The hour badly spent

Putnam, for me, is supposed to be temporary, but apparently everyplace else is filled to capacity. I talked to Housing this afternoon and they’re still processing cancelled contracts and adjusting for students who didn’t show up this semester. So there’s still hope as far as getting a place where I can prance around naked and sip foofy cocktails far from society’s harsh judgements.

As I was on Claflin this afternoon, walking back home from the Housing building (why is it way over on the very edge of campus?), for a minute, I was a few yards behind some girl. A silver 700-series Beemer drove up on the street, slowed next to the girl, and honked. Then it took off. But before it did so, I could see the driver and his passenger, two red-faced guys who looked equally fratty and rapey, bobbing back and forth in their seats with laughter.

I try hard to be smug and indifferent about this kind of behavior, but I was really offended for the girl. I mean, every single time I’ve seen a BMW on the road, the driver absolutely cannot help but act like a huge douche. It doesn’t matter what year or model he has. It could be a rusty ‘83 with the muffler dragging on the ground and the driver still cuts you off like he’s got a brand new Porsche (Porsches are allowed to cut you off. You should really just expect it). And what with all the supercharging and the sport-tuned suspension, you must feel like the absolute King of DoucheyFrattyRapeyDrivingLand.

The thing is, I never pull lame stunts like that to get attention. I don’t even tell people that I’m Knight Rider. If word got out, all my loved ones would be in danger.

I used to take the bus a lot. During the wait, after I whipped out a Parliament, inevitably some grungy-looking lady would make a big production out of faux coughing and fanning the air, as though I had just pulled her into the rancid colon of a dying mastadon. And I’d think to myself, what a prick; she needs this more than I do.

Then I contritely move downwind of her and enjoy my fine tobacco product. Because while the lady is being obnoxious, so am I, which was the focus of Mark Ehrbacher’s Collegian column today. No, not me, silly. Smoking.

“The Manhattan City Commission will vote Tuesday to determine whether to enact an ordinance that will ban smoking within Manhattan city limits at any place of employment or at any public place.

“The argument made for the ban is clear and easy to make. Cigarettes are unhealthy, and has been scientifically proven. It is also a nuisance to some pansyasses people who do not like the smell of cigarette smoke [ed. note: try cloves!].

Years ago, California agreed, outlawing our smoking practically everyfuckingwhere. Now a related bill will be put to the vote locally Tuesday. And lo, some ado is being made about our civil liberties or whatnot. "The ban is wrong on many levels," Mark writes.

"Many restaurants have taken it upon themselves to have smoking and nonsmoking sections. If people do not want to smell smoke while they are eating, no one is forcing them to eat at this restaurant. They can choose to eat wherever they like.

“If there was a large enough outcry for a smoke-free environment, business owners would take it upon themselves to provide one to make more money.

“If a person applying for a job doesn’t like the smoke, they can apply for a job somewhere else.

Then he makes an analogy with people who work in hazmat jobs.

As a dedicated intaker of the sweet, sweet, smokey goodness, I know I should probably take Mark’s side too. But the bill will probably pass, because these bills are passing everywhere. And it’s really not much of a big deal.

In California, you can’t smoke in bars or restaurants. And so, when you’re out at a table, you’ll say "I need a fag," and you’ll go outside and light up. Then a few other people will join you, because either they are trying to fuck you, or because they also need a few minutes away from some other annoying prig at the table, or maybe some will just figure it’s best to do whatever the cool kids are doing. And it will be a nice ten-minute clique. The smokers will all feel like they’re in on a dirty secret together.

And later on in the year, when it gets cold outside, you’ll become more scraggly and determined, huddling in a circle with muddy snow under your boots. And one of you will point out that you’re all pathetic. And you’ll all laugh and take a drag, all secretly knowing that yes, you really are pathetic, which is fine because the people who stayed inside are just not much fun, which is always worse.

[Source: K-State Collegian]

I knew, after our talk, during Friday’s annoyingly poetic thunderstorm, that eventually you would get bored or curious and click on that link (I don’t mind that anyone finds it; it’s right out there in the open on my Facebook profile). Then you would read back and see "how I really felt," how childish and petty I really was, how prostrating and selfish I really was, how arrogant and judgemental I really was, how lonely and bitter and embarrassed I really was, but mostly how drunk I really was.

So I knew you would find The Hour Badly Spent and that you would tear through all those posts, and I thought of how easy it would be to just make them private, but then why did I put them there in the first place? Also: I am extremely lazy, so much so that I can’t even be bothered with extra mouse clicks. Also: it’s not really a big deal anyway. Nobody reads this shit except for a few people to whom I’ve given obnoxious nicknames [ed. note: I’m tired of trying to amuse my readers — all 3 of them — with with creative monikers. We’ll be on a first name basis. Except for Professor Potts and Doctor Dodd, because that sounds like they teach at Hogwarts. And Doctor Hately. She went on and on about how hard she studied for that title, la dee da, and if the rest of us don’t damn well recognize or whatever, she is not afraid to shank us. Then she downed a shot of Vegemite with horseradish and yelled "Huzzah, beehotch!" at Princess Glitter Bunny, which was utterly terrifying but also kind of hot*].

This stupid blog was not meant to be some sort of cudgel. So, about all those verbal swipes; umm, my bad. Skimming back through them, I’m actually terribly embarrassed. They weren’t really about you; they were about me: a tabloidey chronicle of what the f, exactly, I am doing here, because otherwise I’ll forget. And if now, I am sometimes disturbingly quiet, it is not because of you or any you-and-me stuff. I had a pretty bad summer, during which I made a terrible mistake and now I’m a thousand miles away and cannot fix it. I don’t mean to play the mystery man but I also really don’t want to talk about it. However, it’s on my mind a lot, and at times it will make me kind of withdrawn and surly until I can think of a witty declaration of some sort, which will usually come in the form of a Russian reversal ("In Russia, declaration think of YOU!"), because those are cheap and easy. Everybody knows how I feel about cheap and easy.

Anyway. So. Not to be all "the only emperor is the emperor of ice cream" over this but it really is all kind of old. A month in blog time is like two years of reality. I’ve aged TEN YEARS since, you know, back then. Which makes me forty-fucking-six. And not to diminish what happened, either, because we did, in fact, have a good time.

It was a good time because you took me to Lawrence in the winter, which was beautiful and white everywhere, and to that party full of Lawrence hipsters — who are much better than Manhattan hipsters because in Lawrence their dresses are smaller. It was a good time because of that morning we laughed together for five straight hours, even though I know you are not that funny and neither am I. It was a good time because we drank way too much and spent nights together and all that other stuff, and perhaps there was just not enough "other stuff" but whatever; you get the point.

Let this be the last of these pretentious livejournal-ish rants of mine. And I’ll try to cool it on the Sonnet 30 references. The Collegian is out! Let’s go make fun of it. And maybe while I’m at it I’ll write more coherently.

*This never actually happened. But it definitely should have because isn’t it awesome? Plus you can totally picture it.

My plan for academic success was as follows:

Smuggle in some vodka and take a shot every afternoon immediately after my last class of the day. Then begin the homework. When done, take another shot. Or two. I think this shows great foresight on my part. When I got my room assignment and schlepped my suitcases up four floors to 426, I discovered that I had a roommate. NO WAY am I gonna share my liquor with some 20-year-old, I thought, but apparently that won’t be a problem. Aaron is my RA.

No, there will not be any catty "check out his hypocrisy" type of blogging, because that’s lame, and would probably go like "He steadfastly maintains he will only drink Dr. Pepper, but I secretly switched his drink with Diet Dr. Pepper and four out of five times, he couldn’t tell the difference!" But needless to say, I need a new blueprint for academic success. I think I’m going to stash some jack in the Hale Library stacks on the fourth floor, somewhere high up behind some foreign-language tomes, and just take a sip every night I go there to study. And if I don’t actually drink it, I will still be happy just knowing it’s there.

And OF COURSE I am working on that maturity thing.

As we float towards autumn I can’t help but be reminded of that feeling of being newly in love. The whole world is so beautiful, everything a delight. Winter snow feels like warm summer nights; every outing precious and magical. Even every second you spend alone is surging and overflowing with anticipation, for that next time you meet.

It’s like that night she was in your car, that old 95 Mitsubishi, driving up through the hills with the windows down and the radio way up, and you pretended to sing along to punk rock songs you didn’t know just to impress her. And maybe it worked, because she didn’t mind one bit when you put your hand on her thigh; you even thought you could see her blushing and trying to hide it. Or maybe you were still too shy to touch her but she gave you that look, when you dropped her off, that smile both happy and not really innocent, and you told yourself next time you shouldn’t be so shy.
 
No, I’m not dating anyone. I’m just back in Manhattan, that’s all.