Boys Life

Can't Hardly Wait. Part Seven

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 02:52:00 -0500

I’m gone for a week. In another city working. There is a girl throwing herself at me all week and I ignore her advances. I’m holding onto this ideal of purity. That weekend Veronica calls me in a panic. She is going to a wedding. Driving from Long Island to god knows where and back again. She is filled with anxiety about the trip, and the wedding, and everything. I have down time and I talk her through every step of the way, every freak out and ferry crossing. Finally. Purpose. And something minuscule has happened and we’ve edged closer together.

After I’m back we are fooling around in her bed. Rubbing the excitement from her cunt onto me during our first date was the bait and switch of the summer. That day I figured second date, third at most, and we’d be having the sex everyone dreams about. Here we are thirty or so odd days later, awkward on thousands of miniature cotton roses. I take my fingers from inside her, and I take them to her mouth. My index finger hits her two front teeth. Looking down on pursed lips and my offering is not only rejected it’s disgusted. At the time I was just dumbfounded. Amazed at the rejection of what I considered rudimentary foreplay. Also amazed that I just kept going, that I didn’t stop and say, OK, this is not the right person for you; shut down the operation and go home. Stop blasting this mountain side, there is no fucking gold here. I kept going, kept on pushing for us. This haphazardly conceptualized us, ground broken without blueprints. Me, wide eyed architect of chaos.

I’m starting to go insane. The up and down is too much for me. One night she is right there the whole way, the next in her own universe where I don’t exist. I consult friends. The underlying tone in all their voices: what the fuck are you doing? They give me good advice and support, but they reveal my insanity with darting eyes and subtle tones. I make up my mind. Ultimatum time. I am not the guy that takes this bullshit. Chips fall where they may, I won’t be treated like this.

September 2004. Blue skies have turned grey and drizzle is turning grey streets black and fall is around the corner. Smoking weather. Hoodie weather. I’m not even thinking about Fashion week, all I’m thinking about is what she’ll do when I put our fate in her hands. We walk down the street from her apartment. Finding a comfortable stoop, we stop and sit. I light up and stare at the sidewalk. I focus on a black patch of prehistoric gum, not Veronica, and begin. I tell her I think she’s fantastic. That I want her to see me and only me. That we might have a chance for something. That as much as I like her I won’t be treated haphazardly. That there has been too much push and pull, and I don’t know where we stand from one second to the next. I pour Marlboro smoke down my throat as quickly as I can, and up from the other side comes my plea. She thinks I am special too but it’s too much too soon. She is overwhelmed. She’s just ended something recently. She’s not ready. She wants to work on her acting, to be single, have fluidity. I don’t cry, but I do smoke. I tell her I can’t be part time, commit to me full time, become my girlfriend, or I’ll be moving on. Scraps are not a meal and I’m starving. Lonely. Self destructing. Again she says she’s not ready. She can’t.

I’m walking home on St Marks and it’s over. I delete her number from my phone and there is a tiny shift in my world. I’m back. Battered, sure, happens to the best of us, but when that number disappears I feel myself begin to return. I call one of my female friends, and when I tell her what’s happened I feel it in my words and I know it’s real, that I’m free. I think about lining up the girl from Black and White, and about Suicide Girls, and Joan Jett haircuts, and Aliya Naumoff. (I didn’t know her name then. I just knew the three lines buzzed into the side of her head, and that I saw her at every cool party and she was everything I ever wanted) I think about everything Veronica was not, and I’m fucking back.

Three days later Veronica has sought me out on a Saturday night. She is wearing a hideous tank top. I mean it’s basically fucking bedazzled and an unsightly shade of violet. She looks like a girl I’d see leaving the frozen yogurt store on 31st and 3rd. My boy from Jersey City and I would skate the low ledges there, trying to figure out the intricacies of the back tail. And these type of broads would be everywhere; cute girls with shitty gear. Gear that said nothing to us. No hints of music taste or scene associations. Sweats and Uggs and pony tails through the backs of ‘B’ hats. Maybe they are happier without the baggage of superficiality, of being cool, but I didn’t, and still don’t care. I’m not looking for happy, I’m looking for her. And Veronica suddenly looks like one of them. For a second, I think, this is a bad idea. I think about the fingers hitting her teeth and the night after Joe’s.

I’ve not even had sex with this girl. Lets be honest she was a fucking nightmare. Just leave it be.

“I deleted your number give it to me again.”

“You did what!”

“I told you I meant what I said that day, I deleted your number on the walk home. Don’t do this to me if you’re not serious. Don’t be here looking for me if you’re not down for us.”

“I was out with friends and I was thinking about you, and everything, and I just could not imagine my life without you in it.”

She gives me the number, we kiss, and it’s done.

Epilogue

Looking back I have nothing bad to say about Veronica and I have nothing bad to say about our experience together. We never did build on the spit of land between our oceans. We plodded around looking for the rich soil of common ground, and we finally found some. It was oddly shaped, not really suited for a lifetime, but we tried to settle anyway. We’d argue about the blueprints constantly, what went where, brick or stone or wood or steel. And nothing much got built. I’d piss on the carpet occasionally, conjuring the puppy from the night we met, and I’d be scolded and building would halt. We’d wait for things to dry and start again; fledgling contractors making it up as we went along. And I retreated into work now that I had someone to call my own, because, well, she wasn’t enough. I needed success now that I had her, and then I got that and that wasn’t enough and still nothing got built. Eventually we drifted apart and wasted a year pretending that we still had blueprints, plans, materials. We didn’t have anything. We broke up over the phone after four years. I was sitting in my friend’s store, gave my boys a little shush, and we split. Afterwards I was ecstatic, this was the happiest day I’d known in ages.

BL

Can't Hardly Wait. Part Six

Thu, 25 Feb 2010 05:50:00 -0500

Veronica leaves for a weekend in Nantucket the next day; extended family foots the bill for her summering. My hopes for a storybook whirlwind are dashed by thoughts of her sucking off some fair haired lacrosse captain. My mind sees him, sandy blond, horse cock spilling out of red chinos. Christ, what am I doing making this girl the answer. While she’s gone I go out to my usual spots but I’m removed. I’ve decided I want nothing to do with any other girls, that she will be my girlfriend and I will not touch anyone else now that we’ve found each other. At Black and White, the popular bar on 10th street, my new found resolve is fully tested.

“I liked that t-shirt, I saw you skating at Tompkins, you have such a cute style.”

Holy shit. The girl I’d always wanted to fuck was putting her hand under my shirt and touching my belly as she complements me on my anything but stylish skateboarding, and ironic Bush/Cheney T-shirt. Blood rushes south as I reply with an awkward thank you.

Get out of here now.

“Good to see you again, I’ve got to run, see you soon.”

I grab my board and head for the door. Fuck that was close, I think to myself. I have to not do anything now that I’ve found Veronica. When I call a friend and explain what happened, he says I’m an idiot and to go back and take it down. I consider this suggestion, but skate home instead. Rolling down Second Avenue I pass Lit and think of the Fridays I used to spend there before I had someone. I’m filled with righteousness and anticipation as I round Houston caddy corner from where Whole Foods will open 4 years later.

“I want to spend as much time with you as I can, before I go away.”

I’ve done nothing all month and I need money, Bad. I’m freelancing, doing some work out of town the last week of August. Veronica is still doing her beach thing on weekends so we’ve barely seen each other. She always has something to do. This party, that party, it all sounds like bullshit to me but I don’t care I’m the dog, I’ll take the scraps, and the crumbs, anything. One night she is hits me up late and invites me to meet her at Joe’s Pizza, still on Bleeker and Carmine at this point. There is no hint of sex or anything of that sort, just an offering of discarded time. She is drunk probably, and I’m pathetic when I say yes. I go and just like I thought she is a little wasted. We are back at her place and she is ashamed about eating all this pizza late at night. And the entire situation is little bits of chaos. And I’m lying next to her and she’s a fucking wreck. And I’m not getting any anything I want. And I’m just lying there trying to pretend like this is enough to be here, while she decides to go to sleep. Enough to share forgettable times. And I put my hand around her hoping for some satisfaction, some recognition of what I feel transpiring between us. And she pushes it away and says she does not feel sexual. And as pathetic as I am, I get up and go home, cause I have a line, and I’m way past it now, and this is just insane.

It’s as close to heaven as New York can get. Tompkins Square Park on a mild August day, not a cloud in the sky. Veronica and I are still seeing each other and things have snailed forward. She is only in town for one day before I go away for the last week of August. I assume we are spending it together. I’m relaxing on the benches that line the path that funnels into 9th Street. During my little break from skating, I decide to call her. She wants to go to some party. Without me. I guess my assumptions about our only night were wrong. Christ. It’s not just some party, It’s some fucking Young Republican fundraiser shit that sounds like my own personal hell. I’m sick as she explains the scenario to me, and for a little while I hate her fucking guts. This is the one day we have before I go away. She’s played off the script the entire time we’ve been courting. And this is a pivotal scene, it has to be right, it has to be perfect. She is supposed to say fuck you to some lame party and be with me, this is our only night for more than a week. It’s not just that it’s a party, but for Young Republicans. What the fuck, how far from home am I venturing? This goes against the core of sullen liberalism that I was raised on; BMW’s are for yuppies and Republicans are evil, and such sentiments ad infinitum. What the hell is wrong with me that I’m even considering anyone that would choose Young Republicans over me. I reach out to friends for answers. I want someone to say, fuck this idiot bitch, and to tell me to tell her to go fuck herself. For whatever reason I call only sensible people and no one is eager to placate my supposedly justified anger. Call after call and everyone explains that I’m over reacting and that I sound a little insane. Fine maybe I am, but it fucking stings. I’ve made her an answer and I’m a fucking afterthought. I wait for her to realize her mistake, to finally see me. She never does, and something like the pizza incident replays itself late at night after her fabulous party.

Can't Hardly Wait. Part Five

Mon, 22 Feb 2010 07:31:00 -0500

Most women have rules about first dates. These rules are bullshit and always subject to circumstance, but they invent them nonetheless. We look at each other and clearly she wants to start breaking rules. We are heading south now and discussing the potential of a second date. I think about how things can go further, beyond the borders of our exchange on the stoop. I run with the idea and together we devise a plan. I’m scripting our movie, my rescue. I’ll wait outside while she changes, the separation and new outfit will be enough to qualify the next part of our evening as second date. More potential.

Night has fallen and we are walking south towards Tribeca; we are still going strong. Veronica is in jeans now, and a blue and white striped dress shirt with a strand of pearls. The shirt (something from the Donald Trump book of style) and the pearls create this look that’s one pair of glasses shy of naughty secretary. It’s not a Ludlow street kinda vibe but I’m liking it, and her. We keep talking, bridging the gap between our outer selves. When I was fourteen I’d have died to have someone. Someone who understands the urgency of discussing everything important and deep as soon as possible. Someone to tell all my secrets. Secrets are like a creased and faded ticket stub from a concert in junior high. In my wallet for years, just smudged paper now, disintegrating before my eyes. But I know what it said and I touch it and I’m there. And the secrets are old and weathered but they’re the same. And all I ever wanted was someone with the same ticket stub. And tonight isn’t that but it’s something. And I try to be open to possibility. And I try not to put expectations on her. And I try not to force her into some puddle of adolescence. And I’m just letting go and letting it be whatever it is.

Then Veronica asks something out of left field.

“Why does your lip look scarred like that?”

A wave of shame pushes me under and for a moment I’m disoriented. Embarrassment like salt water runs up my nose and my chest flutters. I’m fighting myself for air, for words.

“Well Um… Well when I was like 15… I had Like a uh… cold sore that was really fucked up and it ended up sorta scaring my lip. And it just, uh, looks like this. This was ages ago, I think it’s been eight years or more since I had a cold sore.”

God I felt so ashamed. So less. She changes the subject, and seems to not care that much. And here was someone that might accept. Another wave of shame crashes and I’m spinning again, thinking about shit that happened before. Before New York. And the shame is sating. And I’m not good enough. And there is proof. And we walk on. Second Date. Deep in Tribeca now, Everywhere are forgotten loading docks and bumpy black steel steps with little X’s rising for foot traction. It’s dark and lonely and I kinda understand why so may celebrities live down here, and I can’t contemplate why anyone else would. Veronica spots rats from across the street and freaks out.

“Oh My god Rats!”

“UH you live in New York, rats are every where who cares?”

“God I can’t look, get me away get me AWAY!!!”

I threaten to stir their nest and send them her way; she is not amused. And she’s that girl that’s afraid of rats. I don’t want her to have one as a pet, but some chick being scared of some rats in New York seems a little retarded. I push the envelope a little walking towards the rats. Like in a cartoon the rope that binds us is taut with a candle precariously close. Our copulation swings in danger on the end of the line. Every step I take towards the rats the candle’s flame burns brighter and a bit of rope fiber pops dramatically, revealing frayed ends. If I push on, actually fuck with the rats, the rope will snap and she’ll never see me again. I want to push it, to fuck with her, push the line to the limits of its test, then reel us back in hopefully unharmed. I’m moving towards the rats when I realize how bright the candle is burning and how close to peril I’m taking this. I let go of the rat thing and we walk on.

We head north north, satisfied with our survey of these outlands. I note to myself that Tribecca is hospitable territory and not for me, ill equipped twenty six year old. Coffee at a cafe near her house, and its getting late for her. We talk on anyway, finding common ground. A spit of sand between the oceans of our difference. I’m exploring; looking for fertility and mineral rich soil. Somewhere to start building together. It never occurs to me that she might not be doing the same. That maybe all that’s happened tonight is she’s decided to forget the night earlier in the week and not give this puppy back to the pound just yet. When we kiss goodnight that’s the end. We do not go back to her place even though it’s only two blocks away. On my walk home I consider turning around, sending a text, doing something large, something movie like. Let this night end perfect, with sex, the way it should end. I do nothing. Let’s not push it. I walk east across Bleeker filled with the anticipation of our future. I think that I’ve found someone.

Can't Hardly Wait. Part Four

Thu, 18 Feb 2010 05:46:00 -0500

I waited outside our meet up point, her friend’s apartment a few blocks south of the Meatpacking District. I pushed myself back in time, borrowing a pose, ragged sexuality, form the neighborhood’s past. Leaning, smoking, doing my best vacant hustler. When Veronica walked out to meet me I was against a mailbox, displaying this meticulous apathy. Greetings are exchanged and we walk to eat an early dinner. The restaurant was playing the soundtrack of my junior high: New Order, Echo, The Cure. I drew strength from the music’s familiarity, while she seemed oblivious to my classics. The songs seemed a reward for a last payment to creditors. My debts from earlier in the week negotiated and forgotten, a full repossession of dignity. I was given a clean slate on a perfect August evening. The sky was bright blue, sunny still. It might have been five or six at the latest, the last of lunch passing the beginning of dinner. I watched a pack of young queers heading towards the pier, and I considered telling her about being in a theater group as a teenager. There was one kid in the group, his name escapes me now, of a forgettable height, skinny and dark. He was HIV positive from being raped in a foster home. This kid was holding about the shortest end of the stick one can grasp. I remember he was so in love with me and totally unapologetic about it. At Christmas he gave me a coffee mug with my name and a generic personality description on it:

‘You’re very self-confident,
Totally Secure;
You’ve got inner strength
And the will to endure.
Your admirers think
You’ve got “macho appeal,”
But you’re also sensitive
To how others feel.
You’ll always be able,
Both mighty and great,
For success and strength
Are within your fate.

I still have the mug. Its bottom permanently stained from years of doubling as ashtray. I don’t think I’ll ever get rid of it. It’s not because of some love for him, I can’t even remember his name. But I remember the way he would laugh and smile and look at me. Occasionally I would be uncomfortable but it was always ok. The mug was important to him and for whatever reason I’ve always made sure to take care of it. Sometimes when I need to be reminded of how fucking lucky I am, I’ll contemplate the mug. Other times it’s an off-green ashtray, stained and weary. Whenever I see gay kids, I think of him and his refusal of fate. If these kids can smile and laugh and play fight on Christopher Street I can do anything. I tell Veronica about the theater group but I keep it surface. I tell her how years ago I knew I could have been an actor but it never held any appeal. It’s one of my jokes, that I claim to half believe. The thing is I don’t half believe it, I’ve fully believed it for as long as I can remember. If I had wanted to act, sky would have been the limit. I knew it, in an almost shamanic way. I don’t go into too much detail about my self knowledge, just enough to sound cocky. Maybe slightly delusional too, but in that way that is never second guessed. I remember a girl I loved once said she was going to be President. She was in the theater group too and she delivered her ludicrous predictions in such a matter of fact way, that at seventeen I never doubted their plausibility.

After dinner we walk through the West Village, sticking to the beautiful blocks. There is still sunlight, and everything is perfect. Talking, flirting, getting to know each other. I’m still enthralled with her potential but I’m calmer now, not fumbling with the moment, rather, moving in it. We stop on a stoop on Waverly Place, around the corner from where it meets Perry Street. I think about us having one of these places someday. Her movies will make it possible and I will be content to be a stay home creative type, tending to children and brownstone. I swing back to the reality at hand, pull her close and we kiss. There is no clamor for symmetry, no crashing of teeth or over enthusiastic prodding. It is simply a first kiss.

After a few moments of embrace I sit back down on the stoop. I look up at her generic black dress and wonder where this would go. How far into the night we would make it, six to six? All the way to sweaty and tired? First kiss to first sleep? From my seat I watch Veronica lean slightly down and put her right hand up her skirt. I see the silk like fabric move between her legs and realize she’s touching the inside of her thigh. A moment later wet fingers are pressing into mine. It’s August after all, and the entire city is sticky. Why shouldn’t we revel in our excitement, in finding someone, share it with each other. A little secret beneath the humidity.

“Is that…?”

“Yes…”

I stand up and we kiss again. And then we start talking.

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to keep hanging out with you, I don’t care what we do.”

“Well I made plans with that dude, but I will cancel on him and we can do something.”

Why the fuck is she telling me this. Why do I have to hear that she put me on the early half of her date card. Didn’t I hear enough about the magazine editor that is chasing her on the night we met. I side step this emotional pitfall and stay focused. I am younger and clearly cooler than whoever is getting cancelled on and I’m getting the second half of the card now too. Fuck this guy, stay focused, be yourself. We’ll make it to the end of this night, life raft, sex, rescue, anything, whatever. She cancels on him via text and we move off the stoop, into the evening.

Can't Hardly Wait. Part Three

Sun, 14 Feb 2010 08:26:20 -0500

“OK…”

I leave, and after walking a few blocks I text Veronica.

It was amazing to meet you text me when You’re done…

I remember walking on First Avenue, waiting for a response to that text, a response that never came. A flower blooms in stop motion photography, crisp reds and greens against a black night, and my mind is revealing the night’s truths. And I am ashamed. Here was someone, an answer, an actress on her way. Some connection was there, and I got over eager and fucked it up. I’m walking south and I can’t wait to get across Houston. I can’t wait to be on Ludlow, or Orchard Street. I need to see one of the girls that calls me cute and flirts with me. Or to see some of my friends, to be around forgiveness. Run south, away from this implosion, to the Fish I’m sure, regular coke then, free, with a dollar tip. I had fucked up tonight, but maybe I’d get another chance, a text tomorrow, perhaps. Christ what a mess, we were not even acting on the same stage. I was off off Broadway, an angsty, indy, musical type thing scored by Morrissey/Marr. She was playing in some big budget disaster, ‘Vodka Soda and the Pursuit Of Success’ starring her and Russle Crowe and fucking, well, NOT ME.

I read this thing in, I think, Vice Magazine. It was by a girl, maybe it was a Dear Diary before Lesley Arfin took over, or one of those quirky book reviews where they talk about anything but the book being reviewed. I remember the story, the author got hit in the face with a Hockey Puck as a teen and her face was some degree of fucked up for a few years after. She described how she’d had to learn to be funny and attractive to men in ways that had nothing to do with appearance. And that when things finally kinda came together in the first half of her twenties she had a leg up on other girls. For some reason this story stuck with me. The tone of it conjured the girls of my fantasies. The teens of the nineties, Pixies fans, with glasses, and quirky lunch boxes as purses. They were still pixies fans, but now they worked in fashion, stared in indy films, or wrote articles about self-discovery for cool magazines. When I got to New York it seemed like they were everywhere, all in different states of that self-discovery. For a little over two years I looked under every Bauhaus t-shirt I could get my hands up. After so much searching I’d discovered there was no magic, no Daria all grown up. So many of them only cared about pecking order, others wore the clothes, but were little more than cheerleaders masquerading in Maiden T’s, artists the new quarterbacks. I met a few of the genuine article, but things never clicked, I never fell for them. By the time I met Veronica I didn’t give a fuck anymore, I was just lonely. Adrift downtown, avoiding work, sucking at skating, just edging closer to oblivion.

When we first exchanged greetings I thought I could maybe fuck Veronica right away. There could be magic. I remember the night abstract like a feeling, reckless potential. Here was someone I felt something instant and substantial for. I was open and unapologetic about my feelings. Embarrassing myself, following her across town like a fucking puppy dog. Pissing on the carpet, standing there, smitten and oblivious. Enamored with some girl I’d have once dismissed on clothes alone. She got trashed on Vodka Soda and tried to advance her career, and she could be the answer.

I got in touch with Veronica the next day and we made plans for the day after. Maybe she had felt a little of what I felt, seen the life raft, the promise of rescue.

Mats

Sat, 13 Feb 2010 13:16:00 -0500

Mats:

I told myself I would not talk music on this blog… BUT… The discovery of the three Tim Versions of The Replacements “Can’t hardly Wait” Has changed my life for the better. So thought I’d share.

Can't Hardly Wait. Part Two

Thu, 11 Feb 2010 15:42:00 -0500

Come by that chick is here…

It was a beautiful summer evening. I had on the white jeans, a blue collar shirt, and all white Jordan Ones. I left my friends at Teany where they were having coffee and grabbed a cab west. There are a few streets in the West Village that on the average day are breathtaking, but on a perfect summer evening these streets defy contemplation. Charles, Perry, The corner of Barrow and Commerce, there are a few more but the list does not run long. Beautiful brownstones line the streets and trees, planted every twenty feet, shade stoops the color of earthworms. The steps of such stoops welcome wayfarers, even tourists. And as Fifth Avenue divorcees return home from retail therapy they won’t even shoo the sitting if presence is owned. Wrought iron banisters have been painted glossy black once a year for, you’d think a hundred years, the way the paint has enveloped the steel safeguards. Young men and women in the unnamed class above yuppie hurtle towards, through, and beyond middle age while old queens tend deep wounds. The occasional crackhead veers off Seventh avenue looking for shadows while Black and Puerto Rican kids pour in from all corners of the tristate. Queers, escaping intolerant neighborhoods or running from the belts and fists of Catholic fathers. As close to safe as one can be, from here all the way to the pier, they are loud, gay, and boisterous. These kids, their energy, are my very favorite things about this area. Their youthful assault from the west and the lingering grime flanking from east and south (tourism’s Greenwich Village) battle the prosperity that’s overtaken blocks north, and keep flickering an idea of New York as a place for anyone and everyone who is willing.

I tumble out of a taxi, onto one of the West Village’s most beautiful corners. I pay the cabbie the only way you could back then, cash. While I wait for my change I adjust the shoelace belt on bright shimmer-less 501’s and make myself somewhat presentable. Change in hand now, I slouch into the bar where my best Friend is holding court. I greet my pal and he pours me a Coke.

“This is Veronica.”

I look at her and instantly I know she is not my Winona Ryder. She is pretty, but in a way that does not fulfill my fantasies. Long brown hair, flashes of Jennifer Connelly and the earthy imperfection of Ali MacGraw. When she will tell me about the men courting her I don’t doubt their devotion, I just didn’t share it on first glance. I did however want to fuck her, so I got another coke and settled in. Her clothes were horrendous, this green blazer over an awful lacy top and white pants. I started with what I would later learn is Negging. I explained to her that I had seen Reality Bites for the first time that week and now, in a bizarre twist of fate, her top was just as ugly or uglier than a dress that Ethan Hawke’s character had referred to as a doilie. Her flowery creme mistake cried for similar disparagement. I remember this part of our conversation especially well because the way I made my point, regurgitating the line from the movie, was lame and a little pathetic. Funny how embarrassing moments burn our memory, searing and tattooing our receptors forever. Burns heal and scars fade with time, even old tattoos are forgotten for lengthy stretches. But a long look in the mirror will inevitably remind us, who were were and how we hurt ourselves. Forgivable accidents of childhood and ignorance, sure, but with us forever too. This night I made a fool of myself. It’s memory I’ve faded on purpose, but against my will some details remain. This blundering attempt to reference pop culture and be clever is one of them.

After a few minnutes I tone down the posturing and we start really talking. Some chemistry beyond my comprehension is at work and soon we are almost sitting on top of each other at the bar. She’s saying I’m cute, I’m saying she’s suits me as well. She is an actress. She starts to toss industry names around in a way that does not seem like name dropping. A meeting here, a connection there, she seems someone with a genuine foot in the door. After all she resides on one of these streets, streets where moms and dads have done the paving, where wind blows constantly from behind and stop lights are always green. I think about dating an actress on the come up and decide it’s a good look for me. Still we’re flirting and I’m starting to feel like she is the answer. We keep talking and she seems confident, self-possessed, driven. The answer. Another Coke and another Vodka Soda for her and I’m convinced tonight is magic. Her clothes are awful and we probably don’t have a single common thread in our CD collections. Her hair, her whole rich girl vibe, is not my shit. Call it chemistry and pheromones or desperation and timing, call it whatever you want. For some reason I’m smitten.

She has to leave, meet friends. And here it comes…

“I’ll go with you!”

I would not let go. Here was an answer. I had to hold on, to make this night fodder for a rom-com screen writer; make magic. Thing is, I don’t think she wanted me to go. And as much as she thought I was cute or her type, I think my sort of romantic fantasy was the last thing her radar was scanning for. I got my way anyway and we left the West Village and headed for Avenue B, my turf, and proximity to my apartment. In the cab I remember thinking maybe this was not such a good Idea. Thinking maybe I should get her number, make plans for later in the week and head to the Fish to celebrate potential. Then again you never know, we might end up at my place, more magic… I stay in the cab. Soon we’re pushing our way through a crowded bar on B. We head towards the patio in the back and a work contact she wants to see. Drinks in hand now and introductions are made, pleasantries exchanged. After forgettable chit chat the work contact starts talking about her friends hat.

“Josh got that new hat, what do you think about it, I like it, looks pretty cool.”

Veronica agrees with the work contact and says complimentary things. Then they ask me. I give him a once over with my eyes. Boot cut jeans with whatever kind of dress shirt was fashionable at the time, and perched atop an average schmo face was some shitty fucking hat. I could feel it coming. The inevitability of my next sentence was vomit in a flu ridden abdomen.

“It looks kinda douchey.”

Douche was still gaining steam then, slowing finding its way into the lexicon, and I thought maybe their blank expressions called for clarification. I explain that both dude and his hat look corny. It’s avenue B this is my turf, East Side. I can get away with this. Truthfully, getting away with it does not even cross my mind. Nothing crosses my mind. Inappropriate is a word I chose to erase from my vocabulary for living. You don’t like it? You won’t get me. Fuck off. Fuck you.

Still blank expressions.

Fuck

Fuck

Fuck

“Maybe you should go and I’ll text you in a bit.”

“No, it’s cool you guys do your thing, I can just wait. I’ll just sit over there and play Tetris on my phone. I can do it for hours, I could sit forever and play it.”

I think tonight is still salvageable. The dude was corny so what, I’m sure it was fine.

“We’re gonna be a while, just go I’ll text you later.”

“OK…”

Can't Hardly Wait. Part One

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 01:19:00 -0500

Lower East Side Summer 2004…

“I’ve got a girl for you to bang, she’s too tall for me. I wonder if you’ll be into it.”

“Who, who?”

“This chick that comes into my work all the time. She’s pretty hot, I feel like you might be into her.”

“Hook it up.”

“Next time she comes in I’ll text and you can casually pass by.”

My best friend was bar tending at this random spot in the West Village. So far it had been really good to him. There were countless older women and plenty of girls our age too. He was really making his presence felt on the other side of Broadway. Finally he was ready to share the wealth, someone over his 5-8 cutoff range, someone for me.

I remember that summer so well. I was getting to know more and more people in New York; maybe I was not universally loved, but I was starting to fit in. I smoked then, and I had this shitty one bedroom right in the mix near Ludlow Street. A twin bed on the floor, skateboard in the corner, and impromptu ash trays everywhere; it was too small and cluttered to ever really be clean. Dusty and messy, sure, but I can take messy. I never ate anything but take-out so it never got cockroach dirty. I can’t stand bugs so there were no dirty plates or food but I’d leave a pair of pants on the floor for two weeks without a thought. In those days (much like these days) I’d grab such pair of APC jeans or white Levis 501’s (The hot ticket for boys that summer) off the floor and head over to home base: Max Fish.

From The Fish I set out on my missions, scouring downtown for a girl with a great haircut and impeccable taste to complete me. I tried to make every loft party, every Wednesday at The Hole, and every event that seemed to matter. I’d even hit up posh Bungalow 8 occasionally. I was always ready to go anywhere the girls were. If worse came to worse there was always the Fish. In those days The Fish was not defined by the skaters that hung there; you never knew who would walk through its doors. There was always optimism, the feeling that any night could be The Night.

The more I immersed myself in the superficiality of nightlife and the downtown world, the unhappier I became. I’m not saying that I didn’t have a shit load of fun or make great friends. I did both, but on a deeper level I was floundering. A whale marooned in the shallow pool of Ludlow Street. Social creeks and rivers fed and drained my pool, but no matter what tributary I traveled I never found enough water, let alone the ocean I sought. In hindsight I could have gotten up at any moment, walked on water, on my own two legs. But at the time I’d decided to forgo bipedalism, opting to be the whale, to mire. And finding her, whoever she was, had become the answer to my mobility. The ocean. Freedom.

I was hooking up with lots of girls and making the scene friends, but at the same time I was letting my career fall by the wayside. My career was the whole reason I moved here in the first place, to fucking make it and leave my mark. I was on my way too, but I had lost my momentum and was letting it piss away, skipping work to go to the next Vice party or the next whatever. Going to the next Vice party is never not fun, and there is a comfort in smoking too much and feeling sorry for yourself, so for most of that spring and the first half of summer I had the time of my life. But in mid-July it started to go south. I remember one day staying up all night after watching Reality Bites. I just smoked and wondered when it would be my turn; where is my fucking Winona Ryder. Still awake the next morning I wandered to Starbucks on St. Marks. Dead tired but wide awake, I drank coffee and lounged on the forest green patio furniture. Chain smoking and watching the East Village head to the 6 train, I fancied myself as wasting away. I called an old friend who I’ve always depended on during crises of the heart. She assured me I would be fine and that, love happens when it happens. She suggested maybe sleep was in order. I agreed and headed home.

Days like this, where my desire for companionship clashed with the lingering misanthropy of my adolescence, became frequent. One word could describe me and my state on such days, actually two words: fucking and corny. Bring on the Morrissey, and the cigarettes, and the mopey bullshit. And always the searching, endless searching, looking for someone to make it all stop. So I could go back to work, get back to my life, out of the mire and end the fucking downtown merry-go-round. I wanted it to be like the movies, and the songs, and the books. I wanted to meet my her so bad, to quiet the subtle white noise I heard when I stood still.

My life was not a constant pity party though, I was still in the streets, having fun and chasing girls. Earlier in the week I had taken home this chick from the Fish, a goonie bird as we liked to call girls her shape. 5-10 or more with broad shoulders and sturdy legs, the kind of girl Carlos D of Interpol was famous for romancing. Even when they are pretty, which to me is often, or on the skinnier side of goon, there is something inexplicably goofy about these girls. Being tall does not make you one, neither does being of plus size. If you know goonie birds, you know one when you see one; it comes down to a kinda vibe. It’s no secret that I fucking love a goonie bird now and again, and this girl was goonie with a capital G.

I slept with her and afterwards she told me about the last guy she’d slept with, a dude from her gym who hit her during sex. And we’re not talking about the kind of slapping I get down with, she said he would pummel her as he came. A day or two later I was at Black and White where I ended up making out with one of my friends. Then someone I’d seen around for a long time had shown some interest, asking one of my friends about me. As I remember it, this was all happening at once.

Come by that chick is here…

A Quick Note

Tue, 02 Feb 2010 06:26:00 -0500

Fear Not! I have been getting laid!

But I’ve not written about it because senseless titillation seems irresponsible and not why I started doing this in the first place.

I’ve got a few hilarious things in the works right now, but first I’m going back in time to the summer of 2004. This promises to be the most raw and revealing Boys Life to date. Its very personal nature is one of the reasons it’s taken me so long to write. The other is January. It’s freezing, work has been draining me, and I’ve not been skating enough. My body and mind both feel stagnant. It took so much to push out this latest story, and I don’t think I could have done it without that Saturday that dipped into the 50s.

look for a first installment later this week.

P.S.

I saw the Wig chick the other day and told her it was cool to see her without her wig on. I wanted her to apologize and she didn’t, she just laughed. I looked into her eyes and told her it was a powerful experience to see her wig-less. Then I left and went to Lit.

A week later I saw her again, this time with the wig on. I wanted her to say something, to acknowledge what had transpired between us. And I was loud and brash about the wig. Tapping her on the shoulder and motioning to fix her hair. Saying nice wig mad loud. I watched her dance and make out with some fuck stick and it almost fucked up my whole evening. Then I Want The One I Can’t Have came on and everything was fine. Fine until my date’s friend got in the way of me getting laid. And I walked home with one of my boys. And my 4 am texts to some goonie bird went unanswered. And the wig girl is still out there; who knows where she’ll turn up next. I’ll keep you posted.

P.S.P.S.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I consulted my man Google about the wig chick. Just like I suspected she’s still in her first year in NY.

Welcome To The Pleasuredome…

"My life was not a constant pity party though, I was still in the streets, having fun and chasing..."

Wed, 20 Jan 2010 02:50:12 -0500

“My life was not a constant pity party though, I was still in the streets, having fun and chasing girls. Earlier in the week I had taken home this chick from the Fish, a goonie bird as we liked to call girls her shape. 5-10 or more with broad shoulders and sturdy legs, the kind of girl Carlos D of Interpol was famous for romancing. Even when they are pretty, or on the skinnier side of goon, there is something inexplicably goofy about these girls. Being tall does not make you one, neither does being of plus size. If you know goonie birds, you know one when you see one; it comes down to a kinda vibe. It’s no secret that I fucking love a goonie bird now and again, and this girl was goonie with a capital G. I slept with her and afterwards she told me about the last guy she’d slept with, a dude from her gym who hit her during sex. And we’re not talking about the kind of slapping I get down with, she claimed he was pummeling her as he would come. A day or two later I was at Black and White where I ended up making out with one of my friends. Then someone I’d seen around for a long time had shown some interest, asking one of my friends about me. As I remember it, this was all happening at once.”

- Coming soon…

Summer 2004

Sorry everybody I’ve been really busy and I’m trying to minimize the filler. Thanks for all the kind words and I’m gonna try and start posting this by the end of the week…

DEAR BOY

Tue, 12 Jan 2010 06:40:00 -0500

Dear Boyslife,

I’ve got a problem but I don’t even know what it is. I’ve been hanging out (for a lack of better terms) with this girl I met at school in October. First off, this girl is someone I’d usually never go for: she’s a tall(er than me), gorgeous, blond, Dutch girl from the middle of nowhere, Canada. When I first met her I didn’t even think I could get with her mostly because I’m just plain shorter then her and she’s way too pretty for me. Anyways, when we do hang out we usually get a coffee or catch a movie but probably twice a week we just get drunk in my basement and fuck around. I know this sounds like we’ve just become fuck buddies but she’s straight up told me before she doesn’t kiss fuck buddies which she does do with me. I’ve talked to this girl before about what we’re up to but her answer is always the same: I don’t know. Her answer has me all worked up that I might be becoming just a friend or something. Got any advice on how to get out of this jam?

Thanks,

Precarious Canadian

Dear Precarious Canadian,

I’m not really clear on what you want here. I’m going to guess you’re trying to avoid the friend zone, keep sleeping with her, and move closer towards relationship status? I’m not even going to go into all this crap about her being not good enough for you. With the proper swagger, any guy can score the girl of his dreams. That being said, this girl is for sure, totally fucked up.

“SHE DOESN’T KISS FUCK BUDDIES.”

Dude, I mean really, really look at this sentence and tell me how anything good is going to come of this relationship. I mean what kind of girl, let alone one in the first half of her twenties, would say something like this? What kind of girl likes to get banged by men she does not care to kiss.

This girl is a cat and you’re a little mouse. She is going to continue batting you around, playing with you until she accidentally kills you, or you’re so beat up that you’re no longer fun to play with. Either way at some point she’ll drop your bloody carcass and head off looking for something more interesting than you, rotting mouse corpse. I could be totally wrong and you two could be made for each other but for some reason I doubt it.

SO YOU’RE GOING TO GET KILLED, WHAT CAN YOU DO?

Nothing really. I’ve been there more than a few times and there is no easy solution. As young guys, our hormones are clashing with superficial ideas about love and destiny; these type of girls swoop in at just this moment, (usually the beginning of our twenties), and often unknowingly ruin our lives. I’m sure she does not intend to cause you distress, that she is just living her life, making mistakes, trying things out, and learning how to live just like you are. The fact remains however, that just like the tiresome catch phrase says, at her core she is probably just not that into you. I’ve been in almost the same situation and I’ll tell you exactly what I did to get what I wanted.

I was seeing a girl who I was more into than was into me. I won’t go into great detail now because it’s going to be the subject of an upcoming flashback post, but we were dating and she was giving me a lot of run around. We’d kick it sometimes but she would not sleep with me, and would not be my girlfriend like I wanted. I got really emo, sat her down, (IN THE RAIN!) and told her that I was way into her and I wanted her to be my chick. I told her I could not deal with the push and pull that was happening; either be with me or say goodbye. She said that she was not ready for a relationship and was sorry it ended up like this. After we parted that afternoon I deleted her number and moved on with my life. I did not call her or talk to her, or ask to hang out and be friends, I just moved on. She became my girlfriend within a week. NOW, I’m not going to say that this was the best outcome or that it was the worst, it has just been.

I would guess that you’re dealing with one fucked up little birdie. I know you want to be around and help her mend her broken wing, or maybe you don’t even know her wing is broken, you’re just drawn to her like a moth to a bug zapper. Either way she will probably devour you. If you really want to keep her, you’ll probably have to issue the same type of ultimatum I described. Then stick to your guns whatever her decision. You will really have to hold her to being a couple and not take any shit, or if she opts out, do not hit her up or try and be friends. If you stand fast and don’t crack you’ll probably end up getting what you want. Most women want and need to be told what to do, even when they say they don’t. If you take strong action it it will most likely turn her on. Like in my case, I deleted the number and didn’t hit her up and soon she was seeking me out, wanting me back in her life.

So, if you really want to be with her, (I think you’d be better off fucking a hole in your mattress filled with microwaved pumpkin guts, but that’s just me) take charge of the fucking situation and show her that you’re not her plaything and that even though you’re short and maybe not as traditionally good looking as she, you’re a decisive man. A man who will not be the good enough for now guy, who makes strong moves, who stands up for himself when he believes he’s getting a raw deal. Let’s get back to this though:

“SHE DOESN’T KISS FUCK BUDDIES.”

On this alone, I’d say run for the fucking hills. I can picture it now: she convinces you to marry her, giving the gifts of Canadian citizenship and nationalized medicine, thus saving her from her old life; which reminds me, has she ever put a condom on your dick with her mouth?

P.S.

My best friend wanted everybody to know the maneuver I describe in this post is called the Takeaway Close.

BL

Ego Smarts Part Three of Three

Fri, 08 Jan 2010 03:31:00 -0500

The next day I do exactly what you’d have done too. I Facebook her one last time. I swear, the last time I’ll do it. No more. After this cleaning up my act, not hollering at Ashley again. She does not reply, and I don’t embarrass myself further.

I break down one day and Facebook the girl I know who works with Ashley for some scoop. I just want some closure. I want to hear that she has a boyfriend, that she is a lesbian, that she has a cock, anything.

I’m sorry about the whole Ashley thing, I think you may have gotten the wrong idea…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s certainly an unusual situation.
Anyway, hope you are well too. Thank you for asking..

I reply that it didn’t seem that complicated, that I asked for her number at Bowery, got it, but we never got together.

hmmm…yes…I guess people do things like that after a few drinks when they are not being entirely honest about their situations.

I assume she is telling me this girl was drunk and has a boyfriend. Cool, case fucking closed. Finally. Closure.

My life remains Ashley free for a wile. A few different friends land gigs DJing where she works. I always contemplate tagging along, but I never do. I’m too embarrassed. I suggest they look out for the Twins. One brings reports of Emily but none of Ashley. I implore him to pursue the twin sister even though she’s totally out of his league. He knows she is but does anyway, I think just for me. Nothing.

It’s a Sunday in late December. Walking down Second Avenue one of my friends insists we hit Whole Foods for a walk around. He says he’s got a gut feeling, we have to stop through. We split up inside Whole Foods and right away I run into a friend and get invited to a promising holiday party. Dope. I head back to the prepared foods area and find my buddy talking to the girl who works with Ashley. The three of us cruise the isles and chat it up for a while. Finally, before we all split up and go our separate ways, I think of Ashley.

“So I never quite got the whole story on the Ashley chick, she have a man or what?”

“Oh well, I don’t work there anymore so I guess I can tell you.”

“Ashley and Emily are the same person. It’s some type of Social Experiment…”

The story comes out in fragments. These are not direct quotes only bits of what my mind held onto. Spill a pack of Skittles onto an elementary school desk, see how may you can catch. How many bright reds, purples, and greens are in your hands, and how many are rolling across nicotine yellow and off white linoleum, how may disappear under rotting bookshelves, under, pissy radiators.

Emily is super smart, she’s a writer.
She does this thing.
Her hair is crazy and attracts a lot of attention.
She wears a wig and goes out as Ashley.
This other character.
The second Facebook is for this alter ego.
She wasn’t into it, I guess.
I felt bad for you.
Yeah a wig.
I had to work with her that’s why I didn’t tell you.
I guess she just broke up with someone, a long term relationship.
She’s really smart.
A writer.
A writer.
So pretty.
Amazing bone structure.
Smart.
A writer.
Beautiful.
Social Experiment.

Skittles spill everywhere…

I am dumbfounded. In shock. In front of the chocolate display case, next to some crazy Adaptation type orchids, I’m almost catatonic.

I’m feeling it again as I write this. Re-living the story, remembering, then typing the details. Thinking about the texting, my decisions to try and be clever. Being candid about some shit via text to appeal to some Facebook apparition. I’m looking back at the pieces, and it’s so fucking obvious. In a movie you’d have known immediately.

First act: ASHLEY AND EMILY ARE THE SAME PERSON!

I go on Facebook and check out both her profiles. The real person Emily, and the not so real Ashley. God, it’s so obvious. I feel so dumb. I don’t know if I loathe her, or if I want to sleep with her more than anything, more than anyone. I wonder how damaged she is from that relationship my friend mentioned. If that’s why she goes out in a wig, playing dress up, toying with people. I’m sure she’s intelligent, probably too smart for her own good. That keeps going over and over in my head, my friend saying she’s so smart, that she’s a writer. I want to smoke cigarettes, to lash out at her, concoct schemes, trick her into communicating with Boys Life; lure in the writer. Ever lose a shit load of money gambling? I have. An overweight Midwesterner in a purple vest pulling my chips across green felt, plunking them into a drop box, gone forever. A week or two of work, instantly meaningless. My stomach is vibrating and I feel it in my whole body. Nausea, but something else too. Every dollar gone sates a voice. A voice that tells me to lose, to fuck up, to self destruct. At the ATM, then back at the green felt. As much as I win, eventually I’ll give it all back, to get that feeling. I’ve never gone very far with gambling, for whatever reason. Its call is not that strong. A scratch off once in a while, maybe Mega Millions. I’ve avoided disaster on the felt for years now. I’ll play in the occasional card game, but if it’s not about spending time with my friends and having fun I don’t sit down.

I’ve figured out an in, a clever way to get Emily communicating. I start framing a Facebook message. Plotting. The poker feeling wells, and a wave crashes inside my abdomen. I feel disgusting and I fucking know better. I click off the Boyslife Facebook and return to this story, to finish it, post it and be done with the whole thing.

BL

French Fashion Blogger Alix, The Cherry Blossom Girl, took the fantastic pics I'm using for this weeks story. Check em out.

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 06:33:00 -0500

French Fashion Blogger Alix, The Cherry Blossom Girl, took the fantastic pics I'm using for this weeks story. Check em out.

Ego Smarts Part Two of Three

Wed, 06 Jan 2010 06:27:38 -0500

I wake up the next day around one. Time for strong moves. I call. Forget the text message, if I’m into someone, or want to appear into someone, I always call. Ashley answers. We chit chat a bit, and I ask her about her plans for the rest of the weekend. She’s working. Where?

“I cocktail at…”

She names one of the trendiest night life destinations in New York. My heart sinks.

I mean, could she have given a worse answer? I am heartbroken, but only for a moment. I rationalize it. She probably makes good money. Maybe she’s in New York to do something cool. Maybe she’s not a social climber. Maybe she’s Not looking for some rich guy, some globetrotting friend of Andre Balazs, to pluck her out of obscurity, shower her with Kelly Bags and help her leave a suburban shit hole childhood behind. I mention a friend who works there too. She knows her. I suggest running a background check with our mutual friend and we set a tentative date for Wednesday. Oh well, fucking cocktail waitress, dream girl she ain’t. Fuck it, we’ll see what happens.

I need to stop and say that I don’t think this way about all cocktail waitresses, nor do I think it’s not a job to be proud of. It’s hard work and not everybody can do it. We all suffer for our art and to have that free time to do with what we chose is priceless. Girls doing this I applaud. There is however, another type of cocktail (waitress? or is ‘cocktail’ slang?) one I do not celebrate.

Wednesday comes and goes and we do not end up having coffee. Communicating via text after the first call, I’m getting excuses. She won’t pin down an actual time and place, but she stays in touch. This reeks of: bored with boyfriend, but not ready to step outside the relationship. I wanted to keep Facebook out of this, but after a week passes maybe she needs to see what I look like again? Not saying my picture is going to tip the scales in either direction, but maybe she’ll see something she likes and commit to coffee? Maybe she’ll see something she doesn’t like and fuck off? Anything is better than the text limbo I’m in right now. I ask if she Facebooks and she replies with her full name. I add.

Six friends. None Mutual. Profile is public. She has a twin sister: Emily. Emily I recognize from a party at Ashley’s work. Twins, with the same job. Emily has shockingly short blond hair and the same beautiful face. Almost the same, the boyish length of Emily’s hair does not quite compliment her angular features the way Ashley’s mop of black does. She seems more rigid, more standoffish. She clearly has done some modeling, and clearly been in New York longer than her twin. Back to Ashley now, and I’m examining her status updates.

I forward the link to a friend, telling him that she and I are playing text tag.
“She’s great.”
“Yeah, some of it’s retarded but some of it’s pretty cute. I’m not mad. Feeling it.”
“Yeah, you can tell she’s smart, I say keep going.”

I do something dumb, Something I end up regretting, I shift the tone of my texts. I try to be clever, crafting messages that I hope will appeal to the persona she reveals on Facebook. Still we play tag. She’s living up to her Facebook persona now. Not feeling like leaving the house. Tired from work. Staying in and watching the rain. She sounds like an angst ridden teen from central casting. Eventually I give up. I let her know the ball is in her court and to hit me if she ever wants that coffee date. She never does. I take the Ashley dilemma to my best friend:

‘Whatever, I went to college near that town in Washington State where she’s from. She’s some trailer trash whore looking for a way out. She’s cocktailing there? She’s prolly getting banged out by Jarred Leto right now. Fuck it. One and done dude.”

“One and done” referring to the amount of times a man should text or call a random he meets while out. One call or text. No response? Delete the number and move on. I heed his advice and discard Ashley’s number.

Skating 12th street on a rare warm day near the end of fall. Texts start to circulate about an early party at the Bowery. Nobody wants to go but me. Nobody has anything better to do so all of us roll. It’s downtown scene only, none of the randoms that usually make these parties fun. Oh well. I doubt I’m gonna meet anyone exciting so I settle in and gossip with girlfriends about who the hot guys there are. When I ask about someone, my friends make fun of me and my predictable taste in girls. No ladies for me tonight, but it’s totally fun. Then, Ashley walks by. Fuck it. Lets see what’s good one last time. I hustle up two drink tickets from friends and take their orders. Ashley and her friend are perched at the bar. I shuffle up next to them. Waiting for the barmen, I glance at them, and feign recognition. Ashley looks more awkward than I remember. Her hair is not quite framing her face like it does on Facebook, like it does in my memory.

“Hey, is your name Ashley?”

She and her friend glance at each other, possibly recalling that night that I met her.

“Yeah.”

“Thought so.” I give my name. “We met here like a month ago maybe?”

She remembers. I shrug, put both palms up at a 45 degree angle and make the ‘what are you gonna do’ face. The Goodfellas/Rat Pack-ish shrug I’ve co-opted from my best friend. No Diet Coke, only Diet Pepsi? ‘What are you gonna do.’ My girlfriend, fucked another dude while I was out of town? She’s a whore, ‘what are you gonna do.’ I got your number, added you on Facebook and texted you too much? What are you gonna do.’ No annoyance too small, no problem too big, ‘what are you gonna do.’

Ashley and her pal, who I learn is her roommate, are going to a dinner party. I make polite conversation, gather up my round of drinks and head back to the patio.

“How’d it go?” my female friends inquire.

“Enh, whatever, no vibe.”

I plop back down and resume gossip. I think about how awkward Ashley had looked at the bar. She was still beautiful, but something was amiss. Maybe she was just having an off night, or needed a hair cut. Something was definitely off about her hair. Maybe I’m just looking for flaws, trying to soften the post traumatic rejection, not feel like such an ass. I’m sitting with a bunch of people as Ashley walks across the patio and sits to smoke. She and her roomie light up and talk. It dawns on me that she does not know a soul there, all these fucking hipsters and she does not know a single one. It’s just her and her friend smoking. Just like the night we met, the two of them dancing, and then talking to two out of place guys when I interrupted. I mull this over, wondering how long she has been in New York, who she hangs with, who the fuck she is, and if I could have played it differently, to a different outcome. Eventually I dismiss Ashley from my thoughts and end up having a great evening.

Ego Smarts Part One of Three

Mon, 04 Jan 2010 12:54:55 -0500

It’s a few weeks after Fashion Week and one of those ‘password required for entry’ parties is happening at the Bowery Hotel. My best friend and I get there early and quickly the party is in full swing. He’s not really interested in picking up girls, tonight is about me. We’re assessing the situation: one gooney friend of a friend I’ve met before. She’s already borderline wasted and it’s not even one. Nope. The black hair, Leigh-ish bob, on the couch, with the great ass. Looks good, but something about her fur vest is putting me off, screaming PR, screaming annoying. Nope. A repeat appears. Nope. Then I see her. Perfect. I’m almost speechless for a moment. Tall, slender, sexy, overly fashionable haircut making her look almost like a lesbian. Almost. She is under dressed in the American Apparel Grey Hoodie; possibly insecure about her outfit, but totally adorable. My best friend sees her too, and right away he’s all over it for me. I have a type. I’m totally predictable. Close friends, even acquaintances know exactly whom I’ll gravitate towards in any room. These types are not always who I end up sleeping with, and I don’t often take looks over personality, but here at the Bowery, making superficial decisions, I am incredibly predictable. She is acting out a little and pretends to pick her nose to get a rise out of her friend. She shrugs her shoulders, dismissing not only her friend but all of us, everything around her. She does not care about the who’s who of the Bowery on Password Night. She’ll drink and party with us, but she needs to somehow plant her flag of indifference, be unimpressed by Downtown. I take it for one of two things. The very rare: actual indifference. Or the incredibly predictable: out-of-towner insecurity.

You’re on a weekend pass from San Francisco or Philadelphia, visiting friends you feel like hardly know anymore. You lash out at the expensive clothes, the haircuts, the attitudes. Sure, everything you say is valid, and we are all so ridiculous. But when you’re just some interloper in a hoodie, insecurity, like rot creeping through the hull of an old wooden ship, will stow away on all your words, sabotaging their journey east, from your mind to New York ears. You’ll be right, but it won’t matter. Genuine apathy or Portland insecurity, she is adorable, and totally my type.

“Dude that’s your shit over there, WOW!”

“I know, I know, I know. Fuck. Perfect. You think they’re lesbians?”

Suddenly, I’m making direct eye contact with her.

“Nope. Did you see that?”

“Dude, she looked right at me, it’s fucking on”

She is a few feet away and something is holding me back. I’m lacking the swagger, that could give two shits cause I just got laid last night swagger. I can’t lie, I’m a little shook. I’ve not cold-called since fashion week, and I’ve yet to drink that essential third Diet Coke needed to just be reckless. I talk to a couple of the gay guys we know, asking if they think she’s a lesbian, just avoiding what I know I have to do. A couple minutes later I turn back around and she is gone. I finish Diet Coke number two, FUCK IT. I beeline across the no-man’s land between the couches and the dance floor, right out into the crowd.

‘All your friends have gone away, so let’s celebrate…’

Australian Pop and Aspertame give me courage as I head towards her. Under the DJ now, right in the middle of all these people, I grab her to introduce myself. Before I get a word out, I’m confronted with someone beyond the cute I saw in the entrance hall; she is stunning. I fumble.

“Hey what’s up, I’m Bla Bla Bla.” 

“I’m Ashley.” 

“You’re not from here, are you?” 

“No. I live here.”

Fuck. Fuck. Well, I didn’t see her talk to anyone but her one friend. None of those people everybody knows at least, just her and her girl. SHIT. She turns around and talks to her friend. I wait it out. Seconds tick by. ETERNITY. She’s not re-engaging. Humiliating. I wonder if anyone is watching this blunder. I scan the room avoiding eyes. Obviously nobody is paying attention to me; in the middle of the dance floor everyone is dancing. Looking at Ashley’s back, I start to halfheartedly shuffle my feet. Instantly I feel pathetic. I let go.

Get out of here before you humiliate yourself any further. Wait it out on the sidelines, and maybe re-approach after she’s had another drink, or three.

Pushing back through the crowd, I’m proud of myself. She is slamming, and not many dudes here would have the sack to just roll up and talk to her. I refuse to let this fuck with my night. Halfway back to where my best friend and the gays are waiting, I bump into Jessica. Jessica and I had a date. She’s cute, a bit of a lush, but totally sweet. We fooled around, but it didn’t go to far. I had wanted a second date, but laziness had set in, and after a few late night: ‘what are you up to’ text messages, we had yet to reconnect.

“If you want to just fuck me, all you had to do was say so.”

Holy shit! Quirky, beautiful, brunette who! I pull Jessica’s head close to my mouth and let my lips brush her ear as I talk. I tell her I want to fuck her right now, and let’s leave as soon as possible. It’s on. I return to my crew, defeated and victorious.

I hum David Crosby lyrics in my head, instructing myself to love the one I’m with as I head back into the throng to find Jessica. Reunited, we hit the patio to smoke. In the north west corner we’re necking, not even drunk, I am so tacky. Ashley is 10 yards away, with her friend chatting and smoking. Fuck, I wish I was talking to her and not making out with this dipshit. There is no way she can see me in the dark though. I retreat with Jessica. We burrow under the coat laid across our laps, kissing more, groping. After a few minutes we surface for air. Still half hiding under the coat, I help her light a cigarette. I suggest a rapid departure to my place. Jessica wants to socialize and say some goodbyes first, so we split up and make plans to reconvene in fifteen. I head back inside and grab my friend.

“Taking that one home, mission accomplished, but part of me wishes I was kicking it to the brunette. She is perfect.”

“Dude,”

He does not have to finish his sentence. Fuck yeah, I’ll make another run at it. I head back to the patio, this time with indifference on my side. Jessica’s inside now, might as well be on another planet. Ashley and her friend are talking with two dudes, clueless looking and totally dismissible dudes. I walk up, take her arm and we turn away from their conversation. This is a bold fucking move, something only a real pro, or an imbecile with nothing to lose would attempt. Take a manual transmission in fifth gear, slam it into first, feel the car shudder as you let go of the gas and the engine scrambles to right itself. That’s what I do. 60 to 0. Let’s hope she doesn’t notice the shift. Second gear now, and I lay it on, maybe a little thick. I conjure the fumbler, body language suggesting that I’m not even sure what I’m doing, that I just had to talk to her, something out of my control, something like fate has forced me to interrupt her conversation.

“Hey, so my friends are forcing me to leave and go to some other spot..”

Slow down, Slow down, Slow down. Let the nerves take over.

“but I thought you were super cute, and, uh…”

Uh, lets hope she’s buying this bullshit. I mean it’s true, I think she’s beautiful, totally adorable, and I do have to leave. I’d rather stay and find out what her favorite Morrissey song is, but I’ve got dipshit to tend to, and a bird in the hand, you know. I look at my shoes a couple times, using my nerves to conduct my performance, and continue.

“uh, I’d like to get coffee sometime? A coffee date?”

“Sure, take my number.”

HOLY SHIT. I am killing it tonight! I take her number, double check that it’s secured in my phone and I’m off to find Jessica, and be out. I tell my boy that I got the number. That I used his I NEVER DO THIS street pickup game. It’s October and I’m glowing like a kid at Christmas. Now, where is Jessica, I’ve got to find her and get out of here without Ashley seeing. This takes forever. With these young girls it’s never about the sex. She wants to stay and socialize more. SHIT. I give her another ten, which turns into twenty, into thirty. I stay undetected by Ashley, I hope, not that it matters. Finally I pry dipshit away from the Gucci loafer guys, guys she knows from Monaco or some place like that. We get into a cab and start necking.

Out of College, On the Lamb

Thu, 31 Dec 2009 11:17:24 -0500

I don’t plan on doing much blog recycling, but I thought this was great and deserved a re-posting.

From the blog of Ted Barrow:

Out of College, On the Lamb

1. Find yourself driving your friend’s girlfriend and her underage friend to the Kibbitz Room on Tuesday night.

2. As you walk up Fairfax, you feel the pangs of excitement and nervousness that precede a night out drinking with your friends at what seems like the coolest place you’ve ever been.

3. It really must be the coolest place you’ve ever been, because you’ve devoted the better part of what would have been your last semester of college going to this bar every Tuesday night.

4. “what would have been your last semester” may have actually been your last semester if you hadn’t been going to the Kibbits Room so much.

5. The other reason it isn’t really your last semester is that you have been spending the rest of your week way across town from school, pursuing an impossibly cruel and distant woman who lives in Culver City.

6. This impossibly cruel and distant woman is even more distant now, as you’ve stopped seeing each other.

7. When things were good between the two of you, which admittedly was seldom, she told you that she got you a ticket for her graduation.

8. That would have been a week ago. You didn’t end up going to her graduation. You didn’t end up going to your own graduation, because you didn’t end up graduating.

9. Part of your excitement in going to the Kibbitz Room tonight is knowing that she won’t be there. Once, when you invited her to join you there on a Tuesday, she said, “I never go there. The only time I would ever go to the Kibbitz Room is if I were looking for a dumb skater to hook-up with. I don’t need that now, because I have you.”

10. At the time, you took that as a compliment.

12. Mull that over as you walk in the door and the first person you see at the bar is her.

13. Pretend not to see her, and go to the other end of the bar (it is a very small bar) and drink as much as you can, quickly.

14. When it is just entirely obvious that the two of you are aware of each other’s presence, try to saunter over as nonchalantly as possible.

15. She tells you she is meeting a friend here.

16. No, she doesn’t want to go around the corner and make out.

17. The burning question of who her friend is and what the exact nature of their friendship might be is only slightly doused with more alcohol.

18. Despite having been so excited to see the usual cast of characters at the bar, you keep glancing over in her direction.

19. She is outside, smoking. You don’t smoke. You are outside, watching.

20. You see her give another guy a hug, and he kisses her on the cheek.

21. You get between them, and though what exactly you said isn’t entirely clear, it is emphatic. So emphatic, in fact, that to illustrate your point you use your open palm against this guy’s cheek.

22. She grabs your arm and pulls you away from the now angry guy. She tells you that you have just slapped a very dangerous drug dealer.

23. She also tells you that she does not approve of your behavior.

24. She leaves you there, tottering against the wall. You see another girl, a friend of your friend’s girlfriend, who you have always had a small crush on.

25. You pick her up, and say the most romantic thing you can possibly muster, which is something along the lines of, “Paula, why don’t you like me?”

26. Her response is “Dude, I just say you piss against the wall in front of everybody.” You don’t remember doing this, but it sounds about right.

27. The next morning, you peel yourself off of the black leather couch that you must have been dragged to. It is 2 in the afternoon, and you have no idea where your car is.

28. You find your car parked near Fairfax, and you drive it back to your apartment in Eagle Rock.

29. The impossibly cold and distant girl tells you that you almost got killed last night, that you humiliated her, and that she never wants to talk to you again. That sounds about right, too.

30. With very little else to keep you in LA, you get your roommate to give you a ride to the Burbank airport, and take the first flight available to Austin, where there is no Kibbitz Room, and where the angry drug-dealers can not find you.

E-Fruition Pt. 2

Tue, 29 Dec 2009 22:05:00 -0500

We are back at her car. A fucking Scion. I love this. In LA, where those few minutes at the valet are everything, and she is driving a Scion. Adorable. Against the Scion, we kiss. Still Soaring. We climb in the car and kiss more. No longer a precocious eight year old playing adult while making a mess with my cookie, I’m sixteen grabbing at breasts, steaming up the windows. Still Soaring. We kiss more and joke about the absurdity of the situation. I already want to tell her I write Boys Life and we’re less than an hour in. She reads the blog, she’s told me so. Not ‘me’ but the blog me. She e-mailed Boys Life and inquired about the face behind the scenes. Not knowing we were already acquainted, not in real life mind you, but acquainted on Facebook and connected through the calls and texts that led to tonight, to the breath steamed windshield behind M Cafe. When I showed my best friend that my Facebook crush had emailed Boys Life he had only one thing to say:

“What a whore!”

I agreed. But I also thought it was cute. I felt like I was living in my own Romantic Comedy/Choose Your Own Adventure. I decided a while ago that one of my goals was to have great stories to tell my grandchildren. Middle aged sons and daughters yelping “DAD!” as I tell tall tales of conquest and rejection around the turn on the millennium. This was shaping up to be a great one, subtly sexist and slanted in my, the man’s, favor just like You’ve Got Mail. In the Scion, something in her way compels me towards honesty. I feel cheap but don’t say anything. I wonder if I’ll fuck her without divulging. I doubt it, I like her 2 much already to be that cavalier. She takes her right index finger and writes from right to left in the moisture on the window. When she lowers her arm she has written HELP ME! backwards. We laugh and kiss some more.

I tell her I’m staying at the Roosevelt. She lights up. Man, do women love hotels. Not flea bags but anywhere that’s nice or cool; they go nuts. If you ever want to spice things up, drop a few hundred on a dope hotel room. A quick drive and were valeting the Scion and heading towards the elevators. Still Soaring. In the room now; it doesn’t go too far, but it goes pretty far. Her body feels wonderful. No Skinny Fat, no real flaws. Without the constraints of the Scion, my arms are carnival mirrors as we explore each other. Mirrors that shrink and trick the eye, make her feel girlish and small. Her personality adds inches to an already imposing 5-11; when I touch her she is 5-5. This is the best hook-up I’ve had in god knows how long. We laugh and talk, and we touch and play. I get out of bed and grab the over-priced plastic bottle of Perrier from the mini fridge. We are sharing the water now, she is on top of me, sitting on my midsection, both of us shirtless. She takes a drink and holds the liquid in her mouth for a moment. She makes a face, then spits cold mineral water all over my naked belly. Bold. I could be the kind of guy immediately turned off by this recess foreplay. I’m not. Perfect. Exactly something I’d want her to do.

Some part of me is annoyed. Annoyed that I am having so much fun. Annoyed at having what seem like genuine feelings for her. It would be comfortable to turn off and perform. Make all the right moves: choke here, spit there, slap, pull hair and on and on. Just being the guy that’s good in bed. A seasoned Broadway star giving a shit performance. The star knows the difference, knows how average he is, but the audience is mesmerized. After years of dinner theater and high school plays, a first experience with Broadway is breathtaking. The more we talk and touch the less like calculated show business it becomes. We take a break. I get my phone from the nightstand and bring up the Boys Life E-mail account. I think she’s cute and funny and smart, and I want to tell her before things go much further. I want to brag to my friends that I made her come, then handed her the phone with the Boys Life e-mails to read. I want her to like me, to like my writing, to not be a dick, to tell her sweetly.

Maybe I’ll toss the phone on the bed: Read this. Then walk casually to the bathroom. Mid piss, I’ll hear her scream: “oh my god!” Just like she screams on the Internet.

Or I could climb back into bed and tell her I have to be honest about something. Timidly hand her the phone, exposing my identity, hoping to not be thought of as some inter-creep.

I’m waiting for the verdict now. It takes a minute for her mind to register what she’s reading. A couple minutes more for her to tell me she’s not mad and that she loves it. It is a great story. It’s ridiculous and totally of my design, but I’m not the Rube Goldberg of dating. There’s no mathematical equation to determine how fast down the chute and through the tunnel she’ll travel, or that she’ll end up in my bed. And I’ve barely engineered, a couple of calculated decisions maybe, and that thing where I started my own blog, mostly I’ve just gone on gut. I’m really not this clever. She’s telling me she’s hardly read any of my posts, that the pictures of the Misshapes bird turned her off. I explain that it’s an essay, a statement about women in New York, not really a fan piece.

Both of us naked now, she is on top of me. Have I mentioned how fantastic she looks with no clothes on? Not a flaw. One scar, scars are meaningless in the measuring of beauty, even enhancing occasionally. Looking harsh, somehow feeling softer than the skin around them, little bumpy stories that add depth, suggest trauma, complexity. I push myself closer to her.

“I really want to, but I want you to come over tomorrow and play the Sex In The City Board Game.”

I laugh, and tell her I will, that I look forward to it. Her delivery was adorable, perfect breasts, and big eyes looking down at me, so matter of fact, as if that’s what everyone should do when entertaining horny out-of-towners. She’s saying she wants to fuck me, but also that she won’t be treated like a whore, that it will be on her terms not mine. She’s also just being funny, charming me. And I am charmed.

We laugh and play for a little while longer but soon it’s time for her to go home, her decision not mine. It’s half past one, and I can still catch up with my work people, see some of the friends I’m dissing to hang with her. As we prepare to leave the room she suggests I pay for her valet. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not attuned to the LA customs, but it strikes me as kinda off. I let out a quizzical: “Pay for the valet?” Is that the deal, I think to myself, men pay for the valet? I have no idea. It is my hotel, so, if we got downstairs I’m sure I’d have paid, but her asking, I’m not sure how I feel about this. It’s like she wants me to be the kind of guy who pays for the valet, so instead of hoping I do it, then reading too much into whether I do or do not, she’s taking preventive measures to ensure that I AM the kind of guy who picks up the entire tab, all the way down to the valet. Women, I think, have a right to ask for flowers because we guys never think of buying flowers, and it’s a man’s duty to pay for dinner and drinks WITHOUT BEING TOLD TO DO SO. I mean I fought her at M Cafe to pay for her latte so why did she think the valet thing would escape me? Because I’m from New York, and I don’t know whats up with chicks and the valet? This night’s been awesome, why tarnish it with some debate over something I don’t even have an educated stance on. I make sure I have cash, and we head downstairs.

Back in the Scion. I had forgotten to see what was playing on her stereo before. Our make-out session behind M Cafe didn’t need music. Now, feeling a bit more relaxed and comfortable, I go for the radio; playing iPod detective. Little Wayne is suddenly rapping to the “Kryptonite” instrumental. Really, Facebook crush? Little Wayne mix tape songs? Before I have a chance to pass some type of superficial judgement, she does her little dance. I recognize the moves from the Internet, and again, in person, it soars. So fucking adorable. I don’t mention the dance, or how cute she is at that moment, I keep it for me.

I get a text after she’s dropped me off. Suggesting I not fuck any other girls tonight, to not tarnish the virtuousness of our date. About five minutes later, I’m face to face with a repeat. The repeat looks thrilled to see me. UH-O. We greet each other, she goes for the lips, I give her the cheek. I tell her I’ve been through at least one cell phone since my last visit to LA, and we re-exchange information. We chat it up a bit. I’m contemplating sleeping with her. I know I won’t, I don’t want to. But I contemplate being that guy. For a moment I want to live this Rôle, fuck this girl right in front of me, fuck the Internet girl tomorrow, be someone who really doesn’t care, who reaches for a cigarette the first thing in the morning, who tears apart everything, everyone in his path. I quit smoking this year; every day I don’t smoke, or don’t hurt someone first, before they can hurt me, every day I can be decent for more hours of the day than I’m unbearable, every day I do these things, the more apparent the Rôle’s truth becomes. I put my left hand in my coat pocket and feel the stickers for her blog, I don’t take them out or show them to anyone, but the little rectangle reminds me I have a date tomorrow; Sex and the City board game, at her place. I end the night with four of my boys at Bossa Nova with a chicken sandwich, no fries, and all the things dudes talk about at 3 am.

E-Fruition

Mon, 28 Dec 2009 08:12:00 -0500

I’m sitting in M Cafe on Melrose waiting for a blind date. It’s not so much a blind date, but an E-Date. There are no real blind dates anymore. Well that’s not really true because with the technology available these days any dame can have a Facebook full of misleading photos. So even if I’ve seen 100 pictures, how she really looks is still up in the air.

This is day six away from home and I’m still in one piece. Over five days and nights in Miami for Art Basel I drank maybe a hundred packs of Emergen-C and just as many Red Bulls and Diet Cokes. If I still smoked I’d probably be dead. I’m not. Limiting myself a tiny bit each day in Miami, all week one misstep away from a debilitating cold, somehow I make it to LA, to M Cafe, in one piece.

I duck out of my business dinner early and grab a taxi off Hollywood Blvd. Taxis outside of New York are an afterthought. They’re for Saturday nights and the overly intoxicated, or the victims of license suspension; even the tourists here have cars. Half of me is wishing I had rented a car. There is no leg room and it smells so fucking bad. At least once I get there she’ll be stuck with me. I double check my phone for the M Cafe address then for the LA TAXI entry, not wanting to be stranded if she’s the annoying social climber I think she might be. I say the odds are 50-50. Heads and she’s the most annoying girl I’ve had to suffer through coffee with; tails, we fall in love, maybe not IN LOVE, but in love enough to wind up back in my room at the Roosevelt sharing secrets and sheets. This won’t be a first. The last time this happened my coffee date and I soaked the bed right through one of those thin Roosevelt comforters. I ended up using 180,000 American Advantage miles coming back for more, and she ended up the ex-girlfriend of a blogger. Something tells me neither I nor tonight’s coffee date will drag this one out. I’m guessing she’s more concerned about her career than a potential mate, and I’ve got a flight home Wednesday morning. But for two days, I’m down to melt.

I don’t know why I get up from my seat, but I do. I’m up and moving and suddenly she is right in front of me. She is exactly as I hoped she would be. Tall, pretty, awkward, cute, under styled. Somewhere between eye contact and a hug she touches my arm. I hate to be the guy talking about energy and connection, BUT when her hand locked against my forearm I felt it in my entire body. Before we finish acknowledging each other one of her old friends is upon us. Shit, this is awkward. Not so much for me, I’m just a dude doing what dudes do. But for my date, she’s forced to explain me, a friend of a friend from New York, she’s meeting at M Cafe? I can see the holy fuck what am I doing here all over her face as I’m introduced. It’s actually perfect timing. It softens the impact of us being relative strangers and thrusts us into a situation together. Successful navigation of this situation will bring us closer, just like in the movie Speed. I smile and make conversation. Being polite, playing my role, friend from New York. I amaze myself. Two years ago this would have been impossible for me. I’ve been busting my ass to improve my social graces and it’s totally paying off. When the friend finally stops talking about nothing a dim light turns on in her head and she dismisses herself. Alone at last. I order a cookie to go with the coffee I’m already drinking. She orders a soy latte or rice milk latte, I don’t remember. I pay, pick a table, and we sit. Now we’re really on a coffee date.

I can’t remember anything really specific. I was fucking nervous. Not that she wouldn’t like me, I was nervous that I’d dislike her. After a bit of nervous banter we talk about when I sent her a picture of my cock. It was still hot in New York then; a lingering September summer. That east coast humidity can feel like some sort of paranormal fog. Invisibly rolling up empty August avenues, possessing everyone in its path, nudging the devil on our shoulders. I wonder sometimes what would happen if Summer ceased to be a verb. If New York was at capacity in August, could The Fog could reach a critical mass, push us all over the edge of morality, a Shivers sequel, the East Village gone erotically mad. I was still possessed by The Fog, dissipating in September, but still powerful, when one of my friends suggested the “dick pic” as a tactic, and another confirmed its success ratios. I mean it’s tasteless and totally off the wall, but Jesus, what hilarity. Send a few, see if you don’t get hooked. Once I found a decent angle, I got a little trigger happy with my iphone for a few weeks. I mean it’s not like I was just sending at random. You tell a girl: be careful I’ll dick pic you. See how long it takes for her to say: Fine SEND IT. She didn’t care. It was funny and fun. Maybe she cared a little but I’m not trying to beanybody’s Romeo right now, and nothing says: maybe a good time but definitely not husband material, like a dick pic.

It’s cold now, and I’ve deleted the dick pics. I like them and I’m a supporter of all who dick pic but it’s not really my style. Dickpicing is a trendy leather jacket. Yeah I’ve had a few, turn the collar up, wear em around the LES, maybe to Sway one Sunday, eventually they go back in the closet. I’m a jeans and t-shirt guy, at least in the winter. August is a different story. Pink SeizeSur Vingt shirt, button factor leaning towards indecent but not tipping the scales. Sounds awful, but add nondescript black pants and a perfectly caught 360 kickflip and I swear to you, I’ll yelp to myself I feel so fucking good. We let the dick pic drop and move on to my snacking habits. One thing about me that will never change is that I’m just a big fucking kid. Here I am at M Cafe with this girl I’ve been objectifying for months, my Internet desire culminating and what am I doing, I’m eating this chocolate chip cookie like I’m fucking eight years old. Crumbs are all over the table and I guarantee I’ve got chocolate somewhere on my lip. She points out my little mess and I shrug it off with a Popeye-ish ‘I am what I am’ declaration. I have no specific recollection of what was said. She is spastic and cute. I don’t know how much of it is an act and what is actually just her fender bender way of making conversation. Her videos on Facebook portray the same spastic but hyper-aware blabber mouth persona that I half expected to fall flat in person. It does not, it soars. Even when her words are contrived, which is slightly more than occasionally, I don’t cringe. I am fucking being charmed. The cookie, she was fucking negging me with the cookie thing. We touch again across the table. I feel it again. Electricity. I never get like this I swear.

We can’t sit in M Cafe forever, institutional lighting, surrounded by all things organic, no sensual cuts of red meat here, there is nothing arousing about seitan . There is some debate about what to do. I know what I want to do, I want to see her apartment. She decides that we ought to walk around the block. It’s freezing for LA, dipping into the 30s. We huddle together walking up Le Brea; God I live for this shit. Our arms around each other, I feel every touch differently, with my whole body. This is not going to be a conquest. I’m not playing a retard in checkers, decimating with double jump after double jump, we are level and it feels great. Around the block we go. Joking, teasing, staying close under her oversized army jacket. I recognize the jacket from Facebook but I don’t tell her. I leave the Internet behind and enjoy what’s starting to feel like a perfect date. How many people do we all suffer to find this, for someone who puts us at ease.

"Ian Svenonius of the rock band The Nation of Ulysses was named the inaugural “Sassiest Boy In..."

Sat, 26 Dec 2009 17:17:10 -0500

“Ian Svenonius of the rock band The Nation of Ulysses was named the inaugural “Sassiest Boy In America” in the October 1991 issue of Sassy Magazine”

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Young Love: The Conclusion

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 22:31:00 -0500

James’s front slappy seems like the right place to shift gears. I ask the crew how they go about meeting girls. Do they have a game plan and rehearsed pick up lines, or do they put their best face forward, hoping to elicit a positive response? Kevin says he lies; slight exaggerations of the truth to sound cooler. I ask why he feels the need to do this.

Kevin: I work retail. I skateboard. I live at home. I really don’t have a lot going for me and I’m really not that attractive.

Besides the living at home part, Kevin has tons going for him. I sometimes think he’s the only one who doesn’t realize it. He’s always saying he can’t score girls because of how he’s dressed, complaining that he’s not white or that he’s wearing camo pants, that he’s just a lowly skater. Most of the time it feels like he’s punishing himself. All he would have to do is state the same facts in a different tone and be transformed. I’ve seen a couple of the guys fall victim to this, running with a lot of whites dudes and thinking their best assets are handicaps. All it takes is a subtle shift in attitude and posture to defeat these insecurities, which is albeit easier said than done. No matter what I say, Kevin will pout and complain until a chick pays him some attention, then suddenly all self-doubts are forgotten. For now, it’s white lies and shots at Max Fish. After Kevin is finished James tells us about his strategies. He compliments. I am doubtful of complimenting and its effectiveness so I inquire further.

BL: Give me a real example where a compliment has worked. Do you use, sorta, back handed compliments?

James: No, I leave that to you. One time, this only half counts, Handsome Ted suggested: that girl’s into you. This was at the Fish, so I walked up and said, I like your dress, and she said, really? And I said, yeah totally. Then we started making out.

BL: Right away?

James: Yeah, but Ted saw something that I hadn’t noticed. She screamed availability I’m sure. One time I asked a girl, “What’s good with calisthenics?” She was psyched about that.

BL: What does that mean, like, shorty do you exercise? Saying she’s got great legs?

James: Yeah

I’ve seen Max really work it during the day. He makes strong moves in the middle of the afternoon, moves most guys his age would need a 6 pack to attempt. Whether rolling on randoms at Astor Place or following up eye contact at Whole Foods, he’s fearless in the afternoon. I have noticed his predilection towards shallower waters at night, not straying to far from Max Fish or wherever the LA gang is hanging out.

Max: I don’t drink that often, but when I do drink, which is not, like, get drunk, which is only a few times a year, I do loosen up and it is much easier to talk to girls. A lot of the time when Kevin, James, or someone who’s not from LA sees me at a bar, and there’re three girls talking to me, they’re not girls I’m pulling, they’re girls I know. Girls that know my little cousin, or litter brother, or fucked my friend. I’m not usually picking up girls like that. I’m better with random girls, eye contact during the day. Put it this way, I’ve never gone to Lit alone, and left with a girl. NEVER, at Lit.

BL: Everyone pulls at Lit?

Max: I’ve never pulled at Lit. At the Fish though, some disgusting things have happened.

BL: Wait, what happened at the Fish, some gnarly shit?

Kevin: This makes me wanna go to the Fish.

Max: Me and two other friends met this porn star looking girl outside the Fish. She said if we did an ollie, she’d show us her tits, and if we did a kickflip, she’d show us her fucking pussy. Miraculously, this is one of the times I’m really drunk too, I landed both first try, and she showed us both. And she actually wanted us to lie about our ages, to tell her we were younger than we were. I was 19, my other buddy was 20, and another was 18, and the girls begged us to tell them we were 16 years old. We went back to the house, me and this kid double teamed this girl, and I was over it. Actually me and the other dude thought it was raunchy and disgusting.

BL: But you tried it out anyways?

Max: Tried it, wasn’t into it. I blazed that girl, then she went in the other room, and I was in my room having a cigarette, and me and my homie opened the door to the living room. And our friend is on top of her, fucking her, holding her legs up with a shoelace tied around his balls. Screaming out loud, she’s yelling: TELL ME YOU’RE 16, TELL ME YOU’RE16. And this kid hardly talks, and he’s going, I’m 16 I’m 16, with A shoelace tied around his fucking balls cause she said that keeps you hard for longer or something, she was into it.

We talk a bit about who responds to us. For all our bar crawling and late nights at Lit or Max Fish, so little really comes of it. Lots of girls good enough for a night, that never make it beyond that cameo role. Every girlfriend we’ve had has been introduced to us by friends or have met under decent circumstances. Nobody is finding love at the Fish. I’ve always thought that if I’m willing to go home with some girl and she’s willing to go home with me, then I can’t really pass judgement on her, or call her a slut. I may never want to see her again, but I’m doing it too. I can’t totally close the door on potential. I fell in love with a one night stand once; we dated on and off for 10 months. James seems to share my optimism, and tells the story of a late summer fling.

James: I was taking this girl home…

BL: This is the first time you’ve slept with her?

James: Second or third.

BL: So she’s potential to hang out with, potential to chill?

James: It’s right about there, it’s been going on for a couple of weeks, so we went up [into James’s apartment] and I was all… Well at two different points I’ve wondered why she’s drinking more than I am.

She was killing tequila, and I was just chilling, and she was halfway forcing it on me, and I was like, naaaw. And she was like, “Let’s put on music,” so I put on music and she says, “You’re putting on The Virgins?

“Yeah I’m putting on The Virgins. That was what I wanted to listen to. And then she said they were passe. And I didn’t really have any energy for her afterwards.

BL: But she had energy for you?

James: Yeah, she fell in love with me.

Winding down, and I ask the guys what they expect out of the next 8 years, where do they hope to be, as far as the opposite sex goes, when they are my age. Do they plan to sleep with as many women as possible? Get Married? Jump from relationship to relationship? When I was preparing it seemed like the simplest question, almost an afterthought. I don’t know if we’d reached some point of comfortability where ideas just flowed, or if asking people where they want to go is more illuminating than hearing where they’ve been, but I find this part to be the most candid and affecting. I had to do a bit of editing but I left as much boys’ life appropriate stuff as I could.

James: I’d like to become a better lover. I keep using my old girl friend as a frame of reference because I have plenty of material to see how we related to each other. I loved her, which counts for more than anything else. Then there are other things I didn’t do, like wrap her presents, sometimes I would go out skating and I’d be like, yeah, I’ll be back in a couple hours. Then I’d be back the rest of the day later, and she’d say, Well I’d never do that to you. Which was true, but that was because she didn’t have skateboarding going on. The idea of going on dates never really occurred to me either cause I’d be down to kick it.

BL: What does that mean?

James: Not go on dates.

BL: Like: hang out at home, order chinese food, watch movies, do it?

James: Yeah

BL: You want to be a better lover?

James: Which encompasses all of that too.

BL: being more romantic?

James: Yeah, that would be a smaller part of being a better lover.

BL: So you want to get better at the act of having sex?

James: Sure, but I was not saying that as directly as it might have sounded.

me: So you want to have another relationship where you’re a good boyfriend?

James: Yeah. Along the way, in that attempt, I’ll become better at all of those aspects through more encounters.

BL: I would say for me that’s true. The more people you date, the better at dating you get. The more you learn, like, what’s gonna alienate someone, and what’s gonna make someone happy, and where your selfish, and where your self seeking, and whatever. But do you want to get better at “DOING IT TOO”

James : Yeah, yeah, of course.

BL: Well in my experience, you have to do it a lot, and you can’t just get drunk and sleep with people, you have to sleep with the same person more than a few times, and do it sober. Not so much though, that you only get used to them. The older I get the better I am at gauging what’s good and what’s bad. Now, a lot of the time it’s become like a 6th sense. I touch here, it’s bad, there it’s good, and adjust accordingly. The more you deal with women’s bodies, the more you know how they react.

James: Yeah, the initial touch-contact is the part that I find the biggest barrier or hurdle. Last night when you were touching that girl at Sway I said, Oh hes touching her, how would I reach that point with a girl I see tonight? Then there was this other girl there with the hat.

BL: The pirate broad?

James: Yea, I asked her if it was a hat from a war and she says, YEAH, it’s a hat from Tibet which means its from a war zone.

BL: Jesus Christ

James: Yeah, so I let her go.

BL: Well, if you want to touch a girl, you just touch her. You have to just do it, before it becomes built up in your head as some big thing. So that girl last night, she wanted me to touch her, she was engaging me first, so, I just touched her, I just knew. I used the reggae song as an excuse, like, oh no, the reggae made me do it, but once the door was opened, it’s on.

BL: Kevin, I know you’ve had some break ups. You’re a real romantic and that’s one of the things I love about you. You get really fucking passionate about these women you date, I’ve seen you get really craze about a couple different girls, like, chugging shots, WHY GOD!!! You have this great intensity about the opposite sex, and about love. Do you think you’re gonna get jaded? What do you see for the rest of your twenties?

Kevin: I want to get married.

BL: You do? You think a woman’s gonna solve your problems? You know she’s probably not?

Kevin: YOU NEVER KNOW.

BL: You feel like, in a movie-ish sorta rom-comedy way, she might be out there, the girl that’s perfect for you, a girl who does not care about the camo pants, she just loves you.

Kevin: That’s how it is, and I wish it was Crystal.

BL: Who was Crystal?

Kevin: The most beautiful girl ever.

BL: Give me a little Crystal, before we wrap up.

Kevin: She’s 26, She’s tattooed, she’s white, she’s a hick, she’s the best.

BL: What happened?

Kevin: She plaaayed me.

Max: She’s texting him right now.

BL: WHAT?

Max: She’s sending photos of herself like… [strikes the sexy self portrait pose made famous by millions of girls on Myspace.]

The Phone goes around the room and everyone has a good laugh. She is hot, and trashy; that part of me that still checks Suicide Girls starts to tingle.

BL: How did she play you?

Kevin: She didn’t really play me. It’s not really her fault.

Max: NO, she plays you. Everyone in here knows this, it’s not like I’m revealing business that can’t be out there. Rachel plays James, My ex plays me, Crystal plays you. On her birthday she called Kevin. I was with him. It was pouring rain; shitty night in New York. I had to convince him to come out with me, that’s never happened before. She calls him, and she’s wasted, it’s my birthday. He was trying his hardest to stay away from her, cause that’s what she asked for. And I’ve heard stories from him, and I could give you a hundred [stories] of the same type of shit, where these girls say:

Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it, stay away from me.

Then when you finally stay away from them, and don’t hit ‘em up, they fucking reel you back. And it’s the same thing, and I’ve said this to both of them, and they’ve said it to me, none of these girls want to be with any of us, they just want to know that you’re still there. They just don’t want you to be psyched. None of these girls want to actually date you. They always say, maybe this, if this, or if that. NO, if girls want to be with you, they’re with you. These girls just keep you on, you’re a fish on a hook, you’re fucking dangling dude.

BL: Do you think they’re just out here trying to figure out whats right for them; experiencing life?

Max: They’re like, this guy is the best now but if something better comes along, kick rocks, he’s dust. And, and that’s just it. It’s foul, but it’s the reality. And I only know this from talking to, I have 7 brothers and sisters. I have older sisters who are girls, who tell me what’s up. These girls just like to keep you on a fish line.

Kevin: I thought she was it. I flew to California, I drove to New Hampshire three times.

BL: It just didn’t work? You ever think, if you had not flown to California, she’d be more into it?

James: She be more into a guy who wouldn’t have driven, or gone to California?

Max: Yeah. Lets say he didn’t, and that got her attention. The second she said she was really sad and made contact, said, I cant believe you did come see me! The second you stop acting and put your guard down, At first you’re like, I was busy. You weren’t doing shit! The second you go, oh my god I miss you and I did want to see you, they got their fill. It’s fucking heroin.

BL: So Kevin, you still believe your Crystal, one that maybe treats you better, that she is out there?

Kevin: I shouldn’t have dumped Jessica, that was really stupid.

BL: I just love your passion, you’re such a fucking romantic, it’s awesome.

BL: Max, for you, what do you want to happen?

Max: I want to have a big family, but I know that, in order to do that, you have to figure out a lot about yourself, make a decent income, and be fucking happy. A lot of my boys, who I’m envious of, are selfish in their twenties. They’re like, yea I’m gonna hook up with girls, but I’m not gonna delegate all my time to one thing, I need to get my work done, job, family, school. I’m gonna try and start doing that, just focus more on myself, because that will attract birds anyway. Girls are into dudes who are confident and have their shit going. They’re not into dudes who are like, I have no aspirations and I don’t really give a fuck. Young girls might think that’s bad ass, but for a girl you actually want to be with, they want a dude with a good head on his shoulders. I’m not saying you have to be a famous actor, doctor, or lawyer. Doing something that you enjoy and being good at it, that’s what I want to work on. But yeah, fuck yeah, I want like ten kids, a big house, yeah…

Kevin: Awww, me too.

Max: I’m down to have a girlfriend, but I want to learn how to not. I couldn’t do it now, I pay too much attention to girls. When I have a girlfriend, I kinda give up on a lot of other things. And if there’s a day where, like, my boys all go to Brooklyn to skate. I usually won’t go. Once in a while I’ll be like, naw, I’m going skating, but that’s a show. Reality is I give up too much for birds. I want to get to the point like my friends who are so good with that.

BL: You invest a lot in the girls you date, put a lot into the relationship, maybe to an unhealthy extent?

Max: 110%. Besides getting the girl back, which it absolutely prevents me [from doing], [I prevent myself from] meeting another girl and getting work done. My grandfather always said if someone breaks up with you, you’ve got two weeks. You’ve got those two weeks to fucking sit in your room and fucking cry. Don’t eat, eat too much, whatever. After that, pick yourself up and move the fuck on. It will only benefit you. You’ll either meet someone better, or that chick will come running back, and you might not want her by that time. So I’ma try and just live with that outlook for the rest of my life.

We end on a funny note. Crushes.

BL: Celebrity crushes, go?

Kevin: Mila Kunis in Forgetting Sarah Marshall. She’s probably the hottest character of the last ten years. Not Mila Kunis, Mila Kunis in Max Payne was wack.

BL: You and every other fucking dude, how predictable. So you’re attracted to the character in Forgetting Sarah Marshall?

Kevin: Yes, definitely, cause that’s just the kind of lifestyle I want.

BL: Mila Kunis, camo pants, just chilling?

Kevin: YES!

Max: I’ve never, never, feel celebs…. But, Karen Allen, her best role, the Karen Allen I would want to date, is her in Scrooged.

Kevin: Rachel Weisz too.

James: I’ve been trying to think of one since you first asked the question.

James is unable to name a celebrity he’d want to sleep with. Adorable. The last question of the night is pure fun. I won’t tell you who named who, but I will name names. This is their list not mine, but I’m backing their entire list.

BL: Scenester Crushes! NAME EM!

Max: Does it have to be girls we kinda know?

BL: Yes, or people you’ve seen around, not famous, but scene famous.

And The Crew Says:

Hayley Coupon
Jen Reynolds (J.R.)
Cassie Coane
Meryl Smith
Alexi Wasser
Zoe Vance
Byrdie Bell
Roxanne Knouse
The older lady bartender at Max Fish, not the one who owns it, but the other one…

BL