Oh, Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson, now we will never be together. You will never sit in boxer shorts at the foot of my bed, singing “Buriedfed” in husky a cappella (yeah that song is about predicting your own suicide, but in a sexy way), and we will never spend a sun-dappled afternoon strolling hand-in-hand through McCarren Park, laughing at the puppies and all things that puppies do.
Why? Because you just advertised for a date, and clearly you’re kind of a d-bag.
Really, dude, you told Time Out New York that your ideal date is banging a girl, then talking to her a little, then walking around aimlessly while staunchly dismissing any romantic subtext? And then you apparently started reading aloud from a tweener goth kid’s diary, scorning everyone who finds any creative fulfillment in their careers? You’re a musician in Williamsburg, bra’.
Man, Mil-Ro, I had such a thing for you. I wrote a glowing review of your debut album for SPIN‘s Best of 2008 issue, and in 80 words you can practically hear me go through puberty again. If we met one night in the Lower East Side, I would have bought you a Heineken and stared at you adoringly all night, and then clearly would have enjoyed an exuberant courtship process unknown since the time of Heathcliff and Cathy. It’s like Sliding Doors–in one reality, I read TONY this morning; in another parallel reality, I didn’t, but then through different, more prolonged circumstances came to a similar icky conclusion, because the universe is a jerk.
I don’t know–maybe you, like all musicians in the history of forever, work overtime to project an oversexed swagger that masks your cherubic desire for attention. But by petitioning for a date in a lame, arrogant way, I think you just shot yourself in the foot. And now I just wrote a post on dating that makes me sound like a Cathy comic, so now we both lose. And now neither of us will wear the bacon pants.
Happy Valentine’s Day, y’all.