Wednesday, August 31, 2011

nightclubs are depressing.

there was a pregnant bitch at the club saturday night. and i don't mean "barely visible on a sonogram" pregnant, i'm talking "if she bends over in that short skirt you can hear the baby crying" pregnant. THIRD TRIMESTER PREGNANT. at first i thought i was just drunk. and she was wearing skintight black and white horizontal stripes, so i figured the optical illusion was contorting her body into a real live funhouse mirror or some shit. but as i kept staring at her willing my eyes to focus, i realized that what i was seeing was, in fact, a young woman who just so happened to be gestating her human offspring AT A GODDAMNED DISCO. between this and the fact that kids these days refuse to read anything longer than 160 characters, we are all going to be slaves to the chinese in fifty fucking years. i just wanted to snatch the drink out of her hand and ask if she'd yet purchased a crib and a case of enfamil. or if she'd submitted her application to westwood college already.

pregnant ladies always be ruining shit: taking the good parking spots and all of the handicapped seats on the bus, sprinkling macaroni and cheese on their pancakes without anyone in the restaurant turning his nose up, getting paid for six whole fucking weeks to "stay home" and "take care of their newborns." what a sham. and now they're at the club?! what part of the game is THAT?! it's not good enough that everyone gives up his seat or pretends to be interested in your alien baby sonogram, you have to put on a tube dress and leak amniotic fluid all over my feet? selfish assholes. how am i supposed to compete with that? everyone loves babies. especially ones that haven't been born yet! tell me how to get this dude's attention when he's got his ear pressed to her belly, trying to hear a heartbeat over the goddamned DJ. dudes are buying glasses of champagne while she tosses her head back with laughter, regaling them with stories about signing up for WIC and medicaid. and OH SHUT UP ALREADY. i went to headstart, too.

i'm not hating, i actually love pregnant women. backaches and stretch marks and swollen ankles are some shit i can RELATE TO. plus, omgunicornz and i went to lockdown friday night and ate one burger with peanut butter, a carmelized banana, and bacon on top of it, and another with fuji apples and gruyere cheese on it, and goddamn i wish i had a babycake i could blame all that heavy lifting on. seriously, if only there were a fetus in my life that could be the reason i wouldn't turn down a peanut butter and jelly on rye bread. disgusting, right? totally.

anyway, i'm across the room scowling laser eye beams of hate and wondering if mama mia is taking enough folic acid. FML. i was only out in my fancy clothes on a saturday night anyway because blaxperiment 2011 is still in full effect. although why is still a mystery to me, as i am easily discouraged, so i'll be wrapping this shit up any day now. first of all, trying to find places to go is EXHAUSTING. and trying to find places to go where i don't already know (read: haven't already stalked or texted or emailed or banged) someone is FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE. everywhere i go there somebody already goddamned IS, reminding me how i fell asleep in the middle of intercourse or vomited during a blowjob or whatever. isn't chicago bigger than this?! and if it isn't some asshole who's already been disappointed by my lackluster sexual efforts, it's a dick who reads my blog and is all in my space shouting, "bitches gotta eat! tell me some jokes! TELL ME SOME JOKES!"

when is this pseudo fame going to get me laid by someone with a goddamned checking account?! not really, because i'm enjoying this long stretch of celibacy i've had going for the past eighteen months or whatever. and by "enjoying" i mean "my lazy ass doesn't have to maintain my pubic hair." but in theory i would like for someone else to have paid for that banana burger i ate the other night. at big star a couple weeks ago this adorable girl was making eyes with me across the room, and at first i thought, "well this shirt does accentuate my my cellulite," but then i realized that she recognized me from the internet and wasn't going to volunteer to hand wash my delicates or put that shelving unit together i've been staring at for three years, she just wanted to shake my hand. and that's cool, too. (also, i don't even know why i go to ikea without a lesbian, for real. it's like going fishing without a pole. SO DUMB.)

so clubs are weird now, right? or have i just reached the "quiet evenings at home" phase of my life?! goddamn it, everyone is ten years old and drunk as shit and throwing up and dressed strange and dancing in a way that is totally confusing to me, and the way they flirt with each other is disarming to a puritan such as myself. now i've gone home with my fair share of bad decisions, waking up the next day smelling like shame and a bag of white castles, but never was that exit preceded by clothes-fucking some dude on the dancefloor whom i'd just met on my way back from the bathroom. here's the thing: i like loud music, and i like dancing like an asshole in a room full of people, but that's not what's happening in 2011 clubland. here's what's killing my party boner:

1 "models."
i like pretty girls, okay? i really do. and i respect the discipline and effort that goes into limiting yourself to a daily diet of broccoli spears and a handful of jelly beans. plus all of that being tan and bleaching your butthole takes a lot of goddamned work. what i don't like is the bored standing around all of you girls are doing, especially if it prevents me from 1 taking a piss or 2 getting another drink. i understand that the best place to do coke is off the toilet seat, sweethearts, but mommy had seven vodka waters and needs to put her ass there. RIGHT NOW. and what is this loitering near the bar? everyone knows that the best way to get a dude to buy you a drink is to hold the only one you're willing to pay for until some nice man who wants to bang you offers to replace it. at least that's what i'm told, because i'm too impatient to stand around waiting for someone to notice i'm thirsty. either way, blocking the one spot on the bar into which i can wedge myself between two reeking axe-holes to get another beer makes me want to cut you with something sharp. "move, bitch, i'm too sober to be in this club!"

2 perpetrating pretty dudes. here's the thing about living in a town with a lot of sports teams: any dude over 6 feet with a smattering of shitty neck tattoos can get a haircut, put on some shit from kenneth cole, and pretend to be a third-string chicago bear wide receiver. we were at the shrine one night when a group of tall dudes basically insinuated their way into the roped-off VIP. i watch sportscenter, you assholes. i elbowed my girl and shouted, "do you recognize any of those gentlemen?" over the DJ. she glanced over and was dismissively like, "i don't watch sports, asshole." undeterred, i walked into the VIP on the heels of another dude who kinda sorta looked famous and sat next to a dude with pinky rings. "what team do you play for?!" i demanded, and as he sheepishly shrugged his shoulders and motioned to security, i backpedaled and told him what a good job he'd done "with all those rebounds and shit." i still hate myself.

3 thugs. i know the whole "t-shirt and gym shoe" rule was supposed to weed out the riff raff, but the species has adapted, and now they just sit around looking like rick ross and shit. and i don't care about dying, especially when i'm going to leave such a hot corpse, but more than a few times i have seen grown men either hit with garbage cans or thrown through a goddamned table, and nothing dries up a party like THAT. no one wants to hook up with the dude with the gaping head wound.

4 $12 drinks. i already know, if i want to drink $2 pbr's i can go to cole's. or any one of the million and one other dive bars in the city. I GET IT. but what if i want to hang with some grownups in clean clothes who don't pay for their beer with laundry quarters?! do i really have to pay more than i would for a decent cheeseburger for a cocktail?! i don't know, maybe drinks have always been this expensive. or when you open a tab, which i no longer do, you're too drunk to care how you got to three hundred dollars so quickly. shit is cray out here in this obamaconomy, and more than once i've found myself hesitating over the change the bartender has handed me, trying to gauge just how much of an asshole i'll appear to be if i only tip on every other drink. (answer: A GIANT SHITTING ASSHOLE.) you have to fucking budget if you're going to holler at a nightclub these days, and while i'm busy soaking dried beans for my dinner because i couldn't resist a $30 cab ride home, i can't help but think, "is this really what it takes to meet new people? that is totally fucking depressing." then i spend the rest of the night farting, which makes me glad that dude with the face tattoo apparently lost my number.


5 the shittiest music you've ever heard. THIS IS WHAT MAKES YOU OLD, complaining about "what the kids are listening to." and fuck it, i guess i'm old, because WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU KIDS LISTENING TO?! is this what my mom used to be so mad about all the time while i was blasting faith no more "the real thing" alone in my bedroom? (editor's note: I STILL DO THAT.) my nephew and i went to get tattooed a couple weeks ago, and he put his ipod on in the car and was like, "do you know who this is? what about him? what about this group?" and i felt so stupid and out of touch. thank god that dude isn't a smug little asshole, reminding me how he's young and cool and in college and listening to bands i won't hear about for another three years. he just sat there and let his silence imply that shit. WHAT A GENTLEMAN.

so i'm still going to see live music and co-host the sex show and drink at the morseland sometimes, but i think the universe is telling me i have to hang up my wristband/handstamp hand and sit in my bed listening to music that was popular in my early twenties until i'm old enough to not feel like a jackass going someplace that refers to itself as a "lounge" full of middle-aged people wearing support hose and church shoes. maybe i should invest in some blouses.

Thursday, August 18, 2011

stranger danger.

i am the master of the bitchface. if you're going to spend half of your adult life commuting on buses and trains in a city full of assholes, you have to learn to perfect the "no bitch, i do NOT know where you get off to go to water tower" scowl. i wear sunglasses and headphones and glare at anyone who looks like he might even think about asking me what time it is or which connecting train is the one that goes out to o'hare. i know you're thinking, "man, what a jerk." and i am, but it's really a measure of self-protection more than it is unrepentant assholishness. more than once i have kindly removed my earbuds to answer the question of a seemingly innocuous fellow passenger, only to have my ears assaulted by some asshole who wanted to yell at me about jesus or say something lewd about ass-fucking my dead corpse or whatever. not anymore.

last weekend my friend tuesday and i decided to see the new planet of the apes, because i 100% enjoy shitting ten dollars down movie theater toilets. tuesday is my main platonic male jam. anyway, while i am never on time for anything else in my real life, i am totally that crazy person who gets to the movie theater forty-five minutes before the show starts. i like to pee, wash my hands, get a fountain coke (extra ice), and be the first one through the door to make sure i can sit on the end of the top row. i like to get myself situated: movie sweater draped over the arm of the chair in case i get cold, snacks firmly set up in the empty seat next to mine, the whole thing. i like to be prepared. and yes, i am your grandmother. but fridays are a total shitshow at the hospital and i knew i wouldn't be out in time to properly set up camp at the movies, so i dispatched tuesday to the theater in my stead so he could get our act together before i got there.

here's the thing: i don't want to be that asshole standing in the aisles of a packed theater trying to orchestrate the seating arrangement of strangers who are glaring hate beams through the side of my face because i came late and still think i have the right to sit next to the nine goddamned people who came with me. YOU KNOW WHO I'M TALKING ABOUT, the dickballs who stands over you dropping buttered popcorn in your lap while he tries to convince two bitches halfway across the room to move over a seat so that he and his wife can sit next to each other. who wants to be that piece of shit, stepping all over everyone's goddamned toes while inching toward the middle seat and trying not to spill your tray of nachos, king-sized hot dog, tub of buttery popcorn, pretzel bites, giant cherry coke, and sno-caps?! I HATE THAT GUY. and i don't ever want to be him, so i get there with goddamned time to spare.

tuesday is one of these boisterous, friendly people that i typically avoid at all costs. he'll talk to fucking ANYONE, which would be fine if he weren't introducing himself to regular boring people with nothing interesting to say. if i leave that dude alone for even a second he's doing the used car salesman on the nearest unsuspecting stranger, so i was not at all surprised when i found him sitting in the nearly empty movie theater chatting with a relatively good-looking dude a few seats over. "hey sam, this is my new friend, julius!" he said, and i stood there for a minute trying to gauge if julius was a dude he knew in real life and had decided to surprise me with at the last minute or whether he'd just made his acquaintance in the five minutes that had elapsed between texting me "i'm here" and my arrival at our seats. i noted tuesday's new BFF's massive amount of manjewelry and wearing of a baseball cap while indoors, then fixed my eyes on his jorts. come on, son. DO BETTER.

"hey julius, i'm sam," i said politely, and he responded to my breasts, "i'm really bad with names." OH, BLARF. why not just introduce yourself by saying, "you are insignificant to me, please die?" because that is how my brain translates that shit, you asshole. "i hate this dude," i whispered to tuesday as i got my sweater ready. they resumed their in-depth analytical conversation about some shit i don't give a fuck about, and then i decided i wanted popcorn. tuesday is a gentleman, and he offered to go get it. well, i might have said, "why the fuck don't you act like a gentleman and go get me some motherfucking popcorn?!" but that is beside the goddamned point.

i knew from 1 the way dude sized me up when i first got there and 2 the way his multiple silver rings glittered under the movie theater lights that at some point in the evening we were going to be engaged in a who is the more alternative black person? BATTLE ROYALE. i was exhausted at the thought. first of all, i usually slaughter the competition before it even begins. i have all of these death skull tattoos and natural hair, and i own three pantera records. winner and still champion, people. this makes some black dudes crazy, because they want to be the only ones who've ever heard of richard linklater. and second of all, you may as well just ask, "which of us is the bigger oreo?" and that is so GROSS. we need a secret handshake or something, some way to let others of us know that they're not going to be accused of "talking like a white person" or whatever. maybe we could just trade ipods upon meeting? "you have the new grizzly bear record?! OMG I'M ONE OF THOSE BLACK PEOPLE, TOO," and then you don't have to worry about a surprise BET pop quiz later on in your relationship.

so dude turns to me and says, apropos of nothing, "i'm the most eclectic dude in my group of friends." ECLECTIC, for those of you who don't know, is often code for "you're safe with me. i, too, listen to bjork." in other words, your diction is telling me you've got a lot of white friends. what the fuck was i supposed to say to that? so i just cartoon blinked at him and waited for him to say something else. "see, i listen to rock music and wear a lot of jewelry and stuff," he's holding up his arms and shaking his many bracelets while saying this, "i don't have a problem seeing movies by myself and, just so you know, I'M NOT A HOMOSEXUAL, I JUST LIKE BRACELETS." um, WUT.

"i can appreciate a dude who throws a good arm party," i said, because what the fuck is an appropriate response to "i'm not gay, i just like bracelets?" GODDAMN IT, did tuesday go to china to get the goddamned popcorn? WHY HAS HE BEEN GONE FOR SO LONG AND WHY DID HE LEAVE ME HERE WITH THIS WEIRDO NOT-GAY DUDE?! "what does that mean?" he asked, confused. "what does what mean?" i was speaking english and hadn't used any big words. "what is an ARM PARTY?" oh, sigh. even if you'd never heard that phrase before (thank you, manrepeller!), weren't there enough context clues to put one and one together?! jangling bracelets + your arm = arm party. was that so hard?

"do you like movies?" came next, but before i could point out that we were SITTING IN A MOVIE THEATER he decided on his own to give me a brief yet exhaustive history of modern cinema. arm party was talking so fast his tongue was smoking, all while i sat there mentally calculating how much cooler than him i happen to be. he told me about his childhood in texas, the plot of all three bourne identity movies, being recently divorced, and how much he HATES people who talk and text through movies, and just as i was fashioning a noose out of twizzlers, tuesday returned with a bucket of thank god i don't have to talk to this dude anymore. i know you girls are always blathering on and on about how you want a man to TALK to you and COMMUNICATE his FEELINGS and TELL YOU what's ON HIS MIND, and that begs the question: have you ever really talked to a dude? i mean really sat through a discourse of what some dude thinks is interesting and important? because i feel like if you really had, the LAST THING YOU WOULD EVER WANT TO DO is have a neverending conversation with some dude's penis.

this is why i love lesbians. because the minute some hot lady starts droning on about what her horoscope said and how she went over her weight watchers points and how she's really stressed out that her book club pick isn't good enough i can be all, "hey girl, i saved last week's episode of law and order SVU on the tivo. let's get our hargitay on," and she'll zip that noise right on up and go fix me some tv-watching pajama snacks. talkative dudes are so enamored of their own voices that unless you're coming at him with an open butthole, chances are he will NEVER STOP TALKING OF HIS OWN VOLITION. i clutched my dots to my chest, terrified that arm party's big mouth was going to ruin my monkey movie.

i like to sit in the last row mostly because i hate listening to the inane conversations other people tend to have during movies. they're either incorrectly predicting the plot or fighting over who has to drive the babysitter home later, and those things are irritating. i like to sit in dead silence staring at the screen until the movie is over, and while arm party worked the shit out of my last nerve, he'd at least salvaged some of my good cheer toward my fellow man with his disdain for theater talking. and for the first hour of the movie, he deserved it. AND THEN. a woman in the row directly in front of ours decided to sext her boyfriend or whatever.

i saw it, because how could you not see it, and ignored her. but arm party, who had obviously been itching for a reason to let more hot air out of his balloon, decided to comment loudly about her inappropriate moviephone. and then the floodgates crashed open. BECAUSE HE ISN'T GAY he'd left two seats between himself and tuesday, which meant he had to whisper-shout over them every time he wanted to point something out in the movie. WHICH WAS COMICALLY OFTEN, especially for a dude who felt it necessary to yell at some lady who just wanted to glance at her emailz. tuesday spent forty-five fucking minutes leaning over the empty chair next to him, nodding politely while i hissed, "that's what you get for talking to strangers," in his other ear. seriously?! that's some shit i expect to see on seinfeld, the nice gesture of making uncomfortable pleasantries with a dude because he just happened to be sitting alone near you coming back to bite you in your polite ass for the rest of your goddamned night. blarf.

the minute the lights came on i gave tuesday my most stern LET'S GO face, but arm party immediately started comparing this movie to the old ones, and my homeboy totally obliged him and got sucked into yet another endless conversation. is that a white thing, this unfaltering patience? holy damned dirty ape. so we sat there until the credits finished rolling, because tuesday doesn't have the get the fuck out of my face gene. as we left the theater my heart started racing. arm party wasn't going to let us leave without a phone number exchange, and tuesday is too nice to say, "i'm amish, i'm forbidden to use a telephone," which is how sam gets out of this kind of shit and we'd be stuck listening to this dude for THE REST OF OUR LIVES. just as he was about to say "facebook me," or whatever i swooped in and shouted, "i have to take a shit." visibly relieved, tuesday bid adieu to his grossed-out new bro and we ran/walked toward the bathrooms.

i cornered him as soon as arm party disappeared from my sight. "why did that popcorn take so long? were you trying to make some magic happen?" and HE WAS. even though i was tempted to teach tuesday a lesson entitled, "just because we're both black doesn't mean we want to fuck on each other," i thanked him for thinking of my vagina during this peconomic recession and reminded him that i'm not interested in people who have ideas about things and want to voice their opinions all the time. "next time, sit near a dude who grunts. or blinks once for yes and twice for no."

we waited a few minutes for the coast to clear before heading over to the parking garage. tuesday offered to go get his truck so that i could stand on the curb and text amanda (I SHOULD HAVE JUST DONE IT DURING THE MOVIE), and just as i was trying to get my autocorrect to recognize "cuntbag" as a word, i heard screeching tires and a horn blaring within the parking structure. i peeked inside hoping to see someone splattered across the pavement before the ambulances got there and instead saw tuesday running through the lower level away from an old lady car being driven by a not gay dude with sparkly finger accessories. a not gay dude who was leaning out of the window of an oldsmobile shouting, "hey! tuesday! TUESDAY!" while chasing him through a parking garage. trying to lure him into taking a bite outta crime, obviously. *crunch*