Friday, October 1, 2010

now THIS is how you wingman for a bitch!

i might be getting too old to go to fucking metal shows. jenny and i went to see some black heavy metal bands at the abbey last night, and today i'm tired. and maybe partially deaf. goddamn it, there really is nothing better than a bunch of live guitars chug-chug-chugging onstage, but i'm for serious about to be one of the assholes walking around the bar with earplugs in. at MIA the other night i saw this middle-aged dude walking around with ear plugs sipping from a can of ensure and i elbowed julia and was like, "bwahaha look at grandpa over there." then my eardrums almost exploded the second that bitch hit the stage and that dude was like, "yeah, bitch, who's laughing NOW?!"

i love that shit, though. jeff and i went to see some death metal band a couple weeks ago, and the minute they started playing the fucking reverb was so strong that it shook the fucking floor and liquified everything in my motherfucking bowels. i'm not fucking kidding. thirty seconds into the show and i nearly shit my pants. which wasn't a problem AT ALL, as shows like that are always fucking sausage fests and there are never any drunk ladyfriends vomiting all over the bathroom i'm trying to take a dump in. it's glorious. i used to wonder why more girls didn't show up just to walk through the crowd and collect boyfriends, but then i started paying closer attention to the dudes that show up and it sort of answered my question. i think a lot of metal dudes are hot, just on GP: burly and tattoed and dressed in leather, drinking seven beers at a time and never saying sentences with more than a few words. i mean, seriously. every time i go to kuma's i just sort of pout with frustrated lust because i want to take one of those gentlemen home. and since i can't i instead order those pulled pork waffle fries and drown my lust in grease and filthy swine.

but sometimes the dudes at metal shows are the kind you forget exist unless you live on the northwest side of the city. don't be cute, you know what the fuck i'm talking about. mullets and rat tails and shirts with fringe, grown men in highwater acid washed mom jeans tucked into hightop white reeboks. last night jenny pointed out this dude in a daytona tshirt standing next to a bitch with bleached AND frosted-tipped hair. it was like we'd gotten in a time machine and landed at a fucking ratt concert. at mastodon a couple years ago i ended up (BRIEFLY) next to a dude wearing a mesh tank top with arm holes open to his waist (what the fuck IS that?! are you quarterbacking a flag football game later? go put a real shirt on!) who insisted upon doing air guitar through the entire show. well, at least i assume he did. because i saw that shit and IMMEDIATELY MOVED MY ASS AWAY. because you never can tell with those kind of dudes, the casual racists who smoke unfiltered pall malls and drink natural ice and still say "nigger" in public. you know who i mean, the kind of racists who try to convince you that nigger is a term of endearment or that "colored" is an acceptable way to refer to a person.

metal shows are also good for those of us for whom doing the running man on the dancefloor is an impossibility. don't get me wrong, i loooove dancing. and, despite my physical limitations, i can work it out to a banging jam. that MIA shit was out of this world, literally the most incredible sensory experience i've ever had (shut up, geno). there were signs posted all over at the vic warning that the show would include "strobe light and lightning-like effects," and boy DID IT. there was a giant LED screen and crazy lights and thumping bass and everybody in the room was twitching like a fucking epileptic. everybody except me, because i was dancing like nobody's business. i don't go to a whole lot of dance music shows, mostly because if i want to dance surrounded by a bunch of sexy queens i'll pay five bucks and go get disrobed at berlin with chad on a saturday night, not spend a hundred bucks to squirm in my seat at the united center while watching an ant-sized madonna. but this business was AMAZING. an hour and a half of bitches dancing their asses off?! YES, PLEASE. i really was going so crazy. it didn't help that zoe was losing her mind next to me, either. insane feeds off of insane, you know. and the music was so pulsing and loud and the lights were so fucking bright and disorienting that i really thought at one point i was going to fall over, but i didn't. i did however lose another twenty percent of my hearing, as was evidenced when julia and i got in the car and i turned to her and shouted, "DID YOU HAVE A GOOD TIME?! I LOVED IT SO MUCH! SHE DID ALL MY JAMS!"

so before the show last night i got my eyebrows waxed (you needed to know that, right?) then caught the express train downtown to meet jenny. but first i went to water tower to holler at mary about some glasses and buy a bunch of socks. since you read this blog on the regular (you do, don't you?) you already know how crazy i am about hot sox. so i had to stop and buy some. i mean, really, THIS is the reason i couldn't really fuck around with some hot rocker dude for real in real life. because i buy $40 motherfucking SOCKS. a dude who buys all of his clothes and shit at the alley would NEVER tolerate that frou frou shit. he'd use his motorcycle boot to kick me right the fuck out of bed. sorry, i veered off course for a second. anyway, i brought up macy's because while i was sitting in SEE talking to mary, jenny called me 569 times. now i didn't hear that shit because I NEVER TURN MY RINGER ON, but the flashing light in my bag caught my eye.

assuming it was an emergency, especially considering that she was supposed to be picking me up momentarily, i actually answered. now, most of you know how much of an anomaly that is. really, it's kind of an event. and boy am i glad i did. jenny informed me that she'd just come from a business meeting at five star. while i would really like to heat on her having A PROFESSIONAL APPOINTMENT IN A BAR, that would just get in the way of the good shit. now for those of you who are confused, BIG STAR is my beloved taco jam in wicker park. FIVE STAR is my new 25 cent wing wednesday douchebag white hat hot dude bouncing the door jam in east ukrainian village, or whatever the fuck they are calling that neighborhood over by beauty bar (RIP sonotheque!) now. personally, i like to call it gentrifica. we'll see if i can make it stick.

anyway, as her meeting drew to a close who did she spy across the bar? none other than MY NEW BOYFRIEND. and by that i mean "that dude i was staring at and eavesdropping on even though i had my back to him last wednesday night while i tried to eat chicken wings in the cold." she got rid of her business associate by slipping off to the bathroom, then sidled up to my homeboy and introduced herself. asked if he remembered us. at which point he asked about her friend with the glasses. um...sort of. i'm pretty sure i remember her saying that she said, "my friend thinks you're hot" and he said "the one with the tattoos and the glasses who had her back to me?" but doesn't it sound better when we pretend he asked about me without a prompt? SIGH. so she said "yes" and he popped a boner (at least that's how i imagine it) and said "she was cute! give me her number!"

for the record, i have a pretty hot back. (this is untrue, but let's go with it.) jenny, in her attempt to shield me from the crazy (or to cockblock the SHIT out of me), gave him her business card and told him to email her instead. now i know you can't just give a bitch's number out. but i know big black dudes, and i'm pretty sure i'm going to have to just "drop by" or "find myself in the area" next week because either 1 the email from bigsexychocolatedick69 is going to get bumped right to jenny's spam or 2 he's not going to bother in the first place. he'll be too busy yanking on the weave of some skank he picks up when she passes out in a booth after last call.

i'm feeling cautiously optimistic, though. so much so, in fact, that i made an appointment to see the gynecologist in a couple weeks. (not because of dude, though. it's been over a year and i'm still passing tiny baby jesus clumps once a month and that shit is for the BIRDS. oh, and my birth control prescription is almost out.) i don't like to submit to all that speculum melodrama without a valid reason, and the general health and upkeep of my vagina is simply not good enough. the only thing that makes me nervous is that she said he's a "writer," and i know from personal experience what a NIGHTMARE that can be. first of all, that probably means POET, and you ALREADY KNOW how i feel about THAT. blarf. second, i talk a lot of shit, but i don't get all seeeeeerious about writing. like, i don't call myself a writer. people say "what do you do?" and i either say "lick cat butts all day" or "i tell jokes."

dudes are SO DUMB and i really hope he doesn't want me to sit around and listen to him read DUMB SHIT that he's written. i should stop being so negative. he's probably incredibly talented and i'm totally going to be blown away by his work, right? i might even keel over in a fit of jealousy. but that's better than hating it and thinking he's a moron, right? i'll let you know.


okay, kittens. hiatus time. hopefully these last few posts will get you through a few days. i'm going into the hospital for a bit so some dudes can put my insides on the outside. don't cry, i'll be on AMAZING drugs. and when i come back it'll be forest whitaker time, because I GOT MY FUCKING TICKETS. love love love.