This Is Not The Place: A Evening Out With YM

A man wants all kinds of chestnuts in the fire, and, though one of them doth definitely protest, he's the lowest on the totem pole, the youngest, and thusly ruled out - the party begins to migrate towards the Tumblr meetup. In the semi-jocular tone one could only characterize as typical, it's quickly agreed that the intent moving forward is to prey on young(er) women ("Some of those Tumblr girls are supposed to be hot - let's go.") but the unspoken and transparent truth is a weak whiskey reduction of reluctant curiosity and fear: they - the new kids - are not doing it like we used to do it, right? Or is something spectacular secretly happening here - does all this Tumbling and the like amount to something more that we just can't bring into focus? Is something being done? Finally, does anything change, or are we really as old as we feel right now? This is most certainly a test.

They walk there in the rain in two groups, one of which drunkenly overshoots it, and they finally find an oversized thumping bar full of vodka-Dimmed Young Things and loud, strange music they'd never be caught listening to but that sounds vaguely familiar no less. This must be it. Ascending the stairs they see Brian Van, and the youngest one accosts him, calling him his "Bloggy Munchkin" or something unnecessarily rude of the like; he then makes haste, stumbling towards the bar, knocking into a few people along the way. Not that one should accuse another of predictability, but practicably, the rest of them do what one would think they're going to do. That is to say: stand in a corner - literally, a corner, the landing at the top of the stairs - taking in the scene, talking amongst themselves. Five is a quorum: they're fine. The crowd is otherwise scattered into small gaggles, as it's late, and many of them have left. The ones who haven't are still waiting to be paired up and laid. Non-suspicion confirmed: they're just there to get the appropriate appendages wet. This is no better than anything to have come before it. Certainly not too different.

The youngest one is now - also, predictably - too drunk to engage in otherwise coherent conversation over the noise of the bar. This standing around business is by no means good enough. Oblivious to differences in size, he re-greets the largest one - and the one most capable of delivering a "Country Ass Stomping" - by stealing his beer, telling him to hold his whiskey, drinking said beer, and yet again, stumbling to the bar for another one, while the rest of them watch half-heartedly, having seen this kind of thing before. At the bar, he starts blindly, loudly accusing random male Tumblrs of their respective venereal diseases, explaining to the young women being courted by them that, yeah, you actually read that before they deleted it.

The drunkest one of these girls believes him, and goes after him in front of the group. She pulls him in, and he's shocked, his bluff having been called. She then proceeds to first, ask him if he watches Lost, and then grabbing his crotch, offers to take him back to Astoria and "fuck your guts out" repeatedly. He is scared, mouthing for help to the others, for whom, this must be the high point of the night. She goes in for the mouth and he dodges her and retreats with the rest of them to the corner, a little scared, a little shocked, a little emasculated.

The night begins to dissolve after that. Said inebriated girl is spotted ten minutes later, woozily straddling another Tumblr Boy on a couch - for him, a decent night, but better yet: another Follower. The group in the corner makes their way out of the building almost as quietly as they came in, having seen far more than what they'd ever intended or needed to. The tall one with glasses and the older of their two diminutive Jews slink off into the cold, soupy East Village night, possibly to scheme, but most likely, to simply go to bed and forget about this wash of an evening. The suspicious one who most resembles a well-dressed psychopath and the large one, the one they call Cajun Boy: they trail off to some bar owned by some despicable pop-punk tabloid-cover type, simply because it's there. They walk in, and the young one stumbles around and continues to scream at people, but eventually loses his energy, like a dog who knows he'll never out-bark the moon...that night. They eventually leave.

Jay Reatard - It's So Useless

Previously: The Tumblr Is An Ass