Monthly Archives: June 2014

Around the Way Girl

When searching for new housing, one becomes very familiar with neighborhoods. After about 3 years of living in or searching desperately in the greater downtown GR area, I’m pretty well-versed in the block-to-block nature of our city. And it’s a hot mess.

Heritage Hill is becoming so expensive, that unless I’m ready to sleep directly on top of someone else’s face in a “charming studio” for the low price of $900 a month, then I’m just plain excommunicated. The outer lying neighborhoods aren’t too sketchy. I checked CrimeMap and the only burglaries and/or robberies were at least a block out in any direction. Eastown isn’t quite as high-priced as the Hill (any hill) but the houses all have somewhere around 17 bedrooms and I’m just not emotionally equipped to live in a three-story commune. I literally can’t. Even.

My two new roommates and I looked at quite a few places over the past month, hoping to stay in our price range and out of the CrimeMapped area, but it seems we’ll have to pick one or the other. A place situated between Fuller and Eastern, south of Wealthy, for instance. Oh yeah. Sketch-a-rific. But the price is right and I’m willing to chance my way through a bullet-ridden summer. How far does a stray bullet go, anyway? We’ll be ok. I’ll just never go outside. Which isn’t that big of a life change for me and my pale expanse of skin. And what exactly are the immediate retaliations for gentrification? Because that is a concern.

An ideal place in Midtown was priced right until you ask about pets. Which would cost me an extra $1500 for the year. Evidently this property management group is under the impression that cats come equipped with Ninja throwing stars and a very serious vendetta against faux-wood flooring. I have it on good authority that they do not have access to asian weaponry, but I’m not so confident on their stance on floors. They’re pretty rude. But not $1500 rude.

This pet-phobic house is in walkable vicinity to one of my new favorite dives on Cherry, The Pickwick. If you haven’t been, I highly recommend it. It was established in 1934 and is literally a hole in the wall among the upper-crust of Maru, Vivant, Grove, Green Well, and others. But it was first and it might be last. The bar is cash only, but they do offer the convenience of an ATM machine against the inner wall. The regulars are delightful in the way that toothless old people are when they drunkenly ramble about Vietnam and comedians from the 50s while playing Cribbage at a nearby table. In fact, the whole place reminds me of my childhood.

Alas, even Pascual and the drinks he insisted on buying us after winning a sizable sum on the Costa Rican soccer game couldn’t seal the deal for the Midtown house. We’ll be back to the Pickwick though, on that you can bet. And apparently also on Costa Rica.

Gimme Your, Gimme Your, Gimme Your Attention. Baby.

Amid white pants, struggling crop-tops and a downright unruly amount of sequins, something began to stir deep inside me. A combination of years of boyband adoration and two semesters of Feminist Theory and Gender Studies created a perfect bubble of lusty, confused bliss at the Bruno Mars “Moonshine Jungle” show.

Old School Cool

Old School Cool

Bruno. Before the obnoxious exploits of Sacha Baron Cohen, this name evoked pure testosterone (and the possibility of low reading comprehension). Perhaps the name alone is enough to mask a dainty, size-related androgyny and show me instead a pint-sized pop star who oozes non-threatening masculine sexuality. Or maybe I’m grasping at straws because I’m an admitted “heightist” and have never been sexually attracted to small men. I’m a large girl, after all, and I want to feel like a 19th Century lady. I want the potential danger that comes with being the (physically) weaker partner.

Or maybe I’ve just always been taught that boys are big and girls are small.

So when a minuscule man-muffin like Bruno Mars starts bopping around on stage it confuses my carefully cultivated ideas of gender roles and heteronormativity. His persona is easy. There’s a…I don’t want to say “swagger” because it calls up douchey images of Justin Bieber…but a confident gait. A certain something that, when combined with an effortless cool and a body awareness that can only be described as ballerina-graceful, reaches into my being and pulls out the same belly flutters I get when I see a really convincing Drag King performance.

Do we have any evidence that he isn't, in fact, a drag king?

Do we have any evidence that he isn’t, in fact, a drag king?

Soft Masculinity. In all the right ways. Casually confined hip thrusts, so quick you’re not even sure they happened. Certain Drag Kings and Bruno Mars have managed to dig through the social constructs of gender and masculinity and pick out all the attributes that make me squeal like a hormone-wracked teen and leave out those that might be really into driving trucks through mud. But why am I attracted to it so strongly? I know that underneath the smirking pelvic thrusts of Drag Kings there are only lady parts. I know that my urge to have Bruno Mars perch atop my shoulder like a smolderingly sexy parrot isn’t exactly mainstream fantasy fodder.

It comes down to smoothness. There are no clunky motions in Bruno’s repertoire and that sets him apart from many other male drool-mongers. The cast of Magic Mike, though rippled with muscles and presumably human-sized, were awkward. If you can tear your eyes away from Channing Tatum and watch the guys in the background, do it. It’ll ruin everything for you. The gliding-on-air existence of Bruno (and the aforementioned kings) suggest no room for awkward. They’re just utterly cool. And sexy. And that’s ok.

I literally can't even.

I literally can’t even.

We can make it work. I can carry around a step ladder or tote him around on my hip like a well-worn single mother. I can get really smarmy and tell him that “we’re all the same height laying down”. Which I’ve heard from some shorter men in my life. And which isn’t even true. If you think about it. I feel better about my desire to have Bruno’s tiny, tiny children. My biological clock won’t stop ticking and maybe it just wants to produce a 5-pound baby that won’t render my own lady parts inoperable. I’ll take it. I’ll take a comically small kaleidoscope baby. Swirled with Filipino, Black, and whatever nonsense I’ve got going on in my blood.

Mostly, I just want Bruno to jump into my pocket and live there forever. And yes, pocket is a metaphor.


Sorry I’ve been gone for so long, everyone. I’ve been busy wallowing in self pity and expecting miracles. You understand. 

I had plans to make another pilgrimage to boyband Mecca and join thousands of other Blockheads in Las Vegas next month. New Kids on the Block are planning a 30th anniversary party in Sin City, complete with pool parties, intimate concerts and other manband debauchery that has yet to be described. I was lucky enough to get a 3rd row seat at one of the shows and I was delirious with excitement. All I needed was a flight and I was good to go. I watched flights almost every day for a few months, hoping they would go down. Then they did and I didn’t have any money. As the old proverb goes…

So now I’m stuck. With a car payment, a task to find a new place to live before the end of next month and without a flight to my boyband bliss in the desert. What is a superfan to do? 

Word Prostitution. That’s what. 

As you may realize by now, I blog what I know. The goal has always been to blog about weird little adventures that I go on, but with no cash flow it’s hard to have adventures. So I took the super-annoying plunge into social media pimping. I started a “GoFundMe” campaign to raise money for blog adventures. Sure, it looks desperate. Because it is. I am. I can’t keep existing as I am or I will have a mental breakdown and it’ll be really tedious to be around. I’m already pretty boring. Can you imagine that with complete social stagnation on top like the wilted and over-dyed stem of a maraschino cherry? It’ll be terrible. 

First on my list of adventures is Vegas, of course. The concert ticket I bought is non-exchangeable and non-refundable. So there’s that. And my deep, deep need to see what NKOTB means by “risque”. I have it on good authority that Joe Mac hates wearing clothing and dammit if I won’t be there to witness the fruits of that loom. 

So if you have some extra dollars and feel bad for me even just a little bit even though I’m not terminally ill and I have all my limbs and junk…or even if you just enjoy reading my blog and wish I would post more updates, then by all means, click the link and donate. If you don’t have extra dollars but know people who do and who like to laugh at my sarcastic and sometimes awkward ramblings, then share the link. I’ll be loving you forever. And yes, those were New Kids lyrics. Wanna fight?