The third Wednesday of every month isn’t Prince Spaghetti Day in East Hollywood, it’s Man Bun Meet Up Day. Man Bun and five of his best pals, all with bun’s dyed different colors and small lap dogs carried in their left arms, have some sort of meeting at his apartment.
The OD and I watched this march for three months before we noticed the pattern. By month four we waited with Modelo Negra’s and a fifth of Jose Cuervo Gold on the stairs of SRO to begin a new drinking game: trying to guess what colors said man buns were. When a Man Bun participant arrives on the block, we look and bet a drink on the dye job. After said Man Bun tells us what his color is, usually the shade of one of Don Johnson’s t-shirts from Miami Vice, loser drinks. We both drink if they tell us anything with righteous indignation, ask why we are bothering them/doing this/being assholes etc or if they ignore our interrogatives.
Last month when the last Man Bun arrived he nearly jumped out of his white V-Neck t-shirt when the OD asked him his color although it was a rare no action wagered as we both agreed had to be blue.
“It’s Cerulean blue,” he said.
“Are you sure it looks more Navy blue to me,” I said.
The OD stood up and circled the stopped Man Bun who looked like he was about to be mugged taking the A Train. “No Carnal, it’s more a Royal blue.”
“You know if these guys had come up with the Gay Pride Flag they’d have done it in pastels,” I said.
“You can’t teach taste,” the OD said from behind the Last Man Bun. “Don’t worry Gabacho, I’m just admiring the shape of your bun.”
The Man Bun started shaking. “Rape,” he screamed and ran to the meeting place.
“Rape,” I said. “What goes through his head?”
“I think he saw the ink Carnal,” he pointed to one of his prison tattoos. “He must be realizing he’s not in his Mommy’s suburb no more. But it was blue. We both drink.”
Cut to last week.
The OD and I were gleefully awaiting our Man Bun Douche Bag Drinking Game, I had purple and he once again had blue. However, we pre-gamed a little too much and got lost in the why; why were these Man Bun’s meeting the third Wednesday of every month?
“I bet they’re a resistance cell,” the OD said.
“I bet they’re part of EST,” I said.
“It’s LA carnal. If they’re into that shit they’d be part of the Process,”
“Since the 1990’s De Grimston and the Church have been out of the self-help business. They run animal shelters in Utah now.”
“Charles Manson croaks and the whole world goes to shit. Waste of a perfectly good hippie cult if you ask me,” the OD mumbled.
I Screamed Rape Man Bun last month’s target started walking nervously up the hill. The OD bullied the poor boy into stopping. The terrified lad started to shake visibly as the OD circled him.
“Relax,” I said. “No one is going to hurt you. We just have a couple of questions.”
“Ok,” I Screamed Rape Man Bun stuttered. “What do you want to know.”
“What color is your bun today Gabacho,” the OD asked.
I pointed to the OD. “Drink!”
“What,” I Screamed Rape Man Bun said.
“Never mind. I need you to focus for me,” I said.
“I’ll try,” I Screamed Rape Man Bun stuttered.
“Ok good. Second question: you same five guys get together every third Wednesday of the month. Are you a resistance cell,” I asked.
“No the resistance cell meets every Sunday at 2:30pm at Kyle’s place 302 N. Heliotrope #7.”
“Do you need a password to get in,” the OD asked.
“No but you should bring a Fern for Kyle’s partner Taylor the first time you come.”
“Did they just move here from West Hollywood,” the OD winked at me.
“No she just likes Ferns.”
“So what is this little meet up,” I demanded.
“We’re a Conceivable Solutions Support Group,” he stuttered.
“What in the name of all that is holy is a Conceivable Solutions Support Group,” I wondered.
I Screamed Rape Man Bun straightened up and looked me in the eye as he spoke. “We believe Climate Change is killing the planet so we have decided not to conceive any children until something is done to stop it. We are here to support each other in this decision as well as any others who believe as we do.”
“What if part of the problem is the fact the planet is alive and changing so the Climate will always be changing,” the OD asked.
“There will be no procreation until Climate Change is a relic of the past,” he said proudly.
“I remember that episode!”
While the OD and I waxed poetic on the Meathead/Gloria relationship, I Screamed Rape Man Bun scurried up the hill to his meeting.
“How can you be sure you won’t knock your lady up Gabacho,” the OD screamed.
“We make our partners take the Pill and we practice the Rhythm Method,” he hollered into the East Hollywood night.
The OD looked over to me in shock; we had found a unicorn – the sole practicing Millennial Catholic.