Mr. Yankees Fan

Warning: Pointless rant coming up…

For some unknown reason, I see a plethora of Parisian idiots sporting Yankees gear.  I take issue with this for the following reasons:

• These fools have no idea that the NY logo is the logo of a baseball team.  Many of them think that it stands for New York, that they are rockin the coolest American shit on this side of the Atlantic.  Most of them probably have no idea what baseball is.

• It just looks stupid.  Picture it.  Pansy-ass Parisian gangsta-wannabe wearing a sideways Yankee cap, in his skinny jeans, thinking “Putain, c’est mortel!”

• You ONLY ever see the Yankees logo.  It just creams my corn that I don’t see a Giants logo anywhere.  The French seem to fixate on the strangest things to associate with America.  They embrace Oreos, for example, but are physically incapable of making a decent chocolate chip cookie.

So, men, if you are French and own Yankees gear, please don’t bother talking to me.  I don’t run around San Jose in a Stade Français jersey, and I don’t pretend to be the #1 Bordeaux fan when I’m in New York, so you should afford American teams the same respect please and stop being such a poser.

Oh, I’m sorry, I meant to say, such a poseur.

Next, please.

Mr. Denial

Since my last post from Boston, I’ve relocated to Ithaca, NY for my sister’s graduation.  While I am thrilled to be here for her commencement activities, all this family stuff has temporarily put a stop to my man-shopping until I leave for New York City tomorrow morning.  So until my NYC adventures begin, I’ll try to amuse you with more ramblings about the Parisian scene.

According to my personal field research, many anglophone women — particularly American women — will have trouble communicating certain things to their Parisian suitors.  This kind of miscommunication primarily revolves around the idea that anglophone women spend most of their waking hours turning down Parisian creeps, and said Parisian creeps spend most of their time in denial of this fact.

The best way to illustrate this particular anthropological phenomenon is with this handy chart that I’ve drawn up for you.

As you can see, dating in Paris can be fraught with misunderstandings.

A while back, I speculated that my lack of success on the Parisian dating scene could be due in part to an inherent language problem.  But after the epiphany that resulted in the above chart, I now also believe that liaisons between anglophones and francophones could potentially be doomed for reasons that have nothing to do with language.

Simply put, Houston, we have a cultural problem.

For whatever reason, dating rituals here require the men to act like ass-hats and, unfortunately, the women seem to put up with them or egg them on.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to beat the system, so to speak, but I’ve a number of friends who have offered their advice on the matter.  My buddy, Martin, who has long been baffled and concerned by the absurdity that is my love life in Paris, only had four words for me:

“Stop dating French guys.”

However, even though I agree with him in principle, in practice, I’m not going to stop dating Frenchmen.

It’s not that I’m determined to have a relationship with a Frenchman.

It’s just that I’m having so much fun with this blog.

And come on, you know that you love reading about these Parisian ass-clowns* that I meet.

So when I return to Paris next month, it’s on to the next…

…French-tard!

*This great new addition to my vocabulary has come by way of my friend, Iroquois Pliskin.  He has quite a way with words, and he and his brother have introduced me to wonderfully useful terms like “skank-pronging” and “schmo-hawk.”  I tip my hat to their skilled wordsmithing.

Mr. Beautiful Bottom

If you’re a fairly regular reader of my blog, by now you’ve probably picked up on the fact that I’m not particularly keen on Parisian men.  In fact, you could say that 99.999999999% of my blog material is dedicated to bashing them to bits.

So to change things up a bit, in honor of Mother’s Day, today I will highlight an aspect of Parisian men that I LOVE: their remarkably glorious behinds.

That’s right.  This is my ode to Parisian posteriors!  I’ve recently become a connoisseur of les fesses.  And I’ve discovered that Paris is a great place to scope out dude derrieres.

What makes Paris so great for tushie-gazing, you ask?  Well, unlike the American scene that I left when I fled the country in 2006, the men here consistently wear nicely fitted (and sometimes too tight) trousers.  This is wonderful for a seasoned seat-gazer like myself, since this means that their rear goods are perfectly displayed for my viewing pleasure!

There are many things about Parisian men that I detest, most of which seem to stem from their effeminate habits and mannerisms.  However, I can’t fault the fit of their trousers.  And if being a pansy guy on a pansy diet means that they give good butt, so be it.  They may not be date-able, but that can sometimes work to my advantage.

I can reject them just so that I can ogle their bums as they walk away.

But what constitutes a particularly nice butt?  In my opinion, it must possess the following characteristics:

• proportionality — I’m not a big fan of a disproportionately large bottom on a man (e.g. Bunny Colvin on The Wire).  That’s just my personal preference, as it affects the grace of a man’s gait.  Parisian man-derrieres are consistently proportional to the bodies attached to them, which works just fine for me!

• cuppability — A guy’s posterior needs to be well-rounded and — well — cuppable.  Ideally, I should be tempted to go in for a grab.  Yesterday I actually reached my hand out toward an especially nice specimen before I realized what I was doing.

• perkiness — It could be the Parisian apartment buildings and the absence of lifts, but Parisian man-butts usually sit nice and high on the body — not unlike a well-executed boob job.

• seamless packaging — Parisian men don’t store anything in their back pockets.  I’ve a feeling that a “wallet-line” is a punishable offense here, which explains the pervasive and abhorrent “man purse” phenomenon in Paris.  I may detest the man purse, but I’ll tolerate it for the time being, since it enhances my bum-gazing pleasure.

Unlike their female counterparts in Paris, which are more or less two-dimensional, the male booty here is very much worth pillaging, so to speak.  While I have yet to converse intimately — in the nude — with these well-shaped Parisian nether-cheeks, and while I certainly can’t vouch for the goods in the front, I can at least enjoy the sight of these tight little tushies as they parade past me every day.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Mr. Asian Fetish

In case you haven’t noticed, I am of the Asian persuasion.  And ever since my date with Mr. Love-You-Long-Time, I have received requests to blog about the Asian fetish…

So here’s the thing, folks.  I don’t have anything against the Asian fetish, per se.  I’m even reluctant to call it a “fetish.”  Everyone has a “type” that they prefer, and who am I to judge if a fellow likes the soy sauce?

Frankly, with the dawn of plastic surgery and advanced beauty products, it’s a cutthroat dating market out there.  I will take any advantage that I can get!

That being said, it is still inappropriate to blatantly advertise your ethnicity preferences on a date.  Nobody likes to be labeled like that.

For instance, one commenter pointed out that ordering a drink called “Love You Long Time” while on a date with an Asian girl “is just not done.”  Hell, taking her to a place that has it on the menu in the first place, that really “is just not done!”

Some idiot's dating site profile picture

Since that unfortunate incident, even more of my hapless dates followed his lead and crossed that just-not-done line.

Thanks to them, I have an ongoing list of what NOT to say when you are on a date with an Asianista like myself:

“Hey there, pretty Asian girl.”

• Word to the wise, this is never a good way to start.

“Wow.  You are super tall for a Vietnamese girl.  Are Vietnamese girls taller than Cambodian girls?  My ex-girlfriend is Cambodian.”

• He started out badly enough, but then he referenced the ex, as well?  Dumbass.

“I bet you know where all the Asian restaurants are in Paris.”

• Yeah.  Obviously.  Because I’m Asian, I know ALL of them.  And Uncle Ho was actually my uncle.  So was Mao.

“Sure, that event sounds interesting.  Is it an Asian thing?  I’ll only go if it’s an Asian thing.”

• I was just… speechless.

“Do you ever go to Asian Night at Mix Club?  I go all the time.”

• This is NOT the right way to say that you love to get down with the slanty-eyed folk.

“I love to read manga.  You look like an Animé character.”

• Good. GOD.

“Hey, I see two Asian girls sitting at that table over there.  Do you know them?  Are they your friends?”

• Again.  I had no words.

“I loved Australia!  There are a lot of Asians there.”

• Really?  Do I need to explain this one?

“Oh you’re Vietnamese?  We’re going to get along great!  I have heaps of female Korean friends.”

• The only word I have for this is: STUPID.  This line was so stupid that it makes me stupid when I think about it.

You know… this goes beyond the whole issue of ethnicity.  For example, if you replaced every “Asian” with any other modifier like — gosh, I don’t know — “small-waisted,” these comments would still be inappropriate.

The worst of it is that these lines did not just come from one man-product.

In other words, such poor unfortunate souls have strength in numbers.

Sigh… am getting tired of saying this, but… NEXT!

Ms. Anniversary!

As of today, it has been exactly two months since I began this slightly perverse social experiment with the dating scene in Paris!

So to honor this landmark event, I will recap my shenanigans for the past month.

First up, some number-crunching:

• Total number of first dates : 19 (A number of dates didn’t make the blog due to time constraints… In other words, I was just lazy.)
• Number of second dates : 0
• Success rate : 0%

According to these numbers, I have little to show for my hard work.

But numbers don’t tell the whole story, right?  What’s more important is the life experiences that I have gained.  So perhaps it would be more valuable to look at the highlights from my field notes.

After this past month’s dating escapades, I can now proudly say that I have accomplished the following:

• I found a real guy who managed to replicate — and possibly improve upon — Patrick Dempsey’s hair: Mr. Hair.
• I met a guy who was more pretentious than anyone I have ever met — even during my years at Harvard.  Now THAT’S saying something: Mr. Pretentious.
• I had so many guys in my shopping cart that I couldn’t keep their names straight: Mr. Oops.
• I got stood up: Mr. Anglophone.
• I went on a ten-minute date that wasn’t speed-dating: Mr. Ten Minute Wonder.
• I survived a date that was scripted from bodice-ripper novels: Mr. Bodice-ripper.
• I went on a date with a guy who was more woman than I am: Mr. Pretty Woman.
• I drunk-dated: Ms. Drunk Date.
• I went on a date with a guy whose creepy grin still gives me nightmares: Mr. Cheshire Cat.
• I learned that my drink orders are manlier than the most of the men I date: Mr. Love-You-Long-Time.
• I tried to stalk a hunky postman: Ms. Stalker.
• I survived date conversation about unconventional sexual predilections: Mr. Too Much Information.

Not too shabby for two months’ work, I’d say.

But still, I continue on my quest for that elusive, pseudo-mythical creature — that great first date.

I’m beginning to think that it may not exist — that it should be categorized with Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns.

So to fête my two-month anniversary, I cordially invite you, all my readers, to send in first-date stories.

Convince me that it is possible to have a great first date.  Or, if you are a skeptic, send me your horror stories.  Over the next month, I will feature my favorite reader stories, and, of course, I will continue to share my own.  And at the end of March, I will deliver my verdict on the question:

The great first date… is it a myth?

manshopping.blog@gmail.com.

Surprise me.

Mr. Love-You-Long-Time

In all fairness, the date wasn’t catastrophically bad, not like all the other Misters that I’ve blogged about.

But then again, it wasn’t great either.  Our interaction was abysmally awkward — the conversational equivalent of trying to pull out a tooth with a line of string attached to a doorknob.  But the most unsettling aspect of this date:

He had ordered the most ABSURD drink on the menu.

Yes, I am a judgmental bitcherina.  Fine, I admit that.  But seriously, people, this was some artificial Hello Kitty color, came in a giant tippy martini/margarita glass, and it had pink straws and some sort of tropical fruit garnish to complement its apple liqueur base.  It also had ludicrous name: “The Love-You-Long-Time.”

We’ll ignore the latent issues with the drink name.  It pales in comparison with the substantive matter at hand: the cultural drinking divide between men and women in Paris.

Why do Parisian men order girly cocktails?  Mr. Love-You-Long-Time  said that they tasted “divine.”  Another Frenchman friend confessed that he hated the taste of beer because it didn’t have the nuanced flavors of wine (I protest!).  But the more interesting question is what the women here are expected to drink.

My Irish flatmate was wondering whether it would seem “normal” if she ordered a pint on her upcoming drinks date.  I found absolutely nothing wrong with that, since I always order a pint myself.  Another Americano and an Irishman later backed me up on this, insisting that beer-drinking broads are awesome.

http://www.sue-chan.com

However, our French man-friend begged to differ, insisting that a Frenchman would consider a pint-drinking gal to be pretty strange.  Apparently, Parisian girls never order pints.  In fact, they rarely order beer at all.  Perhaps they consider themselves too sophisticated for beer?  When they do opt for a beer for whatever reason, they would only order a half-pint.  And I bet that they hate every plebeian sip of it.

While I wholeheartedly disagree with this anti-pint bias, perhaps it has contributed to my inability to land a second date…

Mr. Love-You-Long-Time actually had the audacity to point out my beer-drinking ways on the date, all the while guzzling his frosted, sugary concoction.  After I mentioned that my flatmates are both Irish, he glanced over at my pint and mumbled, “Well, THAT explains why you drink beer.”

Somehow, it didn’t sound like a compliment.

NEXT!

Mr. Incompetent

This is basically a real-life tutorial for how NOT to ask a girl out.  Seriously, guys, don’t ever do this.  If you do, this Man-shopper will don her Dating Crusader cape and pink lycra bodysuit, come find you, and bitch-slap you until you get it right.

Mr. Incompetent:  “So we should grab a drink sometime.”

Me:  “Sure, that sounds good.”

Mr. Incompetent:  “We can go any time you want.”

Me:  “Uhhh, next week maybe?”

Mr. Incompetent:  “Yeah, sure.”

<a long pause as I wait for him to start putting in some real effort…>

Me:  “Ummm ok, how about Wednesday?”

Mr. Incompetent:  “OK.”

<another long pause while I contemplate how to achieve world peace…>

Me:  “OK.  Well.  I finish work at seven, so I leave it up to you to choose time and place.”

Mr. Incompetent:  “No problem, pretty girl.”

<gag>

Mr. Incompetent:  “So where would you like to go?”

What a twit.

There was only positive thing that came out of this train-wreck of a conversation. While he was scrambling around looking for his balls, I managed to work out all the world’s problems in my head.

Go ahead.  Ask me anything.

NEXT!

Mr. Pansy

I have only one question this Valentine’s Day: Where did all the manliness go??

This rant is about no man-product in particular.  This is a lament about a general absence of manliness here in Paris.  I can’t help myself… I’ve been brainwashed by American hero-worship of manly man-heroes.

In America, we value rugged manliness.  We have cowboys, Daniel Boone, and Paul Bunyan.  We have Rocky, John McClane, and every character that John Wayne ever played.

The French have Louis XIV, the most prominent proponent of the high-heeled shoe for men.  He also wore more feathers than the average Vegas showgirl.

So it comes as no surprise that there seems to be an abnormally high occurrence of pansies on my dating website.  I’ve collected a few of my favorites here for your viewing pleasure.

Let’s check out Mr. Pansy #1:

Judging from this photo, Mr. Pansy #1 enjoys watching America’s Next Top Model and imitating Tyra Banks’ “smizing” techniques in the mirror.  And I don’t even want to know who took this photo for him.

Now look at Mr. Pansy #2:

My only response to this was:

What.

The.

FUCK.

A man who photoshops a provocatively-posed Tinkerbell next to his lips is the kind of man who will only land a date with… well… Tinkerbell, a fictional AND mythical creature.

Mr. Pansy #3 has a special place in my heart.  Mostly because I own both the shirt and necklace that he is wearing.

That shirt does show off his décolletage nicely, doesn’t it?  I know.  That’s exactly why I bought it for myself.  For the record, it also comes in pink.

Now… the pièce de résistance… Mr. Pansy #4:

Note the luminous, green-screen background…

I would also like to point out that I wore that jade necklace when I was sixteen.  So did all my cousins.  My female cousins.

And, most importantly, note the off-the-shoulder pose made famous by women’s lingerie catalogs and, of course, Flashdance.  He seems to think that this pose is some sort of strip-tease tactic that will send the ladies a-swooning into his flabby embrace.

I weep for mankind.  I truly do.

Georgia O’Keeffe obviously didn’t paint flowers as an homage to manliness.  So I find it unsettling how closely these “men” resemble their horticultural namesakes:

It’s so apropos that “pansy” was originally derived from a French word…

Mr. Sunglass Douche

This post is a shout-out to the ever-pervasive Sunglass Douche phenomenon that has taken the online dating scene by storm.

I don’t know how many of you have come to this conclusion about the role of sunglasses in online profiles… But my instinct tells me that there are two categories of guys who insist on wearing sunglasses in their primary profile picture (some even go as far as to wear them in all their profile pictures):

(1)    guys who are so douche-y that they think that wearing sunglasses automatically makes them uber-cool.  They think that the sunglasses turn them into veritable sex gods;
(2)    guys who are actually hideous, but the sunglasses either hide the hideousness or draw attention away from their offending characteristics.

Either way, in my opinion, wearing sunglasses in his primary profile picture makes a guy a douche.  And I have no business wasting my time with him.  I call it my Sunglasses-Douche Equivalency Principle.

I make it a rule to immediately refuse the attentions of any and all man-products who sport these offensive douche-shades.  Your pictures are supposed to show who you are, perhaps give some insight into your personality.  And if sunglasses are how you choose to hide and/or express your personality, I want nothing to do with you.  Hey, it’s online man-shopping… I am supposed to be selective with the products that I want to purchase!

I would estimate that I’ve summarily eliminated approximately 40% of prospective man-products based solely on the Sunglasses-Douche Equivalency Principle.  Come on, fellas.  Shape up.  This lady will never date a Sunglass Douche.

I can’t even count how many times I have said NEXT! to Sunglass Douches.