Adult Contemporary Smackdown

He said something. I don’t even remember what it was, but he said something. Otherwise, I’d have had no reason to turn and look at him. I was a little unsettled as to why exactly Gavin DeGraw was in my bed, but what the hell. He was being terribly nice and there’s a snuggle famine happening at the Batcave. Any balding pseudo-Southern port in a storm.

After that, the death buzz from my Hello Kitty alarm clock slices through the whole damn thing.

Still, I have secretly allowed myself to maintain the delusion that I am dating Gavin DeGraw. After all, who could it hurt? No one.

No one but Adam Levine, that is.

My fantasy world is elaborate and detailed and, in said fantasy world, I have to come to a decision. DeGraw or Levine? On the one hand, DeGraw can be a bit doofy-looking and smokes pot. On the other hand, Levine is rumored to be a bit of a douche and likes deep V-necks a little more than a straight man ought to. Clearly, the only thing to do is make a bar graph.

1.Appearances in dreams: advantage DeGraw

2. Maroon 5 logo looks like it was designed by Klaus Nomi. Advantage: Levine

3. DeGraw smokes pot. Advantage Levine.

4. DeGraw is on record using the phrase “Do you know who I am?” non-sarcastically. Advantage: Levine.

5. Whispering into a microphone: advantage: Levine.

6. Dudes playing piano are hot. Advantage: DeGraw.

7. Both give unsettling quantities of eye contact. Advantage: none.

8. Twitter sarcasm: DeGraw’s twitter uses “u” for “you.” Levine’s is clever. Advantage: Levine.

9. Sense of humor: DeGraw seems eternally earnest, yet Levine is quite the snarky bastard. (It’s a fine line between douchebag and delightful snark pirate. For my dollar, I vote “snark pirate.”)

10.Video sexiness: advantage Levine.

11. Fashion: DeGraw just got out of bed. Levine wears deep V-necks. Advantage: none. (However, Levin in a suit sweeps the category)

12. Hair: Levine’s hair seems bulletproof, but DeGraw always wears hats and is thus suspected of baldness. Advantage: Levine.

13. Tattoos: advantage: Levine.

14. Workout habits: Advantage Levine

15. Lady hips: advantage: Levine.

16. Southern Accent for no good reason: advantage DeGraw

17. Twitter humor: advantage: Levine Exhibit A and Exhibit B

18. Interview mannerisms: DeGraw seems kind of nervous and fidgety, like someone who is endearing REALLY uncomfortable being interviewed. Levine is better rehearsed (upon telling Chelsea Handler that he’s dating a model, he says “go ahead, roll your eyes” and mentions that “it’s possible to be cool AND like Maroon 5…I think.”)

19. Love of Prince: advantage Levine.

20. Artsy pretentiousness (or lack thereof): advantage Levine. When interviewed, DeGraw says things like “I wanted to get back to basics, to get out of the way of the songs,” which is valid and true (and worked really well on Free), but I can’t help but prefer Levine, who summed up his latest work with, “we were like, fuck it, let’s have fun and make a sexy, confident record.” (They did. Hands All Over is awesome, y’all.)

So, which wins? The lovable awkward piano playing-ness of DeGraw, or the fuck-you snark-swagger of Levine? So help me, I’m gonna go with the swagger. Whip-smart humor is sexy. Not taking yourself too seriously is sexy. In the words of Levine, “confidence is sexy.”

Now I just have to break it to DeGraw next time he shows up in a dream.

Delusions: Go Big or Go Home

Once upon a time, I had a dream. No, not that one about all men being created equal. The one where I got hired to design paint jobs for Lil Wayne’s signature line of guitars. His little paw shook my little paw, he looked down at my cut-out Tuk lolita boots and I looked down at his spotless Adidas, and an understanding was reached.

You don’t understand.
You weren’t there.

Nearly two years later, I’ve expanded on the bizarre fantasy and my subconscious has come along for the ride in its own annoyingly prudish way. Lil Wayne and I have gone grocery shopping (“baby, grab some of that trail mix”), but we still haven’t gone all the way…to goth night, that is.

My ultimate fantasy is that Lil Wayne and I roll up to goth night in a black Escalade. Two footmen hop out of the back seat bearing tiny step-stools which Weezy and I use to dismount our pint-sized selves from said Escalade. It is comically badass. That is to say, it’s the weird combination of the comical and the mildly unsettling. This is the language we speak. Diamond grilles and weapons charges aside, this is why it works.

My friends have been enabling this delusion. When I tell them this fantasy, they pause for a second, then respond with “that’s perfect. Perfect.” Sure, Weezy’s presence in my life would mean that my friends would have an endless quantity of what is probably the world’s best weed, but this goes deeper. They know that I require someone who is frank, weird, elfin, and greater than the sum of his parts. Someone who can be three apples high, silly and still scary. Someone who whimsically wrinkles his nose when he laughs, but who knows at least twenty people who would shoot you just because he asked. Someone who works hard. Someone who can look you in the face and tell you to fuck off and you still won’t know whether to love his frankness, call the cops or make out with him. In short, someone who is different from me in every obvious way, but very much like me if we were put in a blender and pureed down to our nuts and bolts. Someone who would write a line about spritzing you all over the wall in a pink mist, and then chuckle maniacally. Is he serious, or was that hyperbole? Well, there’s the fun.

Long as we’re being delusional, I’ll tell you how it’s going to go down. Like so many delusions, it starts on Vh1. I go on Tough Love to be coached by Public Domain Fred Savage. It doesn’t help me find Mr. Right, but it does land me my own show, For the Love of Evil. I get just famous enough to weasel my way into the VMAs, where Weezy and I meet, shake little paws and come to an understanding. He and I combine or parallel work ethics, and I add secret sauce via piano to his next album. The bizarre combination of melodramatic, goth piano works well next to gangsta rap. The album is lauded for its new sound and Weezy and I joint-collect the Grammy: he in a fitted tee; me in a metal-boned corset.

All we’re missing is a show on Vh1.


I Dream of Weezy

The other night, I had a dream that I was called in to design the graphics for a signature line of guitars by Lil Wayne (he does play guitar, you know). So, my boss and I went to Lil Wayne’s house. On the lower level, there was an array of paints and guitars all laid out for me to use, but I had no idea what to do. “What’s the direction we’re taking on this?” My boss had no idea. Thus, she went back to the office to work up a creative brief, leaving me standing in Sodom & Gomorrah, Lil Wayne style.

The huge house was total nightclub town, complete with sketchy activity going on in dark corners and curvy women wearing next to nothing, not unlike some porn movie put out by snoop Dogg (have you seen it? it will totally put you off Twizzlers for a month). I’m standing there not knowing what to do when Lil Wayne comes downstairs.

I just stand there not knowing what to say. Once the “wtf” wore off, I extended my hand to shake his. He had no idea what to do with me, as I was standing there in full goth lolita garb that I could never afford in real life. Starting from the feet: cut-out wingtip boots, black and pink striped tights, skirt with tiers of ruffles and a giant bow in back, close-fitting Victorian riding coat, high-collared ruffley lace shirt with a cameo brooch at the throat. My hair was in a loose bun with curly tendrils, topped with a tiny top hat. It was like a page out of the Metamorphose catalog.

Anyway, he’s just standing there trying to figure out what this crazy white girl is doing in his house, why she’s wearing more clothing than all of the other women combined, and why she’s been introduced as (evil). He looks at me with a weird mixture of curiosity, calm and protection. Protection, being the weirdest, because he’s only got two or three inches on me. Maybe it’s the cheekbones. Maybe it’s the face tattoos. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s probably got three guns stashed on his person. He decides to give me a tour of the house.

We end up sitting in front of a computer in his bedroom, listening to whatever he’s been working on. At some point, I think he kissed me, though I’m not sure because the alarm on the Hello Kitty clock sliced through the middle of the dream. Besides, the eye contact is the most important part anyway. Nobody ever has a proper face in my dreams, but I guess I had to give him one since it was level with mine. My mind’s eye didn’t know what to do with itself when it wasn’t staring somebody in the chest, like it usually is.

And so, an item was added to the “yeah, right” to-do list: take Lil Wayne to coffee, pick his brain, take him to goth night. We could roll up in an Escalade and then use a step stool to get out. It would be fabulous.

Take a peek at this video from the soon-to-be-aired interview Weezy did with Katie Couric. The pairing is deliciously surreal, Wayne is coherent (and markedly less high than usual), and we see what makes him so fascinating. Look in those eyes. Do you see it? Warmth mixed with the ability to shoot you in the face. Boyish charm mixed with fire-tempered hardness. He’s got that look that makes one say “this guy is either going to make a million dollars, or go on a shooting spree.”

Then again, Lil Wayne is very productive. He can do both in an afternoon.

(Click here if you can’t see the embed.)

Hot Zombie Action

**I pondered whether to friend-protect this one, but friend-protecting is for smack talk and only smack talk. This would be “non smack-talk.” Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

He has this disturbing habit of coming to me in dreams. While my conscious mind has vivid recollections of his voice, I can’t willingly pull up a perfect picture of his face. This is pretty normal for me, as I can identify people by their shoes and voices because I spend an apparently disproportionate amount of time staring at the floor. I remember people as folds of fabric, laughs, hair. The faces always end up sort of nebulous. All that information is stored somewhere, though, because it comes to me in sleep. He’s there in sleep, exactly as I remembered. Maybe a little skinnier (death is the ultimate diet).

Last night I had a dream that he woke from the dead. He’d heard about my last dream, where I imagined I’d dug up his body just to get one last look at it. I put it in a garbage bag and took it home with me just to have it near me. I kept it in the attic. This was not a pleasant dream, as my subconscious used the opportunity to show me every single nasty detail of what I’d never seen and can now never un-see. Thus, he woke from the dead as a very good-looking zombie, just to make me remember something else. He was also a little upset about having died a virgin. (In real life, he was fiercely proud of this.)

In real life, I’d offered up my own red neon virgin sign. The old, “you’re going to die without having sex…would you like to?” I’ve been waiting for love. That love came in a different form than I’d expected, but hey. Desperate times. I offered sex if he would let me visit, or if he would visit me. I meant it, but he didn’t take me up on the offer. As a zombie, though, he’d reconsidered.

I will spare you gory details, but after the proverbial deed was done, his zombie body started to disintegrate. Not in a gross “pus coming out of your eye socket way,” but more in a “I’d hear a thump and look over at him and he’d be standing there holding his arm and rolling his eyes” way. We had to get him back to his grave asap, so we went to the cemetery to put him back. We got to the grave (which was so much more fabulous than the real-life one) and he just passed out, dissolving into a pile of dust.