I Don’t Care About Your Band.

I Don’t Care About Your Band. What I Learned from Indie Rockers, Trust Funders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux Sensitive Hipsters, and other Guys I’ve Dated, by Julie Klausner, Published by Gotham Books.

ISBN 978-1-592-40561-9

Julie Klausner has Double-D-sized breasts.

I have yet to meet Julie or her breasts, but when I discovered this awesome fact, the whole thing made sense. Trouble was, her mammarial revelation didn’t come until the second half of her book, so I had to start over.

This, then, is why I read “I Don’t Care About Your Band”* two and one-thirds times. Breasts give a man perspective, a couple of reference nipples from which to view the rest of the woman. Until that point I was amused but lost. Once Julie’s chest found sharp focus, I had to re-read everything up until the breast-size epiphany; then I had to finish it off (the book, pervs); then I had to re-read all the dirty bits.

The picture in my mind is of a sex-obsessed redhaired girl with big tits, blindfold, in lingerie, groping around a room in a desperate quest for a penis. She’s a Jewish Princess at a piñata party, smashing her way into the pants of any man who shows even the vaguest interest. As an idea for a role-play sex game, that sounds like fun, but as a metaphor for finding someone, it’s a disaster. Which is a great word for Miss Klausner’s dating life in New York, although by her own admission, it’s a selective history.

My question is: How did she miss with those puppies? I constantly referred back to her picture on the cover, wondering how the hell this vixen failed so well so often. Maybe if she’d walked around Manhattan topless, her love life would have been different.

Which of course is the point of the book. Who wants to read about dating suxxess? It’s infinitely more fun for we readers to get smug at dating horror. Even hotties don’t get laid.