Dating Blogger Amy: “Men Are So Fucking Dense, Part II”

Matthew Tall is such a fucking dense idiot. I told him how dense and stupid he was one Saturday night in September. Best Friend and I were smoking hash with our “married” friends—an NYU couple who live together—in their East … Read More

By / January 30, 2007

Matthew Tall is such a fucking dense idiot.

I told him how dense and stupid he was one Saturday night in September. Best Friend and I were smoking hash with our “married” friends—an NYU couple who live together—in their East Village walk-up. It was after 4 a.m. I had gone to a dinner party, a Eurotrash house warming party, a club (or two or three), and completely lost my voice by last call. Wifey, aware that I was dying, brewed a mug of delicious syrupy hibiscus tea for me. As I mulled over it in a hash-y haze my blue rubber phone started vibrating. It was Matthew Tall.

Matthew Tall wouldn’t leave me alone. Every day he’d call and/or text and invite me to some shit party with shit people, attempting to lure me by name-dropping. I was so fucking over all of it by September, after a whole summer of his shit. I am not going to go out of my way to a party with an asshole like Matthew Tall or to see a celebrity. I have interviewed and seen plenty of celebrities and only felt star-struck once: Thursday night, when I shook Sarah Jessica Parker’s hand at the after party for “At Least It’s Pink.” But SJP is utterly lovely. And I didn’t meet her whilst hanging out with Matthew Tall.

Finally fed up with Matthew Tall’s text spam, I began insisting that I wouldn’t hang out with him unless he took me on a real date, i.e. dinner or a movie. I told him this each time he spammed me. He paid no attention to me, refusing to realize how lucky he was that I so much as let him stand within five feet of me.

Then he started with the afterhours boat invitations. Frankly, I don’t get the whole “let’s party on a boat thing.” Basically, a bunch of crackheads just bring the “party” and their drugs to a boat at Chelsea Piers. And stay parked at the dock. Perhaps they’re really fairy night urchins with no homes who disintegrate if they stand on dry land after sunrise.

The previous night, Matthew Tall spammed me at 6:39 a.m.—his charmingly preferred hour of text spamming—to, um, lament?: “Oh well, I tried… As always…”

Awwww, he is so sweet to always think of me before 7 a.m. on Saturday. That night the charm continued at 7:17 p.m.: “You guys missed a crazy party on my friend’s huge yatch [sic]…”

Damn, why’d I go and fall asleep? I missed the magical boat with the magical crack fairies. No doubt there were magical cauldrons of vodka orange juice and a magical fairy captain with magical tricks of sleaze-baggery.

When Matthew Tall called that night at the Married’s apartment, I, voiceless, let Best Friend handle it. On speaker phone:

BF: Hello?

MT: Uhhhhh hello, Amy.

BF: What’s up Matthew Tall—er—I mean Matthew.


MT: Uhhhh, you girls wanna go on a boat?

BF: You mean, to sail? I don’t know I might get chilly.

MT: Ha ha. Very funny.

BF: Who’s going?

MT: Oh you know, Amir, Asshole A, Asshole B, Asshole C.

An aside: Amir was a crazy Israeli real estate something or other who tried to pick me up at a loft party in SoHo. He looked about 40. Mid-party, his daughter and her friend–all 12 years of each of 'em–showed up. He was going to take my girls and me to Tenjune. Why we were going to go with him I know not. Too much champagne, maybe? But before he could take us to Tenjune, he just had to drop off his daughter and co. at home. Please hold, ladies! We held. He returned. We left with him.

“You know, I think I actually want to go to Butter first, what do you think?” he asked us.

Ummmmm, Butter is stupid.

“I’d rather go to Tenjune. I haven’t been yet.”

“You don’t want to go to Butter? That’s where the Baby Phat party is,” Amir sleazed.

“No. I want to go to Tenjune.”

Best Friend urged me to just go along with it. Outnumbered, I had no choice. So we Buttered.

Amir evidently was someone, or knew someone. We walked onto the red carpet and into Butter without so much as pausing. The lights were blinding, and we were highly disappointing to the photogs. It was highly awkward.

Inside it was indeed the Baby Phat party. There was a long white table upstairs with Kimora at the head on the far end of the room. There was gold glitter everywhere. We stood awkwardly by the upstairs bar looking at the dinner spectacle. It appeared Kimora’s V.I.P.s were on to dessert. (By “on to” I mean waiters were carrying gold-leafed cookies around on shiny metal trays; food at these things is not for eating, which went out of style in 1998.)

I wound up standing next to the owner of Butter and his then-girlfriend—that Sopranos girl who famously had exercise bulimia. She plucked a cookie from a pile of half-eaten ones on one waiter’s tray that were clearly headed for the trash and ate it like some sort of freak.

Amir, meanwhile, started asking me to kiss him. I said no. He persisted. I kept saying no. Prick that he is, he rape-kissed me on the cheek. And there were more than one or two dinner guests that saw from their glitter-glued banquettes, snickered and made me feel like an idiot. So we abandoned Amir and ran downstairs.

I wasn’t surprised Matthew Tall and Amir were night fairy friends. But I was disgusted. I told Best Friend to ask him what the name of the boat was.

“What’s the boat’s name?”

“What?” Matthew Tall said.

“What is the name of the boat? We only go on boats with names. Good names.”

“Uhhh, I don’t know it’s not my boat. It’s a huge yacht.”

“Hmm, yeah I don’t know. We don’t like huge yachts unless they’re named.”

The fun was too great so I had to join in.

“Will Angelo be there?” I wheezed into the phone. Angelo was Matthew Tall’s best friend. He’s like a little magical drunk bug that flitters around and says funny things while acting funny-drunk. And he doesn’t seem to take himself at all seriously.

“I don’t know. He might be,” Matthew Tall said. “Are you coming or not?”

“I don’t know. Amir rape-kissed me so I don’t think so.”

“Amir what?”

“How do you know Amir?” I asked.

“Uh, he’s my friend? Okay.”

“Oh that’s right, sorry, I forgot. You do have so many friends. Yes… So you guys like went to college together right? Oh no wait—you’re in the same fairy tribe together. I keep getting that wrong,” I said.

“Um, okay, Amy. Keep missing out,” he said.

These people are fucking. Ridiculous.

“You are so fucking dense, Matthew Tall! I’m not going to see you unless you take me on a date. What don’t you get?”

(That’s right, we finally gave up trying to not and just started calling him Matthew Tall.)

“What did you call me?”

“Yeah, anyway, see you later! Good night! Have fun on your nameless boat! Say ‘hi’ to Angelo for me! Mwah!”

I hung up on him. And wheezed out some laughter. Matthew Tall was so dense and so annoying and so stupid and so clueless.

I took a drag of hash and my rubber blue phone buzzed again. It was a number I didn’t recognize. Again, speaker phone:

Me: Hello?

X: Amy.

Me: Who is this?

X: It’s Amir.

Me to Best Friend: What the fuck?!

Me to Amir: (hostile) What do you want?

Amir: Matthew told me to pick you up.

Me: Uh, for what?

Amir: To go on the boat.

Me: Oh, did he. What kind of car are you in?

Amir: What?

Me: What kind of car are you in?

Amir: A Land Rover.

Me: Ouch, ooh, no. Sorry I don’t do Land Rovers.

Amir: What? Where are you?

Me: No, no, no—I don’t do Land Rovers. If it’s not an Escalade I take no part. Sorry.

Amir: Uh… What?

Me: Yeah, sorry, no thanks. If you switch to an Escalade—a white one, that is—within the next, oh, 15 minutes, give me a call ok?

Amir: Derrrrrr.

Me: Okay, alright talk to you NEVER. Don’t fucking call me anymore. BYE.

Another cackle gaggle ensued. If only I spoke fairy so I could get my message across. Language barriers aside, I texted Matthew Tall. If he wasn’t going to take me on a real date, I did not need his 4 a.m. texts and phone calls anymore. Me starts at 4:18 a.m.:

Me: What part of I will only c u if you take me on a real date do you not understand? U r like denser than the universe be4 the big bang

MT: I have asked enough… you girls want to come let me know before he is done picking people up…

Me: You must not know what the big bang is cuz you just proved my point exactly. And why would I want to hang out on a nameless boat with a bunch of sleaze bags like Amir?

MT: Keep missing out… no worries

Me: I’m going to keep going until I get the last word. I would never want to go hang out on a nameless boat with you and all your fake friends. Except for Angelo. U can tell him 2 call me.

MT: He is here. And my friends are my friends… whatever

Me: K. Tell Angelo I say hi!

I got the last word. And I never went on the Nameless. Though I stole a captain’s hat (see my headshot!) on another boat during my crazier summer days one Sunday night in July, when I was a mere Jewcy intern. Oh, how things change!

For some of us, at least.

Here I am, editorially assisting at Jewcy, looking for my own interns (resumes to, and no longer Lindsay Lohaning in magical fairy dens past sunrise.

But guess who is still Lindsay Lohaning in magical fairy dens? That’s right—Matthew Tall! So ok, maybe I’m not being fair to Matthew Tall. Yes he’s doing the same shit. But he does have a bigger belly now so I guess it’s not all the same.

Anyway, I bumped into him a couple weeks ago at Pink Elephant. I was at Ricardo’s table as usual. He and I were beginning a surprisingly intelligent conversation about intermarriage, which, I told him, I had recently written about. And then looming near the entryway, I spied Matthew Tall’s bright red baseball hat on his awkwardly high-above-the-ground head. He lumbered over, his eyes glued to the girly red Trio he held in both hands at his paunchy waistline.

I turned to Best Friend and we started laughing at him while he greeted Ricardo. Ricardo saw me laughing and gawking at Matthew Tall’s disgusting awkwardness and smiled at me. I made eye contact, opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and using my index finger gestured like I was making myself puke.

Ricardo laughed and came over. “What’s wrong? I thought you had a crush on Matthew?”

“Eww. No!” I said. “He sucks.”

“I want to talk more about this intermarriage thing,” Ricardo said. “I majored in theological studies and studied abroad in the Vatican.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, actually surprised.

“Nope. I went nine years without having sex. But marrying a Catholic girl is very important to me. I’ve broken up with girlfriends in the past because of it.”

As much as the topics of intermarriage, celibacy, and serious Catholicism intrigue me and spark a desire to discuss them in depth and intelligently, Pink Elephant on Thursday night is just not the right place or time.

Best Friend and I went for a walk and stopped at an empty area a few tables down from Ricardo to dance around a bit. After two or three songs, the red hat floated listlessly over and the large head beneath it stuck its mouth in my ear.

“You girls don’t have to stand over here because of me,” it said.

“We’re not over here because of you,” I said in full-on bitch mode.

“It’s really ok, you can come back to the table.”

“We’re over here because we want to dance around not because we’re trying to avoid you.”

“Look really it’s ok—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Why don’t you girls come back and have a drink.”

“Don’t you get it? Get the fuck away from me! Don’t fucking talk to me, Matthew Tall! I’m fucking SO DONE with you.”

“What’s he saying?” Best Friend mouthed.

“I don’t know. He thinks we’re trying to avoid him.”

We laughed loudly and pointed at Matthew Tall.

“You don’t have to stand over—”

“Don’t fucking talk to me. Leave me the fuck alone.”

Finally he went away. Finally I processed what was on his white tee-shirt: the silhouette of a man holding a gun to his own head. Some of us wear our hearts on our sleeves. Matthew Tall wears himself on his tee-shirt.

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