The hour badly spent

So there was this Visiting Writer thingie on Friday, and lo, it appeared in the local rag with a few copyediting inaccuracies, but there it is.

What struck me at Sugi Ganeshananthan’s reading was that, although the story was not particularly suspenseful, everyone in the audience was on the edge of their seats, quiet as housecats. I sat at the back of the room so I could pass notes to the well-dressed and cutely accessorized Hipster Elf, and the only thing that came to mind is ’someone should belch.’

I wrote that down and showed her — I had to be very careful because with no one else fidgeting in their seats and checking the clock I couldn’t just conceal my own fidgeting in the general shuffle. After that I decided to just sit back and listen.

Sugi’s prose was clear and brief, expressing feeling beautifully without making us wade through overbearing complexity. After the reading, someone asked her about the Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

"It’s nice to be in a place where you can say ‘I’m a writer’ and not have people ask you ‘what have you written that I might have read?’"

I mouse-ishly tried to get the commentariat’s reaction.

"You can interview me," said Tanya Gonzalez, bouncing down the hall on her way out. "It was fabulous!"

I guess that says it all.

Since I was trying to commit as many journalistic ethical violations as possible, I took the Hipster Elf with me to the Cathouse to interview sources. The English department and the Visiting Writer were hanging out, in a circle, by the window.

I sat around, trying to overhear and sift through ambient conversation; Saucy Aussie, with her typical aussome, made a boo-boo and dug around in her bag for a bandage (she apparently carries around a first-aid kit everywhere? And weeps at the sight of her own blood); Sean discussed something lofty and English-ey with the Visiting Writer; Jen was being an exceptionally charming and cogent drunk.

"The way that she [Sugi] played with the theme of hurt reminded me of Midnight’s Children," she said. That was the second time in as many days an English major recommended that book to me. Everything is foreshadowing.

I also spoke to the Visiting Writer herself, which felt weird strange because she’s a real journalist and I’m, well, me. And besides the tender, intimate prose, "Love Marriage" — which I have not read — apparently has something important to say about the play of good and evil in a post-9/11 world.

"There is an idea of who is ‘good’ and who is ‘bad,’ but the truth is not always obvious," Sugi said. "There are so many different ways to be wrong and so many different ways to be right. The people who probably think of themselves as good, with a slight turn of their lives — maybe five degrees west, could probably be bad." And with that, the conflict between human and Cylon takes another angle. Nerd.

Anyway. Read "Love Marriage." Go ahead and buy it and then I’ll borrow it from you.

[K-State Collegian]

That is NOT the Joy Luck Club. Sunday, my roommate Hyun Wook cooked dinner downstairs in the dorm kitchen. He invited a bunch of friends, including yours truly.

He sauteed beef. Medium rare. He plunked it into a tupperware dish, where Angie sliced it up with a pair of scissors.

We picked up the bite-sized pieces with sharpened sticks, dipped them in hot red pepper paste, and enjoyed our fill.

"Sorry, no vegetable," Quan said. No problem; there was something very satisfying about stabbing at bits of meat with pointy sticks. "Yummy," I replied between bites. "Ah, this word I know! Yummy yummy!" Quan said, doing a little dance.

"Come eat, Ajoshi," Dorie said. Later I asked Hyun Wook why they call him Ajoshi. "It means ‘big brother,’" he explained. "But Korean men don’t like it."

"If you are old man and you have many young relatives, then they can call you ‘Ajoshi.’"

"So it’s like they’re calling you an old man?" He’s the same age as I am.

Dorie was ravenous. She looked at the steak like she hadn’t seen food all week. It was delicious. Wookie also cooked salmon. Then he produced another round of steak. And another round of salmon. We stabbed and wolfed it down. Then he boiled ramen.

Quan counted bowls. Not enough for everyone. She looked at me: "I guess you can use the pressure cooker." Then she did a another little dance.

She explained the reason for this dorm feast; Saturday was Mid-Autumn day in China. "Like Thanksgiving. Family have reunion. Only they eat moon cake, not roasted turkey."

Angie went upstairs for a while and came back with a bowl of dumplings. She nuked them and offered them to the rest of us. She explained that in English they would be called rice cakes, but they’re special Korean desserts.

"Is not for every day. Only holiday," she said. "Yesterday was Korean Thanksgiving."

Snow and Quan discussed this for a minute. Then they pointed at Angie. "Our mid-autumn festival, same day as you, different name."

The treats were rice dumplings with sweet paste inside; it was like a bean paste with honey. Dorie took a bite, held it in her mouth, and began to moan, wiggle, and hold her ears.

Naturally, I laughed. Quan explained why she was being silly. "In China, when people are very hot, they do like this."

When we were all finished and Angie and Quan were washing dishes together, Dorie stood in front of Hyun Wook; "Thank you very much Ajoshi," she said, smiling. Wookie rubbed her stomach. Everyone around us suddently got a WTF look on their faces. Then Dorie slapped him twice. It reminded me of GTO.

 That is all.

Those of you who actually do give feedback recently observed that in the past, we have been preoccupied with rampant homophobic binge drinking, penis size, and "poetry" about shagging and/or not shagging 21-year-olds.

All that is behind us now. We are completely sober, our penis has grown (I’m a grower!), and uh, we can cool it on the poetry for a little while. Mostly because there are important, more mature issues to focus on. One thing, in fact, has been needling us for weeks now, and the confusion from it is driving us up the fucking wall. WE HAVE TO RESOLVE THIS. Specifically: who exactly the heck is reading this blog from Lake Charles, Louisiana? Seriously. If we don’t find out, we’ll keep blogging, but we’ll feel kinda weird about it. So Lake Charles, feel free to say hi in the comments.

At 11:42 am today, I was on my way to the barber shop. I had in fact just arrived and was tying up my bicycle (go green!) when a couple of people came out of the shop and looked around, as if making sure everything was okay.

"Day-um, that was a good one," said Tashie, the lady who puts the twists in my hair.

"It felt like this," said another girl, swerving her hips like she was hula-hooping.

This could only mean one thing: the barber shop orgy ended right before I arrived. Wait.

A strong earthquake with a preliminary magnitude of 5.4 jolted large parts of Southern California late this morning, shaking a wide swath from Ventura County to San Diego and causing minor damage and a few injuries.

The quake rattled buildings in downtown Los Angeles and was felt as far east as Palm Springs. It was centered near Chino Hills, about 30 miles east of Los Angeles, the U.S. Geological Survey said. [source: Los Angeles Times]

KCAL-9 News was reporting a 5.8 on the Richter scale.

"That wasn’t no five point eight," said a dude checking his text messages.

Tashie’s husband walked in. "Y’all feel that? That was me." Okay, I guess it’s probably for the best I didn’t "feel that."

Seriously, this would have been the most exciting thing since every second of the Dark Knight and I completely missed it. That wouldn’t have happened if I were at the place where I usually am at 11:42am on Tuesdays: a bar, browbeating a cocktail waitress. "You call this a Manhattan? I said shaken, not stirred!" She picks it up. Earthquake happens. Then I snatch it out of her hand, mumbling that’s more like it, keep ‘em coming.

"You all remember the Northridge quake? I ain’t never seen so many people out in the street that early in the morning," said the texting dude.

I remember the Northridge quake. That winter, rain had been coming down for two weeks straight and finally ceased a few days before January 17, 1994.

Back in the here and now, about 20 minutes after today’s quake, the whole thing was filed and forgotten. I was sitting there, bored, while my stylist checked her cellphone. Across the room, some chronic ass was giving a civics lecture to a captive audience — a guy whose hair he was cutting. The news was still going on and on with the camera trained on a seismograph. Someone turned up the radio. "You know one rapper I never liked? Jay-Z," said Tashie. Earthquake or no, I hate it when barbers try to make small talk.

An hour later, the Silver Bullet texted me.

You know what’s funny? When the earthquake started, I immediately went to the hallway doorframe and held on to the tv. Shows you my priorities.

I picked up a vial of mystery pills standing in line outside of the Electric Daisy Carnival. It was a rave! Fifty thousand of Los Angeles’ most annoyingly young, all in one spot and dressed like the X-Men.

Woody, Silly Question and I had been standing in line to get into the actual party for about two hours, intending — along with Fernando (yeah, who are these fucking people anyway? Don’t worry; it’s not that important, and none of us dressed up) — to meet Solomon and Manuel at the V.I.P section, then run away before a bouncer could kick our asses.

While we were in line, Fernando disappeared.

Woody, you’ve got his number. Call him. Good thinking, no?

It won’t work. I’ve got his phone.

Why in the world would you have his phone?

He asked me to hold it.

Why in the world would anybody even ask somebody else to hold his phone?

Why, indeed. He produced it from his pocket: an iPhone. It was silver and liquidey. It looked like a jewel.

You should let me hold it. I’ve got better pockets.

I was wearing my corduroy hipster jacket. It makes me look dashing and protects me from the Hulk. Plus it’s got a bunch of pockets.

So there we were, still in line, not even technically at the party yet and already we’ve lost someone. The line hadn’t moved in thirty minutes. Around us, ravers were getting out of line and rushing somewhere else. That’s when I saw the bottle of mystery pills and, anticipating a pocket check at the gate, stuffed them into my sock.

Silly Question made as if to swat the bottle out of my hand, gave me her hand-wringing screed about ingesting foreign objects, and assured me that I wouldn’t have to resort to popping mystery pills. She had some X and intended to share.

Great! So when can I have it?

Just wait.

Wait for what?

I waited.

Silly Question’s shoulder was getting tired. "Hold this," she said to Woody, handing off her spinach-green satchel.

Rumour held it that off to the left, another gate was actually open and that the line was actually moving while ours wasn’t.

Hey, I’m gonna just go check out the other line; see if it exists, divine its true purpose. Wait here. I’ll be back.

I found the gents’ then checked out the other gate. It did exist, it was moving, and it brings a message of peace and compassion. When I went back to the old line, Woody was gone.

He went to look for you.

Why? I took a leak and was gone for like three minutes.

He also took my bag.

"…"

It had my wallet and stuff in it.

Naturally. Why would you even have handed it off to him in the first place?

She explained.

Yeah, your back hurts or whatever, but so what? You can’t just switch shoulders?

After twenty minutes he still hadn’t shown up, so fuck it, we went to the mythopoetic alternate gate, where we got in after five minutes (I survived the pat-down with my mystery maybe-poison pills). We wandered around for a while, looking to and fro, hoping for Woody to materialize. An hour later he texted: I’m at the front gate.

Can we, umm, take the stuff now?

I wanna wait til later. Meet up with everyone and then do it all together.

Life is short. Why wait?

We met up with Solomon and Manuel, but still no sign of Fernando. He had gone missing hours ago, far back in line, so we circled the front area hoping he was just now reaching the entrance and he’d just happen to notice the rest of us as he finally trudged in, dejected and alone. That plan sucked and didn’t work. Sol had a new one.

From now on we gotta stick together.

Be realistic. There’s six of us. Well, five of us. And fifty thousand people swarming around like desert sands. At some point we will get separated. We need a backup plan. A meeting place.

Right here. Front gate.

Front gate?

Front gate.

Front gate it is.

The vodka I had been sipping out of a Gatorade bottle while we were in line was starting to wear off.

Losing buzz, gimme drugs!

Not yet.

It’s already ten. What are we waiting for?

We decided to go into the Coliseum and do the thing. After we popped the pills Solomon wanted to head back to the VIP lounge and I wanted to hit the football field, which was packed wall-to-wall with naked gyrating hipsters. We agreed to split up and meet back in the cheap seats, and if we didn’t see each other there, we’d fall back to the Front Gate Backup Plan.

Silly Question and I maneuvered our way down into the field, shoving our way as close to the stage as we could. There was also a woman dressed like the Amazing Spider-Stripper threading her way up, down, and all over a big steel cage in the middle of the field. At midnight, we headed back to the cheap seats, as planned, and seeing nobody there, made for the front gate. At some point along the way, Silly Question made a left while I went straight, or vice versa, and we lost each other. FRONT GATE: that was the plan, right? I made it there and waited. Silly Question didn’t show. While I was chain smoking, Solomon and Manuel showed up, grinning and sweating like — well, we don’t make that kind of simile on this blog, but you get the idea.

Where’s Silly Question?

We got lost. I’m waiting for her to show.

The pills work?

No.

That sucks. I am feelin pretty good right now.

Then they left: we’re going to the bathroom, we’ll be right back.

Later on, talking about this with the Poetess, she observed that a rave probably wouldn’t be fun if you weren’t high. She’s right. I was getting pissed. If we’d hit the X earlier, I would have known before one in the morning that the shit wouldn’t work. Then I could have made contingency plans. I could have made vodka plans. In Russia, vodka plan YOU!

Silly Question finally texted me; she was standing out on a hill beside the Coliseum, under a floodlight. Christ, what ever happened to "THE FRONT GATE!" When I found her I let her have it. FRONT GATE FRONT GATE FRONT GATE I said. We went back to the FRONT GATE to wait for Solomon.

A half hour later it was pretty clear he wasn’t gonna show. And I was STILL NOT HIGH. Fuck it, I said. We headed back into the Coliseum to try and dance with the raging hordes. What was the point of coming up with a plan nobody would follow?

We stood near the top of the stadium, facing down the same midnight-black soup of naked hipsters we had been wading through hours ago, peppered gently with their glowey, spinney accessories.

Sorry I yelled at you about the front gate. It’s just that we made a plan. A simple plan. If you’re lost, do this. I thought you, of all people, would just follow it. There are fifty thousand people up in here. Of course we’d get separated! My own effing parents could be down there having wild koala sex and I’d never even know it. That’s why we made the plan. Front gate.

She nodded.

Look at them now! Fifty thousand skanks, with their fishnets and their glowsticks. Elbowing their way through spikey-haired tweakers. Tripping over lovers and empty water bottles. Making out with each other. Look at them now; here and there one lights something up and makes it spin. They have all come together, not knowing how beautiful they look from up here. But you and I don’t matter to them one bit.

Dude, I think your pill is kicking in.

Hm. I guess it must be. Yours isn’t having any effect?

Manuel is holding mine.

Jeez, how long ago did we go through this? You’re gonna thrash this high that I only became aware of mere seconds ago. Happiness is fleeting, like glitter in the moonlight. I know, right? That’s the drugs talking. Mostly.

The night was finally picking up. And yes, I still have these:

Right before Grey Lady, friend of this blog, left Facebook earlier this week, she poked me one last farewell.

See how it just hangs there all half-done, no "poke back" option? It’s the three-legged puppy of Facebook pokes. And much like a dog needing extra love, I will cherish it forever and never click remove, partly because I’ve got such a big heart, but mostly because my intertubes haven’t been working so well lately and I can’t get online much, so why waste valuable bandwidth on that? I know: I’m a terrible Facebook friend! And a bad blogger! And an awful person! But here’s the kicker:

She left a message on my wall, but since she termed her account, the comment’s gone and I’ll never know what it is. Ahem, was. It would be irresponsible of me to speculate as to its content. Nevertheless, I’m going to assume it was pithy, clever, and saucy, and probably makes me look bad — which is not difficult, so I guess it’s for the best that no one can read it.

Silver Bullet’s friend Andy is in at least one band, and last night they played at the Malibu Inn (it’s not an actual inn). We picked up Andy’s sister Greta and made the trek up Pacific Coast Highway to Malibu.

The first act was acoustic; skinny black guy — Emory Davis — and his guitar. A girl chimed in for some duets. I liked her voice — it was operatic — but when she wasn’t singing, which was most of the time, she just sort of sat there. Greta was even more annoyed than I.

Gretta’s Jetta: Didn’t he say "she sings like an angel?"
Silver Bullet:   Apparently angels only sing falsetto.
Silver Bullet:   I don’t know about guys in those low-cut V-neck shirts. It disturbs me.

They finished up and a team got the stage ready for the next band. A guy who looked like Jesus fiddled with some equipment then said "check one check two" into the mic, repeating this about ten times. "All sound guys look alike," Greta said.

After that, Andy’s band — Echo Division — hit the stage.

"I saw them at the Light House a few weeks ago and they were trying to be all pop-ish," Silver Bullet said. "It wasn’t working. They’re ten times better tonight."

True to form, I wasn’t impressed. They sounded kind of dull and the lead singer had this Dylanesque wheezey thing going on.

After a while even Andy started getting bored on the stage, because near the end of their set he started flashing gang signs. Then it was another band’s turn.

"Does anyone know who John Hinckley is?"

The name sounds familiar, but the category I picked tonight was "music for $10" and not "I know something you don’t" so maybe we could get on with the music thing. Hey, just for kicks, why don’t you go ahead and tell us who he is, lead singer? Thanks! Servicey!

Apparently, he shot Ronald Reagan so that Jodie Foster would notice him! It was love! Love drives us mad! That’s what the next song is about! Thanks professor; the lecture was much better than your music. Zing!

"I think these are all church bands," Silver Bullet said.

Makes sense. They all sound like Jars of Clay. You ever hear a rock band in church? They’ve got a captive audience, so they just keep going and going and going with the same languid Guitar Solo Of The Lord until you are begging, begging for the chance to sit down and hear a sermon.

I actually liked the next band. Andy was the drummer in this one. They were loud and upbeat. Then the lead singer wanted to, like, talk to us.

"Who here knows who John Calvin is?"

What is it with these nerdy musicians and their pop quizzes tonight?

Actually, he never explained who John Calvin is; only that "I’m a geek and I write songs about theology." Wankerish, but the music wasn’t bad, although it did not succeed with the stated goal of establishing the moral authority of the church. But this was a tough crowd for that anyway. It’s Malibu! We passed a Scientology church stronghold down the street on the way here.

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."

A Blockbuster Customer who had kept a movie so long enough that it was automatically sold to his account brought it back to the store to complain to my friend, the Intimidator, who listened and quickly tired of Customer’s whiney bullshit.

At that point, the Customer — who is always right — punched the Intimidator in his shoulder. Intimidator reached under the counter to that space where the can of whoop-ass was kept, sprung it open, grabbed the Customer’s punching arm, elbowed the Customer — who is always right — then knocked the Customer down with a counterpunch.

"I’ve been wanting to do that shit for so long," reported the Intimidator. He cracked his knuckles and let out a belly laugh. "They always expect us to take their shit."

"Aren’t you gonna get in trouble?"

"No. He punched me first."

Thing is, the Intimidator really does think he’s a superhero.

When I worked retail, I thought I was a ninja. Things like this never happened to me. I was so cool, so in control, so handsome and muscular; incidents always just fizzled out, like a fart in the wind. Stuff would happen during other peoples’ shifts; shoplifters, credit card fraud, back-room blowjobs; but I always miss the good shit. Except for the blowjobs. I never miss a blowjob, unless I’m in Kansas.

Sorry for being out of touch! My intertubez connection has been kind of wobbly, which has seriously impeded my otherwise steady accumulation of BBW porn (don’t judge me). Also, I’ve been trying to avoid my stalkerey ex. Yeah, I’ve got one of those. And not in the sense of "an enthusiastic follower who just likes me a lot," which is what people in Kansas think a stalker is; no, it’s more like "someone who’s intrusive and crazy and a little bit destructive," which trust me, is soooo much more exciting than the Kansas kind.

Good times, good times. So I’ve been spending my time temping in swank Santa Monica offices as well as furiously groping around for more school money. What’s going on with you guys? Grey Lady? Sexy Communist Spy? Princess Glitter Bunny? Atomic Fireball Candy? Saucy Aussie? Poetess? Sitemeter tells me you all still check in here once in a while (thanks!).

In addition to the money thing and the temping, my friend MiniMii celebrated my return to Los Angeles by taking me to the Wild Goose and springing for my first lap dance ever (don’t click there). And OF COURSE I was gonna write an awesomely cogent blog post about it, transitioning from the viewing of nipples to some revelatory insight on the true nature of man-woman relations, but I got drunk and couldn’t really come up with anything to say about it, except "tits!" which really sums up everything in the world with wit and precision.

Technorati Profile (Don’t click there).

The narrative of the Red Tent — a book that I have never read (thanks for lending it to me, Rhymes With Leather!) — begins right after Jacob stole the family’s birthright from Esau and fled to escape the wrath of his brother or something. I’m not cracking open a Bible (which I have also never read) to look up the particulars of the story because eww. So, we hear, in a voice and language reminiscent of the Bible’s beautiful formality, the story of Jacob’s meeting Rachel and Leah, and the births of Jacobs sons and daughters, including the book’s actual narrator: Dinah, daughter of Leah.

The Red Tent was an actual tent that travelled with Jacob’s family and housed the women during their menstrual periods. This was not an exile or a punishment; rather, being in the red tent was an honour that all Israelite women shared. Jacob’s family scorned the women of Esau’s family for not having a red tent. In the tent, there was an underlying mood of solidarity among the women — even among rivals, like Leah — Jacob’s fruitful first wife, and Rachel, who, though nearly barren, was the one he loved most passionately. It is in the red tent that Dinah learns what a family is and what womanhood is. As she grows up, the story of Jacob becomes more peripheral while we, the readers, get a distinct portrait of womanhood in the time of the patriarchs (I don’t know if I should capitalize that and I’m not going to).

There is a formal, romanticized feel to Anita Diamant’s narrative voice. Landscapes, personalities, cooking, even sex and death all burn with a gentle glow in Dinah’s narration. I was impressed with how thorough this voice was: perfumey and smooth, somehow encapsulating all of Dinah’s personality.

So what made her story worth telling? Is it because she grew up knowing bigshot asshole patriarchs? There was something else lurking underneath this voice, thorough as it was, that seemed slightly frustrating and dishonest. Dinah doesn’t seem to be fully there when conflict arises. Because of this, at times it seems more like she is more interested in observing her own life than moving it along, as though it were just part of the scenery she was describing so sweetly.

The best example of this is a retelling of Genesis chapter 34: Dinah’s marriage to the Prince of Shechem. Although Dinah is wooed very tenderly and beautifully and falls in love with the prince and they have lots of great sex (yes, that’s pretty much the only part I paid attention to. Or, at least, I would have if I had actually read the book. Ahem), and the prince agrees that he and all of his kinsmen shall be circumcised to prove good faith before Jacob and his god, Dinah’s brothers act as though she has been raped. They take "revenge" by storming the Prince’s house at night, murdering him and all the other Shechemites there.

Dinah, obviously, is not too happy about this. But what could she do? Did I want her to go upside one of her brothers’ heads? Sure. But she couldn’t. Because they acted under Jacob’s sanction, and it is not possible for Dinah to act against the family hierarchy, whether the H.J.I.C. is male or female. And then it hit me: her lack of agency wasn’t dishonesty; it was her reaction to power and the structure of patriarchy: another lesson learned in the red tent.

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?

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.

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.

He strides into the party with mirth and fanfare, as generous with his beer as he is with his condescension.

He has travelled far and wide, to mysterious Eastern lands and exotic European capitals. He has gathered a treasure trove of knowledge and wisdom, which he makes no attempt to hide from you.

If he didn’t talk down to you, he wouldn’t be saying anything at all.

So there you are, in his massive apartment on Saturday night, watching him sink into a frantic guitar-plucking trance.

The girls with long hair and gypsy skirts whirl and dreidel around him, hipster ballerinas shitting their small-town angst. He ignores them.

The others languish on the couch, heads propped up on cushions, on shoulders, on curiosity. He ignores them too.

Like this, he’s caught up a zenlike blissful dismemberment. His body fades into nothing, just hands and ears, whipping everyone around him, hornists and dancers and bored onlookers, into a froth of masturbatory coolness.

But you’re getting into it too, and he doesn’t sound half bad, actually, and maybe you could party even longer, maybe even forever, just as long as he doesn’t open his mouth again.

In la clase de Espanol we discussed what older cultural customs our families observe. The kewgrish profesora called on The Hour Badly Spent for perspective.
Most of my culture’s customs are from the 60s. Not that old.
But another student noted that if I listen to jazz, rap, or country, I am, in fact, involved in older cultural norms. Schooled!

Embarrassed at my cultural ignorance, I turned to Heart of Bubbles & Gold. "By the way, I hate rap."
"I am starving," she said, producing a cupcake from a secret backpack compartment. "Pregnant girl’s gotta eat," she shrugged.
"I know you brought two. I’ll be damned if someone eats a homemade cupcake in front of me and I don’t get any."

She only had that one, but she shared. Mmm, banana nut. Eat that, next generation!

A new reader admires The Hour Badly Spent’s willingness to get out and go places, with or without a date. That’s right: nobody here but real troupers!

The Grey Lady: I’m glad I’m not the only one who goes to shows, events, whatever with or without friend accompaniment. I think its a sign of independence (or just bum friends)

The Hour Badly Spent: Hope your weekend’s going great too! I’m still enjoying the "independence;" I played a computer game and went to bed early. What are you up to?

The Grey Lady: Oh no! don’t say it that way. It ruins the sham of independence vs. loser friends. Tonight is closing night, strike, then cast party. I can’t imagine it’ll be anything like mud river stone’s party.

Sorry to burst the bubble, but independence really is a sham.

See, some people become the center of attention just by stepping into the room. Like, all they have to do is show up and suddenly throngs of fervent suitors are tripping over each other with icebreakers and devilish smiles. Because of this, sometimes these superstars just need a few hours of alone time to get away from the spotlight.

"The pressure," exclaims one superstar, to a preppy, winsome engineering student, as the student recites his best pickup lines. "It’s just too intense sometimes!" Then the student excuses himself. At last, some precious time alone for the superstar! Freedom! Independence! Exuberance! And I know exactly how that feels. Ha ha, just kidding.

The sham is that the human being is by nature a social creature. One cannot even declare independence without having somebody from which to declare it. What I have isn’t independence.

See, here’s independence:

Cheerleader A:     So, there’s a new collection showing at the Beach museum. Wanna check it out with me?
The Hour Badly Spent: While I do fancy myself quite the art connaisseur, I’m afraid it would be best if I saw it alone.
Cheerleader A:     [pouty face]
The Hour Badly Spent: Don’t get me wrong. I lrrve your company! But the contemplation of art, an inherently subjective experience, is best accomplished free from another’s intrusive presence. Get me?
Cheerleader A:     I understand….that you’re a pompous windbag! Zing! But call me later, K?

Cheerleader B:     Hey stranger! It’s Friday night! Wanna catch a movie?
The Hour Badly Spent: While I’m sure that would be quite diverting, I feel that your company would undermine the aesthetic experience for me. Therefore, I must decline your generous offer in favor of my own independence.
Cheerleader B:     [pouty face]
The Hour Badly Spent: Nice ass though.
Cheerleader B:     [blush]

Cheerleader C:     So, I’m not busy tonight. Wanna hang out?
The Hour Badly Spent: What did you have in mind?
Cheerleader C:     Maybe I could stop by your place?
The Hour Badly Spent: What would we do there?
Cheerleader C:     [blank smile]
The Hour Badly Spent: [shrug]
Cheerleader C:     Hanky-panky?
The Hour Badly Spent: [another shrug]
Cheerleader C:     [Makes a circle out of her index finger and thumb. She "dips" the index finger of her other hand through the circle. She repeats this motion three times.]
The Hour Badly Spent: [shrugs again]
Cheerleader C:     Sex. I’d like to have sex. With you. Like, tonight?
The Hour Badly Spent: Oh! [Thinks about this for a moment.]
The Hour Badly Spent: I feel that doing such a thing would cheapen what we have You’d lose all respect for me. You don’t want to lose all respect for me, do you? Great. Super. Well, I’m supposed to give a motivational speech to high-school underachievers, and then I’ve got yoga, but you should totally give me a call later! Kthanksbye!

Cheerleaders:     Wow, he’s so independent, so rugged! If only he’d open his heart [sigh].

This is closer to what it’s really like:

The Hour Badly Spent: I really like what you’ve done with your hair!
Minerva Magestica:     [pulling out her cellphone, reading a text message].
The Hour Badly Spent: There’s a poetry reading this afternoon. Wanna catch it together?
Minerva Majestica:      [phone rings]
The Hour Badly Spent: Then afterwards maybe we could go for dinner?
Minerva Majestica:      What? Sorry, I’ve really got to take this.
The Hour Badly Spent: [Hangs out for like 15 minutes, then when no one’s looking, fades into the wallpaper].

The Hour Badly Spent:         Like, I, uhh, wrote you a love note.
So Hot It Hurts Your Face:   What is this tripe? Everything’s misspelled!
The Hour Badly Spent:         I, uh, well….
So Hot It Hurts Your Face:   Well, is that it? I’m kind of busy, soooo.
The Hour Badly Spent:         Uh….

The Hour Badly Spent:  Let’s hang out tonight! I’ve got movies!
We’re All Size Queens:  I can’t. I’m so tired and I’ve got all this, errr, homework.
The Hour Badly Spent:  But it’s Friday. And it’s 7p.m.
We’re All Size Queens:  What is this, CSI? Quit stalkin’ me.

The Hour Badly Spent:   Let’s go out!
Sic Transit Gloria:          I look kind of grubby today.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I like you just the way you are.
Sic Transit Gloria:          Whatever.
The Hour Badly Spent:   Fine. I’ll come over, bring clothes, apply your makeup, and braid your hair.
Sic Transit Gloria:          I don’t have any money.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll pay for everything.
Sic Transit Gloria:          I don’t like any place within a five-mile radius, and neither of us has a car.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll carry you wherever you want. On my back.
The Hour Badly Spent:   I’ll even get on all fours and gallop, like a horse. Girls like horses, right?
Sic Transit Gloria:          That sounds kind of creepy. I bet that if I asked, you’d even–
The Hour Badly Spent:   Gloria, you do not wanna know the lengths I’d go to.

P.S.: A pox on that Mud River Stone party!

While I was having lunch with the Sexy Communist Spy and her friend Darcy, we discussed whether all women really do hate each other.

Darcy and the Spy stopped eating their soup and began to dry-hump each other to discredit my theory. While they did advance an interesting point, I feel that ultimately they didn’t prove anything. Being wise and discerning, I can tell the difference between true love and a hatefuck. Plus, I’m pretty sure the Spy was only trying to get on my blog.

The Spy bragged about her fancy blog nickname. "Tell her."

"Communist Spy."

"You’re dropping an adjective."

"Sexy Communist Spy." It was difficult to say because it’s true.

Darcy considered this carefully. "There aren’t many Darcys, except for Mr. Darcy, and that’s lame. If we go out places together, will you make up a blog-nickname for me?"

Whatever, Slender Starrypants. You’re not even The Hour Badly Spent’s type, and you obviously don’t understand what The Hour Badly Spent is all about. This is a medium for social debate and artistic review, not a rehashing of some non-erotic drunken ramblings. This blog is a well-mannered, avuncular fellow, amusing itself with a glass of chardonnay while it reflects on The Sorrows of Young Werther. You’re young and superhot, struggling to reconcile your small-town upbringing with your secret wild side. This blog spends its evenings at home wearing an ascot; its only delight lies in illuminating the hidden beauty of the world with its pearls of cheeky wisdom. You, however, often surround yourself with even more superhot women, and you take delight in sexy escapades with brash young musicians. So you see, complete opposites; there’s no way that awww fuck it we’re free whenever you are, and dammit wear something low-cut.

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."

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. **

Let us be clear on a few things I like. A lot:

1. enormous swank apartments.
2. travelling abroad.
3. kitschy Asian products.
4. food.

1. kids with enormous swank apartments.
2. kids who have travelled abroad.
3. kids with kitschy Asian products.
4. musicians.

Such was my dilemma, at a Saturday evening birthday party, in a massive swank apartment occupied by Daniel, Andrew - a guitarist with a huge wound on his elbow; the Spy; the Man Who Travels With the Spy; assorted acquaintances dressed up like flags, and of course, various Asian tchatchkes: a sushi kit, lacquered chopsticks, and scary Japanese desserts.

"It’s so vaginal," said Andrew, introducing everyone to his elbow slit.

In Russia, vagina wound YOU!

I didn’t really say that. Actually I don’t even know what a vagina looks like.

The food was still being prepared and the kitchen looked like the set of Iron Chef. I feel weird in other peoples’ kitchens; I want to help with the slicing and cooking, etc, but I don’t know where anything is and would probably just look inept (actually I really am inept!), so instead I stay out of the way and just knock back the beer someone offers, which in this case was Tsingtao, by the grace of Daniel. Then Greta finished making her sushi rolls. (How do you make sushi in Kansas? Canned tuna. Mmmm, but yech). The eggrolls the Spy had been frying were ready. Mmmm, no yech. Katie’s curried veggies were ready. Mmm, no yech. The Spy also fried some orange chicken. Mmmm, more mmmm. So I guess there are advantages to obnoxiously young people who have travelled to China and come back with trendy sinophilia. They cook for ya! And if you’re good they’ll even give you a tour of the swank apartment, which is what Slender Starrypants did.

"This shower is ridiculous. It can fit fifteen people. Seriously, we’ve tried squeezing everyone in here just to see if it would work."

"Shower scene?" I didn’t really say that. Err, actually I did.

After the shower scene I floated around for a few minutes, eventually landing on the enormous white couch, and partook of these obnoxiously young kids’ 5000-inch flatscreen TV. The game was on. I’m pretty sure it was basketball. I was getting really really into it when the Spy disrupted my reverie by offering second helpings of friendship (see what I did there?):

"What are you doing over there? Come mingle with the rest of us."

English Department Head Elizabeth Dodd hosted a soiree after memoirist Allison Wallace’s Friday reading. "You’re all invited!" she told the entire population of Stuni’s Little Hall that afternoon.

This was it! My entire time here I’d been sweating for a chance to hobnob with grown-up English nerds, perhaps even put names to the faces I keep running into at the English majorey events just like this one. At last, the Bard answered my prayers.

Dodd lives in a tasteful house a westward hike away from campus. The get-together was everything I’d hoped for! There were little sandwiches! There was chocolate cake! There was Tanya Gonzalez! There was Jen Roberts! There was Anne Longmuir! There was Imad Rahman! There was Donna Potts (I haven’t finished the reading for her class! Don’t tell her)! There was Chris Kennedy (I was especially pleased about this because he was the only other person wearing a T-shirt)! There were avuncular gentlemen in red bow ties! There was booze! It was Elizabeth Dodd’s booze! I drank Elizabeth Dodd’s booze!

The professors were lively and full of good humor and wit. Why doesn’t it rub off on the undergrads? With that puzzle in mind, I stepped outside for a cigarette with Erica Hateley, who had an important question for me.

Do you find this entire town really, really racist?

Yeah.

I was afraid I was the only one who saw Kansas that way.

Nah. It’s weird how they all think they’re not, too. I come from a big city and even when you find someone who’s full of prejudice, it just doesn’t have the kind of legitimacy it carries in a small town. I spent most of last semester really pissed about it, but I eventually met some other minorities here. Someone took me aside and reminded me that I’m in fucking Kansas.

You can talk to a sophomore, but you can’t say much.

I’m gonna run home and write that down.

Don’t quote me! I didn’t say that.

Oh, actually I was going to take credit for it anyway.

I see! You’ve got a great writing career ahead of you.

Nowadays we talk about people writing a memoir. It used to be that people wrote their memoirs. A hundred years ago it meant that, near the end of your life, you’d sit down and do it, and there was a sort of gallantry about it. Today you can look for one on, say, Britney Spears or someone like that. It’s not about your life; it’s just a slice of your life. This is a new thing. The conventions for it are only recently being written. And so the people running out and sensationalizing these fake stories are breaking this brand new etiquette that they created.

You somehow managed to hail mary right over my trenchant social analyses and hone in on the *other* posts. Those in which I invoke defense mechanisms and feed my delusions of grandeur with alcohol; the posts in which I am pompous, childish, desperate and whiney; petty, self-indulgent, shallow, obnoxious, and worst of all, too prolix (my bad). And in so doing you found that secret thing which unravelled me. Umm, sorry about that whole business, by the way.

And what, exactly, was it? That business?

Yes, there was a party, months ago.

She noticed me. Asked me questions. Got my jokes, even the sly, insiderey one I threw out just to see if anybody was listening. And yes, whatever, I know it was mind-numbingly awful, just like 95% of my "jokes."

Where’d my drink go?
Oh, was that yours, on the table? I finished it off. Forgive me. It was delicious; so sweet, and so cold.
I know what you’re talking about, she said, looking right at me.
Do you now? I tilted my head.

And then, another night, she visited. Said all the right things. The sort of things you secretly always wanted someone to say to you? Those. "But how did she know?" I wondered afterward, dazed and smiling idiotically.

We partied in Lawrence one night. She invited me over some more; parties, get-togethers, studying, until by and by she didn’t. Then it was all missed phone calls, all sorts of excuses not to make dates, and then all of nothing.

As time wore on and the thing ran its course, I grew more ashamed angrier and angrier still with myself. I withdrew, even despite your kind efforts. Yours too, Sexy Communist Spy. Again, my bad.

In hindsight, this experience has helped me decide on something of great social imprtance which I’ve been mulling over for some time; I will no longer hit on any women under 40.

Except Dessa, of course.

-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.

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.

I was invited to the Sexy Communist Spy’s roommate’s birthday bash (in Russia, Party throw YOU!). This one had a theme: "thug party," which meant there were a bunch of dry-humping, ass-smacking, half-drunk, red-state 22-year-olds dressed like Missy Elliot. True to form, I showed up late wearing my Super Mario Strikers jersey (I fucking represent!), a pick in my hair, and I threw up lots of gang signs (I don’t actually know any gang signs). K-fed came by too.

An hour after I got there, the party died down. Umm, it wasn’t my fault. This time. Birthday girl was still juiced and wanted to hit the bars, so we did just that (in Russia, bars hit YOU!). I danced and barhopped and met a super-superhot townie and got to mackin’ to this bitch named Sadie (Sadie!) and generally made merry while Birthday Girl zigzagged from table to table, friend to friend, stranger to stranger, nizzle to nizzle, so proud to have people watch her turn 22, but she was also - I dunno - pretty stressed out?

It was obvs she missed her boyfriend pretty badly and no one in these bars could have possibly made up for that. I wanted to tell her to stop, be cool, roll down the street smoking endo sipping on gin and juice, laid back; just chillax and enjoy yourself. It’s YOUR birthday! Tha homies are supposed to come to YOU! But she never really got the chance, because not five minutes after I inhaled the sandwich she got me on her maxed-out Visa, as she dashed off to say hi to a familiar face 10 yards away, she tripped, fell, and busted her lip. While she sat there, crying, bleeding, and ashamed, I promptly revoked her pimp card.

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!

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

Saturday night the Sexy Communist Spy and her friend Hannah kidnapped me, took me to Hastings (like Borders, but with more cockroaches), and then to the movies, to see Charlie Bartlett. This was either a nobly misguided attempt to cheer me up (won’t work) or a cynically well-planned attempt to get on my blog (also won’t work. Wait). At any rate, I had spent the last nine hours chain smoking and listening to an endless loop of Tegan & Sara, so I figured some fresh air and moonlight would do me some good.

Since I’m a fairly big flirt, I feel strange hanging out with women who have boyfriends who are not present. Like, sex jokes are about 96% of any conversation I make; when that topic is suddenly off-limits, I feel like a painter gone blind (your move, Mary Cassat!). So in lieu of raunchy puns, I think we made what she told me was "con-ver-say-shun."

"I’m so not a feminist. I’m the opposite of a feminist. I just want to get married and have babies," she said.
"That’s not un-feminist. True feminism embraces all facets of womanhood, and totally supports your right to make whatever choice you…" then my voice trailed off because I started thinking of all the evangelical womens’ studies Inquisitors who have tried to shank me. Letting Megan think ill of them was really my only revenge possible. Then I made a sex joke or something. Then we went to the movies.

Charlie Bartlett’s projector was broken (heh). We movie-hopped and saw Jumper instead. After the movie, Megan’s beau, McDreamy, showed up and they got married and invited me back for a threesome.

I had to refuse. I mean, I know it’s McDreamy and all, but I still had last night’s god-fucking-awful party on my mind. Awful party = erectile dysfunction. Hey, it happens to everyone. Especially geezers.

McDreamy, however, simply would not take "no" for an answer. He knew some tricks. I don’t want to be graphic, so let’s just say it all worked out marvellously in the end. Let’s also say "bukkake."