Archive for February, 2010

Beesh’s Presumptions

Posted: February 22, 2010 by S. Trevor Swenson in Me & Mine
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While visiting my moms, my friend Mary aka Beesh came by to visit and make use of the pool at my mother’s condo complex.  The first time she had her young daughters in tow, the following day Beesh returned solo to spend the day poolside with me and enjoy a pool party sponsored by the condo association.

I suppose the “Beesh” nickname deserves some small explanation.  I have known Mary/Beesh for over twenty years.  We were friends and even shared a squat briefly with her boyfriend at the time and some other young punks.  One day Mary was whining to her boyfriend about this or that.  Her boyfriend; without even looking up responded “Shut up Beesh”.  Mary was angry and her rage was redoubled when I started laughing and calling her Beesh as well.

Since the little ones weren’t with us, we didn’t have to edit what we said so much and didn’t have to spell out all the no-no words like “Slut” “Bitch” and “Fuck”. We hadn’t seen each other for a long time and had a lot of catching up to do.  We discussed what a nightmare dating was and tried to compare war stories on the dating front and figure out which sex had the most to contend with.  I shared with her a couple dating horror stories.  One date last year, I bought a gift for a young lady, paid for tickets to a film, dinner and then drinks afterwards.  I wasn’t tacky enough to mention the actual monetary amount, but the girl never even thanked me afterwards.  I got an email a few days later saying that she’d had a nice time, yet still, never were the words “Thank” and “You” forthcoming.  Another date I had the girl I was with answered literally ten cell phone calls over dinner.  I vowed to walk out on the next woman that pulled that crap, after taking my meal to go and having the bill delivered to her during her cell phone conversation.
Mary listened and told war stories of her own.  My favorite of Mary’s was her tale of dating and screwing a Jamaican fellow with many missing teeth.  After laughing at her, I was suddenly upset with her.  “You mean to tell me, that you have dropped your pants and spread ‘em for every single man in western Massachusetts, the roadies of Biohazard, the better part of Crown Heights Brooklyn AND toothless fifty year old Jamaican guys, and yet you’ve never been quite drunk enough to test drive a Scotty?”  I said.  “I suppose it’s nice to learn where I stand in the grand scheme of things.”  “He wasn’t TOOTHLESS”, Mary protested ” He was just missing a bunch of teeth”.  I rolled my eyes.  “And besides” Mary continued” I made out with you that one time at my house when you me and Lynn were hanging out. I can’t believe you don’t remember that”

The subject changed to the paying for dates and drinks.  I told her I was an old fashioned guy and that I enjoyed taking women out.  I’d just liked to be thanked for it.  If the girl would reach for her purse and OFFER to help pay for the meal, that would be a sign of a good upbringing as well.   I wouldn’t accept the money, but in this case, the thought really does count. I also mentioned as a bartender that I didn’t much care for women that came into the bar, nursed one drink until some guy (or guys) started buying drinks for them.  Then they would proceed to drink like sailors on payday.   Mary just shrugged at that. “You mean you think it’s OK to go to a bar without any money and just wait for guys to buy you drinks?” I asked.   “I’ve gone to bars without any money plenty of times, and guys buy me drinks, it’s just how it is” said Mary.  “Just because ‘that’s the way it is’ doesn’t make it right” I countered.  Then the conversation REALLY began to take off.

Beesh: ” If guys buy me drinks, what’s the problem”
Me: “It’s the presumption that’s disgusting”
Beesh: ” I’m not presuming anything”
Me: “Yes you are, you’re presuming that guys will buy you drinks, hence showing up to a bar without any money”
Beesh:”They’re just being nice”
Me: “No Mary, that is a misconception, men are never nice, they want to fuck you, and they feel the odds of achieving this goal will be made easier by plying the woman first with sixty or seventy Jager shots.  I can’t believe you’re a drink whore”
Beesh: “I’m not a drink whore, I’m not going to have sex with them”
Me: “OK, my mistake, you’re a drink tease”
Beesh: “I’m not a drink tease either. They buy me drinks and I just talk to them”
Me:” Would you accept drinks from guys that you KNOW are interested in you, and you KNOW you have no interest in them whatsoever?”
Beesh: “I’m just talking to them”
Me: “So what is the amount of time a man can expect per drink?”
Beesh: “Oh shut up”
Me: “So if a gay guy is eye fucking me and buys me a drink, should I accept it? Is there some kind of motive involved”
Beesh:” It’s not like THAT”
Me: “Yes it is, it’s totally like that.”
Me: “Fuckin drink whore”
Beesh: “Oh fuck off”

It’s so wonderful to reconnect with old friends.

Tormenting Miguel

Posted: February 10, 2010 by S. Trevor Swenson in Me & Mine
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I have an old high school friend; Miguel.  Since high school Miguel has lost/been fired from over 70, yes SEV-EN-TY jobs.  He was fired from a shoe store after just 3 days. I don’t know how, he wouldn’t tell me. I like to picture him trying to jam some fat lady’s fat foot into a shoe way too small and breaking some toes.  He was fired from a Starbucks because “They expect you to be fast”, Movie theaters, book shops, car rental companies etc. have all given Miguel the axe.

I have begged Miguel to let me write a book about him or even better shoot a short documentary film about him.  So far he has refused.  In fact, he even gets a little angry when we (my friend Brendan and I) ask him.  Suffice to say, Miguel has many financial problems due to the many and frequent lapses in employment. Lately he has been down in the dumps and I have tried to befriend him and cheer him up a little.  He really isn’t a bad guy.  He is waiting to hear from the Postal Service, which will probably be the perfect job for him, as it is literally impossible to be fired from the Post Office.  I have suggested several jobs to him, although he has worked at (and been fired from) most of the places I recommended.

Last week I came home after killing off a nice bottle of wine and saw him online.  Maybe the wine had triggered my often sadistic sense of fun, but I sent him a message telling him that I might know of a job for him.  He was very enthusiastic and excited. I should pause here and say that Miguel is very VERY homophobic.  I don’t think he hates gay people, I think he is quite literally afraid of them.  I think he may have been fired from a movie theater once for making off color remarks about gay people, in FRONT of gay co-workers.  In addition to being perpetually late, and slow, Miguel is quite possibly the most inappropriate person on earth.  He isn’t a malicious person.  He just gets nervous and freaked out by gay people (men)

The fictional job I had in mind would put his sensibilities to the test.  I told him, my friend Robert works in a gay bar here in Manhattan, and that they may be hiring (That part was true) The job description was cleaning the bathrooms while wearing leather lederhosen.  I even came up with a fake salary etc. etc.

Sadly the plan backfired.  I never expected him to accept the “offer”, nor to get so excited about it.  He wrote and called me constantly for two days asking if I had any more info about the “job”.  “Did you tell them about me?”  “When can I start?”  I had expected him to be annoyed and repulsed by the offer.  I felt bad that I had gotten his hopes up.   I had to tell him the “position” was filled.

Victoria’s Secret

Posted: February 2, 2010 by S. Trevor Swenson in Life
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Today I went to Victoria’s Secret to buy a gift card for a friend (OK…OK  a friend with benefits OK?). Inside, the store was packed full of women. Pretty women, unattractive women, young women, old women, really old women (The latter whom I didn’t want to imagine in Victoria’s Secret anything) It was a highly uncomfortable estrogen fest and was, to say the least very distressing for me.  I’m generally not the kind of guy that gets all uptight about having to go out and buy tampons or something for a girlfriend. This particular discomfort was bio-chemical. The place was packed with women as a I said and the female pheromones mixed with the putrid mélange of Vickys’ Secret perfumes, creams etc. etc. was making me feel very uneasy, vulnerable and even outnumbered. I was undoubtedly on their turf. I was an intruder in the Forbidden City.  I have seen the viciousness of groups of women first hand.  I have even tried to warn my fellow man about the dangers of approaching a ‘girl’s night out’ at the bar where I work.  These Queen Bees getting their drink on have no mercy. They want to discuss men, not to be involved in discussions with men.  They make up evil and mean spirited nicknames for any poor slob foolish enough to approach and disturb their witch’s coven with Cosmos. Listen to me and listen well young man.  If you ever see a girl’s night out, leave them alone. Do not approach. Do not send them drinks. This works for James Bond and John Stamos, it will not work for you.  Stay away, no trespassing, enter at your own risk.  The atmosphere at Vicky’s Secret was not as volatile as a girl’s night out in a bar.  There was no liquor involved and the groups were smaller.  Still, I had to be cautious.

As I was only buying a gift card I got right into the check-out line. There was never even a thought about buying actual clothes or lingerie for my special friend.  Like most men I don’t understand the numerical sizes that women use when buying clothes.  Women over a size 6 generally don’t like discussing these sizes with men or they lie, I mean take creative license.  Also most men can be counted on to find something that they would find sexy but that most women would find beneath contemplation.  The Victoria’s Secret gift card was already a gift that is for us as well as the recipient.  So, one gives the gift card, takes the hug and prays that the girl isn’t in a practical and conservative mood when she redeems it. “Oh what great baggy beige bloomers hon, Is that all you got?

While standing in line, waiting to buy the damn card and make a break for it, I was suddenly knocked aside.   A man had plowed into me while hurrying on his way out of the store. “Excuse YOU!!” I yelled after him. If we had been in a bar or on the street and he had done that, we most likely would have gotten into an argument, stare down or perhaps even a fistfight over his crashing into me without excusing himself. In this instance however, I wasn’t about to get into a physical confrontation in a crowded Victoria’s Secret.  It’s not easy looking like a tough guy wrestling around in a pile of fuchsia wonder bras and matching thongs.  I also understood his discomfort in this atmosphere.  Hell; I wanted out too, but I was on a mission, a mission I had chosen to undertake.  If I wanted to see my friend with benefits in something tantalizing, I’d have to hold on just a little bit longer.

I waited in line for what seemed to me like way too long of a time. In my case this is generally any time period exceeding 30 seconds. I have noticed that women can almost always be counted on to take longer to pay for things than men do. Being a bartender for over 10 years I am still amazed to watch women pay for their own drinks vs. having drinks bought for them by men. Women never seem to have their money or even their wallet out. They wait to be told the price and then they go digging through the bottomless pit they call a purse. When guys go out drinking it’s usually a case of “Let me get the first round”. Women pay for everything individually. Furthermore, each woman in the party has to be told the price.  While the first girl is digging through her purse, the second girl is staring blankly when she should be getting her money out. Get it together ladies.  Time is money and by my conservative calculations I figure women as a group owe me $500 in time wasted just from change purses alone. I suspect they are waiting for the French Calvin Klein underwear model; Raoul to swoop in with his platinum-ruby super-duper American Express card and say in broken English . . .”Please  allow me to buy the beautiful lady the . . . how you say . . . Cosmopolitan”

I didn’t dare vocalize my grievances. I was on their turf and outnumbered, as I said. Finally I was next in line. I asked for a gift card, wondering if I looked cheap to the cashier by buying a $50 card, paid for it in less than 30 seconds . . . .( I had my money out). Then I was handed this precious little pink bag designed by Richard Simmons to carry it in. It’s a gift card for God’s sake. Can’t I just put it in my wallet and pull it out on Christmas day, hand it over and say, ever so gently, ”Uh  here, this is for you.”  This little bag was so emasculating I’d bet male figure skaters would be embarrassed to be seen carrying one of these things. It was pink and shiny and the handles sparkled and were too small to fit my hands. I was forced to carry it daintily with two fingers and my pinky sticking out.   Maybe I should skip down Steinway Street with my little pink bag singing ‘I Feel Pretty”.  In retrospect I think now the little gift bag was a joke played on me by the girls at Victoria’s Secret.  The moment I set foot out of the store I bet they all ran to the front window to watch and cackle with laughter at my dilemma.

It occurred to me that perhaps Vicky’s Secret should have a store exclusively for men to buy stuff for their girlfriends and wives, where they could feel more comfortable. A place where men can listen to heavy metal, because “It’s not gay if AC-DC or Slayer are playing in the background”. We could have sports and action movies on the monitors rather than the waify models walking up and down a catwalk. I don’t think men even like saying “Victoria’s Secret”.  The male version will be called simply “Vic’s.” As in “Yo, honey, I gotta drop a deuce, looking for something to read, you seen my Vic’s catalogue?” Vic’s would be staffed by regular, middle aged guys with receding hairlines and beer guts . . .. swarthy Italian or Greek guys in wife beaters and jeans dragging their knuckles and breathing through their mouths.  If we needed help with anything, like size or style then Vito, Nicky or Stavros could ask us questions we’d relate to. “So, uh your wife . . . she got big tits or what”?  After of course asking the customer if they “saw the game last night.” Another man friendly sizing concept could be the “Wall-O-Breasts.”  Imagine a wall at Vic’s with hundreds of memory foam titties in every conceivable size, shape and weight, where confused men could walk up, fondle, squeeze and estimate the weight of their significant other’s special pair. Of course men have difficulty touching breasts and being able to do much of anything else, much less remember that they were there to determine a size for a purchase.  It’s just something men really feel the need to concentrate on.  So, each breast on the Wall-O-Breasts would have a sound byte that would exclaim its size with each squeeze in different female tones and accents.  “I’m a 34 C”. After three or four hours a man would be able to make an informed decision.  The Wall-O-Breasts is most likely a concept that would require a little tweaking, (no pun intended) as there would almost certainly be cretins out there who pack a lunch and spend an afternoon abusing the convenience of the Wall-O-Breasts without the intention of a purchase.  It never ceases to amaze me how a few jerks have to ruin a good thing for everyone.

The names of the various lingerie would need to change as well.  No man likes asking for a “nightie” or a “babydoll”.  We are much more adept with pointing at something and saying ”Yeah gimme the black and purple boobie thing over there, next to the anal floss.”  There should be an Irish pub next door to Vics where we can go and show our purchases to the guys while drinking beer, eating buffalo wings and grunting approval.  All of our purchases would be in see through plastic, underneath the nondescript butcher paper, because men wont see anything wrong with getting buffalo sauce or bleu cheese on the matching bra and panty set.  “She won’t notice.” we’d say as we wiped the stain in deeper with our greasy fingers.

I think this concept has some serious potential. I shall have to write up a proposal for the powers that be at Victoria’s Secret, and pray that they have a few men on the board of directors who share my pragmatic marketing strategy.