don't have enough pairs of magenta skinny jeans. pfffft.

by now you all should know that i'd murder a small child for a decent taco, and the tacos at big star are fucking INCREDIBLE. so good, in fact, that I ATE THEM OUTSIDE. you read that right. i don't believe in eating outside. it's messy and disgusting and i hate for regular-ass people to walk by leering over my goddamned plate. nothing more horrible than a goddamned wino drooling over a perfect platter of smoking hot tacos de lengua while pieces of his skin flake off into the guacamole. your cold shit melts in the summer, your hot shit freezes in the winter, outdoor chairs are always filthy and NEVER comfortable, and on top of everything else there are all sorts of bugs and wildlife trying to bite you and peck at you and lay eggs in your food or snatch crumbs off your napkin. ridiculous. but since it was twenty degrees outside and all the naked chicks were angling for the handful of tables inside, we got seated super fast on the patio. then we MAXED.

the weekend mohawk: when an ordinarily boring, preppy white dude fashions the hair on the top of his head into a mohawk on a friday or saturday night, but combs it either into stepford submission or that carefully styled bedhead on purpose thing they're all doing lately come monday morning, lest his fellow day traders think he's some sort of dangerous rock n' roll punk. in case that hot pink fitted oxford from express men wasn't screaming "moist and harmless" loudly enough. pffft.

here's a prerequisite for being my friend: you have to eat food. and not just eat food, but enjoy food. and shove a lot of it into your mouth at once while in the company of other hot bitches. every toothpick wobbling past us in peeptoe wedge booties (fuck you, i read glamour) looked like a taco might make her tip the fuck over, and while i don't give half a shit about what a bitch eats in general, i do care about her taking up space (limited space though it may be) that could be occupied by someone whose stomach is bigger than a hummingbird's. unless i can hang my coat on you, go stand and look pretty across the street at the violet hour and let us human beings get at them amazing al pastors.

saturday. we were supposed to go out drinking after big star but ohmigod guess what happened?! I'M OLD. so i took my old ass the fuck home. where i discovered that i'd left the book i'm reading (uh, not anymore) in the goddamned cab. THAT TOTALLY SUCKS. you know i read a lot of books, right? but i NEVER write about that shit because bitches totally don't care about fucking books. you just don't. and i've come to terms with it. (but email me if you want some recommendations, for real.) i was so pissed about that damn book (it's really good) that i decided to watch some episodes of gossip girl rather than start a new one (makes total sense) and was four deep when i realized that i had to get up and go to work in a few hours. dumb.

after work laura, mister maps, and i went to see "going the distance," that drew barrymore movie about relationships during which you're supposed to forget that she's fucking that mac dude and can't stop breaking up with him. i hate my brain. i couldn't stop thinking about their dating in real life throughout the entire movie, and that's retarded. i also was transfixed by drew's ladystache, which is just greenish-greyish visible enough to become a huge distraction to an asshole who focuses on the dumbest shit during movies. but charlie day and jason sudeikis were amazing and the shit was really funny. some seven-year-olds had obviously snuck into the theater, because there was all of this high-pitched squealing and "aww-ing" throughout the whole fucking thing, and i refuse to believe that an adult woman would really do that in real life. seriously. when they reunite at the end (oops, did i ruin that for you?) it was like someone had let a pack of mewling kittens loose in the theater. which i would have MUCH preferred.

it's probably a good time to admit that i've had my period for twelve days or some shit, and i'm grouchy and mean and covered in cystic acne. plus i'm having a salt thing like you wouldn't BELIEVE. holy shit. i never crave salt, but lately i'm like a crackhead fucking horse, licking salt off pretzels and rubbing the shit into my gums with my hooves. and since she's evaded me for so long, this bitch smells like DEATH. not to gross you out or anything (i really hope you vomit), but this blood smells like toxic waste. i'm nervous to sit close to anyone lest his eyes water from the stink lines emanating from the oozing, festering flesh wound that is my gangrenous vagina. even helen was like, "damn, bitch!" and that bitch smells like cat butts, so it's really saying something if I offended HER.

anyway, saturday also happened to be ginger's 30th birthday (old hag) and we went to duchamp for dinner to celebrate. i was totally excited. so much, in fact, that i put on an actual DRESS. a dress with RUFFLES. that's how you know i love your ass, when i put on a ruffled party dress to come out and drink overpriced cocktails in your honor. and drink those overpriced cocktails while seated on THE MOST UNCOMFORTABLE CHAIRS OF ALL TIME. i swear to god those bitches were manufactured by satan himself. at first i thought, "maybe it's just me," because i am always willing to concede that my giant ass is the source of the issue in delicate matters such as these, but the skinny girl next sitting next to me was complaining, too, so my cellulite and i heaved a sigh of relief before deciding this was the worst restaurant EVER. not really, but sort of. how can one enjoy a meal with hard, molded acrylic cutting into her soft meat?! seriously, it left a MARK. good thing i was drunk.

sunday. i couldn't hang for the afterparty at the clipper because i'm still old, so i went home instead to continue the season three gossip girl marathon i'd begun saturday afternoon. goddamn, i love that show. it's sooooooo good, and i'm sooooooo still an adolescent. OMFG. i put a headband and knee socks on helen and we curl up in a bed covered in barneys shopping bags and watch 17 episodes in a row while eating handfuls of cookies that we purge before passing out drunk for nine hours. i got up in time to drag myself out with sarah, rachel, and lauraaage to the lovely and adorable southport grocery, and while i heart that place to death i would rather you not go there because waiting two hours for breakfast at one in the afternoon is cray cray and i don't want anything getting in between me and my heavenly steak and eggs served on tortilla chips with a bowl of salsa on the side and you shitheads already fucked up m. henry for me so keep standing in line outside ann sather (barf) for hours on end and let the rest of us holler at the good spots.

sunday night ginger and her underage brother and i went to see beach house and vampire weekend at the aragon, and it was RIDICULOUS good. i should clarify and say that the music was really good; everything else? not so fucking much. 1 it was an all-ages show, which in theory i have absolutely no problem with but in practice just means a lot of drunk teenagers whose older friends have snuck them plastic cups of beer falling all over each other and vomiting in the garbage can we were standing next to. MULTIPLE TIMES. also, listening to shit 12 year olds listen to makes me feel dumb, and i don't like that feeling.

2 the aragon is an amazing place to see a show if you are a sour misanthrope who hates to be near other people, because most assholes crowd into the big main area and leave the periphery (where you can totally see and hear EVERYTHING) virtually empty for the rest of us to remain untouched or sweated-on. it's the business. but that didn't really happen, so i was IRRITATED. really, it kills me when i go absolutely out of my way to avoid people and make it really easy for them to avoid me and they post up next to me anyway, stinky and sweaty and distracting me with their lightning-speed texting. blah.

3 since when did 95% of the vampire weekend fan base consist of giant fucking douchebags?! WHAT. THE. FUCK. i've never seen more college t-shirts and backwards ball caps in my entire LIFE. you know why? because i don't go to fucking cubs games. holy shitface, it looked like wrigley field and the entire undergrad student body at depaul mated and shit their abercrombies out into the theater. there were the requisite anorexic jeans and floppy skater shoes, but most of the crowd was made up of dudebros in running shoes punching each other in the face for fun and teeny little girls in impossibly high heels. now you know beach house was the big draw for me, but i can't front and pretend that i don't know every single word of "cape code kwassa kwassa." and "m79." "california english." diplomat's son." you get it, i know.

after beach house played i was standing in the beer line (OF COURSE), and i couldn't help but eavesdrop on the two lacrosse players (i'm just guessing) shout-talking behind me. "DUDE," hollered one, "I AM SO FUCKING GLAD I GOT MY NAP WHILE LISTENING TO THAT FAGGOTY BEACH HOUSE. NOW I'M READY TO RAGE AND PARTY TO SOME V DUBS." then i'm pretty sure he did a few fist pumps. really, sir? beach house is for faggots? oh, okay, i get it. because dancing around like a pre-teen girl to 97 pound ethnically-ambiguous harvard kids in BOAT SHOES is fucking the pinnacle of masculinity? yeah, you're totally right. and who in the fuck says V DUBS?! these grammar nerds ("oxford comma," anyone?) make art rock that sounds like paul simon circa 1988 outtakes, and this retarded gorilla was acting like he was at a pantera show. BARF. and so weird.

but there's always a silver lining:
1 i was standing outside of the bathroom texting some hot sausage while waiting for ginger to fight her way back to me through the throng of women trying not to wet their pants in line and some girl rushed over to me and said, "i love your blog!" that keeps happening to me, in bars and restaurants and other random places, and i can't guarantee that i won't develop a big head. i'm just saying. get my phone number before i'm too famous to consider taking your calls.

2 i was totally standing next to vw's drummer on the stairs and making fun of his clothes before the show started. i had no idea who he was (i mean, COME ON) until he ran out on stage, and i was like, "oh shit, there's that asshole in the bulls jersey i was talking shit about." this is my second celebrity encounter of the summer, the first one having occurred after ginger and i saw interpol at the vic and i helped her stalk the lead singer. yes.

3 i got to watch a couple fist fight in the street. i love watching fights, and this one was AMAZING. we left early to avoid the crowds (and because we are SO OLD), and i noticed this chick cussing this dude out as we walked out. i'm fucking shameless, so i stood in the street and watched her screaming and yelling in his face until it got boring, then i continued staring at them from the train platform. where i heard her reprimand him for TOUCHING A CHILD during the show. whaaaaaat?! then she punched him in the face! i was leaning so far forward i could've had my head slammed off if an actual train had gone by, but the CTA is such a late piece of shit that i somehow managed to take in the whole thing from beginning to end uninterrupted by my steel chariot.

4 while i was engrossed in the fight, i got tricked by an african. "tricked" might be a little strong, but i was otherwise engaged and my defenses were down and that allowed him to get the tip of his spear under a section of my armor. and this deserves its own post. until next time.