Thursday, May 5, 2011

the myth of the sports bar.

it's NBA playoffs time again and that can only mean one thing: hooray for testicles. but first, here's the action i've gotten thusfar from the internet: 1 a fairly good-looking dude who sent me a million billion emails about my killer taste in music, 2 a dude who said he wanted to "write poetry together," and 3 an african social worker, which to me sounds like a little bit of an oxymoron, no? oh i'm just kidding. (if you agreed with that, though, you are a racist.) 1 was pretty smart and awesome, and his initial correspondence began with a congratulations on having tune-yards and frank ocean in my list of favorite music to get banged to. (that's what you're supposed to list, right?) he went on to say how refreshing and honest my profile is (whut) and how rare it is to encounter diverse, interesting women on the internet (WHUT). i try not to get excited about anything anymore because the letdown is totally pointless and demoralizing, but my interest was piqued. a handful of messages later and he was still talking about music; what bands have i seen lately? where do i find new music? what is my favorite place to see a show? do i have a bootleg leak of the new clams casino? do i read fader and urb? how do i pick songs for my radio show? don't i think kid cudi is underrated? would i please dropbox him a playlist of amazing new music?! in other words, want to be BFFs and help me bang other women? and as tempting as that offer might be, NO I DO NOT.

as much as i don't want to be some dude's personal pitchfork (god, asshole, have you ever heard of the INTERNET?!), i'd much rather drop some music knowledge on a dude than receive artificial greeting card romance. 2 sent a message that made my eyes bleed; it was absolutely terrible. mostly because he said, "let's drink wine and write poetry together" and "i simply can't wait to bask in the glow of your humor" or something equally moist. BLARF. i write self-deprecating dick jokes, and i can't think of anything on earth worse than sitting down and trying to pen a sonnet with some stupid, horrible dude, especially if he has a boner the entire time. plus i hate wine. i gave him my number, though, because this court is always in need of a jester and sometimes i run short of comedic material. but the joke is on you, dear reader of mine/that young man turned out to be lame/for after he texted and i sent my reply/he texted me back that he'd forgotten my name.

call me a cynic, but i can ALWAYS TELL when google translate has written me a love letter. these dudes really think they're fooling me with those profile pictures, what with their normal denim jeans and plain white dress shirts and closed-toe shoes, but all i have to do is open the message to know that "well-traveled" really means "swam to this country seeking political asylum." i couldn't paraphrase this shit if i wanted to, so here is one of the messages i received from 3 in its entirety: "
Hello Dear, how are you tonight? I do hope all is well with you. I am so sorry for my late response, I made frantic effort to drop you a note but it proved abortive sequel to my inability to be here constant. Nevertheless, I will always keep in touch early. How was your day and how is your weekend going on? I hope you are enjoying it fully. I must assure you that I really appreciate the opportunity give to me to write to you and would always uphold it with much respect. I do hope we would find time to share more about each other because I would love to get to know you better. Do have a blissful night. This is Chris."

i'll wait here if you want to go back and read it again. "it proved abortive sequel to my inability to be here constant?" oh, you mean "i couldn't because i can't be online much?" OMG dudes. this is why i'm complaining all the time, because i have to have the united nations intercept all of my email traffic so that it's somewhat readable once it gets to me, and even then i need a phd in linguistics to even come close to deciphering that mangled english. i speak fluent spanish, and one of the things that was really important to me when i was learning was that i come as close to sounding like a native as is possible for an american born north of the mason dixon. and i totally do. my written spanish is 100% textbook, but it isn't awkward and contrived, i just don't have an extensive spanish vocabulary. there's a gulf of difference between "would you like to meet for a beer?" and "i would very much be enjoying of your presence if it would not bother you to accompany me to an establishment that serves spirits and refreshments" or whatever, and that's why i'm not in mexico trying to get laid on the interwebs. blarf.

amy was telling me last week that the key to her blissful new relationship is the fact that her girlfriend speaks very little english, and if that's really where we're at that makes me mucho sad. i can understand the appeal of having someone around who doesn't really understand what a heartless cunt i can sometimes be, but i am impatient and easily aggravated and i don't do a very good job of teaching and/or explaining things to people. which is why i have stopped pretending that i'd ever be open to raising a child. most dating profiles are full of lies and bullshit anyway, but against jeff's advice i stopped checking the "undecided" box months ago. i mean, eventually we'll all be forty-five and that shit won't matter anyway, but i have to stop giving people false hope while i'm in the midst of my breeding years. the crohn's took away any chance of organic babies, and the seething rage i feel when in the presence of a rambunctious child erased all other consideration. and "chris" (yeah, right) loves jesus and wants a woman who'll give birth to a soccer team, and i can't even have a dog. so much goddamned NOISE. so that's over.

cara finally scared old salt and pepper off for good, and thank horus because it's about to be summer and i like to go out every night and shake my coconuts and i need a bitch to go with me. and i apologize white friends, but i simply cannot spend another season hanging out in a bar in which not a single occupant would be willing to put it in my butt. no one in wicker park or ukrainian village or logan square is trying to fuck me, and i'm okay with that because skinny jeans are moist and PBR is gross, but i refuse to spend another goddamned dollar standing around feeling bad for being the only one in the entire building who grew up without a father in the home. i'm sorry that i have no working idea of what a play date is and why brussels sprouts are delicious, so i'm going to start hanging out where dudes rotted their baby teeth out with kool-aid and still beat off to fat broads.

every year when the playoffs roll around i flirt with the idea of going to a bar to watch the games and eat 137 wings in a sitting, but then common sense usually reminds me that that's a stupid idea and i would be much happier at home in my pajamas falling asleep before the end of the first fucking quarter, where at least i won't take it personally when some uninterested party spends the entire night ignoring me. cara calls me every april and every april i shut that bitch down, reminding her that neither of us has never in the history of ever taken a man home after spending a couple hours watching a ball game, and i always get diarrhea because bar food is just reconstituted garbage shaped like a nacho.
BONUS. she is convinced that our future husbands have their chests pressed to a bar, one hand on a coors and the other in a plate of cheese fries, and that all we have to do to meet them is push our tits up and pretend to give a shit about dirk nowitzki.

game 1, bulls v pacers: i decided to go because i wasn't doing shit anyway, plus sometimes you just have to prove a point in person. i'd promised cara that i would do my part by wearing actual clothes that another human being might find attractive and "trying not to be so sarcastic," which basically means she wanted me to buy some new threads and stay stone sober while adopting someone else's goddamned personality. jerkballs. but i did it, i bought some tight jeans and took my dressy blazers to the dry cleaners and found some bejeweled ballet flats. crazy, right?! i mean, i really committed to the role: i put makeup on, i drank club soda with a lime, and when some smug asshole said, "i bet you don't know what a triple-double is" i refrained from reached down his neck and snatching his heart right out of his chest. you know who goes to sports bars? married dudes who want to watch the game without the wife bitching at them to take out the garbage. we went to a relatively upscale black place in the south loop, and there was literally a collective cringe the minute we walked in, either because some men just hate the sight of a well-tailored business casual blazer or THEY WERE AFRAID WE WERE GOING TO ANNOY THE SHIT OUT OF THEM DURING THE GAME. i understand the rules to pretty much every popular sport, and thus am in no danger of irritating a dude with my incessant whining and questions like, "how many points do you get for a free throw?" but they don't know that. all they see is ovaries, and they want them the fuck out of their bar. all men know that women can't sit in silence for longer than five minutes without bringing up tampons or new shampoos, so every single one of them immediately focused their eyes intently on one of the 8 giant screens until we sat in a booth in the back. i actually wanted to watch the goddamned game, and midway through the third quarter cara was pouting and sighing and eating her way through her fourth order of potato skins. no one said a word to us other than the waitress, whose only kind words of the evening were "you can get that with extra bacon, if you want." sam 1, cara 0.

game 5, heat vs 76ers: this time we went to a super-popular place with a mixed crowd of drunks and way better food. i wore black pants and a black shirt that is essentially MISSING A PANEL IN THE FRONT. veritable tits on toast. but i took a sweater, because cara said we didn't want to be "too obvious." speak for yourself, gurl. you know who goes to sports bars? frat boys who want to scream in each others' faces and chest-bump in public. we sat in two prominent seats at the bar, and i ordered a shot and a fancy beer, much to the delight of the gentleman sitting on my left. he actes like he had never seen an alcoholic before, and i don't like being self-conscious about my drinking. i'd prefer to destroy my liver in peace. but not before he bought me another. i knew he wasn't trying to bang me, so i told a handful of jokes and put a handful of drinks on his tab while cara pretended she didn't know how the time clocked worked as his stupid friend tried to explain it to her. i get bored easily, so when i was done hustling i asked the host for a table so we could eat without having to balance on a fucking bike seat. damn, i hate stools. anyway, cara's shameless dumbed-down flirting was marginally successful, so i got a table by myself and ordered a pizza with no cheese because god hates me, remember? then i got out my kindle and read 30% of the corrections before cara texted me that some lincoln park dude was taking her home and she would be cockblocking herself is she asked him to drop me off. cara 1, sam 1. (minus $22 for the cab home I AM SUCH A FUCKING SUCKER.)

game 1, bulls vs hawks: cara is still sleeping with that pi sigma douche, for reals?!, so i went to a local restaurant slash sports bar with some lesbians. true to my promise i busted that blazer out again and wore a ruffled thing underneath to counteract the gay. the bitches i was with were wearing sweatshirts and cargo shorts and puffy vests, so i looked like a goddamned bouquet of peonies by default. you know who goes to sports bars? families with small children and dudes who can't afford basic cable. i have never seen so many people under the age of three in my LIFE. everywhere i turned some toddler was yelling, "FUCK YOU, BOOZER! D THAT BITCHASS MOTHERFUCKER UP!" in my ear while waving a sippy cup of hard cider in my face. my vagina closed up the minute i saw a baby in a carseat balanced on an overturned high chair next to a dude in a michael jordan jersey and wearing a baseball cap inside, so i threw caution to the wind and ordered some garlic wings. i was obviously not going to do any close-talking. which meant there was also no need to get drunk. i don't need liquid courage to make a couple hot girls laugh; broads fucking LOVE me. and i love them right back, because i spent all of last weekend with girls who like girls, and lesbians are insane in the absolute best way. did you know that they have the same kinds of fights heteros have?! i really did think that two women loving on each other is sexy times full of unicorn tears and mewling kittens, but that is NOT SO. they yell at each other and call each other too much and irritate the shit out of each other, all while i watch from the front row. which is why i'm going to set my sights on television and restaurant week, things i am almost certain won't aggravate me to within an inch of my goddamned life. my ex-boyfriend's cousin was at the bar-staurant, wearing a suit and sipping a bud light, and i remember how that dude used to scam girls out of free dinners and it occurred to me that he was probably there because he couldn't watch the game at home. sad face. and UNDATEABLE. sam 2, cara 1.

there is no moral to the story other than 1 getting laid is nearly impossible and 2 basketball is boring as shit until the fourth fucking quarter. ooh, and that garlic wings are never a good idea, no matter whom you won't be talking to. ouch.