Princess MoMo

Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part I
Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part II
Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part III
Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part IV
Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part V

Recap: I met a couple on a cruise in June 2010.  A little less than two years later, I was invited to their wedding.  I didn’t know anyone other than the bride and groom at this affair.  So, I was banking on my date entertaining me.  Just a few days before the wedding, I broke things off with Mr. Lambo.  Thus, I asked Brandon Singer to the wedding.  It started out as a joke.  I hadn’t seen him in 6.5 years.  The day we met (in July 2005), he asked me to be his date to a wedding the following weekend.  I thought it would be amusing if we reunited at another wedding.  The reunion did not happen, though, because Brandon Singer canceled on me a little more than an hour before the wedding because he was too wasted the night before and too hungover to care.  Thankfully, on such short notice, my friend Sheldon agreed to meet me at the wedding.

Part V ended with Mr. Hipster (a dateless wedding guest) sitting next to me.  He violated my “don’t touch MoMo” policy and told me of this artistic ways, which included a guitar.   He was summoned to perform his guitar playing and singing.

I had to endure several minutes of this performance.  Of those minutes, I enjoyed zero.  He returned to his seat and asked me what I thought.  I responded honestly, “I didn’t like it at all.”  I explained that it wasn’t a reflection on his talent, skill or whateverf, but just that I’m really not into guitars and gigs.   We continued to chat.  I confirmed that the rest of my stereotypes about him were true:

1. He’s a liberal

2. He’s a vegetarian

3. He doesn’t care about money

4. He’s all about love and feelings, flowers and sunshine

In other words, he’s a modern day  hippie living in Astoria, Queens.  Despite my harsh bluntness, he seemed highly entertained by me.   He told me he’d noticed me several times before we became acquainted, the first time being in during the wedding ceremony where he observed my “long legs.”  He even claimed that at one point during cocktail hour, we locked eyes.  I did not recall this supposed eye-locking, but I did remember seeing him and noting his black skinny jeans.

Sheldon was fully engaged by the couple to his left, while Mr. Hipster and I talked about nothing and everything.  It was apparent that Mr. Hipster is a social psycho-analyzer.  He was observing my traits, speech and mannerisms and categorizing my personality.  To his credit, his categorization was fairly on point.  He then suggested to Sheldon and me that we go to New York after the wedding to watch him perform.   Almost in unison, Sheldon and I said, “I’m not going to New York.”  At this point, it became obvious that Mr. Hipster wanted me to go to New York with him, but extended the invitation to Sheldon as a courtesy.  He asked why we were averse to going to New York.  Both Sheldon and I expressed our distaste for driving and parking there.  Mr. Hipster offered to drive.  The answer was still no.  He urged ever so slightly more and I caved.  No driving for me meant I could fill my system with fermented grape juice.

Mr. Hipster stepped out for a minute.  During that time, I took off my princess cap and replaced it with my detective cap.  I approached the bride on the dance floor and asked for the scoop on Mr. Hipster.   She gave her seal of approval.  I guzzled two more glasses of wine and off we went.

I left the MoMo-mobile behind and was escorted in a shit-covered van.  Evidently, a wild army of diarrhea-stricken birds using their feces as weapons had declared war on his vehicle.  It was somewhat of a long ride, but it didn’t feel as such because I was wined up.  Finally, we reached Manhattan.  He parked the Shit-mobile.  I attempted to open the door, but something on the outside blocked my attempts to open it.  That something was a bunch of trash.  Literally.  What the fuck? Somehow, I managed to get out of the Shit-Mobile and through the garbage.

My bladder, like an atomic bomb over Hiroshima on August 6, 1945, was about to explode.  We finally got to the venue where he was to perform his “gig.”  I rushed to the bathroom to relieve my burdened bladder.   Upon my return, he had a glass of wine waiting for me.   Smart man.

He introduced me to several of this friends and band members.  The odd part? He, jokingly but repeatedly, introduced me to his people (including his brother) by saying that we had just gotten married…to each other.   I failed to see the humor in this sort of introduction.  Actually, it was awkward.  Coincidentally, on July 16, 2005, when I had attended Brandon Singer’s cousin’s wedding, Brandon Singer kept introducing me to his family by saying that we had just gotten engaged.  I failed to see the humor in that, too.  I guess guys find it less awkward than saying, “I just met her.”

So, here I was in a little bar in Manhattan surrounded by hippies.  Meanwhile, I was still dressed in formal wear (a dress) from the wedding.  Another one of Mr. Hipster’s friends walked in, accompanied by a totally hippie looking chick.  Mr. Hipster’s friend introduced her as his “special friend.”  I said, “Is that a euphemism for fuck buddy?”  Indeed it was.  It was then time for Mr. Hipster to get on stage.  He abandoned me, leaving me with his friend and his friend’s “special friend.”  I was sufficiently influenced by the aged grapes at this point and able to feign interest in a conversation with the friend and special friend.  As it turned out, the special friend was in her 40s and the friend was 29.  They met during some kind of hippie thing.  She described herself as “bohemian,” explaining that she travels all over like a nomad.  This was all insane talk to me.   But, I had to distract myself from the unpleasant “music” that was happening.  I looked up to the stage and noticed that Mr. Hipster makes unattractive faces during while playing.  They were like bad O-faces.  The bohemian chick called it “the stank face.”

The bohemian and her guy left.  Mr. Hipster was still performing.  Sleepiness was setting in. I sat on a stool with my head against the cold glass window of the bar.   I considered bashing my head into said glass to end the pain, but I decided against it because had I done that, who would tell you this story?  I looked up again.  Some guy had just walked into the bar.  He was standing about two feet away from me.  He turned around three or four times to do a triple and quadruple take of me.  Irritated by this, I finally said, “What the fuck are you looking at?”  He said, “Monica?”

I looked at him again and realized it was a college classmate.  Mind you, we had one class together and that was seven years ago.  He said, “I thought it was you, but at first I thought it was too pretty to be you.”  I said, “WTF? You didn’t think I was pretty in college?”  He responded, “I did.  I sat behind you for a reason.  But you didn’t wear dresses to class.”  Obviously I didn’t wear cocktail dresses to college classes; that would have been super weird.  We caught up a little bit and exchanged numbers.

FINALLY, Mr. Hipster’s “gig” ended.   Inexplicably, I was attracted this hipster specimen.  Really, it was inexplicable, particularly to me.  The chemistry was there, though.  This was the second time in less than six months that I had found myself attracted to a hipster.  (The first being Mr. T.)  Clearly, something is wrong with my chemistry detector.  I guess it needs a new battery, or at this rate, the whole damn thing needs to be replaced.  Mr. Hipster and I hung out for several more hours.  I asked him if he would write his version of events for my blog.  He said that if that’s what I wanted, he would do it.

TO BE CONTINUED

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RELATED POSTS:

Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part I

Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part II

Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part III

Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part IV

Click here for I Hate Brandon Singer Part V

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