The hour badly spent

In the process of reviewing Dancing at Lughnasa, I noted that one of the sisters was hot. "Hottest," in fact. I hear the actress’ significant other flew into a rage and and wanted to go all Hulk-smashey on The Hour Badly Spent. Well, where I come from, we distinguish between idly admiring a girl for her looks, complimenting her on a sort of striking beauty which is glaringly obvious to everyone anyway, and actually hitting on her.

These subtle nuances are apparently lost on Kansans. Fine; since I have no way of actually knowing who’s boinking whom, I take back the compliment. Everybody in the theatre department is ugly. And not just ugly, but extremely ultrahideous. And not just extremely ultrahideous, but so miserably appallingly haggard that the mere sight of any of you makes me want to repent of my sins and bathe my eyes in battery acid.

Glad I got that off my chest. So what did you think of Mud, River, Stone? I don’t remember too much of it, because I’m not drunk like I was when I saw the play way back in February, but I remember liking it.

In it, a bunch of richly-storied characters, starting with an annoying NYC black couple (they were from NY, right? I hardly remember), were thrown together at a quaint off-the-beaten-path South Africa hotel. Bells and alarms started going off the moment the couple stepped on stage, because I used to watch Friends, a show that proved there are no black people in New York.

Immediately, Sarah Bradley starts bitching because she can’t charge her iPod or something. Which was awesome. My favorite frenemy - Ama Cyllah’s actress - agreed.

My Hair Thinks Its Famous: What did you think of Sarah?
The Hour Badly Spent:        So persistently snotty. So relentlessly catty. Exactly what I look for in a girl.
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: I know. She acts like that in real life too. Isn’t she hot!
The Hour Badly Spent:        Yes!
[Ed. note: I meant no, because as we just established, everyone’s too fugly].
My Hair Thinks Its Famous: You should get her number.
The Hour Badly Spent:        You kidding? Actresses are scary. And I’m not that drunk yet.

Mr. Blake, an affable Englishman — wait, no, a white African with a British accent — wait, no, leader of the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen — translates the spit of the country that raised him into a wise, pithy sort of polish. "There is no telephone, no running water, not even a road. Just perfect martinis," he once said (a note on martinis: they are all perfect). Blake is graceful whether he is being conciliatory or aggressive; in fact, his confrontations often move the plot along when it veers into stagnation.

Left stranded at the hotel as part of a peacekeeping envoy, Simone Frick stammered through her part like a mouse talking her way out of a tiger pit. Her crisp uniform and radiant, hyperblonde hair underscored how out-of-place the character felt. Silly Ms. Frick! When you visit a war zone, you’ve gotta do like I do, and walk up in there like you fucking own the joint. You’d be surprised at how far a pimp roll will take you, literally and metaphorically.

There were other actors too. Whatever. Eventually, cabin fever really sets in. Everyone starts to get kinda livejournalley; going through all their character histories, their oedipal issues, proving how "African" they truly are or something. We are given an education that, however self-indulgent, is also insightful and unromanticized. Then someone shoots someone else, and he pretty much deserves it for taking hostages and being a chronic ass. Oh Mr. Blake, why couldn’t you take me too?

The Collegian is running a "four-part series investigating the disconnect among certain student demographics on campus.
Apparently if you’re not young, white, and single you’ve come to the wrong fucking school, bro. Scope it:

Dealing with "the other" - meaning anything unusual or out of the ordinary [ed. note: thanks for clarifying!] - also can make American students uncomfortable to try and understand people from different backgrounds, said Bradley Shaw, associate professor of modern languages and director of international and area studies in the College of Arts and Sciences.

"I think that we are sometimes a little hesitant or a little reticent when we’re dealing with things that we don’t understand or don’t know," Shaw said.

Did people from Kansas not know this already? Forget I asked.

In other news, people who are married or have kids have trouble merging with the general population of wingnutty barhopping vikings about campus because they never get to go to the really cool parties.

 

Many students agree there is a disconnect among traditional and nontraditional students on campus.

As a traditional student, Shane Howard, senior in electronic journalism, said it is not easy to connect with nontraditional students.

"There is a natural disconnect between traditional students and nontraditional," Howard said. "Nontraditional students are forced to do things that traditional students don’t have to do, like taking care of kids. It makes them less free to do spur-of-the-moment things."

Shane, you don’t wanna hang out with these kids anyway. There’s nothing like watching a bunch of 20-year-old drama brats sip tequila out of each others’ bellybuttons to make you really sit down, take a long hard look at what your life really is and how it has led up to this moment, and then just go to hell with it and have an OD, but not on any of this crystal meth/jenkem the kids are into these days. You kick it old school. You kick it opium style.

 

Piano Man: This is the best Collegian profile I’ve ever seen. First, it’s got a punny headline. Smarmy bastards like me lrrrve puns. Next, Adrianne leads with a scene:

"Wingfield’s instrument - the piano - sits toward a back corner with empty space surrounding it. Students and faculty members gather around the piano each day. A slim man dressed in dark pants, a dressy jacket and wire-rimmed glasses, Wingfield, performs piece after piece and serves as the musical vehicle as he accompanies students and faculty members each day."

So cinematic!

She proceeds with a deep, thorough portrait of campus microcelebrity Bill Wingfield, pretty much writing with as much style as Wingfield plays the piano. By the end, I vaguely got the idea of how awesome it is to be around Bill Wingfield. Then I remembered I have no rhythm, musical talent, or even anything funny to say about this article, so I hit the bars.

[Update: I just passed Adrianne on campus and she did that thing where you look at someone then pretend to be looking somewhere else, INSTEAD of just mutely nodding or waving hello, while you pass. I used to be like that too, but then I turned 15. Imagine being in a newsroom with a "grown woman" who acts like a high school brat. Still, this was a good article.] 

-You sure it’s her? She looks so different without wheels. Like being naked.

-Exactly. I’d know that ass anywhere.

-Is that so?

-No, actually. I’d just be guessing. Is that a crime? If memorizing by ass-ociation is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

-Yeah, well. Stay classy.

Hannah Blick offers more evidence that college is the new high school: Parents of new generation more involved in college students’ life decisions.

Running with a report from CNN regarding “hovering” parents, Hannah details the constant contact and influence of overinvolved parents on students. Biweekly phone calls, attempts at frequent updates from the registrar, and even negotiating job contracts.

According to K-State’s office of student life, “This is only crippling the [child] from achieving success on their own.”

Wasn’t it better when you’d flee home angry and bristling with resentment for a distant authority figure and young and dumb and full of come, then return years later still adrift and goalless? It builds character. Not that I know anything about character.

Underminer: a friend who, during ordinary conversations, casually backhands you with condescension.

I.
Cherry and I were walking together, talking about Fake Patty’s Day, in which the bars open early and have specials to accomodate students who won’t be in town on St. Patty’s day, because that falls during spring break.

“I don’t know if I can make it at 9 in the morning.”

“Oh come on.“

What I meant by “come on” is “ start early and make the most of the day.” But she thought I was asking her to come with me.

“Are you begging?”

“…”
“…”
“…”
“…”

Well, what I said was, “Actually, I assumed you had your own crowd to run with, so no, I was not asking for your company.”

What I meant was yeah, because what I’d really like to do for a pubcrawl is kill my buzz babysitting a snotty emobot.

II.
At night, after the Spring Swing Dance, before Jimbo’s party. Cate, Arianna, and I are hanging out at Cherry’s house; I was making mindless banter, like I always do, which inspired her to wistfully reminisce over my best qualities.

“I LOVE the way you say something stupid and then laugh at your own dumb joke.”

“Actually Cherry, I was laughing because I knew you were going to point out how dumb it was, because hello, all my jokes are dumb.”

Okay, I get it: you’re just not that into me. I laughed harder.

III.
Jimbo’s party: She introduced me to the girl with the fantastically WASPy voice from Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds. I did not recognize her at first.

“You’ve seen her before. This is Mackenzie, you jerk!”

But later, behind her back, doing her best impression: “Oh hi, I’m Mackenzie! Look how amazing I am! Ha ha ha!” As it happens, after talking with Mackenzie, I found out she really did skew towards amazing, and this uncharacteristic cattiness confirmed it.

IV.
And of course, there was this Underminerey stroke of genius.

Since I haven’t blogged in a few days, that chart shall serve as a benchmark while I recap the week:

Monday: really don’t remember much, except for a couple of bloody marys. That is not a euphemism.

Wednesday: I made a new friend! A supercute 28-year old redheaded geek girl. No, not that supercute 28-year-old redheaded geek girl. Come to think of it, "romp" makes the whole thing sound way more sordid than it really was, which entailed going to Auntie May’s for happy hour, where we bought each other beers and made small talk. Then we walked around for a little bit. The great big city’s a wonderous toy, just made for a girl and boy. We turned Manhattan into an isle of joy! Okay, she walked me to the Digital Shelf, where we drooled over the anime section. One day she will appreciate Ranma 1/2 as much as I do. One day.

Later, I called the Poetess to tell her I made a new friend. She was feeling blue, and wanted company, so I obliged. I drank her box wine and had a long talk with her about the true meaning of friendship. As it turns out, hippies can love after all! Before I left, she let me have one of her uppers.

Friday: I asked Arianna to go a semi-formal dance put on by the Association of Residence Halls. It was held in the Union Ballroom, which is a pretty big place. Because of that, I was expecting to wall-to-wall hotties gyrating in slinky, knee-length dresses. So OF COURSE we arrive and it’s like 15 kids, awkwardly twisting around to the Spice Girls. No, we are not leaving, I told Arianna. She wore these incredibly pointy black shoes that mangled her feet and made movement difficult, but looked terrific. I was deeply moved by her suffering. She and I sat in the back of the room, not-so-silently judging everyone, and talked about the ungodly horror of high school dances, while waiting for the D.J. to play something slow and romantic because that’s why you go to dances in the first place. It didn’t happen, so after an hour, we left to hit up a better party. And OF COURSE as we were gathering our coats and our purses and our, ahem, man-purses, the Old Man Controlling Everything We Hear finally put on a slow number. I might have been able to talk Arianna into staying for three more minutes, but it was a country song, and by then my heart just wasn’t in it.

I had never been to the casa de supernerdy English Major Jimbo; so when I got to his basement, which had a bar and a bigscreen TV and and a bunch of geeks talking about Baldur’s friggin’ Gate and a wall full of action figures and computer circuitboards and a ceiling plastered with movie posters, I didn’t know whether to love Jimbo for having an awesome place, hate Jimbo for having an awesome place, or hate myself for loving Jimbo for having an awesome place, and the whole thing got even more confusing and beautiful after I pulled out the bottle of cheap whiskey I brought.

I met lots of new people, most notably a blonde girl from the theater department, who I thought was cute and intelligent. She was the lead actress in The Effect of Gamma Rays on Man-in-the-Moon Marigolds, wherein she did this amazing thing with her voice that made her sound like a domineering 1930s WASP. She got bonus points when I found out Cherry hates her. Nevertheless, I am definitely leaving that one alone. Actresses are terrifying.

Saturday was Fake Patty’s Day in Manhattan. The real St. Patrick’s day falls during K-State’s spring break, so Aggieville celebrates it a week early while students are still in town. I fully intended to start the pubcrawl at 9 in the morning, when the bars open, but I was too hung over. I ended up lounging around all day long, then, at midnight, crashing a get-together at Madeline’s in celebration of the coming-to-town of her childhood friend Megan, who has apparently developed into a cute, aloof hipster.

A moment after I arrived, Jenna, Maddie’s awesome roommate; Jenna’s boyfriend Graham, who is also awesome, and Megan, decided to hit the bars. Despite the fantasticity of Jenna and Graham, along with my typically asinine outbursts of wit, we were unable to stop Megan from sitting around, pouting, and looking bored. Thankfully she left and returned to Madeline’s place on her own, before she completely killed my buzz and ruined my life.

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.

Potterhead: I’m having caffeine withdrawal. I saw a guy playing bagpipes today. And last week I saw a guy on a unicycle.

Too Prolix: Glad you feel better. I’m not seeing any bagpipes or unicycles here. I haven’t left my room in a month. I’m crouched in here in the same bathrobe I’ve worn for 4 days, etching emo poetry and mathematical equations on the walls. On the plus side, I think I’ve discovered hyperspace.

Potterhead: D’ya think you can forget about the emo poetry one night and totally go to the Wizard Rock Concert next Saturday at the Union? The tickets are free and you can get them at the UPC office in the Stuni. :D
Hyperspace? Cool.

Too Prolix: Why am I up so late? I’ve had coffee too! Except it wasn’t really coffee; it was vodka, the coffee of the gods! A rock concert, you say? The idea of a “concert” or a “dance” or a “get together involving music” takes me all the way back to high school, where I always used to sit on the sidelines, forlorn and miserable, looking on while all the cute girs had fun with all the guys who were more muscular and less nerdy than me, and who wants to relive aww fuck it who am I kidding - Saturday, eh? but I don’t hafta like it.

Potterhead: Not like Wizard Rock? That’s ridiculous. You have to like it because I said so.

My kewgrish Spanish teacher let us know that her novio, on occasion, lovingly calls her "Gorda."

Every single girl in the class - except the 6-foot athlete - gasped deeply with indignation. At this, Ms. Diaz had to actually explain, to a class full of grown women, the difference between an insult and a term of endearment; that in Hispanic culture, "fat girl" falls into the latter. Bravo! At this point, when women fly off into paroxysms of rage over the F word, I get more annoyed than apologetic.

The girls weren’t hearing it. They were BAFFLED that such an explosive term could casually denote intimacy between lovers. In an attempt to step up and get some action, I told both Jessicas that they were hot, skinny, sexy bitches. But I guess my timing was off, because the blonde one unloaded three rounds into my chest. Nevertheless, the question persisted: is vanity really more important than intimacy?

At this point, when women fly off into paroxysms of rage over the F word, I get more annoyed than apologetic. Like, what is so special and so powerful about that one word that reduces everyone to quivering middle-schoolers? I asked the Sexy Communist Spy about it.

"In Russia, fat girl insult YOU!"*

What for; just because I have a freakishly short, slender penis? My left hand doesn’t mind one bit. But seriously, what’s the BFD? Your boyfriends really couldn’t care less. Single gorditas can easily find non-Dbags who are attracted to them. I feel like the indignation is false vanity. Help me understand, Spy!

"Women are insecure and paranoid and need reassurance about men’s affection. I mean, if you’re joking and she knows it, it could be a little different, but it would still hurt a bit."

- Right. But isn’t the point of relationships that you can overcome paranoia and insecurity through, ahem, love? Could it be that so many girls have no idea how to love? Why do I sound like Carrie Bradshaw?

"My theory is nobody has a good self-esteem and those that ‘do’ are just too stupid to realize they shouldn’t"

Wrong there! I have poor self-esteem AND I’m a moron! Explain that one!

 ————————————————————————————–

*[ed. note: this quote was manufactured by the Ministry of Truth]

Cherry had a birthday this week! Friday night she threw a party and everyone showed up. Obviously, no good could come of this, yet I went anyway. I brought her a 3-foot paper-mache rose, a card, and a bottle of Jack (the bottle was really for me. I need it a lot more than she does). Although a dozen people were already there, I somehow managed to sneak the big-ass rose by everyone and smuggle it into Cherry’s room.

Cherry’s parents were there - three weeks ago they threw a Superbowl party and Cherry took me along, and so that’s when I met them. They appointed me the Bartender and Keeper of Cover Charges. I carried this out dutifully, except for when I stepped out to chain-smoke with the Poetess, leaving Chelsea to watch the money.

I hadn’t seen the Poetess in weeks and she looked great. We went out to the porch, down the steps, to the driveway, out by someone’s Honda, and lit up.

"So earlier this week when I told you I was feeling great? I totally lied."
"Me too! Grand. So what’s got you down?"
She related detailed information of a sensitive personal nature. "So hon, your turn."
And we talked some more, then disappeared back into the party; which, for me, was a haze of cash/liquor exchanges, with an occasional pause for me to dose up on whiskey. The chaperones had left by now. Life was great, until I saw Cherry making out with someone on the coffee table.

If I could have just vanished, just poof! and a cloud of bats and I disappear into the night, I would have done exactly that. Instead I had to actually go gather my coat, and my scarf, and my man-purse, and collect my dignity (which - ironic on so many levels - was inside the man-purse), and this took long enough for Cate to see me.

"What’s going on?"

I led her through the crowd, to the porch, to the side of the house, and told her everything.

A couple of people must have heard us talking. All the right players, in fact. Arianna! Chelsea! A bunch of other people! Thankfully not the Poetess. I didn’t know what to say to them other than "Hi guys." So I leaned into Cate’s ear. "LookIhaftagothanks."

I think Arianna kind of knew.

"Where are ya going?"

"Home."

"You’re leaving?"

"Yeah, I’m leaving."

And I left.

When I got home, I remembered the cash cup. It wasn’t safe back behind that bar. I called Arianna and asked her to get the cup, grab the cash, put it in her purse, and deliver the money to Cherry tomorrow. She was fairly drunk so I stayed on the phone with her.

"Hyper-literate bastard, I’m sorry. I can’t find it."

Perfect.

The assistant manager in me decided to head back and find that fucking money my fucking self, and of course I didn’t find it, but now of course I’m back stuck at this thing, the most god-awful party I’ve been at since I was in grade school, and I can’t look anyone in the eye; the kid who was making out with Cherry is now making out with the rest of the theater department (kids these days!); Jimbo, another geeky English major, is grinding with Cherry, and no matter how many times I snap my fingers and whisper "beetlejuice" that fucking money still won’t show up. When I see Cherry alone for a second I let her know it’s missing and swear I’ll pay her back (yay! a reason to whore myself!). Then I finally grow a pair and dance with the birthday girl herself. She was wearing a slinky black strapless number and she was sporting that hemlock-laced smile I love and fear at the same time. So, yeah, we danced for a little while and then separated.

The next time I went looking for her she was nowhere to be found. Neither was Jimbo. The porch, around the side of the house, the garage, the kitchen, the living room, her room, nada. Then I remembered there was another door in the garage. I opened it and there they were (what did I expect?), standing together and talking. OhSorry! I said, slamming the door, maybe a little too fast. "Hyper-literate bastard, wait!" said Cherry. I opened it again and she was fumbling through her coat. "Wish I had my cigarettes," she was mumbing. "Iknowwheretheyare!!" I shut the door again, took a breath, dashed off to the living room, grabbed her swank, shiny, fully stocked cigarette case, returned to the yard, handed her one, and put the case in her pocket.

I held the lighter in front of her.

She hates that. She likes to light them herself. She moved to grab it from me, but I have the reflexes of a meth-addled ninja tabbycat. Plus, she’s pretty drunk. I lit it for her.

"I kind of hate you right now," she said.
"Aw shucks, I know you don’t mean that."
Small talk ensues. A minute later:

"Gimme the lighter. I wanna re-light it.
"Don’t be such a baby."
Jimbo and I both laughed at Cherry. Then he went inside.

"So, are you having fun?"
"It’s your party. Are you having fun?"
"I guess." It’s complicated.
It’s pitch black except for the smokes. Nevertheless, I’m pretty sure we’re both looking at each other.
"You seemed like you didn’t wanna talk to us yesterday."
Pardon?
"Me, Cate, and Arianna thought you didn’t wanna talk to us at the play."
Umm, hello, I’ve been lonely, depressed, and ashamed for a few weeks. Errr, I mean:
"I got the opposite impression. That you didn’t wanna talk to me. I mean, I know you were busy with Mud-River-Stone, but you just never called me back or gave me a text."
I continued. "And I missed ya, a lot, but last night I really didn’t know what to say."

"Listen, I was hoping that, after the party dies down, maybe I could - stay? Spend the night? With you."
"Yeah, sure," she said. "A few other people are crashing here, so no problem."
I didn’t mean it in the sense of "crashing here," but whatever.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We went in and danced some more. A few hours later, Liz, a drunken emo townie, went ape shit over I-don’t-know-what and refused to let anyone drive her home. The girls went outside to talk her down. Negotiations lasted about an hour and killed the party. Finally, Drunken Emo Townie came back inside; Cherry’s little sister agreed to walk with her to the car. It was 6am. I was out on the porch, chain-smoking, when they walked by me. Not wanting them to get dragged off and raped, I asked quickly:

"Want me to walk with you guys?"
"Yeah," mouthed Jasmine.

We made it up the street a little ways, to the Townie’s car. Although she’s still drunk, she patently refuses to give up the keys or the driver’s seat. In the end we relented and let her almost kill us swerving up Sunset Avenue (doesn’t this defeat the purpose of coming with her?). But we made it to wherever she wanted to go, and she headed inside and sent us on our merry way. Yay! Everyone’s still alive! Now I get to trudge back to campus in this 20-degree dawn. I am not dressed for a 20-degree dawn. Also: since I’m not from this town I have no idea where the fuck I am. Jasmine led the way, up the street, down the street, across the park, a left on Anderson, back to Sunset, up again, to the left, and presto, Cherry’s casa. The sun is fully up and Cherry is probably completely knocked out, so I bid Jasmine good day and go back home, completely cockblocked by that fucking Townie. C’est la vie.

I talked to Cherry again at noon. Hi how are you did you like the party thanks for the rose I might be too busy to see you the rest of the weekend but I hope you had a good time don’t worry we got the money.

"You got the money?"
"Yeah. Earlier, I grabbed the cash cup and I hid it."

Relief.