The hour badly spent

Everyone knows I’m pretty flakey. Still, my movie-nerd friend, Silver Bullet, made sure to remind me that I had promised to go with her to her sister Erica’s wedding in Palm Springs.

"Sure. Again, when is it?"

"June something."

June something took place last week. Wednesday night we picked up the groom’s brother Donnie and the groom’s brother’s wife Palim from the airport at 11 at night and right away headed to the little resort town.

We got there two hours later, dead tired. Silver Bullet and I checked in; the room was massive. We sat around, amazed at its sheer amazingness. Then we fucked and conked out for the night.

Her phone rang sometime Thursday morning. Erica was perkily inviting us down to the pool for drinks. And swimming, one assumes. We were still groggy and tired, so no. She hung up and we fucked again, which I was almost too sleepy to do at all, and didn’t even have the presence of mind to make her get on top. Thanks for nothing, doggiestyle.

We woke up for real much much later.

"Is it really noon?"

"It’s the curtains. Hotel rooms always make you feel like it’s twilight outside."

Silver Bullet’s phone went off again; sister still bugging us to come outdoors and socialize, so we did. The pool seemed kind of small for a pricey resort in the middle of the desert. This disappointment, however, was mitigated by the open bar and the fact that everyone was dressed to show off as much skin as possible, which I believe is the only upside to California weather.

Donnie ordered me a vodka tonic, then a screwdriver, then another one, which I noticed they made with tequila instead of vodka. Strange, but best to do as the natives do; in Russia, vodka make YOU!

When we were done swimming, Silver Bullet and I walked around in search of a place to eat. The town is really just a big strip mall and everything looks the same. We settled on a Mexican place. The food wasn’t terrific and neither were the margueritas but at least they were big. Evidently I sucked mine down too fast, because when we got back to our room I lost my lunch.

Then I slept.

I woke up hours later, groggy again, but in time to get ready for the ceremony.

"Hey, if you still feel sick you can just hang out in the room during the wedding. I’ll come back afterwards."

"No, I can do this. This is why ya brought me right?" I got dressed and we walked down and across the street to wherever the ceremony was taking place (my memory’s a little tequilic) and took our seats.

So. The wedding happened. Priest, walk down the aisle, speech, kiss, yadda yadda. I’m sure I was supposed to be feeling something — everyone else looks happy and moved or whatever — but I think the tequila was feeling it for me, leaving me to sit around and be bored. When the thing was done everyone walked further up the street, to a bar and grill where reservations had been made. Still bored, I decided the time had come to start shit.

"So, most of your sister’s friends are assholes, right? Which one is the worst?"

"Christina."

"Which one is she?"

"You see the girl back there in the blacknwhite dress? She’s blonde. Yeah, her."

Later on I sat down with the rest of the family — well, the ones who seemed drunk — and asked the same question: which one of Erica’s friends was most turdish? Christina was universally agreed upon as the most vile, smelly turd in the entourage. Awesome! Although I prefer to actually know and associate with gossip targets (it makes the feel gossip much juicier), this was exactly the kind of thing I’d been waiting for! Besides the sex, of course. Sadly, only Silver Bullet was willing to provide a concrete example of said turdism:

"Once I overheard her say something really mean. It was kind of behind my back, but the way she said it, I know she meant me to hear it."

"Well?"

"She said, ‘if I were as fat as Silver Bullet I’d probably kill myself.’"

It doesn’t get much more douchey than that, does it? Silver Bullet is about the nicest girl I know (most of the time); you’d have to be pretty mean to insult her like that — just condescension, no provocation. Maybe Christina should just kill herself anyway.

"Thing is, she used to be really fat. It took time, but I’m pretty sure she only lost that weight from snorting coke."

"Whaddya mean used to be? Also: cocaine is a helluva drug!"

"Are you still drunk?"

"Fuckin tequila. Yes."

Thursday night the Perverted Shakespeare Professor jokingly claimed to "personify radical chic." Suspecting a ring of truth in this, The Hour Badly Spent immediately launched an investigation, and in the process, found out why I never scored a date with any of the hotties in that class: everyone wants to have sex with him.

This irrepressible sexual attraction cuts across all boundaries. It makes no difference whether the student is male, female, gay, straight, promiscuous, or celibate. Yeah, even the virgins.

Later on, the Saucy Aussie and Princess Glitter Bunny turned the tabloidy tables on me.  The Hour Badly Spent is not used to being asked direct personal questions. So, when grilled about who, exactly, I supposedly wanted to snog that night up on the hill, I suddenly got all shy and evasive. I didn’t really want to keep anyone in suspense. It was Saucy Aussie. Umm, duh.

Forgive me: I was afraid saying it would bring the drunken revelry to an awkward halt, and then I’d have no one to sit next to duing Tis Pity She’s a Whore. PRIORITIES!! Additionally, where my friend — Atomic Fireball Candy — is going for her doctorate, there are explicit rules against such fraternization. Hey! Don’t ruin this for me with news like that, I begged her, but it was too late. Also, someone recently told me that I "come on too strong." That’s putting it mildly. Between trying to crank out witty sex-related banter and playing like I am not in fact that interested, I probably come off looking half-insane.

Didn’t mean to get all livejournaley there. Anyway, so, I also tried to find out which professor’s raging sex drive has done the most damage to the integrity of the English department. Apropos of nothing, we discovered that East Midlands men have a reputation for being bad in bed. If this is so, how is it that they apparently manage to bone enough lit students to even acquire a reputation? Clearly I’ve been going about this all wrong. My old shtick was to find someone I really like, impress her with my ribald wit, and later on go down on her gently and lovingly for long periods of time. From now on, I will just work on timing my ejaculations to coincide with the ends of Ballykissangel commercial breaks.

The Poetess tries to peek at my diary journal every time I’m out with her. Thursday night I finally just said what the fuck and handed it over for inspection.

"I won’t judge you for anything I find in here." Not that it’s human nature or anything.

So, as she paged through, I felt the nerves and vessels under my skin getting all twisty. I drummed my fingers on the table. I fidgeted with my beard. I wiggled my leg up and down, insanely fast, like a meth-addled hummingbird. I noticed she was lingering on one page.

"Find something interesting?"

"It’s kind of sad."

The passage under scrutiny: I’m an optical illusion. That’s my secret. Look away and I disappear. Turn off the light and I don’t exist.

Breaking: when no one’s looking, I write reams of angsty, self-indulgent prattle. I’ve also apparently jotted down fragments of Pablo Neruda poetry. And that is definitely the worst of it what was in there (the prattle, not the Pablo). No sordid PILF fantasies (none that I’ve written down, anyway). No shocking gossip. No chronicling private embarrassing habits (I masturbate. A LOT). Am I really so dull that I have nothing to hide? Apparently so.

Therefore, the next night, chain-smoking at a party with Ariana and the usual frenemies, when Limitless Are Leaves asked about taking a peek through the big black book of secrets, I had no objection. And when Brandon, too, wanted to see it, I didn’t mind, although he did sort of seem like he was actually studying it and not just surfing pages.

The party room was so full of Swear Not By The Moon’s laughter that it spilled out through the windows and into the parking lot where the smokers were hanging out. Did she do coke again? No, she’s just always like that. Maybe she’s always high on coke.

I honestly think she is always high. Coke — so I hear, mind you — makes you feel hyper and really important, a perfect party drug. Swear Not By The Moon is a party girl. She’s got the look: annoyingly thin and blonde. She is sometimes fun but she also kind of sneers at you when you talk to her. She powerless to curb her ways. Because of the drugs, you see. Although I’m probably just mad because she never offers me any.

I and Limitless Are Leaves really only came to drink, not to party, so we sort of kept to ourselves and our vodka and let the cool kids do their thing (which, again, may or may not have been coke). It’s a good thing I was really drunk. It’s the only way to deal with certain situations and certain people. Or in my case, all situations and all people. It also somewhat explains why she and I ended up making out on the floor.

So far I’ve gone to see Stop Kiss, the Modigliani String Quartet, Huck & Tom and the Mighty Mississippi, Too Many Sopranos, Brian Pemberly’s poetry reading, Dunya Mikhail’s poetry reading, Denise Lowe’s poetry reading, Allison Wallace’s memoir-reading, and lots of other fun stuff, all independent and date-less. But Thursday night’s performance of Romeo & Juliet was different. I’d been looking forward to this since last semester. I needed someone — and not just ANYONE, but someone special: another hyper-literate bastard, to sit with me and make mischief. Otherwise, the whole experience is ruined by constant thoughs of "I’m awesome and everybody else in the world missed out, because they all suck." So, Rhymes With Leather, my favorite nerd, heroically restored my faith in humanity by coming with me to this affair.

The acting was superb all-around. Notable roles:

The lanky Mercutio, of course. He swaggered around with a pimp cane and dick jokes, fucking dominating every scene in which he appeared. Pure awesomeness.

Benvolio delivered his urgent tone with a rich clarity to his voice.

Unfortunately, Romeo couldn’t accomplish this. His lines tripped out over each other at the same high speed throughout his performance; his sense of urgency overpowered, instead of underlining, his emotional expression. No joy, no despair, no delight, no pining adolescent lust, only the same homogenous desperation. Perhaps I was disinclined to like him because of his tousled hair, Ivy League chin, and piercing, intense eyes. But Rhymes With Leather didn’t seem to mind that stuff too much.

He had that kind of angsty, teen aloofness. You know? He reminded me a lot of the way that Leonard Whiting portrayed Romeo in the Franco Zeffirelli version. The fact that he was in love kind of takes over and of course he’s going to go crazy with desperation. His joy was and is Juliet, so–brace yourself–like Edward essentially can’t find his happiness without Bella, Romeo has all of his joy in Juliet. Basically there was no point in finding joy in anything else. This Romeo, I thought, handled that very well, and therefore I was pleased with his performance. He’s a teenager in love; what more can you ask for? You see that Twilight reference I slipped in?

Duly noted. Maybe she should be writing this review.

"It’s a girl thing," she explained during the post-perfomance reception, as I attentively guzzled mimosas. I see what she’s saying. And Romeo truly did a good job of body-acting; gestures, fluid grace moving across the stage — that stuff enhanced his part, and ultimately I did not dislike him.

I was originally disinclined to like Juliet solely on the basis of her pretty blonde tresses. And as The Grey Lady pointed out, Juliet held a doll with her in a lot of scenes, reminding us that she’s playing a 13-year-old, which we didn’t really want to think about. Nevertheless, it was clear early on that the actress really inhabited every scene she was in. Her voice was clear and pleading. She delivered her lines at a musical pace. Every word hung in the air, like the last line of a song refrain. And as she spoke she would move to and fro, across the stage or across the balcony, starry-eyed, clutching her hands and pivoting gracefully on her heeled shoes, putting a lot of body movement, along with the words, into delivering her character to us. Tres magnifique.

All in all, I was on the edge of my seat, the whole time, taking in every movement on the stage (some scenes had a lot of activity; fighting, dancing, more fighting. Those were a real treat) and every word that fell from everyone’s lips. I tip my hat to the pretentious bastard who actually threw the script together.

Yesterday I woke up to shitty weather, a sore throat, and a big ass screenwriting assignment due. A Thursday hat trick! Bonus: since I’m sick, I can’t smoke. Without cigarettes, I’m not nearly as smart or funny as I think I am, which makes it hard to write a sitcom script (or an entertaining blog, for that matter), but eventually the script got done and I felt fifty shades of relief. I celebrated by…oh right, no smoking. I took a nap.

I woke up at around 7:35. Five minutes late for the Take Back the Night rally - just in time to miss the strident speech expressing solidarity with women everywhere. I’m sure it was grand. I arrived just before the march started. Those girls I hardly ever see anymore were there too. The ladies marched to City Park. I ducked into the library then met up with them in an auditorium at the park.

There were tables set up. And explanatory pamphlets. And a band. And T-shirts. It wasn’t quite what I expected. The atmosphere was…. kind of, I don’t know, fun? Except that there weren’t really that many students here. Or professors. Or townies. Or local law enforcement. And the weather outside was frightful. The girls I hardly ever see any more left shortly before nine. I decided to stay, in order to spite them (I’m kind of petty) and express solidarity with the cause (I’m kind of noble. Chalk it up to the dual nature of man). Curiously, once they left, the party picked up. Or maybe I just payed closer attention to it.

The band was two MILFs with quirky, subdued humor and a good rapport, one on keyboard and one on guitar, and their songs were actually pretty catchy. The few people who remained even started dancing. It got to feel like I was watching a bunch of friends hanging out. Good times for all, except those who had to trudge back home in the rain. Suckers, I said, before I noticed that my socks were soggy and my umbrella was fucked up. I don’t know what else to add, because I’m still sick and I really have no idea how to frame a coherent narrative without nicotine.

I have no idea what an assistant stage manager does. However, I know that the assistant stage management of Dancing at Lughnasa was excellent, because that was pretty much the talk of the town after the play was over. I thought I was the only person impressed with the assistant stage management I know nothing about until I overheard two of my friends raving over it:

"What did you think of it?"
"The stage was unbelievably well managed. Assistantly."

Of course, those friends were imaginary, as are all my friends (the conversation, however, feels real). I’ve given up on asking actual people to go with me to these events, because either I’m 100% socially inept or you all suck. And as it turns out, you all do not, in fact, suck; Dr. Donna Potts, hanging out in the drizzle in front of the theater, got sick of waiting for one of her lame English 310 students to show up, opting to give me that student’s ticket - the last one available for opening night!

Whatever, so I’m inept. Back to Lughnasa: a snapshot of a 1936 Irish family holding together long after the passing of its parents; the turmoil of five lively sisters staring into a canyon of spinsterhood that’s staring back at them; and the return of their brother, a wild-eyed barely-there misfit, after 25 years of missionary work in Africa.

The dialogue felt fresh and immediate. Much of my enjoyment came from hearing the accents; the nearly-rolled Rs, the brisk Ts dotting word endings; the long "I" that glides into an "o-i" dipthong ("cider" sounds like "soyder"), the overall birdlike, musical pep of conversation.

Each sister’s inner tensions were barely held in check, always balanced against the concerns of the other siblings by the pious, heavy-handed oldest sister, Kate.

With that dynamic, another strength of Lughnasa, even better than the cute Irish lilts, was the sisters’ interior tumult. It came out most strongly twice. Second, when Kate, distraught over the apparent disappearance of the flighty Rose, angrily demanded that Agnes confess information Agnes have. So angry, she slammed Agnes against the furniture.

But it came out first when they boogied.

They sang and danced at every chance, devouring music like it was soda bread. Would that they could just dance their cares away forever! They really gave it their best shot during an early-on, more joyful outpouring of passion. For a brief time, during this hasty portrait, during a few minutes of music belting from their moody radio, they were all fluid like the sea, all crashing against each other and coming together again.

Michael, the seven-year-old son of Chrissie (the hottest sister — for real, homegirl’s a ringer for Rachel McAdams), largely observes from the periphery, but occasionally interrupts from the point of view of a grown-up narrator to reveal flashes of information on the fate of the family. Despite his upbeat delivery - Michael is genuinely excited about his family and all its quirky, tragic characters - it’s all kind of a downer for everyone, which, as more is revealed, sharpens the nostalgia, the value of this snapshot, the desperate importance of this summer, 1936, in a house on the Irish countryside. This summer is the last time the family is a family before people up and leave, people lose jobs, people die, peoples’ Peter-Pan father figures jaunt off with unsatisfying explanations then it turns out (spoiler!) all along they had another family way down south in fucking Wales, and general disappointment and failure set in for everyone.

It’s all hinted at during the play. Underneath obligations, bickering, the soothing chirp of a Marconi wireless, smoldering behind it all lies an inability to share each others’ sorrow, and deep yearnings that will simply. Not. Pan. Out. But for this one last summer, Time would let them dance and be Golden in the mercy of his means. **

 

** I’ve been waiting forever to unload that pearl!

 

I met up with Cate, Carolyn, Jordan, Cherry, and Johnny (an old guy dressed up like a vampire) at Rusty’s for Cate’s 21st birthday. Over the course of three Captain Cokes I figured out exactly what it is about this whole clusterfuck of Thursday-night undergrad social interaction that makes me so suicidal.

Seeing all these kids so effortlessly happy and in-tune with each other, I can’t help but self-indulgently compare it to my own inner turmoil. Their enforced shallowness, the terse, hollow exchanges, their hypercasual "hey good times, see ya around," sending me into stifled palpitations of last-call blues as I attempt various ploys at securing a future reunion, and I come off looking half-insane. The whole shin-dig starts to feel sort of like going to church; you came here wanting to belong, to be accepted for your flaws and whatnot, but they keep making you sing these damn hymms you don’t even know and you just fumble trying to keep up, choking your ability to be honest with yourself or anyone else around you in this chapel of mirth, and you’re no better off than when you first walked in the door.

Also, you probably still had steam to blow off from that nerve-wracking Thursday screenwriting that makes you feel stabby.

[update: an anonymous tipster informs me that "grad students are worse then undergrads because they’re all neurotically self-absorbed." Great, now there really is nothing to look forward to. Except, of course, church. Party on].

What is it about Thursdays that, by early evening, right as screenwriting class ends, makes me feel hollow, torpid, and dissatisfied?

First thing: one more hour of Spanish this week. It’s actually not so bad - Ms. Diaz is much more simpatica than she seems; but last semester’s god-awful class left a bad taste in my mouth and I’m probably just still just still dry-heaving it.

Second thing: the few people I do know here tend to become scarce all weekend, and there are no new episodes of anything on the tubez, leaving me with nothing to do except write.

Except I can’t, because (third thing) by now I just feel cold and dead inside; no imagination, no oomph, so I end up basically napping from Friday night to Sunday afternoon. Then Sunday night I scramble to finish the homework I put off.

This list is on my mind, halfway through a gin & tonic - extra lime - when the Communist Spy sends me a text.

If you’re not doing anything right now you should join us at Kathouse.

Cigarette in hand, I pound down the drink, dash out the door, and am at the Kathouse in five. I’ve never been here before. The Communist Spy and her cadre of five other girls - Darcy, Leshia, Maureen, Katie, someone else, and a Gentleman who Travels With Katie - are here to see a band. Of the six girls in the group, 9,340 of them have hooked up with someone in the band. The Spy motions for me to take the corner seat, next to her.

"Took you a while."

"I was at Auntie Mae’s."

"You smell like Auntie Mae’s." (In Kansas you can still smoke indoors and Mae’s has a basement, which, aside from the absurdly cheap drinks, is why I like it there).

While I’m waiting for a drink the guitars fire up. It’s funny; all week long, you think to yourself how badly you just need company; the violent jolt of social contact might inspire "emotions," "longing," "happiness," or something. How going day after day with this feeling of isolation makes you feel like a dismal failure; that you should just get out more and be around people.

But then on Thursday night you find yourself in a big dark room, resenting the three-dollar cover charge, the band working the crowd with skill and confidence sharply reminding you that you’re about 3,000 years old, the dizzying pockets of sparse lamp light, the watered-down drinks, the throng of blondes fenced around the barkeep like tube-topped Vikings laying siege to the coast. And the barmaids who ignore you. All of it just grates inexplicably on your nerves. You can fake it for a while; ten, maybe fifteen minutes, before you have no choice but to slink away, find the exit, and disappear into Friday morning.

Criminologist discusses gender, urban inequality among African Americans

If Adrianne doesn’t want me to criticize her, why does everything about her March 14 story, from the headline to the ending quote, sound like it was written by a first-year PR robot?

I’m pretty sure she has, tucked away in her repertoire, a passive-aggressive gesture of disapproval for writers who (1) lead with a quote, and (2) lead with an inflated, verbose block of text. So how does she justify this: "Youths’ descriptions fit quite closely to scholars’ examinations of how structural inequalities negatively impact the ability to generate social ties and protective networks necessary to combat crime."

I’d probably paraphrase thusly: "Experts claim that a in white-male centered society, crime is the only path to social mobility for poor urban ethnic kids, and - surprise! - poor urban kids agree." And confirm it with the expert, of course, who in this case was "Jody Miller, associate professor in the Department of Criminology and Criminal Justice at the University of Missouri - St. Louis."

At the end of the article, a source says "It was really interesting to hear a qualitative interview process and getting to see the actual quotes of what people saw in their communities and neighborhoods."

See that? His reaction to the presentation was "It was really interesting," perhaps as opposed to "It was really boring" or, more specifically, "I sat in the ninth row and felt up my girlfriend." People spew "it was interesting…" quotes when they don’t actually have an opinion or any information. At least he provided a handy, concise summary of the event. Maybe that’s how the lede should sound?

Over spring break, I drank at John’s house every night until Thursday. On Thursday Woody suggested we drink at the bars in downtown Long Beach, and I offered no protest.

Hours later, while Woody sat passed out, face down at a table in Dubliner’s Irish Pub, John and I scrutinized a nearby hipster.

“You don’t understand, John. That’s exactly my type. The dark-framed glasses; the no-nonsense bangs; the cherry-red lipstick; the heels; the arm tattoos; the leg tattoos; the skirt. Oh god, that skirt. On a related note, holy fuck, am I drunk, or is that is a nice pair of legs?”

“Yes to both of those, man.”

“Like, if she and I were to ever have sex, upon climax, the semen would stream out of me for hours and hours until finally there was nothing left of me.”

“I get the idea. Thanks for the visual. But what do you make of the unceasing swarm of dudes around her?”

“It does kind of take me back to a dark, lonely, miserable place. Remind me, what was that called?”

“Prom.”

“Right. I don’t think I like her so much any more.”

I’ve run into Adrianne at the library about 3,000 times this week. The first floor study desks; the stacks; the stairs; the entrance hall. It’s not as sexy as it sounds (it never is). Thursday night I even passed by her as I was on the way there, while she was apparently heading home. Usually I spot her first (the local foliage starts to wilt, clueing me in), and can duck out of the way before she realizes I’m around, but she totally got the jump on me this time. She tilted her head and glowered at me as she crossed the street. When I realized who it was, I waved to her and chuckled like a super villain. She shook her head in disgust. When she got to the other side of the street, she turned her head back my way; it still had that same expression - impatience and disgust, which reminded me that she has that expression all the time, whether in or out of the newsroom. Don’t get me wrong; it looks good on her, especially from a safe distance.

This morning snow was falling. On my way out the door I realized I’d gone through the entire pack of Parliaments I bought last night at eleven. How the hell did that happen? Whatever. Last time it snowed I fell 352 times. My Aqua Ducks(TM), comfy, springy, and waterproof as they are, offer about as much traction as a surfboard, so I find myself slipping on snowflakes wherever I go. Fun fun fun! The night of that last snow, Cherry and I went sledding in the street on that hill by her house. Today I don’t feel like sledding so much.

Speak of the devil: I bumped into her on my way to class this morning.

"It’s so cold," she said, grimacing. Button up, I say. For a moment it occurs to me that she is overworked and stressed, fraught with the piling-on of test week and increasing tension for the play she’s in (tonight is opening night).

"I think I’m gonna head inside." She can shortcut through the library and warm up on her way to class. Or maybe this is just an excuse to scamper off the other way.

Yeah, with all that on your plate, I can see how it might be hard to call someone back. If you’re an asshole.

She about-faces through the doors and I go my own way to class.

Thing is, I know I’m gonna see the play tonight. It’s inevitable, like a midterm or an execution. But since I absolutely refuse to go alone I called up Heather. And OF COURSE she can’t go with me. Surprise; she’s sick and overworked. So I’ll be alone for the evening. Should I still see the play?  The crushing certainty of it, the unspoken expectations to guess at - should I linger afterward and say hi? And after that - will she ditch me for a drama party? Will she call? Like hell. I’m not going. There is homework; math, Spanish, physics; an essay to type up, a book to read (ALWAYS a book to read!). And after that? Two-dollar bloody marys. Again. So I guess that’s that. Definitely not going. Another night of self-imposed exile.

So…seven PM. I’m resigned to finish up my homework and head out for drinks. Surprise! Cate calls! You coming to Cherry’s play? Super! Wanna meet us there? Grand! Yeah, I guess there was no avoiding it after all.

Although I got there without much time for small talk, it took her and Arianna about 10 minutes to notice I wasn’t my ordinary self (probably because I wasn’t cracking so many dick jokes). Big whoop, since I’ve pretty much been drifting through strangers in crowds for two weeks and never really worried about being "on." Cate seemed different too. Kind of nervous, kind of withdrawn, kind of unhappy. What’s up with that? During intermission, I beckon her to the empty seat on my right so she can let me in on The Secret, in third person. "Saturday night Cate and Brandon got really drunk and had sex."

I know I was supposed to act surprised - she had kind of been hoping Brandon’s BEST FRIEND - JOOOOSH! - would make a move, for the past FOREVER. But if anyone needed some sex it was her, and at least now I see why she’s been out of touch.

She’s afraid her big crush will never look at her again. Not that she’ll remember what I say, but I let her know that she should probably go talk to Josh right away, like RIGHT NOW, like YESTERDAY, because if too much time passes he’ll get bitter or something, and that’s no good.

Later we went outside to enjoy my last sample of Fine Tobacco Product. There is much more to Cate than I realized. She’s curious about what’s up with me, but I sort of still hate everybody and I’m not quite ready to sing. Don’t get me wrong; I want to, but what exactly would I say? Consider it deflected.

The play, by the way, was really something else. I loved it. The writer tied each character’s background to a relationship with Africa, showing a canny, realistic understanding of African social norms and their recent disruption against the backdrop of myriad civil wars (right, what would I know?). And OF COURSE I couldn’t take my eyes off Cherry the whole time she was on stage. After it was over I hugged her and told her she was terrific, that I really liked the play. And I meant it. So after I got home, I figured FUCK IT! and went out for drinks again anyway, and after that things started looking up, because when I was done, it was Friday.