Song: Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon by Urge Overkill
Alternate song: Honky Tonk Woman by The Rolling Stones (If you ever went to Sweet Alice in Chicago back in the day, I made sure you heard this song.)
Sometimes when I’m too lazy (or nauseous — Soren and I are sharing a tummy bug today) to write, I read my old blog to try to find non-embarrassing shit to post here and pass off as material you might want to read. This rarely is successful. So what the hell, I’ll post embarrassing shit from my old blog that I wrote when I was grossly underemployed and trying very, very hard to make myself sound more appealing than I was at the time so strangers on the internet would fall in love with me in that internet-fall-in-lovey kind of way that doesn’t amount to anything that might affect your real life. I’m willing to bet money that similar words have been written by 90% of people who went to Big 10 universities, wanted to grow up to be writers, used to be social smokers and good at pool, were known for playing Urge Overkill on the jukebox at their favorite bar in Chicago back in the day, tend to drink too much from time to time, and are fond of making rash decisions. Most of them probably had the sense to refrain from sharing it with the public.
These were written before I learned about the serial comma and hyphenating compound adjectives.
Content behind a cut, for your protection. Thank you, The Management
Joe irons his jeans and wears a shirt the perfect shade of orange to match the “I” on his baseball hat. He is from the south side of Chicago and was an Illini fan before it was cool, before Dee Brown tore up the game shooting 15 for 21 from the three point line and they rolled over yet another team on their quest for the NCAA championship.
What do you do at a bar where there is no basketball on tv, no good music, one of you isn’t looking and the other may be but there are no good prospects? You sit upstairs under the heated tent at Funky Buddha watching the snow fall and making fun of strangers.
The girl in the ill fitting tweed blazer over a black skirt must be a frustrated real estate agent. She almost leans against the guy sitting on a stool and it’s not clear at this point whether they’ll leave together.
“I have a great little two bedroom in Westminster I’d love to show you,” she said when they first started talking. He thinks Westminster is just perfect and agreed that he’d arrange a time to see it after he checks his calendar for next week, which is not actually busy but he likes to seem important.
“His first mistake,” Joe says, “is not offering her the seat.” It is obvious that Joe would never make such an error.
Frustrated real estate agent’s hotter, drunker friend makes an appearance, making her stiffen in the blazer. She hopes yet another conquest is not derailed due to the appearance of the hotter, drunker friend. It happened too many times before, ever since they’d eat alone in the dorm cafeteria on Saturday afternoons because one was mad at the other for something involving a guy neither of them would ever see again.
Nodding to the guy at the bar, Joe says “I played soccer with that guy. He’s on the D.L.”
“He really hopes that guy he’s talking to is at least Filipino because he refuses to kick it with someone who is not a person of color.”
Someone’s parents hover on the edge of the group, the dad wearing pimp glasses and the mom with better hair than any of her daughter’s friends. She’s not sure why her daughter is the type who carries $15 handbags and wears clothes better suited for older women named Bertha or Gladys, or why she only dates chubby or short men with too much hair gel who end up leaving angry voice mail messages at 3 a.m. after a night of drinking with the guys but then smile warmly when she appears at their doors with a fresh peach cobbler and watered down lemonade.
The only (other) acceptable woman in the bar wears stilettos and a polka dot skirt. Of course she works there and spends the evening collecting empty glasses and pretending to enjoy conversation with patrons. She may or may not get a phone number from the only (other) acceptable man in the bar. Everyone else is there with a group from work, people who have known each other for years and hook up with each other, break up, hate each other and start wars and pick sides but then realize making up is easier than finding new friends.
He was sitting on the stool that whole time to disguise the fact that he is shorter than our frustrated real estate agent, even taking into account her flats. They leave together. On the way out, they see that the DJ’s angular girlfriend, elbows everywhere, is the only one dancing.
Sometimes I leave without even going anywhere.
I love you so much, can’t count all the ways I’ve died for you girl and all they can say is he’s not your kind…
You’re arrogant, confident I’ll go home with you and I will but try not to let on at first. You’re just smooth enough to still be interesting, with nervous energy that makes you peel back the corner of the label on your beer. You’ve had so much practice with girls who always ended up wanting to marry you before you walked through the airport in your long basketball shorts with no checked baggage for your flight out west, wearing a baseball hat with the brim curved perfectly. They’d meet you at Thursday night bars and spend Friday afternoon talking about you to friends over Starbucks in their pink flip flops and Coach sunglasses while you sat on a hand me down tweed couch and blew off class, beer bottles lining the coffee table and ESPN on the tv.
I should be afraid of getting in the car with strangers but I’m the product of a Big 10 education and many nights spent drunk in a town just west of the world’s largest truck stop and know to trust my judgment when it comes to things like this. If your refrigerator contains nothing but Miller Genuine Draft, old condiments and the remnants of take out Chinese food, I’ll be disappointed but there is time for good beer later. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here only for nights spent falling into your bed with the plaid Nautica sheets your ex girlfriend bought when she thought you’d propose to her so she could have a candle pass before graduation. That ended badly, you afraid of commitment, always driving away in your Jeep, and her with angry away messages and late nights dancing and flirting with guys in her contemporary British drama class. She moved to some midwestern city after graduation where she’ll be a teacher and wait for a suitable husband.
I’ve been misunderstood for all of my life but what they’re saying girl it cuts like a knife the boy’s no good…
I take you to upscale hotel bars and, like cross examination, I never ask questions to which I don’t know the answer and the answer is always yes. You don’t dance, even after tequila, but pressed against you in a corner booth tasting the salt off my glass, I don’t care. At the late night bar where everyone is drunk, I don’t touch you and feign interest in the pool table, laughing when you kiss my neck but ignoring what you try to whisper to me. More often than not I win beers from you betting on basketball games and I pretend that you take advantage of me when I’m drunk. You know it’s an act but like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern playing questions, the game continues.
I can play your games better than you know. I never answer the phone when you call, letting you leave awkward messages on voice mail and I call back days later, if at all, when I know you won’t answer. Your Saturday nights don’t mean anything to me and all I want is the hot taste of your skin and to wake up to a tangle of legs as the sun reveals that we slept too late and someone missed something important.
None of this is important, or it all is, words never more complicated than what they are by expectations.
Goth Related Offenses
If all goes according to plan, Denver may be the first city in the nation to pass a local anti-goth ordinance.
After an outcry of local citizens, the Denver City Council on Monday proposed the first of its kind ordinance which would make certain goth-oriented offenses punishable by a fine and even jail time for repeat offenses.
Residents of the historic Baker District have argued in favor of an anti-goth ordinance in town meetings for the past year. After a local bar began holding a weekly goth night, drawing goths from the surrounding countryside to listen to goth music and deathrock, outraged neighbors went so far as to take to the streets late at night, putting brightly colored smiley face stickers on goth looking cars in an attempt to not only spread happiness and cheer but to also to eliminate the unsavory goth characters from their previously hip and colorful neighborhood.
The City Council Representative from District 9 proposed the ordinance after being presented with a petition signed by 80% of the residents in that District. “The time to act is now,” she stated on the Capitol steps, “to eradicate the rampant goth infestation that has taken over our streets and threatens to poison our children and strikes terror into the hearts of good, kind and happy citizens everywhere.”
Madame Mystress of Death and Spyders decries the proposal, stating that if the ordinance passes, she will be forced to “sit at home staring at my ceiling and pouring burning candle wax onto my delicate and pale bony arms while listening to Bauhaus songs over and over.” Which is exactly where she belongs, according to Baker resident Jennifer Montoya, who claims she has resorted to driving to Wash Park to walk her dog who is terrified of the goths.
The proposed ordinance would regulate the percentage of black clothing allowed to be worn at one time. While an entirely black outfit would be acceptable if offset by fashionable accessories such as a North Face jacket, a brightly colored water bottle, shiny pink lip gloss or a Kate Spade handbag, an entirely black outfit lacking in fashionable accessories or including any one or a combination of fishnet stockings, platform boots with a sole thicker than three inches, blood red fingernails or lipstick, pointy bangs, striped stockings, dog collars, safety pins or anything torn would be considered an ordinance violation. Violators would be fined $100 and sent to the mall with an order to purchase clothing appropriate for the current year. Women would be required to wear something pink for a period not to exceed one week and men would be required to wear a baseball hat prominently featuring a sports team logo. Cars being driven with goth music played at a volume audible to pedestrians are subject to stop and the driver and passengers will be fined $100 for the first offense and required to perform community service while listening to the song Shiny Happy People. Bars and clubs featuring a goth night will be subject to closure and DJs spinning goth tunes will have their CDs and records confiscated and replaced by quality house music, or, in certain circumstances, hip hop and R&B. A second offense of any violation will result in a $500 fine and up to 30 days in jail wearing a monogrammed pink and green uniform with white flip flops. Inmates would be required to spend up to two hours per day planting colorful flowers in the sunshine and drawing pictures of puppies and kittens.
I’ve seen that meme floating around again, you know the one where you write about people on your friends list but don’t say who is the subject of any comment. Don’t we all like to fantasize about how our friends have crushes on us, or find us incredibly talented and sexy and inspiring and smart? Indeed we do, but really, it’s not us they’re talking about, is it? Let’s take a moment to wonder what our LJ friends really think of us. Here’s what some of you would probably say about me.
1. Would you just make up your mind and do something with your life instead of bitching about it all the time?
2. You’re not as smart as you think you are.
3. You probably wear Uggs and ponchos.
4. You’ll never write a novel because you drink too much to be focused, and if you ever did write one your mom wouldn’t even read it because, well, your mom really hates to read and hasn’t picked up a book since she used the microwave instruction manual to squash a spider.
5. You’re going to hell, you heathen!
6. You make terrible football picks. What’s up with saying the Chiefs are going to win every week, you dumbass?!
7. You have HOW MANY CATS?!
8. You and your friends are a bunch of snotty whores.