Friday afternoon finds me standing inside a Goodwill, just around the corner from our apartment. Though each of us conducts his own research independently, the chosen subject is identical. Namely, as summer inexplicably approaches much sooner than seemed possible, though not nearly swiftly enough, we begin to ponder one question in particular: what would happen if these ranch hands left the prairie, in favor of somewhere tropical?
In retrospect, it seems like a totally obvious direction, one we should have considered already. In fact, it would probably have gotten much more mileage back during the winter, to perpetuate this theme, bringing the warmth and the rays of sunshine along with us, by the mere virtue of our simply showing up. We are big fans of the spiced rum, after all, and if not the famous Captain known for shipping such across the ocean, then one of the many similar knockoffs.
On a similar note, meanwhile, chicks are really into that whole dopey Jack Johnson type faux bohemian musical pap, i.e. a bunch of stoned surfers passing an acoustic around a campfire. After their totally gnarly day out on some rad waves, singing 200 proof undiluted nonsense. Therefore combining these separate yet related elements, pulling off some kind of loose, beachy, party band aura ourselves seems a slam dunk, as soon as it occurs to us. The only question is, which kind?
“Do we go for a Jimmy Buffett look, or are we thinking more like a Dave Matthews kinda vibe?” Dylan wonders, as he and I are hashing this out.
“Mmmm…I think the Buffett angle would be more fun to try and pull off. And easier, too. I mean, we do like to drink, after all.”
“That’s true. Although I don’t know, something tells me the whole Dave Matthews burned out pothead thing might actually be easier. Hey, man, you got any weed…cool, maaaaannnn…wanna go to my place later?…far out…See what I mean? That might not require any effort whatsoever. We wouldn’t even have to dress any differently, really, would we?”
“Good point. But I’m just thinking, could I really keep a straight face for that? It’s gonna be hard enough as it is, doing the whole Parrothead thing, wearing Hawaiian shirts everywhere.”
“I guess you’re right,” Dylan muses, then, following a few silent seconds, cackles and adds, “God what a bunch of horseshit that whole Dave vibe is. We probably would have trouble trying to pass that off. Hey man, I just wanna smoke some weed and play my acoustic, man. That’s all I want outta life, man…gimme a fuckin break.”
“Well it’s all horseshit. Jimmy’s full of it too,” I observe, “so whatever. The only questions, really, are what works best, and can we pull that off without cracking the fuck up?”
So Margarita Man it is, then. Not that other discussions aren’t on the table, in the weeks leading up to deployment. During another trip to Pardners, some older hussy with a curly fright wig of dirty blonde hair, stations the country porno train long enough to sing Captain and Tennille’s Love Will Keep Us Together. We keep ourselves amused debating whether this is Toni Tennille up there, reasoning that she may very well look like that these days. Then during that goofy ass little keyboard solo interlude, she’s doing a side to side shimmy, hands out waist high, palm down, which is reasonably sexy enough…although I’m thinking she should have brought some smug looking Love Boat captain looking guy up there to play the part instead, decked out in that entire uniform, replete with ridiculous cruise ship hat and shades and maybe even a pipe. Which of course inevitably leads to our discussing whether that look might be even better than the Buffett angle, if we are bold enough to take that colossal leap, in the name of picking up chicks. But I suppose there are limits even to our ridiculousness.
And if these conversations don’t lead anywhere substantial, they are mighty entertaining — the brainstorming itself can provide some worthwhile insight, too, which is often applicable elsewhere. Some of the odder yet therefore much more memorable suggestions include wearing an eyepatch and acting like a pirate, to loading up those amber tinted medicine bottles with cinnamon Tic-Tacs and popping these all night at the bar, while referencing a vague yet unspecified “medical condition,” to insisting that we both were born with the first name Elvis.
How any of this is supposed to help us land girls I can’t say, except that we find it hilarious ourselves and so by extension maybe the good cheer would catch on. Besides, it has moved on for us beyond the point of seeing if we could get hooked up — that has become increasingly easier — into seeing how ridiculous we can act, how stupid, and still manage to hook up. A whole different ball of wax, one we remain eager to run with.
Yet the funniest — even if admittedly most offensive — suggestion arrives when I observe that, considering a major trend right now is these foxy, white, club girls being majorly into black dudes, often for no other reason than their blackness, to flaunt this around as some edgy, attention seeking stunt. That if we were somehow able to convert ourselves into authentic looking, head to toe facsimiles of black guys, man we would be fighting off the ladies.
“God, that would be fucking awesome,” Dylan concurs, though cautioning, “although something tells me, we would have to pull that off to perfection. If you had one thing out of place, you would really be asking to get your ass kicked.”
That’s true, but is it actually racist? The whole blackface performance phenomenon of decades past, I get that, where it’s an unmistakable, over the top mockery. This is more of a tribute, though, an attempt at an authentic, appreciative imitation. But, even though it’s highly unlikely either of us would ever work up the nerve for such a stunt, asking one of our black friends, if not exactly speaking for his entire race, should help us determine where this lands on the offensiveness graph. To this end, during a night where a bunch of us are out at Edgecrest Café, as Dylan and I are seated at the bar itself with Marvin, we decide to pick his brain on this topic.
“Y’all are tripped out,” he tells us, with a broad grin. Well, this is maybe not a ringing endorsement, but he doesn’t consider the idea racist, either, instead about as hilarious as we do. Until he straightens up and tells us what really works, the only angle that we ever need worry about.
“Women like a good line of bullshit. That’s it. They don’t even care if they know it’s bullshit. They be lookin at you, and you can tell, all they thinkin is, does this dude believe his own bullshit? That’s all. They wanna see that you believe your own bullshit. They don’t really care if it’s actually true or not. A good line of bullshit is better to them than bein bored.”
In roundabout fashion, then, Marvin has unknowingly hit a nerve, circling around to touch on our own impressions. Of this outlandish tropical attire, our prop schemes as a whole. They are only going to work if we believe in them, which we have always felt would be the case. And if able to manage this much with aplomb, then it is far more interesting than, and helps level the playing field against, these overly serious, white collar clowns, who have spent so much time and money and effort studying how to appear perfect.
I’ve already observed one possibly crucial difference between my mid-twenties self, and earlier editions, which somewhat relates to this concept. Back before Jenna and Helena, or even really in the sizable gap between them, babbling like a fool in the presence of hot females would get me tangled up to the point of blushing. Now, the idiotic babbling often remains in effect, but it no longer bothers me, I barrel right on forward unfazed. Who cares, really, is the thinking here. Granted, you might get lucky anyway and run into the occasional weirdo like Helena who finds the awkwardness endearing, but these are rare, enchanted creatures. And I think maybe Dylan is in the same leaky canoe as me. For the most part, shrugging off our stupidity has thus far proven the largest difference maker. You could make a serious case we are saying and doing far less of intelligence or substance these days, particularly as we willingly lean into these props, and yet this somehow works better.
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