Cute? Or Creepy.

Ah when we’re awkward, there’s such a fine line between cute and creepy. Because 'cute' to awkwardists may mean 'creepy' to the average folk. So then at what point does cute become creepy? Some instances of definite line crossing found in the best cesspool of social deviance--the bar;

1.) The relator. We have everything in common. I mean, everything. At first, finding similarities is entertaining and comforting. You feel you have a special bond with Mr. Coors because he went to the same YMCA for swim lessons that you did. AND you were both minnows. Things, however, start to take a creepy turn when he literally has everything in common with you. Same dog name, same college major, same favorite artist, same double-jointed big toe. This is when you stop providing the information first and stop enabling Mr. Ripley.

2.) The name commenter. Your name’s Alice? My sister’s name is Alice, I love that name. Who doesn’t like their name to be complimented? It could go the other way when you introduce yourself and the belligerent dude behind you shrieks ALICE?! NOT ALICE. THAT’S A BAAAAAD NAME. Within seconds you are informed about some horrible Alice who tried to kill him, stole his projects in advertising school, was crazy, etc. As he’s grabbing your wrist and shaking you because of the PTSD that’s been triggered thanks to your name, you may want to tell him he hadn’t heard right. It’s Sally…yeah SALLY. And you can fake laugh until you track out an escape route.

3.) The drink buyer. Thanks, that’s so nice! A free drink! Especially with the economy, how great, generous, etc. Until he orders you another one and another one and another one. You’ve hardly taken a sip and you’re staring at a row of greyhounds. Maybe they’re for him (something in common?), but no, turns out he doesn’t drink. That’s right, he’s stone cold sober and you’re only a fifth as drunk as he likes ‘em. Declare you have to go to the bathroom as he pulls the five drinks in and “keeps them safe for you.’

4.) The fly. A guy pops up next to you. You smile, kind of blush and he smiles and kind of blushes. Cute. You make your way to the stage and you’re doing some kind of rabbit dance when you hit someone and….it’s him. What a coincidence. You move stage right and you’re pogoing and sway to your left and you say sorry! But it’s him and he just smiles. Soon you’re in the bathroom and he’s outside the door, you’re at the bar ordering RedBulls and he’s in the seat next to you. Smoking a cigarette, his hand juts out from no where, holding a steady flame. Yup, you got yourself a bar stalker, find fake mustache.

5.) The watcher. Dancing, you notice a guy across the audience watching you. You meet eyes, etc and it’s cute in a tragi-emo-hipster kind of way. But the next song, he’s still watching you and you shrug it off; you’re a pretty good dancer after all. But song after song, he keeps watching and you start to lose a bit of rythym. You keep looking over your shoulder paranoid that maybe this guy knows you from somewhere else. Maybe he’s the guy who prank called you a month ago and pretended to be a serial killer (that never really got resolved, afterall). What if he’s a narc and knows you’re holding? The music grows faint and your blood’s beating in your ears. Ditch the show before you panic-seizure the two grams out of your pocket and all over the dance floor.

6.) The drug guy. Sure why not? It’s been a while. You smoke a joint out back, do a line in the bathroom—whatever your forte. You thank him and part ways. How generous. But in fifteen minutes he’s back and wants another go around. You kindly turn down his offer but he won’t let up. He’s got you by the arm dragging you to the bathroom so he doesn’t feel pathetic doing it alone and he’s talking the whole time, going on and on, asking you questions, not caring if you answer. Soon you realize you’ve become the drug-guy’s babysitter and he’s quite an addict. P.S. There’s no such thing as free drugs.

7.) The DIY cell phone guy. He’s asking for your number and he’s, well, very attractive. You go to type it in. But he wants to see it, he’ll type it in. How nice. Until you notice him going through your text messages and taking a ridiculous amount of time to punch in ‘ROB.’ You ask for it back, but he’s not done yet. Finally, after a good five minutes of pestering, you get your phone back and immediately go to erase his name, but it seems as though he didn’t even get around to doing that. Five days later, you’ll be going through your contacts and find Mr. Big Cock. Erase.

And good God, this was only in twenty minutes of observation. Must. Rekindle. Faith. In. Mankind. Awk on.

Hipsters Welcome Ski Pants Into Wardrobe, No One Into Band

Last night I went to a show in glorious downtown Costa Mesa, California. The bar was kind of dungeon like (in a cool way) and the clientele was, to be expected, hipster-esque. I say hipster-eque because while Orange County hipsters are full in force, they are a slightly unique hybrid—varying form the L.A. hipster and certainly from the hipster of New York origin. Of course, they all have two things in common: beards and fedoras. And there were plenty of both. However, the Orange county hipsters opt for more beachy-geekdom. Board shorts with a white button down (I swear) and, for the girls, a low-cut one-piece bathing suit under high-waist jeans. Interesting. And then there was the girl wearing full-fledged ski pants and I just really don’t know what to say about that one. Because, one, it’s Southern California and two, they were the bulky mom-ski pants. I mean they were actually legit for taking on Stowe or Okemo back east. Bizarre. But quirky. What I also found interesting was that there had been three different bands listed, yet the same members seemed to compose all three of the bands. There was one folky-twang girl who remained exclusively in the first, but the rest of the members just rotated instruments like those weird gym classes you used to have when the gym teacher was too hung-over to organize a softball game and would instead opt for ‘stations,’ while he did nothing and you jumped rope for three minutes before moving on to buddy-crunches. Is this the new hipster phase; pretend you’re in three bands when it’s really just one with a different name and some guy playing the fiddle instead of the bass? How confusing. It was good despite the videotaping that seems to be taking over hipster shows. Is it some kind of indie-folk-stage porn? It isn’t uncommon to see people videotaping live shows, but it is strange to see an old school video-camera (a la vintage typewriter) held by some little guy without shoes on. Also there was shushing. People actually sushed during the show. Wouldn’t it seem that a shush could be louder than hipster-mumble-judging? Wouldn’t it maybe irritate the band to perform to an audience that is relentlessly shushing? Let’s not do that, concert-shushing. Perhaps the ski-pants should be reconsidered as well.

Dog Talk and Other Trivial Things In Which I Find Myself Participating

Small Talk. Just the phrase gives me anxiety. The blatant waste of time, intelligence, and self dignity just to feel more comfortable near the person you're stuck with in the elevator, neighboring bathroom stall, on line at the drug store, etc. Perhaps you've experienced the bountiful joy of working in retail or hosting at a restaurant where you are paid to spend six hours engaging in and striking up small talk.

Some of my favorites:

Dog Talk--So you have a dog. I don't, but I'm aware of dogs. I know enough to get by in the conversation. Because actually, this isn't really a conversation at all. You are talking at me about your rhodesian-pug-poo's latest romp through the neighbor's trash. Not cute, not funny, this conversation is officially utterly boring. Even though I've, for some reason, felt the need to bring up my childhood dog and continue marinating in the ennui of this conversation. Ed did this, Ed did that, Ed's the best. "Who's Ed?" I ask...oh, it's your dog, again, you're talking about your dog. Please let me go. (Also applies to people who revert to baby talk when speaking of or at their cat, hamster, or parrot, ARR!)

The Weather--Wait. I'm not blind! I can SEE! For the love of God, the world is clear! So approaching me with, 'beautiful day out yeah?' is almost grounds for a fist-fight. Perhaps I were blind. Perhaps I am colorblind and the sky always looks gray. I could be a manic-depressive who dwells in storms and lightning strikes. Thus making this 'beautiful day,' ugly to me or the same as every other day. Do you need clarification? Are you unsure if the day's beautiful? Is it sort of but not really? Are you longing for some sort of common human bond based on the weather outside? Well, to get out of this, I have to say yes, despite what I think because apparently you've failed to recognize the alternatives. Oh, it's supposed to rain tomorrow? What are you, some kind of Weather Channel Robot? Did you memorize the 7-day forecast so you can talk confidently to random people? Am I supposed to go, "Oh really? That's too bad," Is it bad? Is it? It's the weather and it changes and there's nothing you can do about it. Quit acting like you created this glorious day for all of us, you bastard! Try a pick up game of baseball for a more productive sense of camaraderie with your fellow man.

I really like that! Thanks. Although, I say this too sometimes. I say it when I really don't like something as well. Because it is socially unacceptable to say 'Good GOD! What the fuck are you wearing?!' I'll smile and say 'Wow, I really like your pants,' because I have to say something about them, I just can't keep quiet on the matter. But suppose you really do like that hat, scarf, balaclava, fake tooth. Your smug smile after announcing it shows that perhaps that was your charitable act of the day. At home, you will, before drifting off to a saintly sleep, congratulate yourself on being so selfless, so nice to that clerk at the new age store. You're just great. Keep it up. Oh, and then there's the people who make a whole big to-do about the thing. You like that! You have something just like that! Your grandmother gave it to you right before she rocked back too hard in her rocking chair and feel out her 3rd story bay window! Your grandmother was crazy! She was also a drunk! Maybe you're a drunk too! Maybe you need help! Maybe you should have stopped talking after "Here's your change, have a good day."

Politics. Ok, now wait. Small talk is supposed to be self-explanatory. It's talk about small, insignificant things. Who said you could talk politics to me while waiting for the bus? Why would you think I care? Please don't show me your Obama tattoo. Did you just tell me a statistic? Are you quoting things? Now wait. Wait just a minute. What do you do again? You work at TCBY? The fro-yo store that went out of business three years ago? You're high on PCP? Ok Mr-I-read-half-a-Wikipedia-article-on-Obama-and-now-I'm-more-educated-than-you. Just because you know about the same amount as our politicians doesn't exactly make you one. Let me off of your crazy-train of political misunderstandings. This is a bus-stop, after all. (Also applies to issues of religion, race, sexual orientation, abortion, or anything that you could get you potentially killed, or at the very least stabbed with the refill of a mechanical pencil, at any given intersection in Santa Ana.

Where are you from? Sensing an accent are we? Picking up a little telepathy of snow and hailstorms? Alaska maybe? The Arctic? BOSTON! Ah, you were close. Well, you have a fourth cousin who lives in Boston. Surely this random person knows him. What's his name again? Something McDonald. McDonald! Know anyone with the last name McDonald? Oh, well you're worthless to me. Unless I can remember anyone I've ever met being from Boston. First and last names would be a great help. Scottie? Was there a Scottie? SCOTTIE DOUGLAS! You just yelled that at the poor woman, but who cares! She could know someone you know! Wouldn't that be INSANE?! No, she doesn't know him. Who is this stupid bitch and why doesn't she know anyone from Boston? Wait, wait! You went there once. Yes, yes, you were three and a half and your mother got you frozen yogurt...if only you could remember the street? That frozen yogurt place by that statue? Kind of by the highway? There was a school nearby and dogs...she, naturally doesn't know (this woman is a moron). She starts guessing....no, no, wait a minute. That sounds right! That must be the frozen yogurt place! And if not, you feel better making some sort of connection with this poor woman who will say anything to get you to stop badgering her. Her finger is poised in her coat pocket ready to dial 9. Dude, you're a psycho; Boston isn't an Amish village with a pop. of 48.

Did you See American Idol Last Night? No. Actually, I'm a junkie and I sold my television some four months ago for dope. Or I live in poverty. Or I'm not a complete moron. Or I don't care what judge was drunk and who's an asshole and why you think it's so amazing that YOU have the power to CHOOSE America's next CELEBRITY! Newsflash; buy an mp3 of a song you like. It is ultimately the same thing, without the voluntary loss of your brain cells or the staggeringly expensive phone bill with all of those text update on what dumb-fuck-pinstripe-beret-wearing-girl-voice-loser is doing backstage RIGHT NOW! Or at least, don't drag me into it. I try hard enough to avoid that show.

Wait, I now have to urge to gauge out my eyeballs with a computer key (which seems both difficult and enticing). How about talking about something interesting? Have nothing interesting to say? Well then how about keeping your mouth shut instead of contributing to the intelligent decline of humanity.

Awkward Memoirs Make Great Gifts!

I signed on here to post something about horrible Christmas songs and I was warmed to see someone had beat me to it. There should be, I believe, a world-wide Christmas music burning, along with; the drowning of carolers; the strangling of Salvation Army bell-ringer (I know that sounds horrible, but your stupid bell does not make me more charitable); and the snowball-pelting of old women wearing embroidered Santa Claus sweaters on December 6.

But alas, I'd rather not get hot and bothered about the ridiculousness of Christmas traditions. Instead, I've decided to delve into the frightening world of memoirs. I work at a bookstore and our biography section is quite popular. Perusing the shelves today for some man who "wanted a biography about someone from history" (very specific), I was surprised to find the talentless protagonists of these vain homages to self. Here's a list of some 'riveting' memoirs lining the shelves:

Alec Baldwin: A Promise to Ourselves; A Journey through Fatherhood and Divorce.
Ok. Now I'm assuming this 'promise' is not sobriety. What it is, quite fankly, I care not to know. Tips on fatherhood and divorce by Alec Baldwin....I'm sorry, I can't even comment seriously. Please do not give this book to any one with active reproductive organs.

Life with my Sister Madonna by Christopher Ciccone.
Who knew Madonna even had a brother? Who knew anyone would care?

Split: A Memoir of Divorce by Suzanne Finnamore.
Be sure to check out her next book; Memoirs of Fights with My Bastard Husband and Other Such Unenjoyable Parts of My Life. Can't wait!

Thin is the New Happy by Valerie Frankel
FINALLY. A positive book for women, can't wait.

Artie Lange: Too fat to fish by Artie Lange
Ok, so the Howard Stern show has that funny, unbridled misogynistic charm. Why? Uh, because of Howard Stern. Not that his lackies don't compliment the hilarious sexual harrassment of those witless, deranged girls fresh off the surgery table. But does this warrant a book? Do you like the Howard Stern show so much you want to read 'Artie's' memoir? MadTV had its moments, and so did...uh, what were those great movies he was in again? Don't forget the inscription on the back cover, "I'll explain this homo bullshit in Book Two," Homophobic and misogynistic--a bargain!

Maureen McCormick: Here's The Story; Surviving Marcia Brady and Finding My True Voice.
What.

Accidentally on Purpose: A One-Night Stand, my Unplanned Parenthood, and Loving the Best Mistake I Ever Made by Mary F. Pols
Mistake, eh? It's going to be hard to turn that around when she's fourteen. Save the royalties for therapy and ketamine, she'll need plenty of both.

Lynne Spears: Through the Storm
They ditched the title Lynne Spears: Through My Daughter's Wallet, I've Successfully Bribed Someone Into Publishing This 'Book.'

sTori Telling by Tori Spelling
I just sold one, I swear. And to a customer who asked about Tori Spelling's "new book. " Only book. Rest assured; there is only one.

Well Enough Alone: A Cultural History of My Hypochondria by Jennifer Traig.
Doesn't sound irritating at all. Destroyed by the blatant exasperation of her friends and family, she turns to the public to ask, "Do you think I have...?" A must read for sure.

Undiscovered by Debra Winger
Remember Debra Winger?! Wait, me either. Apparently (from the blurb on the inside flap)she is an "Oscar-caliber" performer who wasn't exactly the 'cool-kid' in the acting world. The flap continues, "As this beguiling book reveals, Winger is that rare star who dared to resist the all-consuming industry that is Hollywood becoming her entire reason for being." Despite the horrendous use of grammar in that sentence, it seems that, in the end, Debra Winger would (ironically) publish a tell-all called "Undiscovered" in a last-ditch effort to...um...be discovered. Yawn.


There are so many more, but as the list goes on, so does my dispair for society and not to mention, the trees that could've been used for much more productive things (toilet paper? tissues? those litter-enducing flier hand-outs at music festival exits?)

Deck The Halls With My Disapproval

I know Christmas isn’t for another twenty days but I just can’t wait to listen to those good old traditional Christmas jingles I've been hearing for over twenty years now, so do you think we could all start playing them right now? In fact, I think we should all play Christmas songs as soon as Thanksgiving is over because I never know what to listen to repeatedly between Thanksgiving and Christmas. So... Is this what most people are thinking? No, seriously, I don’t understand why the Christmas music has already begun. It’s annoying enough to have to listen to these ridiculous songs that don’t make sense on the day of, but why does America start playing Christmas music so early? I know they bring back those sweet childhood memories of your mom screaming at your dad about where the tree should go and you’re dad telling her to shut the fuck up before they got that divorce, but these songs are really annoying. I mean, if someone wrote one of these songs today I think the record producer might slap them across the face just for making them listen to it. First we've got this reindeer named Rudolph, who’s got this huge shiny-ass red nose and everyone hates him and makes fun of him for it. And you know what? Santa doesn’t really seem to give a shit. We all know that he knows everything that goes on at the North Pole, so why doesn’t he stop this torment earlier? It’s probably because he’s making fun of Rudolph along with the other reindeer. Yeah, so everyone hates on Rudolph until he’s actually needed because no one can see on that foggy Christmas Eve. And they all try to act like nothing ever happened and Rudolph gladly accepts Santa’s request and guides the sleigh. Can you say pushover? What sort of a message is this for kids? If I were Rudolph I’d be pretty pissed off. I wouldn’t want to drive that sleigh. I’d tell Santa to go buy a fucking flashlight. And what’s the deal with Santa? He sees you when you’re sleeping and knows when you’re awake? This is pretty fucking creepy, is he a stalker or something? Does he use his army of midget elves to spy on everyone in their homes? I don’t know how I feel about knowing that some old fat dude can see me every second of the day. Should I get some sort of harassment suit or restraining order?

And then there’s the twelve days of Christmas song. Not only do you have to keep repeating the song over and over in case you weren’t annoyed the first eleven times, but have you ever actually thought about these gifts? Seriously, these are actually the worst presents ever. You’ve got a partridge, two turtledoves, three French hens, four calling birds. What’s with all the birds? Do you think you could switch up the gifts, I’ve got all this bird shit on my carpet and these birds are going crazy in my tiny apartment? But no, there just aren't enough birds apparently. Next you get six geese a laying. So now I have to pick up all these eggs along with the bird droppings? Do I look like a fucking farmer to you? Apparently so because now I get seven swans a swimming. Swimming where? In my tiny bathtub? I think not. And as soon as you get used to all the damn birds, eight maids milking cows waltz in. I’m sorry, I don’t need any more milk, I got some at the grocery store and this isn't a dairy farm. But no one is listening to you because immediately nine ladies dance into your house uninvited at this point with about thirty dudes banging drums and piping (who pipes now-a-days?) and the police are knocking on your door because of all the noise complaints. They probably think you’re hosting some sort of illegal cockfighting tournament in your apartment, but instead they see all these birds and weird ladies dancing to horrible banging and they decide not to ask any questions and leave because they probably want to forget they ever saw this ridiculous Christmas spectacle that has forced itself into your apartment through your stereo. Can our generation please start some sort of new Christmas tradition? Or can we at least replace the old songs with new ones? I mean how many times do you want to have to sing "all I want for Christmas are my two front teeth?" I've had mine for about fifteen years now and I'm not a redneck or a meth addict so I think I'll be keeping them for quite a while. This song really only applies to a small group of children.