(A review of a pretty awful date I had gone on with a hipster who was sporting a most fabulous handlebar mustache … As written to a few friends at the time).
We started out by having a drink at Harefield Road, a local bar in East Williamsburg. He told me he was a (self-proclaimed, presumably) filmmaker. Lived in Brooklyn all his life (formerly from Bensonhurst). Now lives in a loft with four other guys off the Morgan stop on the L train (right above it, actually, probably a bit noisy and rattle-y, I’d imagine).
After Harefield Road, we went to a random place on the corner of Bushwick and Devoe where a friend of his was having a party for her music video release. It was one of those random DIY spaces that was packed with hipsters. He said there was going to be free drinks and food, but instead there was a $10 cover charge (and for what?), the booze wasn’t free (or rather there was a “strongly suggested donation”) and the free food consisted of deviled eggs that were kind of meh…Also, the place stunk like hell. At first I didn’t know what it was and later I realized it was onions . . . everywhere.
They played the band’s video and, in it, there were a bunch of onions… people chopping onions, onions rolling around, onion statues and sculptures, you name it! So I guess in keeping with the theme of the video, some idiot decided it would be a great idea to have onions lying around liberally at the party!
There were a bunch of chopped onions (and variations thereof) lying around, onion sculptures and all kinds of onion paraphernalia. After they played the music video, the hipster’s friend started performing, so we were standing there and watching the show…. Meanwhile, my eyes were completely tearing up. At first I thought it was just me, but no, many other people were rubbing their eyes and complaining. But everyone was still standing around and not leaving, so I did the same. Eventually, after the third or fourth song, Mustache Ben asked if I wanted to go outside and smoke. I hadn’t been smoking much then and probably shouldn’t have, but in that instant I, of course, would have done anything to get out of that onion-reeking place. We went outside. I wanted to just jet at that point, but thought it’d be rude, so I didn’t. When we were done smoking, he asked if I wanted to go back inside (?!). I said no…
He suggested going somewhere else. We walked to the land of abandoned warehouses near the Grand St. stop where he knew of some other bands that were playing. (I was thinking, “God, I hope there are no onions!”) We got unto this middle-of-nowhere block, where he found an inconspicuous door with a staircase leading upstairs, to one of those random trashy lofts/DIY spaces where they were also charging an $8 cover (again, not worth it in my mind).
The other thing is: I know money is a contentious topic for a lot of people, but I was a bit annoyed that he never offered to pay (especially considering I wasn’t even enjoying most of these things). But what do you expect from a starving artist/self-proclaimed filmmaker?
We got drinks and sat around at this other performance space and listened to some very loud bands. At first, we were talking about art and film and he was twirling his mustache (I did mention he has a great handlebar mustache, right? Probably the primary reason I went for him in the first place) and I thought that maybe I’d give him the benefit of the doubt, but then we made out and . . . well, it was awful. You know how we joke about “I’m going to stick my tongue down his/her throat”? Well, making out with him actually felt like his tongue was this very persistent lizard that was actually trying to jump down my throat. Ugh.
I also quickly realized that I didn’t even want to be there—in some run down middle of nowhere space, with a bunch of hipsters, listening to some no-name loud bands, over which I can’t even hear what the guy is saying. I realized that the scene/setting itself wasn’t either my idea of a good time or my idea of what a date should be like. Maybe I would’ve thought this would be cool when I was 25 (which is how old he was), but not now. So after my second drink at this place and some time around 11, I told him I had to go home.
He walked me to the train. I never saw him again.
The takeaways were: a) I should probably steer clear of younger guys and hipsters and b) the mustache, even one worthy of Dali comparisons, does not the man make.