* Facebook is fun, especially when people who hated you in high school attempt to friend you. Or, even better, when people who hated you in high school attempt to friend you using one of their friends’ accounts so they can spy on you without you knowing it. I can save you guys the time. I got fat. I had a kid. I‘m not a doctor or a lawyer or an astronaut. I really don’t care what you’re doing these days. I don’t care if you got fat or had 50 kids or went to Koozbania on a fact-finding mission or invented a time-machine so you could go back in time and take credit for Rocky Road ice cream. I still hate you. That should suffice.
* A guy at work offered to have a “bromance” with me the other day. I say “offered” like it was something simple and easy and kindly, like the offering of a cookie or a ride to the park. Nope. This guy followed me around for two days, wanting to talk incessantly about movies and comic books and telling everyone he could tell that we met on eHarmony.com. It’s not that I felt a flush of shame or anything like that. It’s more that I was annoyed as fuck to have this boring little man following me around, wanting to talk about Deadpool or the films of Dario Argento. It felt like I was back at my old job, surrounded by nerds who wanted to make me their nerd king. I just don’t do straight guys very well. I have something like two straight male friends (not counting male partners of my female friends) in the whole world and I’m pretty satisfied with that total.
Straight guys seem to come in two distinct groups: the “bros” who are total dicks, but girls think aren’t on the inside and the geeks who girls think aren’t total dicks, but actually are. This guy is sort of combination of both. He thinks he’s a cool “bro,” but he’s actually a geek. And both sides of him reek of dick. I tend to choose my straight male friends from the ranks of straight males who aren’t either of those stereotypes. Essentially, the 1%. Rusty and Ricky made the cut. There are other wonderful straight guys out there that I consider to be great people, like Discotrash’s boofriend and Will Betheboy. And that Mikey H! I tell you, that’s a great guy. But they’re the Oingo Boingo LP’s trapped in the box full of $1 used Candlebox cassettes. I’m sure they’re around somewhere, but you have to really, really, really look for them.
* Speaking of the sausage, the Bloc Party show I went to with the aforementioned Discotrash last weekend was a total sausage festival. Frankly, I didn’t know meaty frat boys were that into a British band who mostly write songs about failed relationships in a Gang Of Four-raping-Depeche Mode sort of way. Disco had a panic attack, which is not surprising, considering the amount of processed meat product and man-stink being foisted upon her senses from every direction. At least I’m tall enough to avoid it. The show itself was phenomenal. Bloc Party play with this restrained energy that’s a joy to behold. They’re great at building a crowd up and then tearing them down. Oh, and I touched Kele Okereke. My life may be complete.
* I’m close to deleting my Twitter account. I’m just fucking sick of it and even more sick of hearing about it. It’s been a little over a year since I started using Twitter and, at this point, I can barely stand logging into it. I think The Soup pretty much sums up how I feel: