Finally, We'll Put Our Judging To Good Use

We are honored to be the guest judges for Varsity Tryouts, a monthly amateur pole dancing contest, on Sunday, September 20th. I've been to this event before before and I had a BLAST. We are going to take over the club, Shmitten Kitten-style. Please join us!

Who knows? Maybe after a few greyhounds, I'll jump up on stage and re-enact scenes from Aerosmith's "Crazy" video. Maybe I'll swing my ponytail around like the lady in Motley Crue's "Girls, Girls, Girls" video. Maybe I'll jump up on stage with a sash that says "Phys Ed" like the chick does in the "Hot For Teacher" video. On a side note, can you tell that MTV basically raised me? Click on the image below to see it bigger.

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Quick Rant: I Don't Want To Play Pool With You

I'm sitting with my friends cracking up and loving life. So, when you came over and invited me to play doubles with you, I declined. Apparently, my rejection was your encouragement because you didn't drop the issue. Oh no. You decided to badger me into joining your stupid pool game, even after I explained that I'm not good at it, that I wasn't interested in playing and even if I was interested, truthfully, my dress was waaaaay too short to be bending over in front of a roomful of strangers.

Nope, that didn't deter you! You still jammed the pool stick in my hand and told your friends, "Ok, guys. She's with me. It's us two against you two." Consequently, I missed every shot I took because I just wanted to get it over with as fast as possible. What kind of guy forces a girl to play pool with them? That's so creepy! What other games are you going to force me to play? Lacrosse? Chinese checkers? Thumb wrestling? When will the forced gaming end? Count me out.

Well, we lost. Our crummy pool team of me and you lost. I know, how shocking. I should've taken that pool stick and shoved it up your ass.

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Things I'm Terrible At: Telling A Guy That I Don't Like His Cologne

I have NEVER told a guy that I didn't like his cologne. I would rather breathe through my mouth for our entire date than confront him about his smell. I mean, he took the time to spray it on his body, obviously he likes it. I can't criticize his scent. It'd be like telling him that I don't like his friends or something.

How would the conversation even go?

"Sweetie, what are you wearing? 'Cause it smells like ass."

"So, I've been thinking about how you smell and I've decided that I don't like it."

"Did a homeless man pass out on your shirt? Because it kinda smells like one did."

See? There's no tactful way to address this issue. I would rather end the relationship than initiate this conversation. I need a tutorial for this. I would pay up to $3 to learn how I can bring this up gracefully. I have Paypal. I'm good for it.

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Surprisingly Not a Bonerkiller: You Have A Mugshot

Normally, a mugshot would be a turn-off, as I try to make dating felons a rarity. But with you--a good boy gone bad--it adds an element of danger. You're a badass! You've been in bracelets, which is cop slang for handcuffs (according to The Wire, that is). Me likey.

You're a tough guy now: You stay up late, you eat ice cream for breakfast, and you flip the bird. What's next? Are you going to start smoking, asthma be damned? Are you gonna shoplift your deodorant from CVS? Are you going to draw vulgar pictures on public bathroom walls?

Who knew such a round fella could have so much edge?

You can't see me, but I have my thumb by my ear and my pinky by my mouth, mouthing the words "call me" right now.

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Tip Our Hats: Grown Men Who Are Camp Counselors

Fastening papers to clipboards, blowing plastic whistles, and dodging student loan officers: We love you, grown men who are camp counselors. Your hair smells faintly of campfires from summers past and you can slap a s'more together with your eyes closed. You practically have a master's degree in macaroni art and a black belt in mosquito swatting. We just have one question: your canoe or ours? (That sounds really gross when I think about it. Sorry!)

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Things That Make Me A Bad Fiancé: Cubic Zirconia

Welcome to another installment of the Bad Boyfriend Chronicles. We're going to venture into a HIGHLY FICTIONAL realm here and imagine a scenario in which I've actually successfully wooed you (unlikely), kept you interested for a period of at least a year (highly unlikely), and popped the big question to which you've said yes (lightning strike).

Since we've established a few things that make me a bad boyfriend, we're going to dive right in and start off my role as a bad fiancé in the best way possible. I'm going to kick off the whole engagement with a lie:

I'm going to buy you a cubic zirconia and act like it's a real diamond.

I know that sounds fucked up, but let's just be realistic. The most expensive thing I've ever purchased is the high-def TV that currently sits in my living room. It was $2,000. To me, that's an ungodly amount of money. But, now I get to wake up to Matt Lauer in crisp high-def as I eat my cornflakes. And when I come home from work, I can watch epic movies and VH1 reality shows to my heart's content in stunning detail. Not bad!

Imagine for a moment that someone invented a high-def TV that was 1/10th the price and looked EXACTLY the same and displayed that same crisp high-def picture and looked awesome. Maybe it had some cheaper components, but only someone highly trained in HDTV technology could tell the difference. I'd be all over that in a heartbeat. Give me the cheaper TV. I don't know any better. Ignorance is bliss.

Unless you're a gemologist with a magnifying glass, you're not going to know that I bought you a CZ. Now, this isn't amateur hour. I'm not going to get some ridiculously large CZ and try to pass it off as a diamond. My entry-level marketing job and aging Honda Civic are pretty clear indicators of my income bracket. Instead, I'll pick out something reasonable that you wouldn't suspect to be a fake.

In the end, this will all be for the best. Instead of going into debt to finance an overpriced rock that you wear on your finger, I'll save a bunch of money that will be spent in our inevitable divorce settlement once you find out that I make a bad husband in addition to being a bad boyfriend and bad fiancé.

Long after the marriage is dissolved and you've burned all the photographs and other evidence of me, you'll go to get the ring appraised to sell as a final "fuck you!" And that's when you'll find out it was a CZ the whole time. That's also when I'll officially win.

Unless of course, we never get divorced and manage to live happily ever after, in which case, I win as well.

As you can see, there's really no downside to the cubic zirconia, aside from the fact that it most definitely makes me a bad fiancé.

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Bonerkiller: You Dress Like A 1997 Music Convention Attendee

Ok, this one might be a little esoteric, but if you've ever attended a music convention--CMJ, SXSW, etc-- then you know what I'm talking about. This guy looks like a cross between the singer of Smash Mouth and the singer of the Counting Crows. If he was in a band, it'd be called the Crow Mouths.

You will find the following on him:

• A heavy shoulder bag full of assorted crap. The straps are extended so it hangs down by his knees. It looks saggy and onerous, which would be the same words I'd use to describe dating him.

• A button down shirt flapping over his huge beer belly.
  

• Cargo shorts with a ton of crap jammed in his pockets. Who needs this much storage? All that's in there are fast food receipts and gum wrappers.

• A wallet chain.
  

• Stupid tattoos on his calves. Like, a Luke Skywalker portrait or a panther scratching into his skin.
  

• The biggest offender? White ankle socks and Converse one star sneakers with fat white shoelaces. BARF!

These guys are generally harmless and pretty nice people. They do not deserve all this vitriol I'm spewing. But, this look does not do it for me. When I see those Converse one stars pointing in my direction, I want to scoot into another zip code.

And, I hate it when they attempt to hit on me because they have zero game and get really nervous and sweaty. I can tell that they have huge CD collections. I picture their houses and all I see are shag carpets, Twinkie wrappers and CD towers and it makes me do a body shudder. Uh, no thanks.

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Bonerkiller: You Are An Art School Student And You Don't Know Who Jarvis Cocker Is

Maybe I've been spoiled by attending Brit-pop dance nights like Sorted for years, but I was stunned--nay, shocked!--when I met an art school student who didn't know who Jarvis Cocker was. Isn't that what all art school students do? Lay around, philosophize about aesthetic movements, and listen to Pulp? I could understand if you aren't a fan of his music, but to outright not know who he is is just bizarre.

He's never heard the song, "Common People?" What kind of art is he majoring in? Finger painting? Basket weaving? There's no excuse for this ignorance!

And, to add insult to injury, this poor excuse of an art student made fun of his name. "Jarvis Cocker? What? Is he a porn star? Jarvis just sounds gay. Cocker? Ha!"

No, dude. He is not a porn star. He is the singer of a band called Pulp. And you, my dear, are the worst art student I've ever met. Yuck.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys With Deep Voices

A guy with a deep voice isn't even aware of the power he holds on me. Hearing him on the other end of the telephone is like an aural back massage. When he says my name, my knees go weak. He could command me to do anything and I'm pretty sure that I'd comply. It's almost hypnotic: Mow the lawn? Sure! Toss my laptop off a bridge? What a great idea. Tell this police officer to fuck off? Count me in. Everything is a good idea, as long as he verbalizes it.

Obviously, this is a blog and I can't mimic this deep voice to you using the written word, so just imagine me lowering my vocal register for affect. "Helloooooooo there, beautiful."

I've overlooked several obvious flaws in a guy just because he had a great voice. Somehow hearing him say in his deep, manly baritone, "I keep pictures of me with my ex on my Facebook page because I like the way I look in them not because I like looking at her," cushions the blow.

So, guys with deep voices, we tip our hats to you. When you assure us that, "Everything will be ok, little lady" we can almost believe it.

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Events

Here is where we post all the fliers for the events we've done and the events we have coming up. Click on of the images to take you to the Facebook page, if there is one.

Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Shower

There is no less than a quarter-inch of shampoo left in each of these crusty, dank plastic bottles. They're propped up on the edge of the tub like a police line-up. Here are the usual suspects: White Rain, Suave, V05, Fructis, and Selsun Blue. The worst worst worst is any kind of combined shampoo and conditioner product like Prell. Those are an affront to my tresses.

This isn't my first rodeo; I know that using any of these low-budget shampoos will turn my luscious locks into flat, lifeless straw. I'm not a shampoo snob--well, maybe I am--but, I'd rather use plain water than lather up with this moldy shampoo graveyard. You don't have to be a metrosexual Aveda freak, but a little bit of a higher-end shampoo would go a long way. They sell them at Target. Splurge.

That one cracked bar of plain white soap is making me feel like I'm sudsing up in a prison. Of course the rusty faucet only lets, like, two drops of water cascade down at a time so this is taking way too long. And, the only thing you have for facewash is a nearly-spent tube of St. Ives Apricot Scrub. It feels like I'm washing my face with gravel. I'm not interested in any of this. This whole shitshow shower makes me sad.

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Tip Our Hats: You’re Like an Adorable Encyclopedia

Normally, one wouldn’t expect to be turned on by talk of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand, but the fact that you know he was killed in Sarajevo to kick off WWI is getting me all hot under the collar. This is no fluke, because you regularly kick my ass at Trivial Pursuit, and I’m strangely OK with that. And that shouldn’t be taken lightly, because--let’s face it--I take my board games very seriously.

Even better is the fact that “going out to the bar” implies that you’re going to check your calendar to see where there’s a good game of Quizzo going on tonight. I don’t even have to ask if that’s what’s happening. I try to suggest a clever team name so maybe you’ll be impressed and I’ll feel like I’ve contributed something. When the questions start coming, you squint for improved recall, covering your answers so no one can cheat off of you, and the tip of your tongue sticks ever-so-slightly out the corner of your mouth so we all know that you’re concentrating. Those other teams? They don’t stand a chance. They have no idea what they’re up against.

After you’ve trounced the opposition pretty much single-handedly and the waitress brings over the next round, you are so proud of yourself, grinning ear to ear, and it’s written all over your face that it doesn’t get much better than this. That face is my favorite part of the night.

So, adorable encyclopedias out there, I tip my hat to you. I’ve got a huge crush on that big sexy brain of yours. I want to take it out and buy it nice things and introduce it to my mom.

[Previously: The Quizzo Cutie]

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Congratulations! You Have Been Chosen To Be Our Next Slumpbuster!

Dear Sir,

We are very pleased to offer you the position of our next slumpbuster. After considering many qualified applicants--an angry mid-level manager, a flaky artist, and a socially inept tech guru--we felt that you would be the best fit for ending our uncomfortable dry spell.

We were impressed with how uncomplicated you are. You've held the same job for 12 years, you've had the same best friends since high school, and you've hung out at the same bars since you were 21. You're predictable! You will be easy to avoid should this arrangement turn unfavorable to either party.

Your shady criminal history makes you the perfect candidate for a position like this. We think you mentioned something about a DUI four years ago in your interview? Oh well. But, it was the way you paid for cab rides, bought us beers, and sweetly held our hand that really cinched the deal. Good work.

Of course the position is unpaid, but we will be happy to provide a reference for your future endeavors. We pride ourselves on our confidentiality and can assure you that we will never tell our parents or co-workers about this arrangement.

Thanks and we look forward to doing whatever-the-hell-this-is until we meet someone we can tell our loved ones about!

Warmly,
SK MGMT

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Things I've Lost: My Cool

Hey guys! Sorry to bug y'all, but I've misplaced my cool. I've looked under all my couch cushions, under my bed, and combed my car, but I've clearly lost my cool. I swear that I just had it, but ever since I ran into a hot guy at my friend's wedding, I can't seem to find it. I know it's missing because:

• After introducing myself to this dashing gent, I immediately asked if he, "had a girlfriend or what." At least no one could accuse me of not cutting to the chase. *tugs collar*
  

• When he said that the didn't have a girlfriend, I asked him to dance. We slow danced to "Careless Whisper." As he looked into my eyes and smiled, I squeezed the shoulder pad on his blazer then made an awkward joke about it. What was I thinking? Who does that?
  

• After our magical dance, he asked if I wanted to step outside and have a cigarette with him. I agreed even though I don't smoke. I pretended to inhale but it was totally obvious that I'm not a smoker. Who pretends to smoke? That's so weird!
  

• After he asked me a few general questions about my background, I blurted out that I was unable to pay attention to anything he was saying because he was so handsome. Who says that? Our conversation deteriorated after that, surprise surprise.
  

• And, then, the worst part of all, I tracked him down and ADDED HIM ON FACEBOOK THE NEXT DAY. I AM SUCH A CREEP! It was like an out-of-body experience, watching myself crash and burn so hard. My eager friend request exposed my desperation. I was a self-saboteur of the highest order; I could've written a book called Self-Sabotage for Dummies because I was rapidly becoming an expert. I have never, I repeat, NEVER done the day-after friend request. Just as that guy blamed the sun for why he killed the Arab in Camus' The Stranger, I'm going to blame this guy's luminescent smile for my straight-up insane behavior.
  

• And, if I hadn't embarrassed myself enough, I waited two days and then I emailed him asking him out for a drink. Those with a heart condition might want to take a deep breath before they read the rest of this sentence as this might come as a terrible shock, but he has not responded to my emailed drink invitation.
  

I was like a dog at a cocktail party following him around and humping his leg. You know how Cassandra from Wayne's World learned English from watching the Police Academy movies? It's like I had learned how to date solely from watching Sleeping With The Enemy.

Please, if anyone has seen my cool, could you just return it? No questions asked. Girl Scout's honor.

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Things In His House That Make Me Sad: His Bathroom Towel

I'm supposed to dry my body with this? The towel he just handed me is both the size and texture of a cat's tongue. No wait, a cat's tongue is probably more absorbent. This is so small! It can barely cover one boob, much less two of 'em! As an added bonus, I get to run from the bathroom to his room wrapped in this postage stamp-sized mini-towel, lest I flash his roommate unwittingly.

I'm pretty sure that he got it when he went to college and he hasn't washed it since Clinton was in office. It is all matted like a homeless man's dreadlock. Not to get all technical here, but a towel only really has one job: to dry. This shithow South Philly towel he expects me to use is clearly not drying me. Rather, it's just pushing the water around and scratching my skin. It's starting to hurt.

Yes, using his towel is like being scratched by a homeless man's dreadlock while I'm in a sprint. And, that just makes me sad.

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Summer Mix Series Volume Three: Death's Headquarters

Our buddy Dryw Scully put this mix together for our Summer Mix Series. You can find him spinning at the 700 Club every now and again. Thanks, Dryw! Listen to it while you sip some lemonade in the shade. Click on the picture below to download it.

Download Link

Death's Headquarters track listing:

1. Things Will Never Be The Same Again - JJ
2. I'll Keep It With Mine - Nico
3. Laura - Girls
4. Dreams Come True Girl - Cass McCombs
5. Honey Won't You Let Me In - The Tallest Man On Earth
6. Can't Hear My Eyes - Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti
7. There Is No Light - Wildbirds & Peacedrums
8. The National Grid - Bachelorette
9. Track 02 - Cave Singers
10. Elephants - Warpaint
11. In the Summertime - Mungo Jerry
12. Street Hassle - Lou Reed

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Bonerkiller: Guys with Limp Handshakes

You’re a tall, strapping lad with a baritone that rivals Barry White’s. So please tell me that the appendage you just extended to me was a cold piece of flounder you had in your pocket and not your hand because really, from where I'm standing, there isn't a discernible difference between the two. In case you couldn't tell by my wincing, I hate your handshake. It was just a mess from the start to the awkward, clammy finish.

There’s no way a man’s man like you could command a grip so lifeless; it makes mine feel like the Incredible Hulk’s in comparison. Your weak handshake shows a lack of assertiveness on your part. I mean, would you shake the President’s hand that way? It's like I'm meeting Bernie from Weekend at Bernies. Does Andrew McCarthy need to prop you up to meet me? Are you wearing Bermuda shorts?

Your gentle grasp also tells me you probably couldn’t handle a woman like me. How can I expect you to protect me from grizzly bears when we go camping if you receive my hand like it might be infected with MRSA or monkey pox? Hell, how can I even trust you to hand the pizza guy money with a palm so pathetically paltry? Get a grip on your grip, homeboy, because an assured shake would go a long way with me.

[Update: Yes, this applies to girls too. They are not immune from this criticism. I've reconsidered friendships over limp handshakes. Who wants to hang out with a limp handshake giver? NO ONE, that's who.]

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Quick Rant: Why Can't More Guys Be "Nice?"

I had a guy tell me after seven months of "dating" that he never actually liked me, he was "just being nice" the whole time. I thought surely he must have liked me a little bit. "What about the vacation we just took together?" I asked him. "And the countless homecooked dinner dates and flowers?"

"Uhhh. I dunno," he stammered. "I was just being nice. I'm a nice person."

WTF? Now that I know he was apparently never into me, it got me thinking how if that's the case, then why aren't more guys just nice?! I could certainly use some free dinners and affection from people that don't care for me whatsoever but just want to be "nice." In fact, if his behavior was typical of what a nice person does, then every guy I've ever met has been downright mean. Next time someone introduces me to a "nice" friend, I'll be pissed if they don't bring flowers and pay for my drinks and shower me with attention and tell me how cute I am, because apparently that's what people do when they don't like you but are just trying to be nice.

It would go like this: "Hello there Mr. Nice guy! What do you mean you don't want to take me out for movies and dinner and lavish me with presents and help me stumble home drunk and take me to concerts and parties and call me pretty and take me on vacation? What an asshole! I thought you were supposed to be nice!" (So-called "nice" person retracts from handshake and backs away slowly, twittering to his followers about my insane behavior.)

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Shmitten Kitten & Popped! Present Mix Tape Speed Dating Parties

We have partnered up with the fine people at Popped! and we are very proud to announce that we will be throwing four Mix Tape Speed Dating parties this fall at some of the best bars and restaurants around Philadelphia. If you had floppy '90s hair while you listened to it, we're gonna speed date to it.

Here's how it works: when you pre-register, you can suggest songs to play on the night you will attend. So, in effect, we will create a mix tape of all of the songs that you want to hear in the given genre of the night. Have you always wanted to speed date to Braid? or Jawbreaker? Or Superchunk? Make it happen! At the very least, you'll get the chance to meet people who have similar tastes in music, which is rad.

All of the parties start at 7pm. Speed dating starts at 8pm SHARP. Here is the schedule:

Dates and Venues:

Thursday, September 10th - Khyber
Soundtrack: '90s Alternative
i.e. Dinosaur Jr., Teenage Fanclub, Smashing Pumpkins, Sonic Youth, Pixies, Weezer, etc.

Thursday, September 24th - Dos Segundos
Soundtrack: '90s Emo/Pop Punk
i.e. Get Up Kids, Promise Ring, Lifetime, Avail, Jawbreaker, Braid, Fugazi, Descendents, Rainer Maria, etc.

Thursday, October 8th - The Cantina
Soundtrack: '90s Indie
i.e. Superchunk, Pavement, Stone Roses, Guided by Voices, PJ Harvey, My Bloody Valentine, Superdrag, etc.

Thursday, October 22nd - Royal Tavern
Soundtrack: '90s Grunge
Like you don't know what grunge is! Let's just say that the Singles soundtrack WILL make an appearance.

When:

7pm - 9pm.
There will be drink specials and speed dating starts at 8pm sharp!

Cost:

$5 if you pre-register. $8 if you don't.
All money will be due at the event and it's cash only.

Why pre-register?
Your pre-registration will be good for one free drink at the event. Yup, it costs $5 to attend and your first drink is on us. Pretty sweet, right? And, one lucky couple will win a gift certificate to Cantina too. You could meet the person of your dreams AND have your first date on us. That's just swell.

Please join us. It's gonna be soooo insanely fun. Well, as much fun as quickly meeting a bunch of strangers who share a penchant for Pavement can be.

Pre-register here!

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Bonerkiller: Guys That Don't Follow the News--At All.

I don't pretend to know everything, but I'd like to think I have a decent grasp of what's going on in the news on a local/national/international level.

So when I talk to guys that are clueless about world events, it is by far the biggest bonerkiller in the world. This one guy that I met recently didn't know squat. I mean he had ABSOLUTELY no idea about anything or anyone that influenced the world stage. Sarkozy, Madoff, Neda, Ahmadinejad, Fumo; the list goes on. You don't even have to read anything beyond the headlines to know that these people are in the news.

Was he recently dug up from a high school kid's backyard and thawed out from a block of ice? Does he shield his eyes every time he walks by a newspaper stand? I think the illiterate homeless guy in my park that wipes his ass with yesterday's newspaper might know more about current events than him. I'm not expecting a guy to have the knowledge base of an expert guest on the NewsHour With Jim Lehrer or anything, but if he glanced at the BBC News homepage headings every once in a while and could at least nod his head in a basic discussion, it would do a lot for me.

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Things That Make Us Go "Yikes": I Will Secretly Judge You Based On How Well You Performed on the SATs

This is crazy because I took my SATs, what, 15 years ago? Not to toot my own standardized testing horn, but I scored very well. I don't bring it up often--because really, who does?--but occasionally after I've been seeing a guy for a while it creeps into conversation.

We divulge our scores to each other with caution because these could be potentially treacherous waters. There are only a few ways that this can go. And, really he can't win.

For instance, say he scored lower than me. Automatically, I feel strange. He feels strange. It hangs in the air like fart. At first I am pleased to have scored higher, but that's quickly replaced by disappointment that I scored higher. I imagine us as a high school couple in study hall; me using the time for the intended purpose of studying and him being kicked out for talking in the back of the classroom. Like Claire and Bender from The Breakfast Club, we'd never have worked--unless he gave me a diamond earring and agreed to date me to piss off my dad.

Or, if he scored higher than me then I get indignant and competitive. Who does this guy think he is? I want to re-take the test just to show him up.

In a rare third instance, the guy will confess to having never taken his SATs. He might has well have told me that he was born with a tail because it is clear that we are two separate species of animal. Can we even procreate? Will our children be circus freaks? If he never took his SATs, he'll be unimpressed by my score because to him it's all just a jumble of useless numbers--which is what they really are anyways.

The only way that this will not end in bloodshed and/or hurt feelings is if we have the same score, or scored within 20 point of each other. Then, it would be considered a draw and I would be able to swiftly move on, satisfied that I've met my standardized testing match.

How nerdy am I that this is even an issue with me? Am I the only one who does this? (Probably.) Is this weird? (Definitely.) Is there anything that you irrationally judge a guy on? Let us know at hi@shmittenkitten.com or just leave it in the comments section.

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Reader Submission: Dispatches from the Friend Zone

We received a reader submitted transmission from the Zone of Not Bone, aka the Friend Zone. We found it amusing, and we hope you do too. Read on:

Hello fellow adventurers,

This may seem too amazing to be true, but after many months of hard work and determination, our team of climbers has finally reached the summit of the coveted "Friend Zone."

It's taken a lot of resources, manpower, and effort to bring us here today, but I'm proud to say we are now fully encamped here in the Friend Zone.

The ascent was difficult, and along the way many of us questioned the journey and almost gave up. But after numerous hangouts, late night conversations, and pseudo-dates, we've finally arrived.

It's strange being here. The surface of the Friend Zone is made entirely of rock outcroppings and glacial ice. Completely devoid of plant or animal life, with wind speeds at 70mph, it is a barren landscape. Most notably present here in the Friend Zone is the complete lack of romantic interest from the female in question. Our team has performed multiple readings with various instruments and found no trace whatsoever. However, readings DO show a high-level of platonic friendship feelings, which lines up exactly with our theories about the Friend Zone.

Our initial findings are very promising and we hope to spend a few months here collecting samples and running more tests. However, there are concerns here among the team. All our theoretical models indicate that there is a direct correlation between time spent in the Friend Zone and levels of frustration/agony. Having just arrived, we aren't yet showing symptoms, but I fear that in the coming weeks, we may have to face the reality that our team may encounter them.

Despite these challenges, we shall carry on. The research we are doing here may inevitably save lives, so it's important that we persevere. To those of you who are romantically interested in someone who just doesn't seem to be reciprocating, I urge you to consider taking the trek to the Friend Zone and join us in our study and the meaningful research we're doing here. We're always looking for more candidates to join the team. Be sure, however, to dress warmly and pack a lot of winter clothes.

Sincerely,

Gustav Alvar
Team Leader
Friend Zone Expeditionary Team 2009

4 Comments

Bonerkiller: Air Guitarists

Our homie Tracy Wilson tickled our funny bone when she wrote this hilarious characterization of boys who play air guitar. As a long-time musician, she is more than qualified to attest to these musical indiscretions. This originally appeared on her blog, Lightning's Girl, and we've re-posted it here for your pleasure:

I don't know why you do it. It is as if you are hard-wired to extend your arm in a right angle to your body and wiggle your fingers around in time (sort of) to whatever the guitar player is doing on the record we all happen to be listening to. You can't seem to control your body at all when a Led Zeppelin record is playing--or fill-in-the-blank with whatever legendary guitar band here--and it is creepy.

The reality is that it is embarrassing to be around and it physically pains me to look at you when you do it. Have you noticed how many of the girls around you are doing it to? Oh, there are none? HELLO! It is because we don't because we don't share the same chemistry that requires us to play along with Black Sabbath using our hands at all. (And for you ladies who do, you are freaks of nature who belong in a scientific study.)

Please take note: you don't look cool or totally rock 'n' roll when you play air guitar. It looks is as if you are having a music-related seizure that requires medication or restraints. Some of you try to explain that you can't help but play along to whatever "killer riff" is rocking from the nearest speaker because you know how to play it on your guitar at home or it was the first song you ever learned on guitar or whatever lame ass story, but there is really no good excuse for air guitaring. Period.

I don't care how hard you try to defend your spazzy fingering of the space in front of your probably slightly hunched-over body. You probably don't really know how to play the song on guitar either. I have handed boys a guitar to test this theory. I am sorry to say that the gentlemen nearly always fail the test miserably. I am barely impressed when someone tells me they actually know how to play the guitar so why in the world would I be wowed by your air tapping of invisible notes? Blargh.

Oh and when you move your hands down to the crotch region as if to get down and dirty to a sweet tune, it just makes me want to remove your penis from your body as punishment for such a visual insult.

There, I said it and it feels really good to get that off my chest. If we are ever out somewhere and I look as if I am ripping the skin off another human being with my eyes it is probably because they are air guitaring somewhere in my vicinity.

And just in case you were wondering, this applies to air drumming or air bass playing too. I hate them all deeply. Light tapping is fine of fingers and toes are fine, head banging - sure, and I don't even mind the occasional sing along. Just keep your busy, pathetic hands to yourself.

We are too busy laughing to type a coherent sentence. Well put, Tracy!

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Tip Our Hats: You're a Really Fun Drunk

Sure, on any given day, you’re the very picture of restraint. Politeness and manners abound, and everyone you've ever met would describe you as a "really sweet girl.” But in familiar company after a few beers, you’re swearing like a lumberjack prostitute in a David Mamet movie telling off-color jokes that would make Prince blush.

I have no idea why, but it’s friggin’ adorable and I can’t wait to hear what you really think about your creepy co-worker who wears Tevas and socks on casual Friday and who said you had beautiful lips on that team-building trip last month.

I also get a huge kick out of the stories that tumble out of your mouth. With the slightest tangential reference, you’ll go on a tear about the one time in fifth grade where you were totally robbed at the science fair by this bitch whose father clearly did the whole project for her. The way you taught that mouse to run the maze by yourself was amazing, and that prick principal is going to burn in hell for not recognizing that. What was so impressive about a baking soda volcano anyway? Everyone knows how to make one of those. Everyone.

By the end of the night, you’re all tuckered out from the wild gesturing and belly laughing. You'll get all quiet with a goofy drunk smile and want to hold hands on the walk home. In those few short hours, we’ve experienced the full gamut of entertainment. What can we say? It was a good night.

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Bonerkiller: You Are Not Funny In Person

What happened? You cracked me up a mile a minute online but in person you're about as funny as a parking ticket i.e. not at all. When we first started talking, you were like the Ol' Faithful of Internet humor; every time your name would pop up to chat, I knew I'd be in for a smile. Granted, your comedy thus far has been limited to hysterical one-liners and pasting zany videos into my chat window. But, the farther away you get from the chat window, the less funny you become. What false advertising! What a bait 'n' switch!

In person, you're rather bitter: You're not nice to our waitress, you didn't complement me on my dress, and you didn't hold the door open for me. In short--and you'll have to excuse my French--you're a dick. It's ok to be a dick every now at again as long as it's not directed at me, but an unfunny dick? Well, that's just not gonna fly. It's like (funny) night and (unfunny) day. What a drag.

As a head's up, you're off my buddy list, Buster. (Btw, that's the wimpiest threat I've ever made.)

[Update: Upon further reflection, I think that I was too harsh in this post. My real concern is the amount of social ineptitude displayed upon hanging out. That's a better way to put it. Regardless of what the deal was, he wasn't funny in person and that's the real tragedy here. I also think that my local grocery story not stocking Pudding Pops is a tragedy, just to give you some insight into how I classify tragedies.]

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Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend: I Will Drag You To Civil War Battlefields

For our second installment of "Things That Make Me A Bad Boyfriend," I thought we'd steer in a direction that is much less controversial, but infinitely more boring.

I hope you didn't have any plans on Saturday, because if I was your boyfriend, there's a good chance I'd be waking you up at 9:00am to drive out to a living history event at a nearby Civil War battlefield.

I feel like most guys have their own "nerd shit." Some guys nerd out about college football, some guys are way into cars, some guys can quote lines from any comedy movie released in the last 20 years. This is some Level 1 nerdery. I'm on Level 5.

I am a history nerd. Instead of swooning over the Twilight series, you'll usually find me reading a history book. And, more often than not, I'm reading about the Civil War.

Now, I kinda have a geographic excuse. I live in Richmond, VA, the capital of the Confederacy. The large majority of the intense battles of the Civil War happened within a 100-mile radius of my apartment. It's interesting stuff! But here's where it sucks for you:

• On a regular basis, I will invite you to come along with me to various living history events, lectures, and maybe even a few re-enactments. You might think this is cute at first, and then you'll see how into it I am, and once the chills of embarrassment subside, all that's going to be left is sheer annoyance.

• Instead of a weekend getaway to the beach or to New York City, I'm going to propose a roadtrip to Gettysburg and Antietam. The entire drive I will share Civil War anecdotes with you. I might even make you listen to an audiobook about the battles--or Phil Collins albums, but that's an entirely different blog entry.

• I will bring up Civil War historical references while we're at the bar with your friends. It will usually start with "Did you know..." and will end with all your friends thinking you're dating a TOTAL FUCKING WEIRDO.

If that's not enough, this will definitely scare you: When I first started seriously getting interested in the Civil War, the one question everyone asked me was whether or not I would ever participate in a re-enactment. My first reaction was "Oh no, no...I'm not THAT into it." But as time goes by, and as I see the direction I'm heading in, well, I can totally see myself as a 40-year-old dude with a gnarly Civil War beard, camping out with other Civil War history dorks and shooting rifles in a field. So, if you read all this and don't think that my Civil War habits are annoying, brace yourself for some Level 10 nerdery in about ten years or so.

So basically, unless you're a National Parks Service employee or someone who is already a Civil War re-enactor (hoop skirts! yowza!), you're probably going to think I'm a bad boyfriend.

[After praising Phil for having the most perfect profile picture ever, we lassoed him into being a guest contributor. He loves illegal bonfires, Big Gulps, and daydreaming about his upcoming trip to Iceland. Check him out here.]

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Bonerkiller: You Have A Severe Case Of OTD (Obsessive Tweeting Disorder)

Let’s not confuse the issue here: tech savvy girls are radical. A subscription to Wired is a plus and the ability to speak intelligibly about why you think Twitter can change the world one anecdotal update at a time isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But my libido dwindles down to the level of a sleeping Stephen Hawking when I see that you've posted more than 10,000 updates from your Twitter page.

I can accept that you pretend to tweet because it’s part of your job. I’m not exactly sure why it’s important to know about Shaq’s bowel movements in order to be a successful teacher, but I can accept it. What I can’t accept is the fact that you’ve felt the need to share something that happened to you in the past few weeks roughly as often as that one drunk person at the bar felt the need to compulsively play tributary Michael Jackson tracks on the jukebox.

It’s not that tweeting is inherently bad, but over-saturation destroys happiness and sucks the life out of anything. Take high-fives for instance: If we did them all the time they would not only become meaningless, they would be annoying. Instead of a spontaneous expression of awesomeness, high-fives would become a reminder of what it means to waste life constantly doing something pointless. Over-tweeting lumps anything worthwhile that we experience in with the stuff nobody needs to really know about.

If you need help breaking the cycle, just try to high-five someone every time you feel the impulse to tweet. Problem solved.

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See, Here's The Thing: You’re A Fox In A Pack Of She-Wolves

I adore the fact that you've obviously spent a considerable amount of time getting yourself ready for a night out on the town with your girlfriends. I also appreciate that you are clearly out to meet a dude by the way that you linger near the bar with a near-empty drink, holding it ever-so-slightly out in front of you to let everyone know that you’re ready for another round, should they feel like stepping up and making a move.

But, there’s a problem. It’s your friends. There’s nothing wrong with them per se, but there are just so many of them. It’s hard enough to approach a girl at a bar as a rule, but when you surround that girl with seven of her closest friends, the intimidation factor goes through the roof. I’m not going anywhere near that because let’s be honest: I doubt my ego can handle that many catty snickers, should I misstep ever so slightly. I’m sorry. It’s not you--it’s them.

On top of that, the guys who will venture forth are not the droids you are looking for. Trust me. Any guy willing to carpet-bomb an entire field of women is just looking for any enemy foxhole he can accidentally hit. This isn’t an accuracy game for him and that’s no good for anyone.

So I implore you: If you must be out with that many of your lady friends, stray from the pack from time to time. Even if it’s just to wander over to the jukebox alone and skim the CD booklet covers, that window of opportunity is all that’s really needed. It’s intimidating enough when it’s just you, sitting on a stool looking cute. Don’t make it worse for us. Also, I’m sorry for that Star Wars reference earlier. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

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Little Known Fact: I'm Not Interested In Grabbin' Coffee As A First Date

Full disclosure: a coffee shop during the daytime is not my best dating arena. It's like having a gladiator fight in a tea garden; it's not the proper venue for the moves I wanna execute. Is this something he suggested we do because this is what adults are expected to do, like paying our bills online or throwing a dinner party?

I'm not sold on this coffee date idea because I don't want to:

• Meet you somewhere well-lit. We might as well have our first date in a dressing room at the Gap. Fuck that.

• Make small talk with a semi-stranger (i.e. him) while I'm sober. It just doesn't sound fun or sexy. Sorry.

• Run into someone I know. I'll introduce my date as a friend, but I'll ask it as a question like, "This is my friend? Pierre." Then, my buddy will detect my hesitation, picking up on the fact that I am on a first date. She will nod knowingly with a wide, fake smile and back away slowly with a hint of pity for me, like she just walked in me during a job interview that I'm tanking.

• What if we hit it off? I'm not gonna grab a second cup of coffee. If we went out for a drink, at least I could grab another beer seamlessly. I guess that's the point of meeting at a cafe; to limit our interaction time but still, sometimes another beer goes a long way.

• If he talks my ear off, I'll have to sit there with an empty coffee cup pretending to listen as I get increasingly more jittery. I'm already nervous! Now, I'm nervous AND jittery.
  

• Say goodbye to him. Do I give him a handshake? A high five? A hug? A kiss on the cheek? I already know that we'll both will have coffee breath. Eh. Count me out.

Couldn't we have just met up at a wine bar? Or, a bar where he knows the bartender and can hook us up? To paraphrase James Van Der Beek in Varsity Blues, "I don't want your coffee date!"

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Spoiler Alert: You Will Ulitmately Disappoint Me Because I'm In Love With Joseph Gordon-Levitt

Our reader Tara sent this in about her thoughts watching the movie (500) Days of Summer. It's a bit like reading her diary. But, we know what she means: we feel the same way about Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future. After watching that movie on a date, no man could ever live up to Marty McFly's vested/skater/guitar player/purple Calvin Klein underwear cuteness. Apparently, Joseph Gordon-Levitt had the same affect on her. Read on:

For the next 108 minutes, I'm going to be judging our "relationship"--or whatever it is that's going on between us. I'm not saying we're boyfriend and girlfriend, I'm just saying something is going on with us. Or, not even something, but we're seeing each other casually. Right?

I came into the date thinking we'd see a movie, hold hands a bit, maybe revert to some circa seventh grade dating rituals. But 30 seconds into the movie, I couldn't help but notice that this on-screen couple is basically perfect, and that this lead hyphenated-last-name-actor-guy had everything I've ever wanted in a boyfriend.

I keep thinking how no one else in the theater is in love with him like I am, and how if we could just meet I bet we would fall in love the same way that girls in movies fall in love with guys on the radio from Seattle.

I am thinking about how if he asked me to marry him I would say yes. Crazy, I know. For at least the next 48 hours, I'm going to secretly resent you for not being as perfect or as good of a dresser as Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and I will be depressed that I am not as adorable the female lead, what's-her-name. As you can imagine, I'm really fun to be around when I'm like this.

After the movie, when we walk a few blocks to get something to eat, I won't say much of anything. You'll try to cheer me up, but everything you do just won't be as cute as what the guy in the movie was trying to do to be cute. And even though the girl in the movie rolled her eyes when her boyfriend was trying to be cute, he really WAS cute and she was a fool, where as with us, you really AREN'T cute, and I could do so much better.

It was nice of you to pay for dinner though.

P.S. You still like me, right?

Whoa! Sorry to say this--and we'll probably get some heat for admitting it--but if there was a college course about how women really think sometimes, this letter would be on the syllabus.

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Tip Our Hats: Guys Who Know How To Take Care Of A Us When We're Sick

I’m so congested I can’t breathe, yet my nose is running like the grossest little kid at kindergarten recess. My entire body aches and I'm shivering, surrounded by used tissues and drained mugs of peppermint tea.

Here I am at my finest--totally sick. Not only do I feel gross, but I look even grosser. I’ve been wearing the same pajamas for two days and I’ve barely brushed my teeth or combed my hair. In my fever/drug-induced delirium, I could understand if my guy kept a safe distance from my germs. Sure it wouldn’t exactly be my favorite thing ever, but let’s face it, being sick is a total pain in the ass. I’d probably stay away from him too if he was the stricken one. So naturally, I am almost shocked back to health when I hear stories of guys facing their germ fears and tending to their lil' ill lady.*

In these myths, not only does this guy look past his girl’s crusty appearance, but he steps up to the plate and does whatever he can to make her more comfortable. He is at her every beck and call, which would normally irritate her "I-can-do-it-myself" attitude. But now, in her state of dilapidation, this guy’s surprisingly gentle bedside manner is helping her rest easier than any Sudafed-laced cold medicine could. I’m so impressed, I may start calling him Clara Barton!

She is almost sure that she’s hallucinating, but where did that dry toast and ginger ale come from? Is that a bowl of chicken broth she sees on her table? The remote controls have been positioned within reach perfectly so she can easily navigate between her favorite flicks and television shows. In her haze, she sees him by her bed with a thermometer in hand, her knight in nurses' scrubs. We tip our hats to you, dudes who know how to take care of a sick lady. Your Dr. McDreamy-ness is just what the doctor ordered.

*Note: This has never happened to me and I am seriously hoping that it does in fact happen beyond the legends I’ve heard.

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Guys Who Don't Want To Date Me ['90s Edition]: Ravers

Granted, I only dipped my toe in the rave scene for one summer in 1997 and it wasn't even my idea. I came home to Chicago the summer after my freshman year at college and, much to my chagrin, I found that a large portion of my punk friends had turned into pacifier-sucking, huge pants-wearing, glow stick-waving ravers while I was away at school. I resisted it at first, scoffing at their all-night parties. But, after a week of sitting around my parents house, I realized two things:

1. I missed my friends.
2. Staying out til the wee hours stomping around the city sounded like fun.

So, I relented and went to my first rave. I was blown away because everyone was so nice! People would just come up to me and give me hugs. (I would later find out that this might have been *ahem* a chemically enhanced sense of euphoria on their part, but since I was straightedge and naive, that never occurred to me.)

Unfortunately, I never dated a raver. The closest thing I had was when I cuddled with a random blond kid on a bean bag chair in a "chill out lounge." Big whoop (that's sarcastic.) I'd see dudes scurry around the dance floor, bobbing their heads to the beat but I'd never turn those heads. I could've swung glow sticks from my ta-tas, but I don't think that would've made a difference.

I even watched Hackers and enjoyed it. Apparently, laptop-wielding, rollerblading ravers did not turn me off. Alas, having a wide-legged pantsed Romeo was not in the subbaculture cards for me. Boo hoo, right?

Did any of you guys date a raver? They always seemed up for a good time, all the time. Did I miss out?

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In The Department of This is SO TRUE: This is SO TRUE

via Skull Swap

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