Mean Boys, Pt. 2
TITLE: Mean Boys (Part 2)
AUTHOR: scalabrine and cyrtanthus
RATING: R
Summary: Mean Girls ... but with Bradam. And Tommy as Karen. And Cassidy as Gretchen Wiener.
Warning: We're un-PC, and if you are, you may not think our obnoxious humor is funny.
**
MEAN BOYS, PART 2
I tell myself I'm drunk when I get home. That's why I Google Brad Bell.
Not because I'm kind of obsessed with him or anything.
That's how I come across the Burn Blog for the first time. It's like Perez, but for non-famous people -- or maybe just people who want to be famous, which I guess makes them easy targets. I scroll through the first page or so, but because I don't recognize anyone (or maybe because I don't spot anything about the only three people in the WeHo scene that I do know), I search.
And I discover that apparently, talking shit about Brad Bell is off limits.
In this Us Weekly universe, he really is the cover boy. He looks flawless in every photo, even the candid ones, to the point where it makes me jealous because let's be honest -- I know all my angles aren't perfect, and his are. Every single angle. I study one of him pressed up against some kind of wall, shirtless and oh, almost pantless, too -- he's flashing a little bit of booty -- and I wonder if he models.
I'm starting to feel like I'm Christian Bale jacking off to photos of Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Ewan McGregor making out, so in an attempt to distract myself, I scroll down. Apparently, bitching about him in the comments section is forbidden, too (or maybe nobody has anything bad to say about him -- except Kesha. And that reminds me, I need to ask Das what her issue is).
Brad Bell is flawless, the first one says. Not disputing that.
I heard he does car commercials in Germany and they gave him three Audis just because they loved him that much. Hm. Doubtful. If I had seen him in car commercials there, I would remember.
Lance Bass tried to pick him up at a bar once. Brad turned him down.
His favorite drink is vodka-Red Bull. He threw one in my face once. ... It. Was. AWESOME.
I sit back and stare at the screen for several moments. (I scroll back up to the booty photo, just to give myself something to stare at.) I chew on my lip; this is starting to get intimidating. Is Brad really that big of a deal? And if he is, why does he want to be friends with me? Moreover, do I want to be friends with him?
I'm not tired yet (and I may or may not have the spins if I try to go to sleep right now), so I start browsing the rest of the Burn Blog, and that's when I notice an ad on the right side. I lean toward the computer screen, so close that my nose is almost touching it. Perez is looking for someone to perform at his birthday party. Someone unknown. (We all know what a hard-on Perez gets from "discovering" talent.) Someone with potential. Someone with experience.
Someone totally, a hundred percent like me.
I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. Is my drunken disorientation (and Brad-induced euphoria) convincing me I have a shot? Or ... do I really have a shot? Because I think I do.
See, here's the thing: I need to get discovered. I need to get paid, and my dad will only finance my dream-seeking for so long before he tells me I need a real job. And let me tell you, there's no way in fuck I want to go back to working retail. Nothing makes you question your existence more than eight hours of board-folding per day. So I, being an early-to-mid-twenties male in Hollywood, have a couple of options when it comes to being discovered: American Idol or meeting the right people.
My Hair director tried to convince me I should do Idol the whole time we were in Germany. I don't know if it's my thing; I don't know if America's ready for me. Or at least the me I want to be. And plus, Idol is kind of a joke, right? Like, Clay Aiken almost won Idol. If I did Idol, I'd want it to be a fucking gong show. I would want glitter eyeliner and crazy-low necklines and tight pants and, like, platform boots and shit. And I don't know if America's ready for that.
That leaves me one remaining option: Connections. It's all about the connections.
I wonder if there's any way I can meet Perez. If he met me -- I mean, if I could talk to him -- he'd give me a shot. I know he would. I'm good at talking to people. Like, really good at it. I can talk my way into anything. Or out of anything. My mom and my high school English teacher used to tell me I had chronic foot-in-the-mouth disease but I disagree. I just think I'm really good at being honest.
And if I tell Perez I honestly believe there's no undiscovered talent better suited to perform at his birthday party than me, I am certain I will get the job.
--
I get a text from him the next afternoon. Pick you up at 2?
I stare at it for a while. Pick me up for what? And how did he get my number? And when the fuck am I going to get a job?
for what? I ask. I wait. No response. And sure enough, when 2 o'clock rolls around, there's a car horn blaring outside my building.
I poke my head out the front door, and there he is, waiting in his drop-top Audi (was that true about the car commercials?), Tommy in the front seat and Cassidy in back.
"Get in, bitch," he calls, grinning. "We're going shopping." Without even being asked, Tommy climbs over the center console and into the backseat.
Hanging out with the Peeps is like leaving the actual world and entering this weird alternate universe that is like living in The Birdcage. Or Velvet Goldmine. Probably The Birdcage though, only because if this were Velvet Goldmine, I think Brad and I would spend a lot of time fighting over which one of us was the Brian Slade (obviously I would be, but he wouldn't want to be Kurt Wilde). This Birdcage-alternate universe has a lot of rules -- rules that are revealed to me as we walk through the Grove. Are people staring at them -- at us? Or am I imagining it? I really think people are staring at us. I kind of like it. Brad walks a couple of steps in front of Tommy and Cassidy; I walk next to him, which is probably a good thing because I don't know what the deal is between Cassidy and Brad but I don't want Cassidy to think I, like, like Brad or anything, and if I walked behind him, I'd totally be staring at his ass and that just can't happen. So I walk next to him. He doesn't seem to mind. Truth be told, he doesn't even seem to notice.
"You can't wear a tank top two days in row," Cassidy rambles, and I try to hide a smirk because I can only imagine how troublesome it is for him to adhere to this rule, "and you can only wear a hat once a week." He looks me up and down a bit reluctantly, eyeing my beanie. "So ... I guess you picked today."
I glance at Brad. I swear that in ninety percent of the photos I saw of him on the Burn Blog, he was wearing this cute little black fedora. He has to be in the habit of wearing it more than once a week. His hair isn't totally thick and luscious like mine, but it's not that bad; I wonder if he has some kind of neuroses about his hair. Or maybe he thinks he has a big forehead. Or maybe I'm just reading into it too much. Do I dare bring it up?
Well. If I'm going to maintain an ounce of self-respect during this little experimental friendship, I need to get in the habit of speaking up. "I don't mean to be argumentative," I begin casually, "but--" Brad looks up at me-- "does the once-a-week rule apply to you, too?"
There's silence. A very, very uncomfortable silence. I swear I can hear Tommy and Cassidy exchange a oh-no-he-didn't glance, and Brad just stares back at me before he gazes straight ahead and keeps walking. I'm just starting to think my paranoia was totally unfounded when he casually says, "By the way, we can stop and get you some Nice and Easy while we're here."
I almost stop walking. "What?" Nice and Easy? First of all, I get my hair done. I don't dye it myself with garbage pharmacy shit. And plus, I just got it done, like, a week ago. Why would I need ... ?
Brad looks both ways before crossing the street. "Oh, I just mean, you know, your roots," he says absentmindedly. "You might want to ..." He looks up at me, and in a completely calculated way, his mouth forms a perfect little O and he says, "Oh my God, I totally didn't mean to-- no, don't even worry about it. Just ignore me. Your roots are totally fine. Totally." Then, he smiles, big and bright, and crosses the street.
For a second, my heart starts thudding the way it does when you're in middle school and you're totally not paying attention and the teacher asks you a question in front of the whole class. But then Brad ducks into Barneys, and as Tommy follows him, he toys with his skunk streak and mumbles, "Sweet. I need some Nice and Easy, too."
Fuck me. Apparently I need to brush up on my passive aggression if I'm going to be a Peep. Just in case, as I follow him into the store, I pull back my beanie a tiny bit to check my roots in one of the cosmetic mirrors.
"So have you figured out what you're doing for a job yet?" Cassidy sidles up next to me and begins fiddling with a long gold chain on display.
I don't think he's necessarily being nice -- I remember what Das said, and I get the distinct impression he's digging for secrets -- so I proceed with caution. "Well actually, I was on this, um, website last night, and I read an ad for Perez's birthday party? And how he's looking for--"
"Oh no." Cassidy drops the necklace on the countertop, where it clatters so loudly that the saleslady approaches. "Oh no, no. You can't do Perez's birthday party. Perez was supposed to be Brad's connection."
Tommy materializes next to him and gazes at me with that goddamn creepy blank stare, like he just got Tasered or something. "He used to show up at Ultra Suede every night when we were there and buy Brad drinks and tell him he was going to make him a star."
"Yeah." Cassidy nods somberly. "And then Brad was devastated when Perez found some bleach-blond avant garde Madonna wannabe who he decided he liked more."
Tommy wrinkles his nose and crosses his arms, gazing at Cassidy. "I thought Brad stopped talking to him after Perez tried to fuck him in the bathroom at Crowne Bar?"
"Okay, irregardless." Cassidy holds his hand up in Tommy's face. "Perez is just off-limits." I glance over my shoulder at Brad, who's leaning up against the display case, examining the earring of a giggling salesgirl; I look back at Cassidy. I don't know which side of the story is true -- whether Perez really did get his heart broken by Brad, or whether he just found a better discovery (both of which make me a little naseous, but maybe that's just because I'm more inclined to believe the former) -- but I'm not totally convinced I should give up on Perez.
First of all, if Perez ever tried to fuck me in a bathroom, I'd break his fucking jaw.
And second of all, like I said -- if Perez discovered me, there wouldn't be another discovery. I'd be it.
"Don't worry." Cassidy smiles, and his left eye twitches. "I won't tell Brad what you said." He nods emphatically. "It'll be our little secret." Then, Tommy begins to wander toward PacSun. It's not Hot Topic, but it'll do. I reluctantly follow him.
AUTHOR: scalabrine and cyrtanthus
RATING: R
Summary: Mean Girls ... but with Bradam. And Tommy as Karen. And Cassidy as Gretchen Wiener.
Warning: We're un-PC, and if you are, you may not think our obnoxious humor is funny.
**
MEAN BOYS, PART 2
I tell myself I'm drunk when I get home. That's why I Google Brad Bell.
Not because I'm kind of obsessed with him or anything.
That's how I come across the Burn Blog for the first time. It's like Perez, but for non-famous people -- or maybe just people who want to be famous, which I guess makes them easy targets. I scroll through the first page or so, but because I don't recognize anyone (or maybe because I don't spot anything about the only three people in the WeHo scene that I do know), I search.
And I discover that apparently, talking shit about Brad Bell is off limits.
In this Us Weekly universe, he really is the cover boy. He looks flawless in every photo, even the candid ones, to the point where it makes me jealous because let's be honest -- I know all my angles aren't perfect, and his are. Every single angle. I study one of him pressed up against some kind of wall, shirtless and oh, almost pantless, too -- he's flashing a little bit of booty -- and I wonder if he models.
I'm starting to feel like I'm Christian Bale jacking off to photos of Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Ewan McGregor making out, so in an attempt to distract myself, I scroll down. Apparently, bitching about him in the comments section is forbidden, too (or maybe nobody has anything bad to say about him -- except Kesha. And that reminds me, I need to ask Das what her issue is).
Brad Bell is flawless, the first one says. Not disputing that.
I heard he does car commercials in Germany and they gave him three Audis just because they loved him that much. Hm. Doubtful. If I had seen him in car commercials there, I would remember.
Lance Bass tried to pick him up at a bar once. Brad turned him down.
His favorite drink is vodka-Red Bull. He threw one in my face once. ... It. Was. AWESOME.
I sit back and stare at the screen for several moments. (I scroll back up to the booty photo, just to give myself something to stare at.) I chew on my lip; this is starting to get intimidating. Is Brad really that big of a deal? And if he is, why does he want to be friends with me? Moreover, do I want to be friends with him?
I'm not tired yet (and I may or may not have the spins if I try to go to sleep right now), so I start browsing the rest of the Burn Blog, and that's when I notice an ad on the right side. I lean toward the computer screen, so close that my nose is almost touching it. Perez is looking for someone to perform at his birthday party. Someone unknown. (We all know what a hard-on Perez gets from "discovering" talent.) Someone with potential. Someone with experience.
Someone totally, a hundred percent like me.
I sit back in my chair and cross my arms. Is my drunken disorientation (and Brad-induced euphoria) convincing me I have a shot? Or ... do I really have a shot? Because I think I do.
See, here's the thing: I need to get discovered. I need to get paid, and my dad will only finance my dream-seeking for so long before he tells me I need a real job. And let me tell you, there's no way in fuck I want to go back to working retail. Nothing makes you question your existence more than eight hours of board-folding per day. So I, being an early-to-mid-twenties male in Hollywood, have a couple of options when it comes to being discovered: American Idol or meeting the right people.
My Hair director tried to convince me I should do Idol the whole time we were in Germany. I don't know if it's my thing; I don't know if America's ready for me. Or at least the me I want to be. And plus, Idol is kind of a joke, right? Like, Clay Aiken almost won Idol. If I did Idol, I'd want it to be a fucking gong show. I would want glitter eyeliner and crazy-low necklines and tight pants and, like, platform boots and shit. And I don't know if America's ready for that.
That leaves me one remaining option: Connections. It's all about the connections.
I wonder if there's any way I can meet Perez. If he met me -- I mean, if I could talk to him -- he'd give me a shot. I know he would. I'm good at talking to people. Like, really good at it. I can talk my way into anything. Or out of anything. My mom and my high school English teacher used to tell me I had chronic foot-in-the-mouth disease but I disagree. I just think I'm really good at being honest.
And if I tell Perez I honestly believe there's no undiscovered talent better suited to perform at his birthday party than me, I am certain I will get the job.
--
I get a text from him the next afternoon. Pick you up at 2?
I stare at it for a while. Pick me up for what? And how did he get my number? And when the fuck am I going to get a job?
for what? I ask. I wait. No response. And sure enough, when 2 o'clock rolls around, there's a car horn blaring outside my building.
I poke my head out the front door, and there he is, waiting in his drop-top Audi (was that true about the car commercials?), Tommy in the front seat and Cassidy in back.
"Get in, bitch," he calls, grinning. "We're going shopping." Without even being asked, Tommy climbs over the center console and into the backseat.
Hanging out with the Peeps is like leaving the actual world and entering this weird alternate universe that is like living in The Birdcage. Or Velvet Goldmine. Probably The Birdcage though, only because if this were Velvet Goldmine, I think Brad and I would spend a lot of time fighting over which one of us was the Brian Slade (obviously I would be, but he wouldn't want to be Kurt Wilde). This Birdcage-alternate universe has a lot of rules -- rules that are revealed to me as we walk through the Grove. Are people staring at them -- at us? Or am I imagining it? I really think people are staring at us. I kind of like it. Brad walks a couple of steps in front of Tommy and Cassidy; I walk next to him, which is probably a good thing because I don't know what the deal is between Cassidy and Brad but I don't want Cassidy to think I, like, like Brad or anything, and if I walked behind him, I'd totally be staring at his ass and that just can't happen. So I walk next to him. He doesn't seem to mind. Truth be told, he doesn't even seem to notice.
"You can't wear a tank top two days in row," Cassidy rambles, and I try to hide a smirk because I can only imagine how troublesome it is for him to adhere to this rule, "and you can only wear a hat once a week." He looks me up and down a bit reluctantly, eyeing my beanie. "So ... I guess you picked today."
I glance at Brad. I swear that in ninety percent of the photos I saw of him on the Burn Blog, he was wearing this cute little black fedora. He has to be in the habit of wearing it more than once a week. His hair isn't totally thick and luscious like mine, but it's not that bad; I wonder if he has some kind of neuroses about his hair. Or maybe he thinks he has a big forehead. Or maybe I'm just reading into it too much. Do I dare bring it up?
Well. If I'm going to maintain an ounce of self-respect during this little experimental friendship, I need to get in the habit of speaking up. "I don't mean to be argumentative," I begin casually, "but--" Brad looks up at me-- "does the once-a-week rule apply to you, too?"
There's silence. A very, very uncomfortable silence. I swear I can hear Tommy and Cassidy exchange a oh-no-he-didn't glance, and Brad just stares back at me before he gazes straight ahead and keeps walking. I'm just starting to think my paranoia was totally unfounded when he casually says, "By the way, we can stop and get you some Nice and Easy while we're here."
I almost stop walking. "What?" Nice and Easy? First of all, I get my hair done. I don't dye it myself with garbage pharmacy shit. And plus, I just got it done, like, a week ago. Why would I need ... ?
Brad looks both ways before crossing the street. "Oh, I just mean, you know, your roots," he says absentmindedly. "You might want to ..." He looks up at me, and in a completely calculated way, his mouth forms a perfect little O and he says, "Oh my God, I totally didn't mean to-- no, don't even worry about it. Just ignore me. Your roots are totally fine. Totally." Then, he smiles, big and bright, and crosses the street.
For a second, my heart starts thudding the way it does when you're in middle school and you're totally not paying attention and the teacher asks you a question in front of the whole class. But then Brad ducks into Barneys, and as Tommy follows him, he toys with his skunk streak and mumbles, "Sweet. I need some Nice and Easy, too."
Fuck me. Apparently I need to brush up on my passive aggression if I'm going to be a Peep. Just in case, as I follow him into the store, I pull back my beanie a tiny bit to check my roots in one of the cosmetic mirrors.
"So have you figured out what you're doing for a job yet?" Cassidy sidles up next to me and begins fiddling with a long gold chain on display.
I don't think he's necessarily being nice -- I remember what Das said, and I get the distinct impression he's digging for secrets -- so I proceed with caution. "Well actually, I was on this, um, website last night, and I read an ad for Perez's birthday party? And how he's looking for--"
"Oh no." Cassidy drops the necklace on the countertop, where it clatters so loudly that the saleslady approaches. "Oh no, no. You can't do Perez's birthday party. Perez was supposed to be Brad's connection."
Tommy materializes next to him and gazes at me with that goddamn creepy blank stare, like he just got Tasered or something. "He used to show up at Ultra Suede every night when we were there and buy Brad drinks and tell him he was going to make him a star."
"Yeah." Cassidy nods somberly. "And then Brad was devastated when Perez found some bleach-blond avant garde Madonna wannabe who he decided he liked more."
Tommy wrinkles his nose and crosses his arms, gazing at Cassidy. "I thought Brad stopped talking to him after Perez tried to fuck him in the bathroom at Crowne Bar?"
"Okay, irregardless." Cassidy holds his hand up in Tommy's face. "Perez is just off-limits." I glance over my shoulder at Brad, who's leaning up against the display case, examining the earring of a giggling salesgirl; I look back at Cassidy. I don't know which side of the story is true -- whether Perez really did get his heart broken by Brad, or whether he just found a better discovery (both of which make me a little naseous, but maybe that's just because I'm more inclined to believe the former) -- but I'm not totally convinced I should give up on Perez.
First of all, if Perez ever tried to fuck me in a bathroom, I'd break his fucking jaw.
And second of all, like I said -- if Perez discovered me, there wouldn't be another discovery. I'd be it.
"Don't worry." Cassidy smiles, and his left eye twitches. "I won't tell Brad what you said." He nods emphatically. "It'll be our little secret." Then, Tommy begins to wander toward PacSun. It's not Hot Topic, but it'll do. I reluctantly follow him.