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 Frowny Townie texted me late last night, urging me to come to Auntie Mae’s to celebrate the waning hours of her 22nd birthday. When I arrived, she was sitting at a booth, across from a guy named Johann, who was not saying a thing. Seriously, he placed himself just so the light could cast dark circles under his eyes, and spent all night sitting there and looking menacing while Frowny Townie talked.

And talked.

And talked.

That girl can fit the word "I" into a single sentence 58,000 times. Is this what passes for conversation these days? But with charmingly brooding fellows like Johann - good for nothing except inarticulate indifference - I guess it’s the best anyone can hope for.

Ever and anon more of her friends trickled in. Her brother. Her brother’s girlfriend, Caitlin. Jen. Jessica. Cassandra. Michael. They all sort of segmented off, not bothering to say hi to anyone they didn’t know. If she remembered to, Frowny Townie occasionally introduced people, but what’s the point; why introduce me to people who will neither talk to me nor remember my fucking name? Then they even actually migrated to the next booth and ignored the people left at mine. Exclusion is the new inclusion. I tried striking up a conversation with Johann; what’s your major, how do you know The Frowny Townie, what else can you do, but he just grunted and looked sullen. Why do people come out to bars if they’re just going to sit there and sulk? But at least he had the polite inertia to sit across from me. No one else even looked in my direction. Even when I stood there and said something like "Hi, I’m The Hour Badly Spent, how are you?" Nothing. As if a joke just flew over their heads.

These are annoyingly young snerts. Try introducing yourself to one and you get a cattlesque stare, a neutron star of civility. Try to strike up a conversation and they whip out cellphones to text-message old boyfriends. No wonder I feel all stabby whenever I hang out with people. For the longest I thought it was because I was somehow repulsive and inept, but no; it’s because they actually do just plain suck.

Whatever. I decided to sit back and see where their conversations led them. Frowny Townie and Ryan, my RA, swapped judgements on their classes. Ryan has taken American Survey courses; Frowny Townie has taken the British ones. I haven’t taken either yet, so I listened closely to those two, and actually learned some things in the process.

I had hoped that British Survey 2 would talk about some 20th century authors, like Dylan Thomas, Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, et cetera. But the course is apparently full of Victorian Lit, which Frowny Townie seems to be convinced is somehow relevant and "cool." Get the knack. Victorian everything is depressing. Nobody looks back on those good ol’ days fondly. George Eliot went out of style before your great-grandparents were born. Unfortunately, my only other option is American Survey; I would rather take a bath in a blender than slog through Moby Dick. So Charlotte Bronte, pucker up.

The subject of religion came up. Jessica chimed in, with an excitingly subversive syllogism to share.

"If you’re a Catholic priest, then you’re married to God. Therefore, God is gay."

Ryan took it and ran with it. "No, God loves everyone. He’s bisexual!"

"No he’s not," I piped up. "My church always made it pretty clear that God hates women."

Then someone called me a misogynist.

A while ago this would have sent me into paroxysms of shame and apologies. But fuck it; I’m no longer going to cave in to someone else’s earnest, numb-skulled missing of the point. If you’re too full of your own misguided indignation to understand what a pithy, brutal assault on sun-belt religious mores actually looks like, then you’re way behind on drinks, to say the least. While I’m at it, to hell with sun-belt religious mores. Wow, that was cathartic.

Frowny Townie continued. She had this story about how it was so hawt that she made out with her gay friend! On New Year’s Eve! She repeated it every time someone came into the bar with birthday wishes. By the fiftieth time I’d heard it I called bullshit.

The Hour Badly Spent:  Nipple tweak or it didn’t happen.
Frowny Townie:            No, he didn’t touch my boobs. He’s gay.
The Hour Badly Spent:  What difference does that make?

Well, whether it happened or not, it illustrates the central problem with these kids. Out of sync with their own spirituality, no sense of responsibility, no effort to even reach out to anyone in any meaningful way, and absolutely no sense of humor. By contrast, I spent New Year’s Eve doing the same things I do every day: yoga, then the art museum, then a motivational speech to inner-city children, then the library, then volunteering at the Retarded Dolphin Conservatory. So long, and thanks for all the fish.