Dancing Douche

Prop

Sometimes the scene will yield the perfect prop to exploit for bonding with girls. This guy gave us ten minutes of quality entertainment:

I know it’s hard to see (dark, buzzing cameraman) but there is a guy dancing in front of the fish tank holding a cell phone to his ear. I’m pretty sure there was no one on the other end of the line. He danced vigorously (leg kicking, pelvis thrusting) for a full ten minutes staring at the fish tank the whole time, cell phone never leaving his ear. Half the bar was pointing and laughing at him. The bartenders began imitating his moves, complete with mock cell phone. He remained oblivious to his public humiliation.

Thank you, Dancing Douche, for facilitating mating opportunities.

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Things I’ve Learned

Pulling up in a cab to a hipster dive bar is a major social faux pas. This was news to me. You see, hipsters have an image in their heads of what guys piling out of a cab on a Friday night look like — either Georgetown clones or A|X wearing K street club monsters — so when a cab pulls up to their favorite hole in the wall eyebrows are raised. Any hipster worth his calculated pose of cynical detachment would walk to his bar of choice since he authentically lives a few blocks from it. I’m pretty sure the doorman laughed out loud when he saw our cab.

Speaking of hipsters, it is now considered retrograde to actually call them by their rightful name.

Me: This place is pretty much hipster central, huh?

Girl: No one calls them hipsters anymore.

Me: So what do you call them?

Girl: Nothing.

Me: OK, then I guess you guys like to hang out in a bar full of nothings.

Irony doesn’t make it taste better.

I plan to go to the same place next weekend and test their patience by wearing pointy shoes.

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Stuff Whiter* People Like Quiz

Hoping to prove to myself that I am a badass nonconformist, I read through all 76 entries to date at the Stuff White People Like blog and tallied up my score to see how many applied to me. I was as truthful in my answers as I could tolerate.

My white person score: 27 out of 76, which rounds up to 36% white.

*More technically, 36% whiter than the average white, since what that blog really describes is the kind of status whoring that upper middle class coastal city liberal whites like to pursue to separate themselves from the masses of unenlightened whites in flyover country.

I’m pleased with my score. It shows that I have just enough taste to enjoy the good life (green tea has anti-oxidants! NASCAR makes no sense to me!) but not so much self-righteous whiter person status posturing that I become the very thing I loathe (no, I really don’t give a shit about raising awareness!).

I’m so convinced that a lot of these things that whiter people like are merely grabs for status over other white people that I have an experiment in mind. According to this entry, white people love to go to ethnic restaurants (not including Italian) that are patronized by non-whites for the “authentic” experience, so they can tell their fellow whites about their new favorite foreign cuisine. This earns them major bragging rights. The more foreign-sounding the food, the better. Listen as they take great pains to pronounce the dish they had in its native tongue.

Now I like Ethiopian food, even though it gives me tremendous gas one hour after eating it. But I wouldn’t stop eating Ethiopian food if suddenly it was served in a bland cookie cutter suburban eatery and the waitresses were not real Ethiopians, like they are in the place I go to in Adams Morgan. I would continue to enjoy their delicious injera bread even if a hundred other white people were sitting around me eating the same thing, and that is because I go for the food itself.

So in my experiment I would take the most popular Ethiopian restaurant in a hip neighborhood in DC, one that the hippest white people rave about, and move it into a vacated McDonald’s restaurant in a 100% white suburban neighborhood, where I would then sell combo meals of authentic Ethiopian food at $4.99 a pop, with a big gulp honey wine and plastic utensils, served at the cash register by a non-Ethiopian, preferably a dour white hipster with a lip ring or a Chinese woman. If whiter people are truly going to exotic ethnic restaurants for the enjoyment of the food as they like to claim they are, then business should remain brisk in my new McEthiopian restaurant. If business slows to a trickle, then I know that the whiter people were only singing the praises of Ethiopian food when eating it had an “authentic” feel so as to score culinary gotcha points in the neverending struggle to reign supreme at the top of the elitist cultural heap.

Stuffwhitepeoplelike in a nutshell: Making fun of the tribalism of people who think they have risen above tribalism.

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Deaf Woman Tries To Pick Me Up

I don’t normally feel bad when I have to reject a woman, but this time I did. I had a deaf woman come onto me in writing. She stared at me hard from a few feet away, and I stared back, which in hindsight was a mistake because she didn’t meet my minimum attractiveness threshold. I should have done the right thing and looked away in mild disapproval, but her flagrant violation of American girl flirting norms with the extended eyeplay piqued my curiosity.

She tapped my arm and handed me a small notepad and a pen. On the pad were written some words in red ink, the color of love. She wanted me to write something in reply. I have reproduced the gist of our ensuing notepad conversation.

Her: Hi.
Me: Hi back.
Her: I’m from San Diego. Where are you from?
Me: {lame opener. another girl with no game.} I’m from XX.
Her: What do you think of this bar? It seems snobby. (she turns her nose up with her finger.)
Me: It is. We’re all hipster snobs here.
Her: (laughs without actually making the laughing noise.) I think u r 2 cute.

At this point I realize I have led her on and need to find a way to extricate myself before I waste more time entertaining a woman I am not interested in banging. But she is persistent, and her disability has prevented me from cutting off our written communication abruptly.

Me: Thx.
Her: Do you live around here?
Me: Yes.
Her: I’m staying with my two friends over there. They live nearby.

I looked where she was pointing and saw two attractive girls signing each other, then kissing. (!) Sensing what was going through my mind, my deaf woman quickly scratched out a note.

Her: They are girlfriends and don’t sleep with guys. They approve of you.
Me: They have good taste.

Meanwhile, this guy is loudly telling me to write down a request for a threesome and anal sex and to draw a sketch of a blowjob in her pad. The girls can’t read lips so even though they are standing right there they suspect nothing.

Her: I’m only in town for this weekend then I go back to San Diego. Would you like to come back to my place?
Me: I’ve sorta been dating a girl for a month who I like and I’d feel guilty about it.

This excuse was partially true. I was seeing a girl for a month and I did like her, but I wouldn’t feel guilty enjoying an easy one night stand with another woman.

Her: That’s OK. I have a boyfriend in San Diego.

I looked at the notepad with knitted brow. I didn’t know what to write. She grabbed it back.

Her: I’m only here for this weekend then I’m back home forever. You’re completely free after that. What do you say?

Her handwriting was getting sloppier.

Me: I really like this girl I’m dating. You’re great, but it wouldn’t be fair to her.

She glanced back at her two lesbian friends and they exchanged a few frantic hand signs. There was no subtlety. Although I can’t read sign language, it was easy to see her friends wanted her to wrap it up so they could go home and scissor. They even made the universal scissor sign with their fingers. Horny deaf woman gave it one last shot.

Her: You’ll never meet another woman like me.
Me: That’s true. (weak smile)
Her: This is your chance to sleep with a deaf woman.

Suddenly I was intrigued. Despite my many adventures, I don’t have a deaf girl notch. I decided to reconsider her offer. Her body was tight and lean — definitely fit enough to arouse me if it was attached to a different face. I squinted my eyes to see if it improved her looks. It was too dark in the bar. I needed better lighting for a final binding assessment. I leaned over to write my response in the notepad by a candle nearby and motioned for her to lean toward me to read what I wrote, hoping to get a good look at her face in the illumination of the candlelight.

Disappointment. She had the beginnings of jowls and regrettable crows’ feet. There was just too much age for me to put the hard work in to passively let her close the deal and rape me back at her friends’ place. Had she been only one point higher on the 1 to 10 facial scale, I would’ve gone for it. Having sex with a deaf woman is the kind of thing I would tell my grandkids as they sat in my lap.

Me: I would if things were different. But no.
Her: Really? You won’t meet many other deaf women.
Me: I know, but I can’t.
Her: OK. It was great to meet you.

A long lingering hug followed. She would use this hug later to masturbate.

It was too bad. I’m left to wonder if deaf women make funny moans at the moment of orgasmic release. And to think, no post-coital chit chat. Nothing but golden silence.

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A Hallmark Moment

It is late in the night and two grown men are driving home from the clubs. Navigating cop cars and pedestrians on [x], we notice a couple of bicyclists on our right. Nearing the first bicyclist we can’t help but trumpet a horny ode to her luscious figure 8 derriere as she pedals hard in the chill air.

“Hey man, over there. What an ass on her! The cheeks just hug the shit out of that bike seat. Look at the way the ass globes move up and down in perfect harmony.”

“Love that ponytail. It says all the right things — grab the reins while you pound me.”

We drive past her.

“Dude, she’s hot! Face to match the ass. So many cute bike babes.”

We approach the second biker from behind.

“Whoa, another one. Check out this chick. Beautiful blonde hair. I love long blonde hair. Look at those jeans pulled down low.”

“Niiice, I see some white panties poking out! Is that plumber’s crack? Sweeeeeeet.”

We drive slowly by the second biker.

“AUUUGHHH!!! It’s a dude! Oh man, fuck! AUUUUGGGHHHH! What the fuck!? What dude wears his hair like that??”

“FUCK! SHIT! UGH! I’m hitting the lesbian porn as soon as I get home. Pull your pants up you hipster slob! Night ruined!”

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My Weird Scientology Date

Role playing is an effective method for bonding with girls. I like to role play with my dates, whether it’s preplanned or spontaneous. The act of assuming different personas and creating impromptu storylines seems to strike at a very primal core in women, making them giggle and light up with waves of pleasure. It’s like women crave this secret world you are inviting them into, a world of heightened sensation and exaggerated drama, as an antidote to their humdrum daily lives of pushing papers at work and emptying the litter box.

The better you are at improv, the wetter she will get. Docter/nurse, cop/speeder, teacher/disobedient student, pimp/hooker, CEO/secretary, irate manager/shoplifter… the pattern should be obvious.

On one date, I gave the girl a guided tour of an old (and very colorful) Russian Orthodox church, complete with ad libbed biographies of the various saints painted on the walls and ceilings. In my best wizened elder priest voice I pretended to welcome her into my confessional as she instantly caught on and slipped into the role of a naughty teenage girl who wished to confess her sin of indulging prurient thoughts of me. I called her “my child” a lot and she answered “yes, father” in lip-bitingly sweet girlish squeaks.

Another time, we went go-kart racing and play-acted a James Bond car chase scene through the narrow streets of Rome. She blew me a kiss as she sideswiped my go-kart into the rubber track wall. My British accent was horrible and her Italian accent left something to be desired, but it was the thought that counted.

But the best/worst role playing date I ever had was one that was more real than imaginary. As we were walking up the ave we stopped in front of the Church of Scientology building. Feeling mischievous and morbidly curious, I told my date we would be disillusioned D-list actors looking for enlightenment from alternative spiritual sources.

When we approached the door a bald, middle-aged man opened it a second before I was about to knock. He welcomed us in and as we stood in the foyer admiring the cartoonish portrait of L. Ron Hubbard hanging on the wall my date and I launched into our spiel about seeking spiritual fulfillment away from the “oppressive dogma of organized religion”. The guy’s face lit up like a home pregnancy test. He gave us the guided tour, enthusiastic but in a carefully measured speaking voice. Like a good salesman, he avoided scaring us off with the hard sell too early, instead asking us questions about ourselves and our search for meaning.

He asked if we had cameras (I lied) because apparently they have a no picture policy when people are present. We walked slowly around the main foyer peeking into each room while our guide spoke of the wonders of Dianetics (oddly, he never mentioned the E-meter which I wanted to try). The first room appeared to be an old study of thick, gnarled mahogany and floor-to-ceiling rows of bookshelves crammed with ancient tomes. There were a few library-style desks with reading lamps at which four men were seated, all of whom wearing green accountants’ eye visors and poring over books, brows furrowed in deep concentration. When we looked in, none of them glanced up from their books to acknowledge us.

At this point my date started to feel weirded out. Why? Because besides the green eyeshades, all those guys were dressed in the same clothes — white shirt, blue slacks, dark tie. And they seemed a little too engrossed in whatever they were reading.

The next room reminded me of that scene from A Clockwork Orange where they pry the guy’s eyes open with a metal contraption and force him to watch an endless montage of violent and pornographic video clips. It was a couple rows of neatly aligned empty chairs placed a few feet in front of a small movie screen. Nothing else, just that. If we were in any other residence, I wouldn’t have given it much thought, but the haunted vibe emanating from this mansion made me think of the worst scenarios. I tried to snap a picture of the room by cradling the camera in my palm and holding it tight by my hip, but our host wouldn’t stop looking directly at me.

While our scientologist friend blabbed, my date’s expression changed from giddiness to discomfort. She was no longer a D-list spiritually-deprived celebrity. She had had enough. The cultish vibes were beginning to accumulate. I cut him off and said we had to go, and he shoved some pamphlets in our hands. Stepping outside felt relieving.

The mood was ruined. I didn’t get a kiss from her at the end of the date. Scientology had cockblocked me.

I wonder if this is how normal people felt during the inception of the world’s major religions. Judaism, Christianity, Buddhism, egalitarianism… they all must have struck naturally skeptical people as cultish and absurd when they first began. Only when enough time has passed do religions acquire a veneer of respectability and deference. Enough time has not passed for Scientology to hide its cultish essence under somber rituals and literary texts.

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Moving Day Vignette

I was woken up this morning by the sounds of movers hauling out my neighbor’s belongings. Lots of banging, scraping, and foot shuffling. I could tell the movers were black guys by their voices. Thanks to the miracle of walls that actually amplify outside sounds I was able to hear some of their conversation.

“White people’s furniture all look the same.”

A dog barked.

“And white people’s pets, too!”

I laughed because it’s true. Well, true of yuppie whites living in NW DC. I bet what they moved looked like this:

conspicuously displayed conde nast magazine sold separately.

answers to ‘Tinky Winky’.

Stereotypes… dey not pulled out kitteh’s ass.

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