Hate Mail to the Bachelor

Dear Brad,

As Bettina and her family pointed out, you lack any sort of formal college education, so this concept may be hard for you to get your head around:

People don’t watch reality TV to see reality.

See, we’re all already dating guys who say stuff to us like, “You posses every single quality I’m looking for in a woman, but I’m not interested.” The Bachelor works to ensure women that true love might actually exist. That dreams can come true. That hot, successful men out there are willing to settle down. If not any of those things, the show works as proof that there’s at least one man on the planet who’s not a total dipshit. That’s why ABC gets to charge advertisers $1.5 million for 30 second spots on the show.

Have you no respect for the system?

I decided not to judge you until watching last night’s cheesily titled “After The Final Rose” Special Edition of The Bachelor. Sadly, you were a worthless asshole last night too, and even got booed by the female audience.

Brad – I get that it’s difficult to be sure you want to spend the rest of your life with someone. That’s why past bachelors have sort of finagled the proposal and handed the ring over saying, “let’s get to know each other better and see if this works in real life.” Did you find both DiAnna and Jenni so repulsive that they weren’t even worthy of that non-committal statement? You’d really rather just walk away? Jeez. The past six weeks must have been torturous for you if you hate them that much. Considering you showered them with assurance, that also makes you a fabulous actor. Agents in LA probably already have you on their speed dial. Maybe that was part of this whole plan.

I guess I remain baffled that you couldn’t just make a non-committal proposal to one of these girls and take one for the team. Give American women something to smile about and dump whoever you picked five days later.

Is that so much to fucking ask?

Now, already emotionally schizophrenic women like me have learned that even if I open up to guy and spill out all my feelings, and even if he considers me ‘perfect’ for him, I’ll still get used like a Kleenex. Women will never want to be contestants on this show again. They sign up for a chance at happiness, not to participate in a rejection-fest. Women can get rejected in real life everyday without having to fly to LA, live in a house, and compete with twenty-four other women for your attention.

You’ve also made the ABC execs piss themselves to the extent where on last night’s special they brought out two happily married couples from previous seasons to affirm the show’s credibility. I’m impressed the head of reality programming at ABC hasn’t strangled you with his tie. I wish he would, because that would be affirming to watch.

That’s all for now.

Keep on sucking,

Model Behavior

PS Keep it up with the creatine because I think you’re getting fat

Why Women Sometimes Suck (aka Planet Pink Part II)

So silver outer space night at Pink wasn’t exactly outta sight. The evening closely resembled every other Thursday night at the joint, except there were a lot of extra disco balls and cocktail waitresses in silver spandex dresses. Come to find out, silver spandex is highly unflattering no matter how little body fat one posses, and it makes even the most anorexic ass look HUGE. I repeatedly thanked whatever fashion fairy had influenced me to wear jeans and a backless, silver bandana top as opposed to the silver tube dress Twiggy had generously lent me. That silver tube dress bordered between Carrie Bradshaw chic and ‘I’m a prostitute who managed to wrap myself in silver saran wrap.’ As is most likely the case in New York, the jeans route of dressing down was the best decision.

Now don’t get me wrong about Roberto’s birthday. I don’t mean to imply it wasn’t fun. The place was packed, the club’s energy was fantastic, and the crowd seemed even less douchey than normal. What was really going on is that I wasn’t fun. Come to find out, one can’t be an ecstatically happy good time every night. Amazing, right? I danced a bit, moved around a lot, sampled some Krug 1988 (why anyone would choose to savor such a great champagne in such an awfully unpeaceful environment is beyond me) and spend a good chunk of the evening outside on 27th street trying to get some Italian friends pass the notoriously Fort Knox-like door. And Pink’s female bouncer wanted none of that.

Question: Who in the world okay-ed the idea of girl bouncers?

I think women kick-ass at men’s job (excluding perhaps the idea of women playing pro football.) And I’m all for gender equality, except for one it comes to this specific task. Bouncers should be men. Door people should be men. Not because women aren’t good at it. Rather because the skill set of these particular jobs seem to vehemently bring to the forefront a female’s inner bitch. I mean jeez, if I were put in a position of power outside Pink Elephant I’d reek havoc on the world too by:

1) Speaking to everyone in my most level, ‘I-hate-your-f-ing-guts’ tone
2) Consistently turning my back on people vying for my attention
3) Hating on hot women and
4) Making snap judgments on people and refusing to change my mind, even if the situation called for a change of heart.

These were all the things the not-so-lovely female Pink bouncer did to my friends and I Thursday night. And I guarantee you, had I not gone outside to help expedite their entry process; they would have gotten in much more effectively. The moment I asked miss female bouncer if they could join one of our two tables and provided her with both the names, she gave me one of those snarky head to toe once-overs that always mean bad news.

First she played coy, agreed, and told us to wait one moment. Then I think she saw my backless top and decided I was worthy of some torture (as if my outfit was MY fault. I was just adhering to Pink’s own party invitation instructions, which requested everyone to wear silver. I don’t see how it’s my responsibility if my best silver top happens to be backless. Besides I was wearing conservative jeans, while a less tasteful lass could have easily matched this top with a mini skirt). She next informed me that she’d need the table names LAST names. I provided one of them.

“Nope,” She replied. “I need the exact last name of the credit card on the table.”

I knew the table reservation name, but the last name on the credit card of whichever of the five guys from Monaco had been the unlucky shmuck to fork over his plastic – that was an utter mystery to me. A mystery that had no chance of being solved, because even if I battled the crowds and returned to our table, it was more likely a UFO would land outside of Pink Elephant than me managing to have an intelligible conversation with any person who possessed a penis inside.

So she made us wait forever. Which was really fine because I was able to have an actual conversation with these friends instead of the normal, fragmented, music-impaired, non-dialogue that tends to take place inside clubbing establishments. Our cheerful Italian chatter at the rope only served to piss her off more. She retaliated by letting in groups of just men, a doorperson no-no, and a real slap in the face since we were a party of couples (men and women mixed). Maybe she was paranoid that we were calling her heinous names in Italian behind her back, which in fact, we were.

After doing a quick catch up on each other’s lives, my Italian friends headed into taxis, and I begrudgingly headed back inside to outer space.

Biggest Blogging Fear

My friend and fellow blog writer Cajun Boy in the City recently posted an announcement that he felt forced to activate comment moderation on his blog. He was receiving threatening and inappropriate comments from people I like to call ‘haters.’ I was shell-shocked by Cajun’s announcement because aside from his occasional Guido mocking I didn’t think the subject matter of Cajun’s writing (and especially his writing style) warrants hate mail of any kind. Shouldn’t haters save their ‘death threats’ etcetera for people whose address they actually know? What joy do these people derive from terrorizing the Internet? These losers post anonymously. They’re chicken, not even willing to authorize their own cruelty.

The news of evil-beings prowling blogs late at night, preying on writers’ feelings especially surprised me because in my short blogging career I’ve never received an inappropriate email or comment. EVER! I’d like to think this is because I’m such a charitable, caring person – such virgin-like martyr – that karma’s cutting me a break by sparing me hate mail on the World Wide Web. Since we all know THAT theory doesn’t hold up in reality, I’ve postulated a second: That I’ve known such an impressive amount of despicable people in REAL life that I’ve already received my shittiness quota from the world population in general without having to be abused virtually online. I cling to this hope, but I’ve always lived by Murphy’s Law: Everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Granted this makes me a stressed out maniac, but I’m somehow convinced that assuming the worst helps thwart a future crisis. As a total pessimist at heart, I’ve become convinced that the next anonymous comment in my Inbox is an evil bomb of hate waiting to explode in my face.

Have I become paranoid? Sort of. After reading Cajun’s article, I’ve become highly suspicious of my good fortune. I mean, why shouldn’t people hate me? Let’s face it; the Internet isn’t an exactly a warm, fuzzy place full of chirping birds and bright flowers. It’s a universe where porn dominates, anonymity rules, and gruesome celebrity taunting is celebrated. It’s a harsh, unfriendly sphere. Wild West like. There ain’t no rule of law. Before I begin invoking irrelevant Deadwood analogies, the main point here is that my adrenaline’s begun rushing whenever I see anonymous comments rolling in. I feel like a refugee. I’m waiting for the haters to find me. I hold by breath, read the comment, and find it’s just someone asking for tips on how to get their hands on a Hermes Birkin or gain access to aSmallWorld. And anonymous commenters, please don’t let this discourage you from commenting and remaining anonymous. These are my psychotic issues, I respect your privacy, and you’ve all had lovely things to say so far.

On another site I write for, which I believe also has a larger audience scope; I often get comments that are more – how to put this – less delicate than the ones I receive here. I think this has something to do with people viewing me impersonally as a weekly column as opposed to a daily blog. I don’t feel these readers truly connect with my writing style. For example, on my relationship posts I’ll get franticly concerned comments along the lines of, ‘the guy you’re dating is a slob! Don’t you realize that?!!?’ or ‘you have major self-esteem issues when it comes to men, do you need professional help?’ I find these remarks both amusing disturbing because
a. Don’t these people have anything better to do than be urgently worried about my well-being?
b. Realize I write for entertainment purposes, not as a cry for help, and
c. Realize that I’m a female writer in Manhattan – OF COURSE I’m in therapy and have been ever since I dropped my suitcase on this cracked-out island. Geez.

Note however, that while these comments may be odd, they aren’t mean. If anything they’re from people who are way too sensitive, or have way too much spare time. So my ego and good commenting karma are still intact. Will I get some evil hate mail eventually? Most likely yes. Fortunately, I live in a city where people nearly spit on my feet and hurl heinous insults at me on the subway (and especially when fighting to get a cab) on a daily basis. So hopefully cruel cyber-junk won’t push my buttons too much. It’s all about having a thick skin, which Manhattan helps you very rapidly develop.

Thank you, New York.