Category Archives: Misters

Mr. Sandwich Artist

Like my friend, Ryan, my favorite food genre is the sandwich.  To me, a deli is a sacred place.  It is a place where a multitude of glorious ingredients come together to form a wondrous harmonious concoction that quickly finds its way into my tummy… and my heart.  When I say, “I love that sandwich so much, I’d marry it,” I actually mean it.  I truly do.

But one day, my faith in the all-healing powers of sandwichery was shaken.

Badly.

I popped into a nearby deli to find some lunch in the form of a pastrami sandwich, and I noticed that the sandwich artist on duty kept shooting me strange looks.  I didn’t think much of it at first, but eventually he broke the silence by asking me a very pointed question.

Sandwich Artist : “How old are you?”

I was so taken aback by his directness that I answered truthfully without thinking.

Sandwich Artist : “Are you married?  Any kids?”

I just shook my head at him; quite frankly, I was in a daze.  I just wasn’t expecting this kind of interrogation, and he caught me completely off guard.

His eyes widened, and he gasped.  Loud enough to be rude, I think.

Sandwich Artist : “OH MY GOODNESS, YOU ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME.”

Man-shopper : “Erm.  What?”

Sandwich Artist : “YOU DON’T HAVE MUCH TIME LEFT!  YOU HAVE TO HURRY!”

There were no mirrors at the time to confirm this, but I suspect that the look on my face was some mixture of shock, horror, and complete confusion.  I remember thinking to myself, “What is happening here?  WHAT IS HAPPENING?”

The rest of our (thankfully) brief conversation went something like this:

Man-shopper : “Hurry?  Why?  I’m still so young!”

Sandwich Artist : “No, you’re not.  You’re running out of time.  If you don’t hurry up, you will die alone.”

Man-shopper : “Whoa, hang on.  That’s a bit dramatic.”

Sandwich Artist : “Not really.  Why don’t you want to be married?”

Man-shopper : “Who said I don’t want to be married?  What if I’m just not ready to settle down yet?”

Sandwich Artist : “At your age, if you’re not married, you don’t want to be married, right?”

Man-shopper : “This conversation is over.  Could I pay for my sandwich now please?”

I did not leave him a tip.

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Mr. Class Ring

“I’m a woman, Mary.  I can be as contrary as I choose.”

~ Dowager Countess of Grantham, played by the illustrious Maggie Smith

I actually don’t believe in dealbreakers.  This may surprise you, since I can be pretty brutal on this blog, but, let’s face it, in reality, when I truly fancy someone, he can do no wrong.  He could sleep in a bunny suit and worship a clay statue of a muppet as the one true god, and it’s highly likely that I’d find it endearing if I like the guy enough.

What can I say?  I’m a big softy at heart.

However, that being said, if I DON’T fancy the poor hapless thing, there’s no saving him from my ridicule and scorn.

And unfortunately for you unlucky many, whom I don’t fancy in the least, there are is a long list of things that would preclude you from seeing me naked — no matter how much alcohol you pour into me.

This list includes but is not limited to the following:

  • Class ring – This is speaks to a unique form of bro-douchery.  Just… don’t.
  • Puka shell necklace – Do I really need to explain this one?
  • Big diamondy balls of bling in the ears – This is a girl’s domain.  Back the eff off.
  • Longer nails than me – That’s just icky.
  • Higher heels than me – Yes, this has happened to me before.  I’d rather not talk about it.
  • He tells me that I’m fat – You’d be surprised how often this happens.
  • Matching tracksuit – This is doubly repulsive if the tracksuit is white.  (Yes, Joey, I’m talking to YOU.)
  • Gold chain necklaces – I shudder at the thought.
  • Flat-bill baseball caps – I’m a bit of a baseball cap snob.  I once dated a guy just because I liked his perfectly worn, fitted baseball cap.  I never let him take it off.  Ever.
  • The deep V-neck – Call me old-fashioned, but I find it more than a little disconcerting when a man sports more cleavage and a more plunging neckline than myself.  My barely-there-boobies really take it personally.

A significant portion of my dealbreakers consists of items related to man-jewelry.  I can safely say that I am generally opposed to almost all forms of man-jewelry.  Accessorize cautiously, lads.  Very very cautiously.

Merci buckets to Julia, who is the inspiration for this post/rant.  She is a phenomenal lady who manages to bring all the boys to the yard while dressed in a fabulous shiny flame-retardant lizard suit, and I admire her greatly.

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Mr. Rectangles

Long-time readers and twitter friends are well-acquainted with my obsession with man-buttocks (for example, see Mr. Beautiful Bottom).  So it was only a matter of time before I passed judgment on the D.C. derriere.

And that time has come.

The D.C. derriere?

Disappointing.

Now, don’t get me wrong.  I’m sure that there are some lovely bums in D.C.  But nobody ever gets to see them.

This is due to the fact that (hetero) suiting in our nation’s capital is, in a word, tragic.

Unlike the well-reared parisians to which I refer in my post on Mr. Sexy Suit, the men in D.C. hide their tushies away in a box.

Literally.

The suits here are cut like boxes, so that the men all walk around seemingly unaware that they are bedecked in rectangles.

After five years in Paris, it appears that I have started to embrace european sensibilities about menswear silhouettes.

Where are my delightfully cuppable globes of buttocks?  Nowhere to be seen.  I am drowning in a sea of ill-fitting trousers, badly cut jackets, voluminous and shapeless button-down tent-shirts, baggy jeans, and squashy looking coats.

Dapper fitted coats, where are you?  Trendy tweeds, slick slacks, and fetching footwear, why have you all forsaken me?

In what universe does “aesthetically conservative” mean “frumpy as all get-out”?  In the District of Columbia, ya’ll.  Right here.

Someone throw me a life-preserver!  Save me!  Save me from rectangular bums!

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Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand

I know, I know, “douche” is technically a french word.  I’ll not delve into the origins of the word, nor will I contest its anglophone “urban” connotation.  Long-time readers have surely read about my brushes with parisian douche-toolery, but I hope you didn’t expect my accounts of douchetards would cease now that I’m no longer an expat living amidst Paris’ unique form of douchery.

Au contraire.

Let’s face it.  Douchery is an international phenomenon that is hardly limited by national borders, by urban-rural divides, or by class lines.  Part of the anthropological analysis of any city’s dating scene must therefore include some treatment of The Douche Problem.

Before coming to D.C., I’d heard tales of high levels of douchery in the city, most likely due to the fact that it is, after all, the national capital and, therefore, contains high concentrations of people who live, work, breathe and bleed politics.  I can’t say that this surprised me at all, but I was still in that euphoric honeymoon phase of my relationship with America, and I was reluctant to come to terms with anything that could possibly shake my faith that my interactions with the opposite sex here must, by default, be better than my experiences in Paris.

But, my first night out in D.C., I came face to face with what I now call the D.C. Doucheoisie (shout-out to my buddy, Andrew Stillman, for coining this term).

At the time, my girlfriend and I were out and about in a part of town whose nightlife demographic was well-known for being… young.  Undergraduate and recent-grad age.

< Confession for the sake of context : I am NOT that age.  Not by a long shot. >

While we matronly damsels were awaiting our shining carriage to whisk us homeward, one young lad of such age approached me and stated very matter-of-factly:

“I like your jacket.”

I was not wearing a jacket.

It was the height of summer, and the city was the approximate temperature of some of the deeper bowels of hell.

He then proceeded to ask me to accompany him to his place for drinks and, apparently “a good time”.

There really was no transition between his comment on my non-existent jacket and his transparent proposition.

While I admired his ballsiness, I was very keen on going home to bed (it was far past my bedtime), so I gave him a very simple response:

“No, thank you.  I’m too old for you.”

But he was not to be deterred.

Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand : “No, you’re not!  How old are you?  What, 25 or something?  Listen, I am 23 years old, and I earn $72 000 per year!”

Man-shopper’s brain : “Oh merciful christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Man-shopper’s mouth : “Oh, honey, that’s not the issue here.”

Mr. Seventy-Two Thousand : “Well, what else could it possibly be?”

I was gobsmacked.

I walked away at this point, but instead of “Oh, honey, that’s not the issue here,” this is what my response SHOULD have been:

” How much of that seventy-two thousand

are you willing to part with tonight? “

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Mr. Potato Thief

The other night I patronized one of the kebab places in my neighborhood.  Two things happened: (1) I ordered a sandwich with samurai sauce (Yes, that’s right. SAMURAI SAUCE.), and (2) a parisian man tried to steal my fries.

If there is one thing that you should know about me, you should know that potatoes are my kryptonite.  Not chocolate.  Potatoes.  Fried.  Mashed.  Crinkle cut.  Curly.  Hash-browned.  Diced.  Chipped.  Baked.  All of it.

I LOVE POTATOES.

So, needless to say, when some parisian assclown tries to steal my fries as some kind of charming banter/play for my heart… this didn’t end well for him.

It all started when Mr. Potato Thief tried to chat me up by asking me whether he should order fries.

As a potato-lover, I scoffed at him and responded affirmatively with a resounding, “OF COURSE”.

Mr. Potato Thief ultimately opted out of fries, citing the fact that he “was on a diet”.

Again, I scoffed at him.

What a pansy.

When my order arrived, complete with samurai sauce, I was thrilled as peaches and proceeded to ignore him in order enjoy my meal.

But Mr. Potato Thief had other ideas.

He got up very close to me, reached across my chest and jokingly made a play for my fries.

All I remember feeling was this blind, hot rage, and the following things occurred:

1.  I grabbed his wrist and slammed it down on the table.

2.  With his pansy little wrist still firmly pinned to the table, I got up very close to his face and just growled, “DEGAGE”.

3.  When his friend rushed to his defense and demanded to know what I was doing to him, I finally let go of his wrist and just responded, “He should’ve ordered his own fries”.

I’m not sure what Mr. Potato Thief and his friend got up to afterward.  All I know is that the sympathetic kebab worker gave me extra fries to make up for being harassed by a potato thief.  And that made everything right with the world.

But let this be a lesson to all men the world over.

DO.

NOT.

STEAL.

MY.

FRIES.

Unless, of course, I give you permission. But that would mean that I really like you.

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Mr. Geisha Fantasy

Even after all this time, the most popular post on my blog is still Mr. Asian Fetish.  Apparently, and perhaps for good reason, this is a hot button topic on the interwebs.  Frankly, I have been reluctant to write about it again because I don’t want to give the impression that being Asian or being fetishized is the sole or primary component of my identity.

However, sometimes I think that parisian men can’t seem to think otherwise.

I recently encountered somebody whose exotification of my slanty-eyes got me so riled that he left me no choice but to revisit the topic of the Asian fetish.

To sum up my previous post on it:

  1. I don’t think of it as a fetish.  I think of it as a personal preference that may sometimes manifest itself as broader stereotyping.
  2. I don’t mind if I’m your physical type for whatever reason, but come on, fool, don’t be an asstard about it.
  3. Parisian men are usually asstards about it.

After being waylaid by Mr. Geisha Fantasy on my way out of a cafe the other day  I still stand by all three points.  I cite the following excerpts from our conversation.

He commented on my accent:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You speak French with a Japanese accent.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Kill me now.”
  • Man-shopper’s mouth : “I’m American.  That’s like saying you speak English with a white person accent.”
  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “No.  You do.  I am telling you.  I know what I’m talking about.  I lived in Japan.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “I hate my life sometimes.”

He has, I suspect, absolutely no idea what he is talking about:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “I like to work out too.  I lived in Japan, you know.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “What the hell is going on here??”

He clearly has some thrilling insights about pan-Asian uniformity:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You Asians are all kind of the same, aren’t you?”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “@$#%^~*!!”
  • Man-shopper’s mouth : “Yes.  Of course.  You’re right.  We are all the same.  You can switch me out with any other Asian.  We’d be having this same conversation.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “He MUST understand sarcasm, right??”
  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean!”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Oooor… not.

He likes an Asian in red:

  • Mr. Geisha Fantasy : “You obviously like brightly colored dresses.  You should wear bright red lipstick.  I know lots of Japanese women who wear red lipstick.”
  • Man-shopper’s brain : “Seriously?  SERIOUSLY??”

What a charmer.

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Sir Dance-a-lot

The other night I caught a glimpse of some of the most entertaining dance moves I’ve seen in a long time.  Now, keeping in mind that my own dancing skills are questionable at best, the fact that I can criticize anyone else’s dancing must mean that his/her moves must truly be trainwreckerous.

I wish that I had the skills to create some kind of video demonstration of what I saw that night.  But alas, we will all just have to live in hope that my attempt at written description will suffice.  (It won’t.  But it’s not like we have a choice here.)

Picture this combination of all the following dance moves, performed simultaneously… BY ONE GUY…

  • Index finger dancing : You all know what this is.  This is when you stick your index fingers out, point up to the ceiling, and pump your arms up and down like pistons, as if pointing upwards actually serves as a locomotive force for your existence.
  • The twist :  Yes.  The 1960s dance craze.  You know what I’m talking about.  We’ve all seen those movies.
  • The foux da fa fa dance à la Flight of the Conchords : Now, for this one, I actually do have video evidence, at the end of the video below.  (But if you haven’t seen the whole 3 minute episode, this is a must-see.  It.  Is.  Hilarity.  CUBED.)
  • The hunchback :  This is the time-honored awkward dancing position in which someone hunches his/her back over while performing all other dance moves in his/her repertoire.  My guess is that Sir Dance-a-lot thought that hunching would increase his overall cool-ness.

Now… picture all these dance moves being performed by a man wearing the following:

  • denim shirt doubling as a jacket
  • denim-colored walking shorts
  • red and yellow loafers… without socks
  • bottom-lip-biting dance expression

Here’s the thing, as a not-so-great dancer myself, I am all for pulling out the jokey dance moves and embracing my lack of skills.  I’ve contorted my body in any number of embarrassing ways at the club.

But the whole game changes when you take yourself seriously.

Sir Dance-a-lot really seemed to think that he was breaking out some truly swoonworthy gyrations on the dance floor as he attempted to make eyes at all the ladies in the room.

I’m sorry, but I just can’t help but be a judgmental cow here.  When I saw this guy, all I could think was:

With moves like that, there is no possible way that this man could be any good in the boudoir.

No way.

NO POSSIBLE WAY.

Any perceptive woman would likely NEXT this guy before he could open his mouth.  My guess is that he would never stand a chance with any woman with blood alcohol content below 0.39, which, according to wikipedia, means that she is experiencing symptoms such as “loss of understanding”, “impaired sensations”, “stupor”, “unconsciousness” and “possible death”.

That is all I have to say.

Carry on.

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Mr. Blind Date

Sometimes, when I’ve had a few drinks in me, I will agree to do some questionable things, some of which can be perfectly reasonable, some of which can be somewhat silly.  At the time, I thought that agreeing to be set up on a blind date was something that had a foot in both camps.

This date was completely blind.  Friend X set up the whole thing, down to the day, time, and location.  The only thing I knew going into it was my Mr. Blind Date’s first name.

I was told that Mr. Blind Date would be seated by the door and wearing a blue shirt.

Presumably, Friend X told Mr. Blind Date that I was Asian, which, in Paris, is usually enough to pick me out of the crowd.

When I arrived, I saw that Mr. Blind Date was already seated with a glass of whisky, so I flagged down the server as I walked over and ordered one as well before I sat down.

Just as my butt hit the chair, Mr. Blind Date leaned back, downed his drink, and said,

“I thought you were supposed to be pretty.”

Then he got up, threw down a tenner, and strode out the door.

For the record, his drink cost twelve euros.

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Mr. Sexy Suit

Right.  Time for some positivity about man-shopping in Paris!  The last time that I wrote something nice about parisian men was probably my post on their derrieres.

This time…

… Let’s talk about suits, baby!

The average american suit is boxy, ill-fitting, and generally drab through and through.

But in Paris?  Hell to the no.

Ladies, if you’re like me, and one of your time-consuming hobbies is admiring a snappy suit on a man, I advise you to take the metro line 1 out to La Défense on weekday mornings.

I used to work out there a few years ago, and I swear to you, the ONLY thing that made rush hour commute bearable was the fact that you could get up close and personal with some of the most impeccable suiting on the planet.

They’re not all sporting Zegna, but they don’t need to.  The suits are well-tailored, are cut to show off all my favorite man-parts, and, in short, are glorious to behold.

Defined man-shoulders.

V-shaped man-torsos.

And, of course, a nicely framed man-butt.

These are not to be confused with boy-shoulders, boy-torsos, and boy-butts.  I have absolutely no love for the skinny-ass coat-hanger sculpture with no meat or muscle on him.  No lady wants something to poke her eye out whilst cuddling.

That being said, the skinny TIE, on the other hand…

I am a fan.

In my humble opinion, a man needs a perfectly-tailored jacket to pull off the skinny tie, and I am happy to report that there is a pleasant proliferation of nicely pulled-off skinny ties on the line 1.

The take-home message here is this:

I like the parisian suit.

However, that does NOT mean that I have to like the parisian IN the suit.

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Mr. Louvre Lurker

Every first Sunday of the month, museums all over Paris open their doors, free of charge, to the public.  And on one such Sunday at the Louvre, I was checking out the decorative arts section when I noticed that the one other guy in the room with me was kind of cute.

I thought no more of him until I realized, five rooms later, that he was still there.

Was he following me?  Should I be creeped out?

I decided that I would not be creeped out and that I’d give him the benefit of the doubt since he was “kind of cute”.  (Yes, I know, I’m superficial and I’m okay with it.)

However, I wanted to make sure that he was following ME, and not just following the prescribed route through the ceramics section and reading the captions in the tapestry rooms at the exact same rate as me.

So I decided to conduct a test.

I abruptly left the Objets d’Art section, went up several escalators, and traversed the length of the wing to get to the French Paintings section.  When I checked behind me, he was still there!

Yay!  He totally digs me.  I wasn’t imagining things!

But then I thought to myself, why hasn’t he made a move?

Pansy-ass french man.

He eventually ran out of time, since the museum staff herded the crowds out the door at closing time.  No surprise, but we “magically” ended up in the same metro train car.

Yet he still hadn’t sacked up to chat me up.

I was fed up with his pansy-ass pansiness, so I decided to be ballsy.

I wrote my number on the back of my ballet ticket from the night before, and I handed it to him as I was getting out at my stop.  I blasted him with my most winning smile and pranced away — my heart beating wildly from the adrenaline rush of doing something so ballsy.

Now you’re probably thinking, this story sounds like a fantastic when-we-first-met story that happily married couples have.

Yeah.  Right.  Come on, stuff like that doesn’t happen in the world of Manshopping in Paris.

Things went awry when we arranged a date.  It was the date the launched my illustrious full-time career of painful dating in Paris.

He had this high-pitched voice and barely-above-a-whisper mumble, which I found unbearable and impossible to understand.  But most importantly, his personality was just flat.  If I stared long enough, I could swear that he was actually one-dimensional.

My boredom was so severe that I’m scared that it may have caused some brain hemorrhaging at the time.

The worst of it was that I couldn’t seem to get out of the date!  He managed to cling to me all the way from the restaurant to my door (it was a 40 minute walk!), and the whole experience was very unpleasant, to put it mildly.

The next day I told him that it wasn’t going to work for us romantically.  In other words, I told him to bugger off and leave me alone.

And a normal guy would have, right?

But of course, I’m incapable of finding a normal parisian man to date.

He wouldn’t stop asking me out.

He asked me out to dinner to introduce me to his friends.

He asked me to accompany him to work functions.

Three months later, when he moved to India, he sent me weekly updates and demanded to know why I wasn’t responding.

Three months after that, when he moved back to France, he continued to pester me.

And now, two and a half years later, gmail is still filtering his emails directly into my trash bin.

Apparently this guy has nobody else to bother except some random woman who gave him her number on the metro two and half years ago.

I have concluded that he has no friends.

Of course, out of all the men in Paris, I picked THIS winner to hit on.

And I’ve been saying “Next!” for the past two and a half years.

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