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]

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?

Few things are more awkward than when a girl brings her friends with her on a date. Like backup in case the evening goes south, and the guy knows it. Saturday night I got to be one of those judgemental cockblockers; Ariana was meeting a soldier for drinks at Mae’s, and she invited everyone along with her.

As soon as I went down the stairs, I was greeted by a bunch of reporters in red T-Shirts. The Collegionnaires were pubcrawling tonight! "Hey, come with us across the street to Pat’s" said Brett King. Hey Brett & Co., just because I may have, on occasion, posted a few unflattering comments about  a tiny portion of your writings, this does not mean we can’t be friends, right?

They looked like they were having fun. And I did want to go with them, badly. Nevertheless, I had made a promise to Ariana. You know that I’m like the least manly person you know? That’s true, but it’d be great to have you there anyway. Besides, I really want you to meet him. By the time I showed up (an hour fashionably late), everyone was already drunk and surprisingly huggy - Ariana (felt good!), Cate (felt good!), Carolyn (felt good!), Cherry (slightly awkward!).

I spent an hour or so floating between Ariana, Ariana’s date, and Carolyn, who was kind of down because the football player she was seeing got mad at her for no apparent reason and slammed a door on her foot. That’s a definite no-no. He’s supposed to do that to the other team’s girlfriends!

When the soldier went to the bathroom, Ariana turned to me. You’re not trying to get with Carolyn are you?

Probably not, I said, drinking something that was in front of me. I’m not really in a flirty mood, and besides, my type looks and sounds much more like Ariana (reddish hair!) than Carolyn (skinny & blonde).

And then she hugged me again. Why is she so huggy tonight?

So how are you, The Hour Badly Spent? Her vowels are normally long anyway. Tonight all her small talk comes out like singing.
Super!
You know you can talk to me.
About what?
About anything. I search out her eyes. Maybe she really does want to get to know the real me.
How drunk are you?

By this time, Cherry had surrounded herself with guys, all of them much older and taller than her. One of them was like 50. Looking at her daddy issues on display from across the bar, I couldn’t help but feel cold and dark inside, like I was watching a puppy in a ritual sacrifice, except I can’t tell who’s the puppy and who’s the knife-wielding priest, who exactly is fucking whom, and maybe they are all victims with no predators or maybe they are all predators with no victims or maybe it’s just extreeemely creepy seeing some kid with old guys floating around her like stormclouds. If they’re going to swarm and compete to stroke this girl’s ego, why not just put their dicks on a chessboard? That’s a game I could play, because I get erect in an L-pattern.

At any rate, I settled into a booth, just sort of fading into the scenery. Ariana’s talking to her date. Carolyn left a while ago. Cherry’s doing whatever it is she does with clusters of older guys. I could sit here forever. I could also just go.

So I did.

Outside I tried to catch up with the Collegiannaires. How sick is it that although they’re snotty red-staters I really wanted to drink with them? The streets were full of people, cigarette butts, and vomit. There were purple T-shirts. Baseball caps. Girls with short skirts, long legs. Douchebag guys with their douchebag friends. A girl, frantically crying and pleading to an annoyed cop; her friend being responsible, "Christina, settle down. He’s not gonna do anything." No journalists. Starting with Pat’s, I went from bar to bar (the back of O’Malley’s smelled like gin and semen), skipping the ones with cover charges, peering through and around girls with impossibly clear skin, wriggling around more baseball caps, more short skirts, more long legs, more purple tees. Still no reporters. I went back into Mae’s and told Ariana that I was heading home.

Last night the Poetess observed that, though I visit fairly often, I have more or less been a "perfect gentleman" (I know, right?), having never once tried to "take advantage" of her.

I was kind of embarrassed, because I’ve been trying to cultivate the reputation of a lecherous, alcoholic geezer, and comments like that torpedo the effort of months of vodka and hard work (but mostly vodka). Nevertheless, I managed to think of two responses, both of which I believe were wholly appropriate and classy:

• "Poetess, I always think you are gorgeous, but especially tonight, with that red skirt and your hair slightly tangled and messy. And when you go without your glasses, like you are now, I could practically lose myself in your eyes."
• "I have nothing but the highest regard for your intelligence and wit. Frankly, your ability to pen verse makes me weep with envy. I believe with those things behind you, you will go far in life."

Unfortunately, since I actually tried to say them both at the same time, it came out sounding less like well-mannered verbal cunnilingus, and instead more like "Fuck off, Hippie."

In retrospect, "Fuck off Hippie" does not carry the nuance and depth of the sincere emotion I actually wished to convey regarding her sexiness; therefore, I am deeply sorry for any misunderstanding(s), and will be racking my brain thinking of how to make this up. Does anybody else have any ideas? Anything?

My Spanish class is full of superhotties. The final question on this morning’s assignment gleefully reminded me of such. Because, honestly, I hardly ever think about it.

    4. Les prestas tu ropa interior a tus amigos?

Comely Flaxen Locks:     Is that question asking if I give my underwear to my friends?
The Hour Badly Spent:     Of course I do! I’m wearing second-hand tightey-whiteys.
Comely Flaxen Locks:     So you’ve got a chain-letter deal going on, eh?
The Hour Badly Spent:     What about you?
Comely Flaxen Locks:     The correct answer to this is "I don’t wear underwear."

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’d been picturing this moment in my mind the second I came here and saw the band: their dark suits, their swing-dancing wingtips, the trumpet and the sax, and every time it runs through my head it goes like this:

"Hey, let’s dance."
"Whatever. I’m leaving.

But the band’s been at it for an hour, ta-tum tum ta-tum tum, and they are kicking ass, and I’m tapping my feet and swaying my head, and for some reason I got all dressed up tonight; new hairdo, favorite shoes, favorite tie, favorite shirt, and I just can not help myself. It’s now or never. I turn to Madeline and ask her.

"Oh, I have no rhythm." That’s not the point! This is Auntie Mae’s, not Soul Train.

But is this one of those times when I’m supposed to be a man and just go for it? I can never tell. So I make for her hand and she moves them both under her bottom. "No means no." Umm, it’s a dance, not a rape, but point taken.

It is never "one of those times."

She gets up to use the bathroom and while she’s gone a couple of girls walk by, going into a holding pattern right at the empty bench.

"Uh, sorry. Someone’s sitting here."
"That’s okay. I don’t want to sit there anyway." The way she says it makes the word there point at me and stick its tongue out. Saucy! As she walks away, I notice a tramp stamp: a ship’s helm (I guess it’s so the seamen know where to go).

Madeline comes back and the band is still going. The helmsgirl flutters back this way, onto the dance floor, with Jimbo (That guy knows everybody). They are dancing and the song winds down and the band announces their next one:

"This is a song by Duke Ellington. He still has it doesn’t he!" That makes one of us. I turn to Madeline again.

"Should have come here with a different girl." Duly noted.

And fifteen minutes later they start up another number, with that tempo again just right, ta-tum tum, called "Let’s drink wine." I know now if I can’t find someone to dance with me on this one I’ll be a miserable failure, sitting here with a stupid twisty hairdo and a stupid black shirt and stupid jolly-roger vans and stupid polka dot tie. I turn to the curly-haired blonde on the barstool next to me.

"Hi there. My name’s Swingie McJazzhands."
"Hi! I’m Anna."
"Nice to meet you Anna. How are you? This band is great, aren’t they?"
"Yeah, I love it."
"Would you like to dance?"
Oh, I can’t. My friend and I were waiting for someone and now we’ve gotta head out."

True to her word, they skedaddle up the stairs and out the door, presumably to a better, albeit torturously jazzless, party.

Jimbo’s on the floor with that girl again. There is exactly one other person here who I already know, and she is sitting front and center, so what the hell, might as well take another crazy chance and ask her. So I do. A moment later I take her by the hand and we start swinging and grinding like we were born for this night.

Ha ha, just kidding. She shot me down too.

When Matt Combes wrote his anal sex column, two things ran through my mind. First: this is a sure way to get all the red staters on campus to get their heads out of their asses and slide some cock in there instead, which - judging by the student body reaction - is what they all secretly want. Second: although it’s informative and frank, it seemed kind of crappy to sort of throw anal sex in their faces; it’s insensitive to their tastes. Nevertheless, there it was. Matt pretty much managed to moon us, and on principle, I always approve of a well-timed ass.

Nevertheless, something bugged me about it, and I couldn’t figure out what until I read Whitney Hodgins’ better-written column, then went back and read Matt’s recent oral sex piece. Matt takes care, early on, to cite statistics and warn us about disease. At the end, when he pats us on the ass and sends us on our merry way, my penis began to feel abnormally cold and dead, as though my mom just had The Talk with me.

Shouldn’t sex columns be, well, sexy? When I go buy my next Porsche, the first buzzkiller to remind me to buckle up will be promptly run over. We read these things for the softer, more personal angle: the sturm und drang of awkward hookups, the agony of slow, drawn-out rejection, the acrid sting of betrayal, the intimate warmth of the layer of sweat between you and the leggy tattooed hipster (I actually have no idea what this feels like), and so on and so forth. Instead, he’s all "90.1 percent of men and 88.3 percent of women have engaged in heterosexual oral sex." Toe-curling epiphany: men and women like to go down on each other. Also: "herpes hits almost anywhere in the mouth region, and along with gonorrhea, can get in your throat." Or, in this case, VD can be written into a column and spread to unsuspecting promiscuous bastards like me.

Drinking age should span all college students. At first, I thought Aubree Casper’s op-ed piece would be shameless, thoughtless cheerleading for the cause of under-21 drinking. But she presented a persuasive, carefully researched argument, backed up by figures (plus, she’s kind of hot): the presence of a university brings people to town; if you allow more people to drink (responsibly), you could also tax their purchases and give some of that money back to the school. That way, everyone’s happy and everyone’s drunk, which makes them happier. We all win! Next round’s on you!

Aubree, I’m sure an intelligent, pretty columnist like you has no trouble obtaining cocktails when the moment is right. However, if you find yourself in dire straits, just, umm, leave me a blog comment. We’ll work something out.

On a related note, what’s with all the cute, smart women writing columns today? The Collegian is kind of making me wet. Thank goodness my martini’s still dry. If the paper hadn’t printed another preachy, unoriginal Blake Osborn column ("As college students we should heed the thrifty admonitions of older generations and not get tangled in the spending spiral that drains so many accounts"), I’d take this as a sign of the end times.

Today’s sex column, Students should improve sex IQ by understanding myths, courtesy of Whitney Hodgin, was written with humor, class, and balanced with sensitivity toward red-state tastes. I’m sure I’ll never see another article like it.

She gingerly reveals the typical deep-seated sexual fears of, surprisingly, men. Do women fake it? I’ve always found their blank, disinteresed expressions; their derisive amusement over my penis length, and their post-coital mantra: "Hey, it’s been real, but I’ve got a better party to hit up" to be extremely convincing. But Whitney meant something different by "it": "toe-curling orgasms." No, I’ve found that they tend to get bored and fall asleep before they can get around to faking those.

Does size matter? Dave, a K-State human sexuality instructor, said "As long as a guy is two inches long, he’ll get the job done." That’s right - this is serious work! Annisa, a K-State senior, did not agree: "I don’t think two inches would do it," which is not good news for me.

"On the other hand," she continued, "a guy could be really big and not know what to do with it, which is worse." I know what to do with mine. When it’s sunny, I hang my wet laundry across it. That way, all day long, it smells like fresh detergent, although I have to suffer the effects of fabric softener.

Full disclosure: I met Whitney at an English-majorey speech or presentation or something last semester. She suggested that I write at the Collegian, and because she is a cute geek girl, I did not disagree. Sadly, after I had been there for a few weeks, Whitney disappeared from the newsroom, leaving me nothing to look forward to except the aloof self-importance of the remaining more dedicated, if mediocre, writers. Occasionally I would look over at the old, un-manned Macintosh by the window and hope a left-wing geek girl would just materialize into the seat, but it just never happened, which is as good a metaphor as any for my time in Kansas.

-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.

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.