“The Rock Disaster Movie”

A while back, I went on two Tinder dates on one day. I have only posted about the second one so far. The first one was a little more mundane, at least on the first date.

This guy, we will call…. Badminton guy. Because he told me on our second date that he used to be a high level collegiate badminton player in India and almost went pro. Because I guess that’s a thing in India. And a friend of mine who has her own badminton net and no one to play with her always says she should go out with him so he will play badminton with her. But she doesn’t really want to go out with him, for reasons that will be explained shortly.

One funny thing that happened on my first date with Badminton guy is that we ran into the very same badminton-loving friend of mine, who lived in Baker at the time, on the street while we were going to Sweet Action to get some hipster ice cream. She was carrying a stack of books, one with the title “Teen Relationship Violence” or something dramatic like that and a picture of a girl with a black eye on the cover. It was for her thesis for her Ph.D., but she joked that it was her way of setting boundaries with random passersby in the street. Which cracked us up because we work in mental health. Badminton guy was not a therapist and not a native English speaker, so he did not get the joke and just said something about how people will think she is so studious with those books.

Anyway, date one was normal. Especially in contrast to the fact that immediately afterwards, I went on a date with that guy who showed up like 2 hours late and did a tongue-filled attack-makeout in the Lyft I begrudgingly shared with him.

The part where it stopped being normal is that after our first date, he wanted to text me and call me all the time. I think it was the day after our first date, I was grilling with some friends at my house and he sent me a bunch of texts, starting out normal with “how r u” (he had a good mastery of text speak for not being a 12-year-old from the U.S.) and gradually devolving into “I guess u just don’t want to talk to me :(” after a series of unrequited texts. My roommate told me that she wondered how many more non-response texts it would take for him to show up at my house and break down the door. Luckily, he didn’t know where my house was.

And he started calling me “baby” constantly, which I promptly had a talk with him about, but he kept doing it. But despite all this, I decided to give him another chance in the form of a second date because I tell myself that being overzealous is better than being underzealous (definitely not a word but I’m going with it).

So our second date started off when he picked me up at a friend’s birthday party picnic at City Park. Because he very specifically wanted to pick me up rather than meeting somewhere. This was complicated because of his lack of familiarity with Denver (like many bros I meet on Tinder, he had lived in Denver for less than three months at the time of this story) and communication barriers due to his less-than-perfect command of the English language and perhaps mine as well! After several complicated and annoying phone conversations, he finally found the spot in City Park where we were having the picnic. He then decided we should go somewhere with the best “American chicken wings” in town. I like the wings at Jake’s, so I decided to take him there. Where we awkwardly ran into one of the students I work with and his parents. Which is par for the course when I go to that place so I should have known better, and they are a really nice family, but still awkward.

Over the best “American chicken wings” ever, we talked about his badminton career, and how much money he makes. He was trying to impress me, I guess. He was a computer engineer for a diamond mining company. I guess that sort of thing exists other than just in the movies. He was also trying to convince me to go to Orlando with him because he had to go there for a month for work. I have a job, you see. Two of them. Also, it was summer, and Orlando is one of my least favorite places even in the winter, despite the fact that my heart is with all the victims in the recent Orlando tragedy and their families. Also, we are not there yet, at all.

But I decide to humor him and not just cut the date short right then and there. He wants to go to a movie. I remember there was some sort of halfway decent movie that was supposed to be playing at the Denver Pavillions downtown. We showed up, and any movie that would have been tolerable was sold out or playing in 2 hours. But he seems really committed to this movie plan, for reasons that I will discover later, and insists that we watch that terrible disaster movie with the Rock in a helicopter… San Andreas. I had to Google that, but it was the first thing that popped up when I entered “the rock disaster movie.” That might as well have been the title. But, as a consolation prize, it was in the theater there with the nice leather seats where you can recline a lot.

However, a little ways into the movie, I discover this is not a consolation prize, this just means that it is super annoying and cramp-tackular when he wants to hold my hand during the entire movie. I periodically shift around to get his claw-like grip off of me for brief intervals. Eventually, he gets bold and moves to full-on boob groping. Because that is the next step after hand-holding? Ugh. “The Rock Disaster Movie” as I will now call it, is also really long for a movie so lacking in plot, so this dance of periodically squirming out of his grasp and/or removing his hand from my breast goes on for much longer than I would like.

After the movie, I just feel grossed out and want to leave. Also, during all this physical contact, I determine that Badminton guy’s general scent is a lot of B.O. mixed with a lot of man perfume. Why do I always find the ones that bathe in cologne? Anyway, this wanting to leave is complicated by my stupid decision to let him pick me up and leave my car in City Park. But after minimal complaining, he agrees to drive me to my car. I tell him goodbye and that I don’t really think I want to do this again. He seems very sad and asks me what he did wrong. I can’t quite manage to put my finger on a kind way to say it at the time, so I just say that I don’t think we’re on the same page or something vague like that. And I drive off into City Park, where he will never find me. The end.

 

 

 

Anonymously Denver famous?

Oh shit guys, I might be getting anonymously Denver famous!

You may recall my previous post where I refer to what it means to be Denver famous. It’s like real famous, but less so. Some Denver famous people move on to become real famous people… such as…. Nathaniel Rateliff. Or Condoleeza Rice? I don’t know if she was Denver famous when she lived here, she might have just skipped Denver fame to become actually famous. Anyway, I may have my shot at Denver fame, specifically anonymous Denver fame, thanks to a local institution that defines what it means to be Denver famous, the Westword.

I was asked to be a featured “bro expert” of sorts for a Westword article about the evolution of the LoDo neighborhood and its corresponding bros. Because I am a credible bro expert, certified by the Department of Regulatory Agencies of Colorado. That would be awesome if that was a thing. At any rate, I was asked to literally meet up with some of the fine folks from Westword to go out in LoDo and help them make fun of bros in an anthropological style for an article. It was a good time, and I appreciated being kept anonymous. My fake name for the article was Allison. I wanted it to be Lindsey, but apparently that had been used as a fake name in a previous article… So many women named Lindsey in my generation… Anyway, now there is an actual chance someone I’ve banged and written about will read the article and find this blog, so I really don’t want my identity, or anyone else’s, associated with this shenanigans.

They used a lot of direct quotes from me in the article that are probably actual statements I made… I think it’s all pretty funny, but possibly because I laugh at my own jokes? My friends also laughed when I read it aloud to them. Then I made them all swear to never tell anyone I have ever dated or might want to date that I am Allison.

So yes, an interesting article about an interesting night of me doing what I do best, judging people. I will say that the whole thing was a bit more subdued than I thought it would be due to the fact that I guess reporters don’t like to stay out super late on work assignments, so we left at 10:30pm, way before the bro witching hour.

Also, when I agreed to be a part of this situation, I didn’t realize it would be the cover article for the week. I have to say, I appreciate the amazing stock photo of a bro with brightly-colored sunglasses and an expression that can best be described as “the look on a Colorado bro’s face whilst shredding the gnar gnar and being whimsically happy about it.” Props to the art department or whoever made that happen. So, check out the sweet stock photo and even sweeter article  here.

And I will remember the little people when I become anonymously Denver famous. I am considering making a fake web presence for my fake self. If you have any suggestions for an awesome last name for Allison, please comment them.

For all the new people just seeing this blog now, welcome. Get ready for more tales of my “frequent and disastrous dating experiences,” as they were aptly described in the article.

 

Pizza party back in full effect… or the time I had two Tinder dates back-to-back

Hello readers, sorry for the delay in posting, it’s been a busy summer so far! Busy and full of dudes.

So, I decided I was over being on pizza break, and hit Tinder with a vengeance. Because why not? I Tindered up a bunch of dudes and was just trying figure out how to fit them into my schedule when conditions aligned just right for me to have maximum Tinder dates in one day.

Due to recent ridiculous flooding in Denver and my own stupidity, I flooded my car engine by driving through too deep of water on the way to meet my friend to see Pitch Perfect 2. I did not see Pitch Perfect 2 that day, instead, I waited for a long time in the middle of the street to get my car towed. My mechanic is magical so he fixed it and everything, but it required drying the car out over the weekend. I was originally going to go camping, but without a car, that wasn’t happening. So I figured, why not set ’em up and knock ’em down by setting up two Tinder dates in one day?

The first dude was normal and only became a crazy person after the initial date, so I will save that one for later. The second date might be one of my most impressive first date stories.

So, I literally stacked these dates one after the other so I was walking into my second date, scheduled for 5pm happy hour, right on time. I realize, however, that bachelor #2 had texted me a few minutes beforehand saying he was running late. “I’m just getting back to my house and need to change, but I only live a couple of blocks from Historians so I will be right there.” Great, I tell him I’m already in the area and I will just get a spot on the patio. So I find a spot at the Historians Ale House in Baker, a place I suggested due to their excellent rooftop patio. There is a really nice group of people having a college graduation party up there, and they offer me drink tickets and we shoot the shit and hang out. For a long ass time. Finally, at 5:45pm, I get a text from this dude saying he’s on his way. I would have probably left at some point but I didn’t have a car to go home quickly and there were free drink tickets! Another half an hour passes and this dude shows up at 6:15pm. A full hour and 15 minutes later than our originally planned meeting time.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, “I was talking to my roommate.” Terrible excuse! You could have at least made up an excuse that sounded like you had some level of respect for me or my time or something. So I tell him that I have to leave at 7pm, which I do, because I am meeting a friend to go to a show, but we can sit there until then. I am also a little buzzed at this point due to the beers I have been drinking whilst waiting for this asshat.

So we talk, blah blah blah, he’s from South Carolina, he moved to Denver recently, he works in insurance, whatever. It would seem like a generally normal and appropriate date conversation except that during the 40 minutes we spent talking, he took not one but TWO phone calls. “Sorry, I have to get this,” he said, before each phone call. Like it was an important emergency or something. And both phone calls consisted of basically the same conversation, “Hey bro, what are you doing? I’m just having a drink with this girl, yeah, what are you up to later? Yeah, let’s link up later. I’ll holla at you in a bit.” You did not have to get that. If I was a cartoon character my eyes would have turned red and steam would have started coming out of my ears. But I was also kind of drunk so I just looked off into the distance behind him on the balcony and had flashbacks Friends with Benefits guy who always looked at his phone. Even he wasn’t this bad!

Anyway, I have pretty much had enough so I tell him I’m going to go get a Lyft to meet up with my friend. We’re going to a concert at Black Shirt Brewery, which is, incidentally, one of the better places to find the most bearded of Colorado bros in their natural habitat. Right as I am trying to leave, it is starting to rain, because Colorado has apparently become a floodplain. “I’m not tryin’ to walk home in this rain,” he says, and asks if he can share my Lyft for a few blocks because he only lives a few blocks over and it will be on the way. Fine, I figure it won’t be much harm to allow this. We go downstairs to wait by the door for the Lyft. “It’s coming in 5 minutes,” I tell him.

He suddenly realizes that he “really needs to go to the liquor store.” There is a liquor store right next door to the bar, but still. I tell him that I am leaving when the Lyft arrives so he’d better get his booze quickly if he still wants to get a ride. I figure I will go with him into the liquor store, and that’s where shit really gets weird. We go in the door and he is all high-fiving and bro-ing out with the liquor store guy and calling him “cuz.” We are standing there, waiting in line for him to buy his Crown Royal, and he goes, “What do you think, do you think I’m hot, do you think I’m cute?” He is actually sort of hot; but the kind of hot that gets uglier the more he opens his mouth, clearly. I tell him he looks “all right” because I don’t know what else to say to this fool. He says he thinks of himself as hot but he wants to hear me say it. What a douche! Then he says, “You want to date me, don’t you?” I can’t fake anything anymore and I just say, “No.” “Well, I don’t want to date you anyway, I just want to be your friend, I use Tinder to meet friends.” Ok… I tell him the Lyft is coming in one minute, because it is, and move to the door. He finishes paying just in time. As he walks out of the liquor store, gesturing towards me, he says the following to his bro-friend, the Vietnamese liquor store owner, “Look at how beautiful this girl is, I’m gonna marry this girl!” I keep walking, horrified, and pretend I didn’t hear that.

We get in the Lyft and during the 5-minute ride to his house, he keeps going on and on about how he can tell I am such a great person and have good vibes and I’m so beautiful and am I sure I want to go to this show with my friend and not come over his house instead? Yes, I’m going to the show. What about after the show? I’m going to hang out with my friend and go home. I’m going to text you later and we can link up, he says. Like I don’t have a choice in the matter. We get to his apartment, which is indeed about 4 blocks from Historians. It is also literally right across the street from my good friend’s house, so I now feel slightly concerned that I will run into this guy when I go to her house.

The Lyft stops and he keeps jabbering about hanging out later that night, and then does what I will call an “attack-makeout.” He literally lunges for my face with his mouth all open and tongue-y. It catches me off guard and I sort of kiss him back because it seems a bit dramatic to slap him. “Ooh girl, you nasty!” he says, and then reiterates that we are going to connect up later and finally gets out of the Lyft.

I apologize to the Lyft driver, who looks sort of scared. He later tells me he just moved to the U.S. a month ago from Bahrain. Poor guy, welcome to America, where all the dudes are dicks and do awkward shit in your car while you are just trying to make a buck!

I make it to Black Shirt Brewery, where I regale my friend with tales of my crazy ass dates while watching a band called Church Fire. They can best be described as “the sort of band that would be playing on top of a car at Burning Man.”

I don’t hear from bachelor #2 that night, which is a pleasant surprise. A few days later, he sends me a text saying “How’s your day?” I don’t even respond, figuring that the fadeaway is adequate in this situation. Learn social cues, dude! I also discover that my Lyft driver from that night gave me 5-star rating. Maybe he felt bad for me. Or maybe he just loves America… Happy Late 4th of July! ‘Merica!

Resume pizza break! And don’t be a douche in Denver, this town is too small for that…

So when I went on my pizza break, I never really had a defined ending point. I figured I would just see if I got bored of having a pizza break, or see if anyone that seemed worth my time came my way. The goal of the pizza break was to be open to possibilities in the man department, but not try hard. Which has been nice, let me just say. I’ve been referring to 2015 as “Don’t Give a Fuck 2015.” Which is not to say that I give no fucks about anything, but I am being selective about the fucks I give. Literally and figuratively. So I have been just minding my own business, enjoying my life, writing archival stories in my blog because there haven’t been any dudes all up on me.

Until a series of events transpired a couple weeks ago. I went out for a birthday celebration for one of my friends and met up with her and a bunch of her peeps, some of whom I didn’t know. This cohort of revelers included one dude who we will call “Undercover Bro,” because he didn’t really seem like a bro at first.

First of all, he didn’t even know my friend, he came with one of her hippie friends who was wearing a scarf that looked like cat paws the entire night. You know, those ones favored by 13-year-old girls where you can put your hands inside a flap and pretend they are paws? Yeah, this guy was his main associate, so I figured him to not be so much of a bro. Undercover bro’s “game,” if you will, was talking about feminism and gender roles, having a ridiculous sense of humor that nicely complimented mine, and getting me to give him rides. That type of game is apparently more effective on me than Tastycakes or love poems…. But, needless to say, these are not your typical bro moves. We had a surprising amount of very honest and interesting conversation in one night. I actually thought he was enjoying my personality, and he was all up on me the entire night at my friend’s party. Which ended when I drove him home at 4am and we made out in my car in front of his house. Which I drove him to because he has no car. He didn’t invite me in because it was late, but I kind of suspect he lives with his parents, in retrospect.

But whatever, we hung out one more time and then I think he lost interest because I didn’t sleep with him the second time we hung out? I tried to hang out with him again a couple times but he didn’t really seem to want to so I stopped trying. Whatever, clearly this undercover bro showed his true colors.

So this was the start of a month-long festival of “Denver is a small town” coincidences and other weird episodes that began the very same weekend I met this undercover bro dude.

A friend of mine, we’ll call her Lindsey (many women of my generation are named this, but this woman is not, in reality, named Lindsey) asks me in passing, “How do you know so-and-so?” So-and-so being a guy who she was talking to on Tinder who she saw was my facebook friend. That’s one of the joys of Tinder, you can judge people by their acquaintances on facebook and/or do recon on people by asking your mutual friends about them. Turns out, she was about to meet up with this guy who is my roommate’s ex, and someone who I am also connected to through my work. I told Lindsey she probably didn’t want none of that, not because he’s a bad guy, but because he’s not very motivated in life and wasn’t compatible with my roommate, and Lindsey and my roommate are friends and very similar people and so it would be weird and probably not work on several levels. And I totally forgot to tell my roommate, so Lindsey brought it up, thinking I already told her, which was also weird. Complicated.

This whole ex situation makes my roommate curious about Tinder, and somehow makes me want to go on Tinder. Also maybe the fact that I got rejected by undercover bro, maybe there were a few fucks given by accident about that. I will say this for Tinder, it boosts my confidence when I see how many dudes think I am attractive enough to theoretically bang. Anyway, my roomate seems curious, so my other roommate and I teach her how to play our favorite (and only?!) Tinder game, “Find the fish.” I think I have mentioned this before. It’s very simple. The first person to find a dude with a picture of himself holding a fish wins. I won, repeatedly. This caused me to get several Tinder matches in the process, several of whom started messaging me. I will come back to these later.

So, the next coincidence that happens is that my co-worker starts talking about how he ran into this guy at the dentist who works at another local nonprofit and sends out a lot of mass emails with his picture on them as part of his job. And how this dude was super awkward when my colleague introduced himself and told him he recognized him from the pictures. Unbeknownst to my co-worker, I had dated this guy years ago. And he was super awkward when I dated him. We went to a really good but sad independent movie at the Denver Film Festival, and I cried during the movie. Which made our already-awkward dating even more awkward.

Next coincidence, and this might be my favorite, I run into Wiener Problems Guy (see previous post, “Come on, little guy!”) at the DMV. He walks right by me we make eye contact for a split second, and he looks away like he’s seen a ghost and keeps walking. I almost start laughing out loud at his look of fear but luckily, the pervasive depressing and boring atmosphere of the DMV saves me from actually laughing and further embarrassing this poor little guy who can’t just can’t seem to recover from that wiener malfunction.

And the hits keep coming! This weekend, I go out for another friend’s birthday, and see my friend whose birthday I went to a few weeks ago. So, birthday friend number one and I are shooting the shit because birthday friend number two is late for her own birthday! Birthday friend number one says, what happened with that undercover bro guy you met at my party? I tell her he lost interest. She doesn’t seem that surprised and shows me a text from another girlfriend of hers that is a screenshot of undercover bro’s Tinder profile with the caption, “Isn’t this the guy who was all over your friend at your party?” Yes, it is. Hilarious. I don’t think I have seen him on Tinder myself yet, but who knows, I could have already swiped left on him.

Birthday friend number two arrives after a while and also asks me what happened with that undercover bro guy I met at birthday friend number one’s party. I also tell her he lost interest. She says she ran into him at the Ginn Mill with his bro-y friends the previous weekend. Sounds about right. All the pieces of the bro puzzle are coming together. The night I met him, he told me that the night before he had been at the ViewHouse. I made fun of him about that… I call that place the DoucheHouse because, well, you can figure it out. But I realize now that I was making fun of his whole lifestyle. Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to hang out any more. I mean, in some ways, I think it must be nice to be 30 years old and not have a car and live with your parents and sell credit cards at the airport and go to LoDo every weekend. The only part of that sentence that is not a stated fact is the living with the parents part. So next time I’m at a bachelorette party or something in LoDo, or at the airport, I will be sure to see this dude. Awesome.

Other “Denver is a small town” sidebar. At least I’m straight. I’m pretty sure Denver is even smaller if you’re gay. The site of this story about birthday friend number two and her party was Hamburger Mary’s. I managed to run into both my old roommate and another friend I know through a different gay friend there that night. The two of them actually know each other, also. Basically, I feel like it would suck to be gay and try to avoid exes in this town. You could never go to Vinyl, Beer Bust, Tracks, or apparently Hamburger Mary’s.

Last but not least, the final cherry on top of my ridiculous return to sort-of almost-dating, and one of the reasons I am going back to no-fucks-given-pizza-break-mode is this. One of the more promising Tinder matches I was chatting with after my fish-finding episode keeps making it seem like he wants to hang out and then not messaging me back. He asks to hang out with me yesterday, and I suggest a time I’m available between other things I’ve got going on. “My wife gets back at 7 so I don’t think we’d have enough time if we got a drink at 5.” What the hell?!?! Don’t put that on your profile or anything, just drop it casually in conversation when you’re trying to set up a date! Jesus, man, Tinder is the worst place to cheat on your wife! I probably know her. Or her divorced/single/cheating on her husband friend is going to see you on there and rat you out. So the moral of this story is: Don’t be a douche in this town, not just for the usual reasons such as “being a douche is bad,” but for “Denver is a small town” reasons!

Dating the “United States of Bros,” Part one

Hello, internets… Today I would like to respond to/reference an excellent blog from our friends at Jezebel entitled “The United States of Bros: A Map and Field Guide.”

http://jezebel.com/the-united-states-of-bros-a-map-and-field-guide-1550563737?utm_campaign=socialflow_jezebel_facebook&utm_source=jezebel_facebook&utm_medium=socialflow

Please take a moment to read this magical article on the various flavors of American Bros. Not going to read it? That’s fine, I will quote it for you as I reference it. As I read this description of the many types of bros in the U.S., it occurred to me that I have come into contact with many of these bro archetypes either in Denver (an excellent location to meet all sorts of transplanted bros from other regions), or in their natural habitats (I grew up on the East Coast and have also lived in a few cities that have their own very specific brands of bro culture). So, here, in response to what I found to be a hilarious piece of writing, I offer you my own work of genius; “How to date the United States of Bros.”

From the Jezebel article:

The Mid-Atlantic Bro

Uniform: Boat shoes without socks, pastels. Salmon colored shorts. Sailing motifs.

Intoxicant of choice: Beer, vodka, whatever. Eventually the night will lead to cocaine.

Secret shame: Has poor parents. Actually does not know how to sail.

Celeb brospiration: Bradley Cooper in Wedding Crashers.

The Mid-Atlantic Bro is my home state bro. I grew up in Maryland, where this type of bro is born, and which I think is probably the only state that people really even consider to be classified as the Mid-Atlantic. I actually think that the exact bro described above is mostly only found in Eastern Maryland where people actually sail and stuff. The Mid-Atlantic Bros of my childhood also had characteristics such as being REALLLY into the Ravens, screaming out “O” during the part of the National Anthem where they sing “Oh say can you see” (this is an Orioles baseball-related tradition that should probably only be observed at Orioles games, but that doesn’t stop the Mid-Atlantic Bro from doing it at high school sporting events, graduations, or any other occasions where one might hear a rendition of the Star Spangled Banner), and their dress code often involved backwards baseball caps, sneakers, and those choker necklaces made out of tiny white shells… You know the ones I mean. I suppose that is a late-90s/early 2000s iteration of the Mid-Atlantic Bro, but that was when I lived there, ok!?!

How to date a Mid-Atlantic Bro:

Let’s see, my game back in high school when I was in Mid-Atlantic Bro territory was basically to be awkward and/or try to make out with these sorts of bros in classy places like a public park, their parents’ hot tub, or at the high school dance. These are all places where the adults of the species can still be found at any given time because many of them never leave their hometown/parents’ basement. As an adult trying to date a fully grown Mid-Atlantic Bro, I would suggest bringing over some handcrafted local beer (or some local cheap beer like Natty Boh) and some wings for Ravens games to woo this bro. You must also be very sensitive to sporting-related mood swings with these bros and give them their space. Another key location that is excellent grounds for excellent for spotting and hooking up with Mid-Atlantic Bros is any shitty beach in the region. Ocean City, Maryland? Check. Delaware Beach, Delaware? Indeed. Virginia Beach, Virginia? Definitely. Find a cheap hotel and share a romantic night of eating seafood, getting wasted and maybe managing to have sex a little before one of you passes out. The next day you can walk on the boardwalk and try to look cool while buying dumb souvenir t-shirts, or try to pretend you both know how to sail, depending on the subset of Mid-Atlantic Bro you are dating. You can also go back to your favorite of these fabulous beaches for your anniversary every year because it will be “romantic,” and if your bro is doing well in his bartending/carpentry/government job, you will have a timeshare there that you went in on with a bunch of his similarly-dressed, fun-loving bros and their wives.

The D.C. Bro

Uniform: Vineyard Vines pants, lacrosse jersey, croakies.

Job: Lobbyist, consultant, or something random on The Hill.

Habitat: One of, like, three Georgetown bars where bros go.

Hobbies: Googling self. Name dropping. Attending Georgetown basketball games even though mostly did not go to Georgetown.

Secret shame: Knows job is totally unnecessary, is aware of his own irrelevance. Is horrible at lacrosse.

Celeb brospiration: Paul Ryan

This is another of my regional bros, as I grew up about 40 minutes from D.C. I have spent time with many of these majestic creatures, but indeed never dated one of them either. Interestingly, I think it should be noted that many D.C. Bros are not actually from the area, but any bro from elsewhere must quickly assimilate and adopt his new dominant bro culture norms in order to avoid being mugged, getting into a road-rage induced car crash on the Beltway, or being passed over for that promotion at his random think tank or super PAC or whatever job. These norms mostly involve the correct dress code (must buy croakies!), but they also include adopting a fast, aggressive manner of walking and learning lacrosse and rowing terminology.

How to date a D.C. Bro:

If you are from the area and he is still earning his stripes as a D.C. Bro, take him to the Exorcist steps in Georgetown after a stop at one of those three bars that all the bros enjoy (there seriously are only three). Unsurprisingly, the Exorcist steps are indeed the actual steps featured in the movie, “The Exorcist.” They are just some stone steps but any out-of-town bro aspiring to adapt to D.C. Bro ways will feel automatically cooler for having seen them. Depending on your desired bro’s political persuasion, tell him you work for Mitch McConnell or Barbara Mikulski. You can also try this if you need to quickly assess a D.C. Bro’s political views when you meet him in a bar, but you have an exactly 50/50 chance of causing him to ask you out on the spot, or causing him to leave the conversation abruptly and seek sanctuary in his flock of similarly-dressed bros with similar party affiliations. Alternatively, you can say you were watching Fox News, watch his facial expression for a smile or look of disgust, and then either tell him you were watching it to “keep an eye on the conservative talking heads” or tell him that you were watching it because you “think Megyn Kelly is a genius.”  Another great way to get into a D.C. Bro’s pants is to get him to think it was his idea to take you to the Capital Grille (this is where any and every D.C. power broker eats lunch) and let him feel like a big shot by pointing out the senators and telling stories about each of them. Also, delicious food! And he will most certainly pay for your $50 lunch in order to maximize his personal fantasy of being super important… Man, these are good ideas! I should try them next time I’m in D.C.!

The Southern Frat Bro

Uniform: Like The Mad Hatter preparing to appear on Fox News or a Dad about to go golfing. Impeccable, possibly side-parted hair. Think high school bully in an 80’s movie.

Intoxicant of choice: SoCo. Occasionally chewing tobacco.

Hobbies: Fancying self to be “gentleman” (one source familiar with southern bros even referred to them as “gentleman bros”) Being borderline psychotic about SEC football.

Secret shame: Belongs to a fraternity that is still segregated. Has scar on neck from bar fight he got into after his favorite football team lost to another SEC team.

Celeb brospiration: Tucker Carlson

This bro WAS my college experience. My college boyfriend was probably a more nerdy, less-classic version of this bro. Also, we went to an ACC school, so please insert ACC basketball to replace any reference to SEC football when you envision this bro. I pretty much don’t need to say anything else about this bro because the description is spot-on, but perhaps the love affair between Southern Frat Bros and their Rainbow sandals (homoerotic puns definitely intended) should be noted. If you do not know what Rainbow sandals are, google them because they aren’t what you think.

How to date a Southern Frat Bro:

This bro will come to you. You just have to get blackout drunk. That is messed up, yes, but sort of true. Another reason that one of the more “gentlemanly” and less “sexual assault-y” Frat Bros of the Southern United States will come to you is because he constantly has to find a date to one of the many “date functions” (that is seriously what they are called) that his fraternity throws. So you can count on a romantic evening of drinking Mountain Dew with vodka in it out of the bottle on a charter bus before the event, drinking Everclear punch at the event and letting him grope you to some hip hop songs, and going back to his dorm room for a nice nightcap of Jaeger from the bottle because he has no shot glasses or glasses of any kind, followed by making out, passing out, unprotected sex, or all three. The Frat Bro that I reeled in back in college was actually one of the more gentlemanly ones. He actually took me on a “date” to the school dining hall and bought me dinner with his parents’ money on his campus meal card before taking me to a date function downtown at a hotel. Also, he only made out with me after the date function. Such a gentleman bro… Upsides of these bros include a good chance of their family being “old money” aka rich, the fact that they will do things like open your car door or bring you flowers, and the fact that Southern Frat Bros are great to take home to Mom and Dad. After my Southern Frat Bro college boyfriend met my parents, he actually wrote a THANK YOU NOTE to them to thank them for letting him stay at our house. Downsides of these bros include their likelihood of having gross habits like chewing tobacco or smoking, being really into guns, and the fact that you will frequently have to hang out with their frat bros and they will all be drunk and yelling. These bros are the marrying kind, preferably their college girlfriend will be the one they marry, and they are also the most likely of all bro species to move to D.C. and emerge from their Southern Frat bro cocoon to transform into a D.C. Bro. If I had married my college Frat Bro boyfriend, I probably would have a vacation home by now and I would not be writing this blog.

Ok people, that’s enough bro-ing out for one night. Stay tuned for a second installment featuring some of my favorite bro varietals, the Masshole and the Colorado Bro.