Blind Date

Purse? Check. Keys? Check. Cell phone? Check. Cleavage? I glance down at my low-cut blouse’s meager offerings. Half-check. No amount of fluffing will get those ladies ready to go, it seems. Another year has come and gone, and seen the last of my single friends become not-so-single, and eventually married. You know that saying “always a bridesmaid, never a bride?” Yeah. That’s me. I’ve been in two weddings a year since high school. And I don’t really care to repeat how long ago that was. Suffice it to say, I’ve run out of fingers to count on when it comes to the wedding thing.

            Now that all of my friends are oh-so-happy and desperately in love and are just DYING to go on a double date with me and good Lord when will I find a man so we can have double dates, I’ve been set up on a blind date. Every. Damn. Weekend.

            At first I was shy, wearing boat neck blouses and turtlenecks and stuff. But apparently, all men want are the sweater kittens. If they can’t look at those, where’s the interest? Enter the Slut Shirts- strange, filmy materials that get staticky and cling in weird places and show the tan line from my would-be revealing bikini, if I had anything to reveal. Sure, low-cut shirts are supposed to be sexy, but what’s sexy about a sternum? Not much. My so-called friends assure me it won’t matter. They say I’m “hinting” at what’s beneath, and that it adds “allure” and “mystery.” Personally, I find it hard to judge where the line between hiding sexy and showing sexy is according to these people.

            At least my spectacular crash-and-burn on the ice last Wednesday gives me an excuse to cover up my legs, which currently resemble raw hamburger. What can I say, I’m a sexy beast.

            When I arrive at the restaurant, my eyes immediately zone in on the target. Not the bar, though it does dance oh-so-seductively at my periphery. No, the white rose laid carefully along the table’s edge. It’s the protocol that has been established for my blind dates. With a deep breath and a longing glance at the colorful bottles along the far wall, I make my move.

            I play my role well enough. I smile, do the shy thing. Not too hard for me- a little giggle here, a downcast gaze there, maybe even a hair-tuck or two if I’m feeling coy. And that’s just the introduction.

            It’s between the wine course and the appetizer course that I notice he’s gazing at my sternum. Not my tits, my sternum. I think. I glance down at my chest again. Hello? Ladies? Are you down there? The nice man wants to say hello, and all he’s getting is the bony asshole between you.

            Appetizers include oysters, because apparently Jack (that’s Mystery Man’s name) is feeling amorous. What other reason than wanting an aphrodisiac could someone have for ordering these slimy, half-inflated balloon things? At least the garlic flavor of the sauce is strong. Though I’m not sure how wise it is for a fine dining establishment to serve an aphrodisiac bathed in one of the least sexy smell-slash- other person’s mouth flavors.

            He drones on and on about his love for seafood, and he even tries to feed me one of the mollusks. I politely decline, saying I want room for the main course before taking another sip of wine.

            Someone needs to find a way to up the booze-a-hol content of fermented grapes. Those sparkly bottles across the room catch my attention again. Ahh, Grey Goose, my one true love. Will you wait for me?

            Jack is apparently a stock broker, something I know nothing about and apparently involves a lot of numbers. I’m not so great with numbers. I tell him as much and I get a patronizing smile and hand pat before he changes the subject to music. This is a subject I can get behind.  

            We chat about the Grammy awards and how Cee-Lo may have topped Gaga with his bird-slash-armor outfit, and about the Best New Artist upset. We debate the merits of Eminem as an artist and not just a rapper, and why the voters don’t seem to give two shits. Everything is going great, and we’re halfway through the main course when I realize I’m having fun. I like this guy, despite the patronizing man-smile hand-pat.

            And just like that, the other shoe drops. He invites me to a concert next weekend, and my intrigue piques.

            “Who?” I ask. Maybe it’ll be someone awesome, or indie. No, not indie. I’m not sure I could date a hipster. I’d have to work way too hard.

            He grins, and it lights up the room. Not even the shiny bottles distract me from this man’s joy, his elation, until he reveals his dark secret. “Nickelback. I have season tickets,” he beams.

            Fuck. My. Life.

            I don’t even stay for dessert.

 _______________________________

            My brother just bought me a fleshlight. Asshole. I’m hoping he did it only so I would agree to go on a blind date with his wife’s sister’s college roommate’s best friend. I can’t imagine looking at him again if he seriously thought about my fapping.

            I dress nice for this one. I want to make an effort, because God forbid he buys me a RealDoll. That’s just a little too Uncanny Valley for my delicate sensibilities. I’m aiming casual, but not too casual, and definitely not Mr. Stock Broker. I hate penguin suits. 

            Nate was kind enough to inform me that protocol with this girl included a single white rose laid along the table’s edge. It seems a little Lifetime Original Movie for me, but I don’t really have much of a choice but to follow procedure. The date is scheduled for 7:30, so naturally I show up half an hour early with a reservation and then sit alone for the next thirty minutes, glancing anxiously at the door.

            It’s precisely 7:31 when a tall brunette approaches my table. She strokes the white petals of the flower before smiling at me with half her mouth. She introduces herself as Felicia, and I confirm my identity, and that yes this is in fact the right table. I even do the over-rated gentlemanly thing and stand up before she takes her seat. The internet tells me that women love chivalry, and hey, millions of faceless users can’t be wrong, right?

            I’d ordered a bottle of sangria and some oysters…mussels? Mollusks to be delivered to our table when she arrived. And they do arrive, in a surprisingly timely fashion, the wine coming slightly in the lead. When she leans over to pour a little more in her glass, her shirt shifts ever so slightly and I see a hint of bra. As far as blind dates go, catching a glimpse of bra is like the holy land, or the garden of Eden, or something else Biblically awesome and I’m transfixed. My rapture is interrupted by the cougar-ish waitress bringing me my delicious seafood.

 Felicia looks less than impressed by the appetizer choice. Alas, it must not be in the stars for me to find a woman who enjoys fishy, garlicky goodness.

            Felicia asks me about my job, and I launch into a slightly overly-detailed explanation of what I do. Of course, I leave out the less-than-glamorous parts, like how my newbie status has granted me business cards proclaiming me as the “coffee bitch.” Her eyes glaze over, not so much in the fun drunken way, but more in the “Oh shitballs I’m bored,” kind of way. I ask her about her thousand yard stare, and she proclaims she is “not so good with the mathy-ness.” I smile in what I hope is a comforting manner before I gently pat her hand. Most girls aren’t so good with the “mathy-ness” anyway, and I really need to learn to leave out all the technical stuff.

            There are a few slightly awkward moments of relative silence, where all that can be heard is the chatter of other patrons, the clatter of cutlery, and the strange squishy chewing noises that my unfortunately-chosen appetizer provides. A few moments in to this lull and I notice a rhythm, which leads my mind to make the slightly illogical jump to a discussion about music.

            Music is harmless, right? I contest her assertion that Cee-Lo Green’s outfit was crazier than Lady Gaga hatching from an egg. I mean, it’s no bloody bride scary thing, but Gaga is hot, and anytime she resembles anything close to nude I’m a fan. We both agree that Eminem really deserves to be honored outside the rap category. The man has over a dozen Grammys, all from the same categories? I call shenanigans all over that. It’s when she’s discussing her love of concerts and her desire to see Florence and the Machine (who she believes should have won Best New Artist and is outraged that that stupid Bieber kid was even nominated in the same category) live that I have a brainwave. A magnificent, game altering brain wave.

            I invite her to a concert, one that I have an extra ticket for next weekend.

            I can see the wheels turning in Felicia’s head, partly because she screws up her face in the strangest ways when she is thinking. There may have been an eye twitch or two. “Who?” she asks, looking at me like I hold the key to the universe.

            “Nickelback,” I say, grinning broadly. “I have season tickets.”

            I watch as her face crumples before mutating into a look of abject horror. And just like that, she stands up, gathers her things, and bolts.

            Fuck. My. Life.

            She didn’t even stay for dessert.

Beauty

Even as culture moves forward, and people are more universally accepted, there’s still something vaguely alien about a girl with short (pixie cut, not ear-length) hair; especially if she doesn’t dress classically female. I should know. Psychologists call this ‘androgyny.’ Garbage has a great song by the same title. God, I love Shirley Manson.

So there she is, proudly displaying her short, kind of messy blond hair. A baggy sweatshirt hides any indication of what sort of figure she might have. She’s wearing different glasses today, they’re smaller than the usual ones. But the elements of femininity are there, too. Subtle and beautiful, the way it should be, not shout-out-loud sluttiness like we see every day when we turn on the television or computer. Fuck Kim Kardashian. A simple, elegant design is printed on the arms of her glasses. Small studs (maybe pearls?) rest snugly on her ears. If she’s wearing makeup, it’s hard to tell. Au naturale.

Why can’t this be classically beautiful, too? What is so ‘taboo’ about androgyny, and not fitting neatly into the little boxes the world has for us? Square peg, meet round hole.

She probably fits in as ‘one of the boys.’ Sure, there may be girly guilty pleasures like Disney Princess movies, and floaty dresses, or just having an excuse to actually give a damn about outward appearances. But I bet, if she had her way, she’d be reading a book instead of bumming the mall, or playing video games instead of volleyball. And I bet she would be happy, too. Why can’t girls be nerds or geeks or whatever? Why must they (we) be classified as vapid, brainless beasts whose only function is to get into the kitchen and make a sammich? Oh, right. Paris Hilton can go to hell, too.

But maybe change is coming. Maybe this generation (Generation Y?) is the harbinger of change. Maybe it’s girls like this, and not the ‘classic’ ones that will even the gender gap. I bet if the Hepburns were still around (especially Katharine) they would have a pixie cut, too.

The Hipster War

The Hipster War

            It happens everywhere; at the mall, at a coffee shop, at that park down by the beach. Nowhere is safe from the Hipster War. Especially not live shows. Any show, regardless of the genre playing, will always and forever be ground zero to the Hipsters.

            What are they? What is the war? The questions are many, and they’re nearly impossible to answer. Hipsters, by definition, like “uncool” things ironically, in an attempt to be cool; like PBR. There are very few people on this planet that actually like that piss water. Hipsters don’t like it because of its taste. They drink it because it tastes awful. It’s a confusing world they create  for themselves, and they spread it to everyone around them. As far as the reason for the war, well, perhaps the most important thing to know, is that hipsters hate other hipsters, and refuse to see themselves as such.

            Hipsters have no standard definition, either. There are many variants, from Original Hipster, who wears plaid, and oversized glasses, and loafers, to the Emo and Scene Hipsters. These sub-categories of Hipster are nearly indistinguishable from the trend that they seem to be. The Emo/Scene Hipsters tend to wear a little more color, a little less makeup (gender undefined) and listen to a slightly wider variety of makeup.

            Perhaps you are friends with one, and you are just now realizing it. Maybe she has a strangely asymmetrical haircut, reminiscent of early 1990’s grunge. Maybe she has thick-framed glasses, that make her head look like Beetlejuice’s shrunken one. She definitely wears non-trendy clothes, and almost certainly has a white belt or two. Does she walk a little hunched, or shuffle her feat to give off an air of shyness or discomfort? Now, go to her Facebook page (or Myspace, if she’s feeling especially ironic). Are her pets/boobs/whatever named something…unique…like ‘Fernando’ or ‘Armand’ or ‘Rupert?’ Do her status updates revolve around music no-one’s heard of, or about how much she DESPISES hipsters? If you’ve answered ‘yes’ to two or more of the above questions, congratulations, you know a hipster. If you personally qualify for two or more of these scenarios, then face it, you’re a hipster. 

            At a show, you often see her one of two places: up front close to the band, acting only marginally interested, or in the back, only marginally interested, but still perturbed that she is so far back. Ennui is the figurehead of the hipster cult. She will inevitably stand there, adjusting her half-shaved hair so it looks just disheveled enough that it’s obviously taken hours of work. Dancing in any sort of rhythmic way is out of the question, rather, she will shuffle her feet awkwardly, or do ridiculous white-man dance moves that should have died back in the eighties.

            “How is this indicative of a war,” you ask. Well, this is the beauty of the Hipster War. It’s silent, and invisible, and there is minimal collateral damage. Everyone can identify a hipster, but most people simply dismiss them as another subculture of American youth. It’s only the hipsters that get violent and angry at the sight of another. Say our model hipsterette Aubrey[1] is out in public, on a random day. She’s not working, and therefore is not being forced into a code of ethics that she doesn’t subscribe to. Another hipster approaches. Inevitably, one of them will shuffle aside so that they can pass each other uninterrupted. But as they pass by, Aubrey will be absorbing every facet of the other hipster (we’ll call him Dan) from his plaid shirt, to his pathetic facial hair (or ironic mustache, it depends on how well the male hipster can grow facial hair) and most definitely to his white belt. It’s possible he’s listening to music, from his iPod or other device, and his music is just loud enough for Aubrey to hear. It’s probably the Decemberists or Some Band You’ve Never Heard Of. They continue to get closer and closer to each other until they are parallel, and at this crucial moment, there will be a single whisper of disdain. “Fucking hipster,” she breathes. A deadly blow in the hipster war.

 Dan may recover, or, he may reevaluate his life, and stop drinking PBR because seriously, only half a dozen people in the world can genuinely like that crap. Maybe he’ll finally shave. With any luck, a blow like that can cause such an extreme reevaluation that any given hipster might even drop the superiority complex, and finally just be themselves.

But where does that leave our intrepid young Aubrey? Well, it’s hard to say exactly. For now, she’s carrying on with her Hipster ways, wearing a Purple Heart in the form of a panda-bear backpack. Someday she’ll get hit with that final blow, the one that cripples her ironic ideals. Until then, she marches forward, another silent soldier in the Hipster War.

---

[1] Names have been changed to protect the identities of those involved