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

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

Paperback

$13.85 $15.00 Save 8% Current price is $13.85, Original price is $15. You Save 8%.
View All Available Formats & Editions
Choose Expedited Shipping at checkout for guaranteed delivery by Monday, February 25

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781592405619
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date: 02/02/2010
Pages: 272
Sales rank: 369,439
Product dimensions: 5.30(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)
Age Range: 18 Years

About the Author

Julie Klausner is a comedy writer who lives in New York City. She’s appeared on & written for VH1’s Best Week Ever, and has performed at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theater in many shows. Her TV writing credits include TV Funhouse on Saturday Night Live, and The Big Gay Sketch Show, and her prose has appeared in the New York Times, New York Magazine Online, Videogum.com, McSweeney’s and Salon.com. She’s also responsible for the internet phenomenon, Cat News and is the co-creator of the viral videos Welcome to Our House and Mommy Time. Her website, predictably, is julieklausner.com. This is her first book.

Read an Excerpt

Hey! Remember the '90s?

The Clintons were in office, everybody was usingAOL, Will Ferrell and Cheri Oteri did "The Cheerleaders"on SNL, and everybody thought Oasis was fantastic.In hindsight, we were all a bunch of potato–salad–eatingjackasses. Sure, it was before 9/11, and optimism always lookslike corn–shucking yokelry before planes hit buildings, but wewere also marinating in the guava juices of our own naïveté,having collectively just hit our national stride of financial prosperity.And nothing lends itself more to navel–gazing than havinga surplus of money and time on one's hands. Appropriatelyenough, it was in the mid–90s when I began my liberal artscollege education.

I went to NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study, aschool I'd chosen because of my crippling fear of places that are not New York City and Gallatin's decidedly laissez–faire policyabout what you actually had to learn. My self–designed concentrationwas in "Cultural Criticism," which afforded me thefreedom to take classes in filmmaking, postmodern literature,abnormal sexual behavior, social psychology, dramatic writing,performance studies, and arts journalism. Gallatin calleditself "The School Without Walls," and you know what it alsodidn't really have? A lot of practical requirements for graduation.You had to take one math or science credit, and social sciencecounted as a science. It was sort of like the A–School: PartTwo, only at Gallatin, nobody cared about you. I spent threeevenings and two afternoons a week in three–hour classes, discussingwhether gender was a construct, and I had the rest ofmy week to spend browsing Wet Seal and looking for guys tofall in love with.

The other defining memory I have of the mid–1990s wasthat everybody seemed to be talking about dating all the goddamntime.

The Rules, that shrill creed designed to make women feelbad about their own desires, was published in 1995. The FirstWives Club came out the year after. Then, in 1998, the MonicaLewinsky scandal broke, and Sex and the City debuted. I think1997 is the only respite of the zeitgeist chatter concerning theins and outs of romance, and I blame that on Princess Diana'sdeath. Clearly, a nation's vaginas were sitting shiva on the behalfof the People's Princess.

At this time, I, too, was eager, to paraphrase Morgan Freemanin The Shawshank Redemption, playing (for a change) awise old black man, to "get busy datin' or get busy dyin'." Ibought into the Clintonian promise of a mouth for every dick, and I wanted in on the deal. The rest of the world seemed tobuzz on the same frequency, and women everywhere in NewYork City seemed to crawl with dating desperation. Terminologythat previously only lived between the covers of Cosmonow seemed to be inescapable: Get and keep a man! Commitmenttime! Pleasure zones! On the prowl!

I dressed the part, in animal prints and red lipstick. But Iwasn't going for "cougar"—I wanted to do the B–movie, cateye–glasses, Bettie Page, fishnets, and Russ Meyer thing. Youknow, the look that people in the Pacific Northwest still thinkis really cutting–edge? But it didn't look cute on me. Instead,I looked like a woman with designs on men, and more DeltaBurke than Annie Potts.

Predictably, my efforts were tempered by the fact that reallife, thank God, is nothing like Cosmo magazine. Which is whynobody should wear makeup to the gym to meet men or learnhow to perfect one's "Faux–O." I was like Carrie Bradshawonly in that I hung out downtown and wanted a boyfriend.My shoes were limited to a couple of comfortable options, Ididn't drink, and you couldn't see my collarbone without anMRI. Also, the people I hung out with around that time werepretty un–fabulous.

There was Jodi, my roommate from New Jersey who wasmissing a set of knuckles, so her fingers could only go perpendicular.Candace, the only person I ever met to have actuallygrown up in the Orchard Beach section of the Bronx, who usedto strip to Motley Crüe in Yonkers and blamed her small breastson an eating disorder she developed during puberty. And Eve,a dumpster–diving punk–rocker wannabe whose identificationof water as "wudder" screamed "Pennsylvania Mainline," butwho wanted more than anything to live in a squat somewhere in 1982. Eve's whole life was scored by URGH! A Music War,but her bank account was padded with the wages of comfortablesuburban parents. I was also friendly with a lot of gay girlswho would never get sick of telling me how great Judith Butler'sbooks are, and why it was important to see Boys Don't Crymore than once, "to catch the subtleties."

"I don't get it," said Lauryn, one of the aforementionedlesbians, after I made the mistake of asking her for adviceabout my sorry dating life. "How many times are you goingto get screwed over by all those shitty guys before you moveon?"

I just giggled in response, like she was fl irting with me—allgay people who share your gender want to have sex with you,you know—and thought, "Lauryn's so funny!" I knew sex witha girl was like the Master Cleanse: Maybe it changed otherpeople's lives for the better, but it wasn't for me, and it sort ofmade my stomach hurt a little to think about diving into thatparticular collegiate cliché.

But Lauryn was right about the shitty guys. I dated themin college like it was my major.

MET all grades of awful men getting picked up in bars I gotinto with a fake Georgia driver's license. Under the guise ofhailing from Savannah, I got to meet winners like ReginaldBlankenship, a carrot–topped lanky Kentuckian who met meat Max Fish two hours before requesting oral sex with a mintflavored condom, which is sort of like ordering a cheeseburgerand drinking it through a straw. Reginald taught me two things:that I can't be intimate with a man with the same skin and haircoloring as me, because the minute a redheaded man lowers hisdrawers, I feel like I'm looking at myself with male genitalia; and also, that when you try to suck a guy off with a mint balloonon his penis, he will ask you to stop, and then he will tellyou that he wants to take a bath.

I met a guy old enough to have known better than todabble with a college freshman at the now–defunct Coney IslandHigh on St. Mark's Place. We kissed until my hair caughtfire from the candle on the bar, igniting instantly the helmet ofWhite Rain hair spray I used to encase my ginger dome beforea night on the town. After the bartender did me the favor ofthrowing a lager on my head, the dabbler and I had boring,missionary sex. I remember his apartment was on Park Avenuein the high 20s, and that he had photos of African childrenon his wall. I wore a garter belt and stockings under what Ithought was a classy zebra–print skirt and V–neck top fromExpress, and I moaned appreciatively as he gently plowed mysoft, eighteen–year–old body.

There was a boy at a hotel in Italy—a fellow Americantraveler—whom I met over breakfast during a summer abroad.I marveled at his chin–length Shirley Temple ringlets and tiny,round balls for the time it took for him to finish in one ofTuscany's finest lambskin condoms, only to run into him thenext day on the steps of some beautiful ruin in Rome, wherehe told me he shouldn't meet up with me again, because hewas in a relationship back at home. "Me too," I lied back, feelingso stupid about being dumped abroad that I forgot he wasthe one who transgressed. My wanting another night of what Ithought was good sex with a cute guy who happened to haveBette Davis's hair from Whatever Happened to Baby Jane was stillless embarrassing than a guy thinking that just once, on vacation,wasn't cheating.

I didn't even like any of these guys, but I wanted so badly for them to want me. When nobody called, I turned to the annalsof self–help and dating books, ubiquitous as they were atthe time. But I read them with an ingenious filter: I wouldn'tlisten to anybody.

"DON'T CALL Him and Rarely Return His Calls," advisedEllen Fein and Sherrie Schneider in Rule Number 5 of theirdating book about not pursuing men in order to trick theminto marrying you. I think the only book that made me as madas The Rules was The Atkins Bible. I lasted on a low–carb diet forthirty seconds before losing my mind, and I didn't even try tofollow any of "The Rules," even the ones that made sense, like"Don't Try to Change Him." Not going after what I wantedmore than anything seemed counterintuitive to everything elseI knew about the way things worked. If I wanted an internship,I'd pester higher and lower–ups at the office until I gotit. If I wanted to get into a class, I'd show up at the Registrarat seven a.m., bounding through pedestrian traffic to calls of"Run, Forrest, Run!" from passersby in order to make it to thetop of the queue on time. And when I had a crush on a boy,I would raze fields of wheat with a torch if I had to, in hopesof getting touch. I would call frequently and obsessively returnhis calls. I would ask him out. I would bring him gifts. Pay formeals. I would never end a date first, or without some sort ofaction. And as for Rule Number 3, "Don't Stare at Men or TalkToo Much"? Well, I was a gaping, chatting, rushing–into–sexmonster, and the idea of seeming unavailable, when in fact Iwas desperate and ripe, ran counter to every instinct I ever had:that doing something, not nothing, was the way to get whatyou wanted from the world.

Predictably, the men I met who liked being chased were will–o'–the–wisps and androgynous paupers. Boys who worked atbookstores, with no body hair or love handles; virgins and vegetarians,steampunk DIY'ers who peddled vintage and did BikramYoga. None of them could compete; none were formidable orcompatible. Sex with that lot was lousy and awkward or nevercame to pass, and nobody was calling me, or calling me back.Merrily I devoured fuel for my one–woman war againstmating protocol, reading book after book featuring variationson the economic principle of supply and demand. And thencame He's Just Not That Into You, which provided women thetremendous relief of knowing that they were simply not terriblyliked by the objects of their affections.

I took umbrage with the idea that if he didn't call, hewasn't "into you"—that any guy who was in his right mindwould know, if he liked a girl, how to chase her down untilshe was his. But what about the guys who weren't in theirright minds? The ones who were a little off or lost, or damagedfrom past experiences, or had no clue that they weresupposed to chase a girl down like a hound on a scent? Thatbook made the assumption that if a guy didn't do what heshould, even if he liked you just fine, then you didn't wanthim anyway.

But what if there turns out to be a lot of guys who don'tknow what to do? And what if you meet one and you knowhe's screwed up—like he'd been messed up to the point wherehe seems like an abused stray, whether it's the kind that snapsat you or cowers—but you like him enough to take him homewith you anyway? What if you thought you could change himor teach him how to treat you, or you just wanted to enjoy thegood parts of him and ignore the bad ones until someone bettercame along?

THAT WAS where I was, making the best of the turkeys in mypath. And never did hearing that the guys I dated didn't actuallylike me ever provide comfort. That book was a sneakyway of reminding women that they don't like the way they'retreated by guys who may in fact be perfectly "into them," butare otherwise dysfunctional. Because if a guy who knows whatto do isn't into you, you don't need a book to tell you that. Youget dumped or blown off after he pursues you like a contender,and then it hurts like crazy, because you know you lost out onsomeone who knew what to do.

But when you're young, and you're habitually dating thedamaged, and they don't come through, you have to make theconscious choice to separate the columns in your head that say "This is who I am" and "This is how I am being treated." Andthen you have to figure out how to let go of somebody who'sgone, not because you're pacified in the realization that you'renot liked, but because you figure out that maybe you're the onewho doesn't like him. Not just how he acts, but who he is. Andthen you have to decide if you want to keep going out withguys you don't think are great, or if you like yourself enough tohang out for a while on your own.

In no way was I in that place yet. I didn't like myself thatmuch, and I certainly didn't want to be alone. I needed to makemy own mistakes to learn from, and I wanted to see more ofwhat was out there—even if it was ugly.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

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 Da 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 13 reviews.
kamknauss More than 1 year ago
I highly recommend this book. I think it should be required reading for all 20 year-old girls.
DorothyL More than 1 year ago
In......I DON'T CARE about YOUR BAND, using her clever wit, Julie Klausner dares to share her trials and tribulations which she endured throughout her relationships. She manages to challenge several self-help resources through her minagerie of sexual experiences & pitfalls with some very diverse characters~ This book reveals more than just vague accounts of ones personal life. In Julie's words you will read..'What I learned from Indie Rockers, Trust FUnders, Pornographers, Felons, Faux Sensitive Hipsters and other guys I've dated'. Womensselfesteem.com highly recommends: 'I DON'T CARE about YOUR BAND' as a refreshing and very rare read, not only is it humorous, and raw, it even tends to be somewhat of an educating journey. A journey that rolls and turns unexpectedly like a rollercoaster as you ride through the chapters of this oh so matter-of-fact memoir written by Julie Klausner. Dorothyl-08/10
Firechic More than 1 year ago
She did her mama proud. I don't know her personaly of course but the book is a good guide of what it feels like to date in the modern world. A good read for anyone in, out or in between relationships who can't see the humor in humanity. Funny, I happened on this when I went to B&N to pick up my ordered copy of "How to Survive the Loss of a Love". There are many funny ancedotes that she's given me to remember but I'm loving the fact I know that "My vagina is an idiot" and "but you shine brighter". One of those has a dog ear on the page.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
SissyVanDyke More than 1 year ago
I thought this was a thoroughly entertaining book. It was witty, honest, and hopefully cathartic for the author. I know it made me feel good, as a lesbian, in a schadenfreudish kind of way, because most of the guys in the book were jerks. Although slap a nose ring and a tongue piercing on Allistair, and Klausner could have been describing one of my hippie ex-girlfriends. I noticed several one or two-star reviews of this book which said things like, "Julie Klausner dates a lot of losers." To those people I want to point out that the author tells us in the first pages of the book: "What follows in this book are selective stories of guys who came on strong, then sputtered out...." The key phrase here is "selective." That is, she wrote about the bad ones, not every single man she dated (I am holding myself back from typing `moron' but, oops, too late. Tourettes typing at work again.) Other commenters complain "it's not funny, I thought it would be funny." I don't know what sort of cartoon character lives these people live, but stories based on life experiences are very rarely a series of comic monologues. I laughed aloud and often while reading, and I was thoroughly amused throughout. Finally, to anyone who has never dated a loser, congratulations, but too bad for you. Most of us do not go into relationships with a laundry list of exactly what we want in another person. And even if we did have such a list, good luck in trying to impose your will upon another human being. I think it is much easier to discover what we are looking for and how we want to be treated by recognizing what we absolutely do not want and will no longer tolerate. This is the happy ending of the book, and of most of our mature lives.
AmyDarling More than 1 year ago
Julie Klausner did a great job roping me in with her frank and honest stories of her dating exploits. I could personally relate to her attitude and experiences which, as intended, made me feel good reading it. I felt like "wow, so this isn't just me that has dealt with this before!" It also reaffirms the attitude that you just have to laugh about the good and the bad and just keep on trucking in Life and maybe next time, you'll get it right. I am glad I invested my time to read this and will recommend it to my girlfriends for sure!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
lebookworm More than 1 year ago
theres comments made by rachel dratch and patton oswald in the back of the book that say that the author is hilarious and you totally didn't make a mistake by buying this book. and although i'm not calling them liars, there is something to say about exaggerating the truth. i wont return this book because it's not my Biggest Regret, but its not epic nor worth the $15 i paid for it.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
JEBradford More than 1 year ago
I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't in love with Julie Klausner long before I picked up her new book "I Don't Care About Your Band." Picture it: YouTube, May 15th, 2007... Julie and comedy partner Jackie Clarke upload "Welcome to Our House," a dead-on parody of the legendary viral sensation "Welcome to My Home" by soap-diva Brenda Dickson. (And by viral, I mean that when you watch the original, you'll itch for a week...) Seemingly custom made for the gays, I must've watched Julie's she-larious satire ten times that day, immediately demanding that everyone I know watch it too. What followed was a years-long devotion to everything and anything Julie put herself into, from her "Astroviiiibe" psychic readings to the brilliant Soap Opera "Wasp Cove." If she was there, I was SO there. At age 31, I can officially say that Julie is my first girl-crush. And if you know me, you know how much I LOVE weiners, so...it's kind of a landmark moment. When I found out last year that Julie's novel would be out THIS year, I got incredibly angry that it wasn't already in my brain. I then pre-ordered three copies: one for myself, one for my roommate and one for my therapist. Besides thoroughly enjoying her various performances, blog and general writing-awesomeness, I've always felt I related to Julie on a deeper level. We are both 30ish feminist liberal entertainers who love cats, boys and musicals. If she put on 100 pounds, grew a beard and invested 10 years and $1,000 into a Tori Amos collection, we could be twins. Bearded twins with magnificent breasts. But back to the actual book. In "I Don't Care," Julie tells a variety of often painful but incredibly amusing stories detailing her many misguided attempts at love. You might call Julie a "love addict," except my shrink is constantly reminding me that you shouldn't compare the desire to have something you literally can't live without to things like drugs and booze. Of course, in my case we're talking about pizza and not love. How did this review become 50% about me? Julie manages to take her broken heart, push it through a funny-machine and come up with the ink that writes out incredibly relatable stories of loss and love-ache. Whether it's the guy at a Mongolian BBQ who suggests that at a date-gone wrong he could simply shove the girl's face into the grill, or super-hot take-me-from-behind lover who left her with questions about her sexual needs (and bedbugs), Julie has seen it all. And probably screwed it. What resonates throughout is that Julie's desire to love someone and be loved allowed her to be blinded to what was really going on in any given situation, and that, I think, is where anyone who has functioning emotions and genitals can relate. This lady is smart, funny, personable and gorgeous, and she still managed to let her need for love get in the way of the ability to love herself. Once I got my hands on this book I didn't put it down for 2 1/2 hours. I read it over a bowl of soup at Marthon Grill. I read it on the bus home, I read it in the bathroom and I finished it on my couch with one of my guinea pigs on my lap. I just kept wanting Julie to find the love of her life. I was so invested that it felt really important to me to know that she was finally happy. I'm not going to tell you the answer to that, but I will tell you this: reading about Julie's foibles made me feel a lot better about my own,
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
RitaSue More than 1 year ago
When I purchased this book, I wasn't sure if it was a tell-all, cautionary tale or advice book. The title infers it is both naughty and funny. This book is none of those things. There are brief appearances of these elements and some of the language is crafted only for the shock value but all-in-all, I can't really tell you what this book is about other than that the author slept with a lot of jerks. Big deal. I admire Ms. Klausner's brutal honesty but recommend reading Carrie Fisher's latest book instead.