Better Living Through Absurdity

Today: Part Two of My Crazy Weekend

II: I’m like Joey B –I got nuthin’

So, after the Morris Day incident, I am thinking that the night can’t get any stranger. I really should just stop thinking altogether –nothing good ever seems to come from it and it inevitably is some sort of preemptive “you done gone and screwed yerself agin, with yer fancy thinkin’” type of deal…you know what I mean. It’s the quintessential “idiot” scene in every horror film when jackass #5 goes, “Shush, nubile half-naked chick. Press your heaving bosoms against me and hold tight. Because we survived, right? We’re going to be the ones having survivor sex tonight –not Linda or Pete or that other sorta hot nerdy chick, I think her name was Stella or something. But us baby. We made it through. Come on, stop whimpering while I attempt to grope you under the guise of comfort –IT CAN’T GET ANY WORSE, NOW CAN IT?!”

And then…you die. You’ve just opened the floodgates of shitstorms, bad karma, revenge, hillbilly revelry and all-around fucked-up-ness because rather than say, “Well, okay sure, that part of things is over, but rather than sit here and let hormones take over, whaddya say we go find a working phone, a blunt instrument we could use in case those bastards come back, and possibly a part of civilization that doesn’t consist solely of a ramshackle double-wide and a taxidermy shop. Oh and hey, when we find the car –I’ll be sure to use a map –and the first chance I can, I’ll STOP AND ASK FOR DIRECTIONS. And here’s my shirt to cover yourself with –you might catch a cold in that wet nightgown”…you have to go and tempt fate by assuming that you can just stop and rest on Laurel…er…I mean your laurels.

Anyways, I digress.

So. Happened to be outside smoking a cigarette when the new doorman comes out, having just gotten off shift. We’d exchanged a few pleasantries when I was talking to the owner and a couple of other people but that was about it. Now- it should be pointed out that I thought he was gay. EVERYBODY thought he was gay. Not only does he sashay his hips a bit, but he dances like he got cartilage removed somewhere and he does the sassy hand in the face thing. And I won’t even get into the HIDEOUS striped shirt he was wearing in loud tones of salmon, cantaloupe, cream and goldenrod. Yeah screw you, I know my colour wheel.

So he comes over and we begin to chat. A nice pleasant chat about life and family and relationships…I’m thinking to myself, “Okay cool –he’s a nice guy who can relax and not let the “bar” personality be totally pervasive." Then he does something which, to put it mildly, irritated the hell out of me. He covered me. Not like Animal Kingdom, but, he moved my coat to cover my cleavage. Which, to be fair, was showing somewhat through the shirt, but not like full-to-bursting exposure or anything. At that point I went, “wow he is gay.” Then on top of the act that irritated me, he said something that pissed me off even more. He gives me the patronizing “I know what’s good for you look” and says, “Honey, you’re better than that.”

Excuse me?

Better than what? I’m a girl –we have breasts. Some of us are more amply endowed than others. Some of us favor clothes which accentuate our positives, and that’s our own damn business. So I drop my cigarette and fix him with the gimlet eye. “Look –this has nothing to do with being better than anything. I don’t suffer from low self-esteem, I don’t wear the clothes I wear as a plea for attention or bed-partners, and there’s not a goddamn thing anyone can say or joke they can make that I haven’t already heard or made myself –and with far better adjectives too. So this has nothing to do with you or anyone else. I don’t need you to tell me that I’m better than something –I know what I’m worth more than you do.”

He looks totally surprised and then starts talking about being raised by women and respecting them and empowerment and blah blah blah –and then he says that it’s so hard to find a nice girl –one who doesn’t just want sex or to use him for something but someone who wants to talk, to share, to be...”Emotionally intimate”. Riiiiiiight. So…not gay then.

We end up going inside, me to my cup of coffee and he to have another drink. We’re still sort of chatting and then he says, “I don’t know about you –I think you might be like a black widow.” I turn to Johnny the bartender and say, “Hey Johnny, you hear that? This guy called me a black widow” to which Johnny says, “Oh yeah, that’s sexy.” And we both kinda snicker. Then, genius doorman does it again. He covers me up. Only this time he says, “I’m a guy and I’m going to look.” Congratulations –I’m a girl and I’m stuck with them –so if I can deal with it, you sure as hell can for a few hours –besides, they’re maintaining a respectful distance from you and I intend to keep it that way. Then, he HAS to keep talking. He asked me to go somewhere else with him –I said I have to go home. He said he’d really love to continue talking –I say, gimme a raincheck, I really have to go home. He’s still talking. He doesn’t realize that each syllable is simply another checkmark in the “I’d like DOOM please” box. Then, this little gem pops out: “I just have to say that I find you very attractive, very sexy, and I’d love to go somewhere else and continue this conversation, but, I have to be honest…I’m going home alone tonight.”

Even Morris wasn’t that tactless. At least HE offered to buy me ice cream…and a night on the town. This guy feels rejected because I won’t go somewhere else with him so then he rejects me when I hadn’t even made an appeal for anything to BE rejected in the first place. It’s like one of those little fucking puzzles that’s a series of squares, only one’s missing and you have to shuffle all the others around using that one blank space, to make the picture. They’re so damnably annoying and pointless…kind of like how this guy had become.

So, once more, the gimlet eye is fixed and this is how the conversation goes:

Me: Well good for you –I’m going home alone too!

Him: No seriously, I’m going home alone.

Me, raised eyebrow and what I know was the “Is this guy simple or something?” look on my face: Yeah I got that. You’re going home alone. So am I.

Him: You don’t have to be like that. I’m not trying to be a dick.

Me: Well that’s good, otherwise you might get obnoxious.

Him: Well I just feel like you’re saying that as a response to what I said.

Me, now firmly convinced that not only is he simple but suffers from short term memory loss: Well, it WAS a response to what you said. You said something, I said something in returning, thus RESPONDING to what you had said.

Him: Well, I just feel like you’re trying to prove something.

Me, now firmly convinced he also has long-term idiocy: I don’t see how you came up with that one, but then again, I’m not sure how you came up with any of this.

Him: I just want you to be cool, you know, with me going home alone and stuff, and like not thinking that it’s something personal or whatever.

Me, now entirely certain that he’s dim, slow-witted and utterly charm-less: Believe me, it’s completely cool that you’re going home alone.

Him: You’re lying.

Me: I’m not lying –there’s nothing I want from you, no reason to tell you a lie, no feelings that I care about sparing so –nope, not lying.

Him: Are you sure?

(This continues for another 5 or 10 minutes. I won’t bore you with the details –trust me when I say that this guy will be going home alone for a very long time…despite what he thinks about his “undeniable sex appeal.”)

Stay tuned for the final chapter in my crazy weekend involving creepy doorman, the little Texas whore who could and one of the most maudlin scenes of drunkenness I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness!