The hour badly spent

You know what would feel nice in the dorms right now? Heat, that’s what.

 

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 However, it’s on my mind a lot, and at times it will make me kind of withdrawn and surly until I can think of a witty declaration of some sort, which will usually come in the form of a Russian reversal ("In Russia, declaration think of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 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]

I never thanked you
for taking so long
to call me back.

A moment too soon and I never would have discovered

this book of poetry and the soothing noise crowds crowds make in small spaces
this dimly lit table, this ashtray, my first cigarette in two days
the clink of glasses in the hands of this barmaid,
who forgot my name as soon as I pronounced it
    but will remember what I came here for:
    this two-dollar bloody mary.

To think! With you, I might never have found out!
Or worse: I would have had to share.

If you could transmute silk into music, it would sound like the violin.

What I like about classical music: I can listen to it even when I’m not listening. With, say, rock or rap, I need to tune it out to gather my thoughts. But with violins, it’s different.

This is a blessing.

The Modigliani string quartet, four men, black shoes, black suits, black hair, and white ties; all of them, all at once, suck in their breath, lean back, like throwing a punch, and with a flourish, strike the fist note.

Violins playing is like looking at the world through a waterfall.

Tonight, this is a curse.

My mind wanders. I think of you, what you told me last week. "I don’t want a relationship." What does that mean?

The artists sway with their rhythm. One melody swings around, piggybacking another. Distilling one long note into the emotion of a lover’s voice. Pure and so frail, just like life.

Did I want a "relationship?" What made you think I did?

The sound of the music, now like an oak tree, full and sonorous. Low, like a hungry animal.
Now as high as a songbird in the morning. Dainty and light, like petals.

And why not a relationship? Are you too lazy? Too selfish? Are you seeing someone else?

Sometimes the one on the left likes to put his ear all the way up to the violin, like it’s whispering secrets to him.
For the faster bits, his hand moves frantically, like a sewing machine, like he’s slicing meat.

So hungry.

Is it me? Am I not worth the space on the bed? The jabbing interruption, occasionally, of my voice in the room? The hours in the morning with me and only me? The hand, lost inside mine, when we sit together in the dark?

And sometimes, he leans into the violin’s neck, all the way up to the scroll at the tip, as though he might fall off the end of the note.

While I was on my way home, a couple of girls dressed like Agent Scully stopped to chat with me. They were with Paige, a redhead who (1) was not dressed up, (2) was my classmate in Public Speaking last semester, and (3) I don’t like very much. Mind you, to make me dislike her, she had to overpower my deeply ingrained redhead lust. How did she accomplish this colossal feat? More on that in a minute.

The tall one introduced herself as "Sister Elizabeth." She led the conversation, talking with me about forming a personal relationship with Whoever and seeking a Purpose In Life (Nothing is true; everything is permitted). I was polite and respectful, I swear. After that, "Sister Carroll," who had nice eyes and entirely too much makeup, handed me a business card. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I looked at the card, then back at Paige, her auburn locks glimmering under the magical winter sun, and back at the card, as though it held the very secret of her (erstwhile?) doucherie.

Last semester, Paige’s speeches in class always came off as condescending and judgemental. Whenever I talked to her outside of class, I found her cold, snotty, and aloof. In hindsight I could have tried the ol’ "faith in the Lord" spiel to break the ice, but what if I did that and found out she really was the mean snob she only seemed to be? My entire faith in humanity was riding on this question, and to be honest, I wasn’t really willing to risk the answer. And I think that articulates what will probably keep me away from religion forever.

Between me and a personal relationship with God there always lies a Paige. A bullying hypocrite who thinks religion is a war you win against other people, instead of a way to open hearts and minds. When religion can make jerks into kind people, then will I make a joyful noise unto the Lord, but not a moment before.

Hyper-literate Bastard,

I worked very hard with you last semester and helped you when you were new at the Collegian. I stayed at the paper one too many times too late waiting on your content to come in. I did my best to work with you and how am I repaid? With rude blog comments about my reporting and writing, which I pour my entire heart and soul into. Did I ever insult your writing and reporting? Nope. I respect your decision to exercise free speech via your blog, but realize that your words are hurtful. I’ve worked my ass off for four years at K-State and at the Collegian, and while I’m not perfect and not even a "real" journalist yet, I don’t appreciate your words.

-Frustrated Editor

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I believe all the problems with the Fourth Estate are right here in this self-indulgent "complaint." To illustrate:

1.    I didn’t criticize her personally. I didn’t even criticize her overall writing style, which is so bland it makes me want to slit my own throat just to make sure I can still feel. I criticized a specific element of a specific article she wrote. I also criticized other specific elements of other specific articles other Collegian staffers wrote. BFD. Yes, my tone was breezy and irreverent. Hello? That’s my writing style. She’d know that if she exercised any reading comprehension skills on the rest of my post; all my remarks were made in a catty, condescending voice. I’m not trying to tiptoe around the tender feelings of these so-called "writers." I’m trying to make fun of them. I won’t flinch. And I’ve got A LOT of material.

2.    She tried to work hard with me? That’s up for debate. Yes, I was extremely late on several articles. Not that she cares (she made it quite clear that her own crankiness is The Most Important Thing In The World), but when deadline came around, I was also studying for 18 credits worth of midterms AND working on ways to scrape up enough money to, you know, stay in school (out-of-state fees are a bee-hotch). I’m fairly sure this has happened to lots of Collegian staffers. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she’d act like she didn’t have time (BTW, impatient supervisors are a real pet peeve of mine. You sign on to a position of authority only if you have enough patience to sit down and engage other people. If you’re gonna sigh like you’re too important to be bothered with the paeons, well, grow up. "Working with people" implies a certain measure of patience and helpful, friendly advice, not arrogantly forcing people to pussyfoot around your frazzled nerves). She’d edit the story without reading it; moving chunks of text here and there, changing the flow of the story to make it suck, then leaving me to clean up and make new transitions so it did not, in fact, look like it was edited by a careless snob. The best part: whenever I turned in a story early and left it there for editors to review at their leisure, the next day, the story would appear in print with EXTRA GRAMMATICAL ERRORS (We copied and pasted but left out the prepositions! Oops!) or factual errors (copyeditors should probably not work their "magic" on numbers and figures).

3.    "Free speech?" Don’t be so dramatic. Make no mistake; this is not the Washington Post. This is a dumb blog nobody reads.

 

Fact is, there was nothing wrong with my specific criticisms. The problem lies in the newsroom. I want to stress that this is not the fault of any one particular editor. They all believe that They Are The Deciders. Therefore, they put out a rag full of dull, misleading headlines, factual errors, grammatical mistakes, op-ed columns made of moronic drivel, and STILL THINK THEY’RE DOING A GREAT JOB! They have no capacity for criticism - from themselves or from the hoi-polloi - because in that newsroom, when heads go up asses and don’t come out, they start to think their stuff don’t stink. But when the rest of us actually read the paper, we can smell it just fine.

 

 

Today truly is a day for lovers. A lady pulled up in front of Marlatt to deliver a Valentine. It was a card with a silver heart-shaped helium balloon attached. The lady handed it off to the front-desk clerk, who blandly informed her that Marlatt could not accept the item, because - no, really - although it was addressed to "Alex" in "room 00X," it did not include a LAST NAME; because of that glaring omission, there was no way to be certain that "Alex" was the intended Alex. No way!

So listen up, you moronic red-tape drone: it was a VALENTINE. These things tend to take a somewhat informal tone. "Dear Alex, I wuv you vewy vewy much, love, Huggymuffin" is stylistically preferable to "Attention Alex W. Smith: Thank you for your romantic attention. Regards, Huggymuffin Lee, Esq."

You could always go the extra mile and contact "Alex" in "room 00X" to verify whether he is, in fact, acquainted with a "Huggymuffin;" when he screams in joy because he was, in fact, expecting a Valentine from a certain "muffinly" individual, that seems like it ought to be enough proof (unless you’re a Terminator). But don’t turn back a Valentine delivered by COURIER just because you’re a fuckwit.

It almost makes me want to believe in love. Just to spite people.

 

“i know its not really any of my business, and you probably dont care how i feel, but…if you were to hook up with cherry, id probably be really upset. id like to think im a cool person with no hang-ups, and im not really into her, but truthfully it would just piss me off. maybe im just hallucinating, anyway, and she isnt into you, and you arent into her, but. yuk. i cant really say why the idea of you two together wigs me out so much, but it really really does. so i figured id tell you and maybe youll care and maybe you wont, and maybe it doesnt matter anyway.”

-Madeline

And so began Thursday.

There ought to be a word that conveys the sense of “fuckittyfuckfuckfuck,” but - as in mathematical parlance - to the nth degree. Perhaps something like “I want to crawl under a rock somewhere, let maggots pick at my worthless husk, and then in 500 years when I wake up all this will have blown over, even though I’ll look like hell.” Too prolix, no?

Obviously, she’s suspected for weeks. I spent all day turning this dilemma around in my head. Tell the truth, piss her off, watch her walk away. Would she ever come back? Why would she say that I don’t care? How could she even think that? And wouldn’t I have to, like, make it up to her? But how? And what sort of relationship would that be, centered around a debt? Madeline’s been nothing but fantastic to me and now who knows what’s gonna happen? So many questions.

Alternately, lie. Keep my friend (for now, because obvs she’ll find out before long if this keeps up). So I turned this thing around all day, this sword of Damocles, sitting in my head and in my gut, wondering what to do about it? Where to put it? Who to tell? What to say? I thought about this all damn day long. Chain smoking. Physics class. Reading the Times. Eating. Waiting for Cherry to call. Screenwriting class. Another cigarrete. And another.

 

It snowed that morning. I saw Cherry outside the Stuni, and we talked for a moment before her phone rang again (it was her mom). The snow was really coming down; the wind stabbed and jabbed at our faces, our fingers, any exposed skin it could find, stinging and snipping like a juiced-up prizefighter. She got off the phone and I walked with her to class; we shared schedules; she’s got classes and rehearsal all day long and so I probably won’t be seeing her later; I wanted to tell her about Madeline, but what, really, would I be telling her? So when we reach Bluemont I just hugged her goodbye and headed off to physics. My cig went out and on the way as I fingered through my pockets, juggling papers and quarters and gum and keys and coughdrops and a comb and my ID and STILL NO LIGHTER! So I did it again and then again and then I remembered I handed it to Cherry, and when exactly was I going to see her again?

I was afraid that mentioning this to Cherry would, like, pressure her to give this thing more thought than she’s willing to, which will naturally send her running for the hills. So, is that what it’s come to? Am I supposed to be stuck in this no-man’s land, a streets paved with eggshells, a hazy, dimly lit Hell of Not Knowing? And is this not my own doing? My own timidity, my reluctance to just take charge, manhandle that girl, get up and dance with her and take what I want without apology, albeit in a loving and respectful manner? Niceguyism rears its ugly head once again.

A girl like that, a girl who can do that thing with her lips and her eyes when she smiles, a girl like that is a wicked wicked creature. Being with her is like getting up to dance by the bonfire right after downing a bottle of moonshine, because the fire is so fun and so beautiful and so dangerous at the same time, and while you’re dancing you feel so buyant and alive but also terrified, because that fire could rage out of control and swallow you whenever it wants to, or you could make a single stupid misstep and fall right in at any moment, and you were in fact terrified from the moment you got up to dance but that was really part of the dance too all along, and now its heat is so soothing and so menacing and you can’t stop the dance, even though you know you’re in mortal danger, because you’re drunk and you NEED THAT HEAT like you’ve never needed anything else in your life.

That is Cherry.

At 10:30 that night I stepped outside for (yet another) cig and made that dreaded phone call to Cherry - dreaded, of course, because who wants to be bothered with this shit? I told her what I was thinking about doing (reveal) and asked her what she thought I should do: deny deny deny, adding "Isn’t that what you do anyway?" Excellent point.

At that point, that I hadn’t spoken to Madeline all day probably told her all she needed to know. Nevertheless, I took a stab a the denying thing:

"It is totally your business, and OF COURSE I care A LOT about how you feel, and IT MATTERS. Me and Cherry: not happening.

Having said that, it seems to me that you must have some sort of feelings, either for her or for me. And of course, I can see why you’d be after me; after all, with the right haircut, I’m quite dashing; I’ve been drinking beer for a couple years and have developed an impressive gut - THE MARK of a bon vivant, a man who knows what the ladies like; I’m quite good at certain video games, which no doubt you find irresistable; all in all, with my whole nerdy loser schtick, I pretty much have to fight the ladies off of me. On the other hand, Cherry’s kinda cute too, I guess. Whatever."

Although I was more or less talking out of my ass like I always do, was I on to something? Why else would something like this affect her so? I asked her and she said yes, maybe she does have a thing for me, which I suppose explains it, but not really, because to whatever extent that it’s true, it’s pretty clear that she has no intention of DOING anything with me; she’s had sooo many chances - way more than anybody else in this forlorn town, and she’s also got so many options anyway so what the hell makes me special all of a sudden? I doubt being with her would satisfy her in any way; just the same, there’s no way she’s losing any sleep over not being with me. Bottom line: if she thought I was getting together with ANYBODY ELSE in the world except Cherry, she would not have sent me that message at all.

Not that I feel any better about it. Lying like that was the shittiest, most cynical thing I could have possibly done, and I did it did it anyway; now I have to go back and tell her that not only did I "betray" her but I lied about it, and obviously I lied because I didn’t want to lose her but that does not mitigate the cowardly shittiness of what I did. And what does it say about what I have with Cherry that I have to keep it quiet or else fear that she’d just vanish into the night? I hate just thinking about it, but when I look back I have to ask myself, what, precisely, am I getting out of this? Happiness? Passion? Misery? Hell? Is there even a difference?

 

My financial hold was finally cleared on Monday! What followed was a mad dash to enroll in classes I need. My advisor and most of my professors were receptive and understanding of my plight. Here’s what I sent the Intermediate Algebra professor: ——————————————————————————–

Professor Hawkinson,

My name is Hyper-literate Bastard; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in the intermediate algebra course (MWF 10:30, rec W 12:30) this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Hyper-literate Bastard, Kansas State University

And this was the response:

Hi. You have been successfully added to MATH010 Intermediate Algebra. 15860 REC T 9:30 CW 023 LEC M W F 10:30 CW 101 Please visit the following web page and acquire a copy of the syllabus. Regards, Dale P. Hawkinson dph@math.ksu.edu <<< Note Email address… KSU Holton 101E Manhattan, KS 66506 USA (785)532-5386

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Not afraid to be servicey! Sent the same letter to the Physics professor:
—————————————————————-

Professor Sorenson,

My name is Chain-Smoking Atheist; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your Physics 102 course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

And got this response:

Yes, I’m here til 430 and have a meeting at 200. Pick a time within these constraints. CS

—————————————————————-
So, I called him, I showed up, explained everything, ba-da-boom, I’m in.
I need one more semester of Spanish.
—————————————————————-

Professor Copple,

My name is Nihilistic Alcoholic; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your MWF 8:30 am Spanish 4 course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

—————————————————————-
Make it happen, indeed:
——————————————————————–

Hi Alcoholic,

You’ll need to speak with the instructor, Sandra Contreras, to see if there is room in the class. Her email is: sandrac@ksu.edu . If you don’t contact her before class on Wednesday, then attend class and speak with her there.

Mary T. Copple Assistant Professor of Spanish and Spanish Language Coordinator Modern Languages 005 Eisenhower Hall Kansas State University Manhattan, KS 66506 785.532.1924 mcopple@ksu.edu "Live simply so others may simply live."

————————————————-
Si, podemos.
So now I need to seal up that whole English major thing. How bout British survey? No problem!
————————————————-

Professor Donnelly,

My name is Snarky English Major; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your British Survey course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

Major,

I am sorry to say that the course is full to room capacity, and there are people on the waiting list. Even if that were not the case, adding a course with as heavy a reading and lecture load as this one after two full weeks of the semester have passed would probably be suicidal, academically. We’ll have finished Beowulf and the whole body of Anglo-Saxon literature studied by this Friday, and with on-going assignments, anyone adding this late would have to read hundreds of pages a night to catch up–not to mention that having missed the lectures and discussions would deprive such a student of much essential synthesis which will figure in the exams.

I’m sorry, but surely you will be able to find some class that has room and would present less of an impossible challenge as a choice to fill out your schedule. M.D.

—————————————————————-
Wait, what? — did he just say try and scare me off with the "impossible challenge" of "heavy reading?" Hello! I’m an English major. Heavy reading is who I am. And besides, why would he assume I’m not suicidal anyway? You don’t know me. I do what I want! I do what I want! This is a delicate period of my life. I should also clarify something: I am paying A LOT OF FUCKING MONEY to come here, which technically means that YOU work for ME. Jizzwad. Whatever; plenty of other fish in the sea.

I suppose his response was, however, much better than my brush-off from Intro to Fiction Writing professor Mohammad Rahman, who - I just found out - has apparently gone to New York without leaving a note outside his office or a means to contact him. It’s not like they have e-mail in New York anyway; that’s probably just a San Francisco thing. Text messaging is where it’s at. Duh. So I hit up Screenwriting.
———————————————————————–

Professor Reckling,

My name is Soulless Bricoleur; I am a K-State undergrad English major who would like to enroll in your screenwriting course this semester. A financial hold prevented me from doing so earlier, but that has been cleared up, and now I would like to meet with you and possibly obtain permission to enroll in your course. Do you think we could make this happen? Thank you very much!

—————————————————————-
Two days later and no answer. I know she’s held office hourse been in her office and held class since I sent it. I also left a voice message. I also staked out her office Tuesday. Apparently office
hours have been replaced with ninjitsu hours. I’m not letting this one get away. I followed up Wednesday night.
—————————————————————-

Professor Reckling,

Is it still possible to get into your screenwriting course? I’m a creative writing major and I would really like to talk to you sometime soon to discuss the class. Thanks!

—————————————————————-
And so…..
—————————————————————-

Hello,

I’m afraid you’ve missed too much of the class already to join us now. We’re completing our first text book tomorrow and having the first 20% exam. Our syllabus is in place for all the workshopping, as well, based on the enrollment of these past two weeks. I encourage you to think about the course for next spring, and to be sure to sign up earlier. Sincerely yours, Professor Reckling

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Ho ho ho! A response! An arrogant brush-off, to be sure, but read between the lines: she wants me. Watch this:
—————————————————————-

Professor Reckling,

Please, there must be something I can do. I’m completely willing to skip a whole lotta sleep to do make-up work, if necessary. A financial hold is what kept me from enrolling earlier - I’m from out-of-state and it’s kind of tough. Are you sure there’s nothing that can be done? I’m both eager and desperate. Seriously.

—————————————————————-
….
——————————————————————–

Dear Bricoleur,

Okay. I wondered why you waited so long to decide on this course; now I know. You’ll need to purchase the course packet at the Arts and Sciences Copy Center, which is on the basement level of Eisenhower Hall, just up the hall from our classroom (EH 21). You’ll also need to purchase the two text books in Varney’s. Bring the Smith book to class tomorrow. We’re finishing it, and I’ll be handing out an overview of terms to know for the exam next week. The other book is by Ian Gurvitz, and you’ll need that for later in the course. We’ll be viewing an episode of 30 Rock tomorrow. You will have the teleplay for this episode in your packet, and you’ll be doing work on this teleplay for next week. That work will be much easier work once you’ve seen the teleplay. I don’t generally add anyone this late. If you miss class tomorrow, I won’t add you. I’ll be sending the syllabus on listserve, and other information, as well, so you’ll need to be sure that your e mail address is officially registered with the university (if it isn’t already). The course, as I hope you know, is screenwriting for the small screen, and the focus is on the architecture of comedy in the sitcom. If you’re looking for film or for production, this is not where you’ll find it. If you want to learn how to analyze the elements of comedy in Seinfeld, News Radio, Will & Grace, Frasier, Arrested Development, 30 Rock, and their ilk, and to write original material for 30 Rock, this is the right course for you. You’ll have a lot of catching up to do, and you’ll have to do it rather quickly. We should talk tomorrow after class. Welcome aboard. Sincerely yours, Professor Reckling

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I love it how everyone thinks I’m gonna start wetting the bed just because an exam is coming up. Also: she "wondered" why I "waited so long?" How many times did I have to explain the financial thing? And why is the English department staffed with arrogant douchebags? Now I’m kind of afraid.

 

Two things that ruin a fresh snowfall:

1. In cold weather, condensation clings to my nose hairs. I walk around feeling like I’m dripping snot. I hate that.

2. Ennui. What’s with that?

Manhattan’s temperature dropped about five thousand degrees overnight. AND it’s windy. In the morning there were itty bitty snowflakes zipping around like gnats. Then it really started coming down. Oh mother nature, why not ease into this with a nice, steady decline? It would feel like using lube before getting intimate - something we can all appreciate.

Scrambling to adjust to the change in weather, at once a refreshing crisp-white and a bland blah-white, we begin to feel disconnected from everything else. The day feels fragmented and broken. The heart feels split in two (zerrissenheit, baby!).

So today, despite the hustle and bustle of finally getting ready to attend classes (confidential to FPS; kinda pissed that the creative writing professors seem to be blowing me off), I just felt sort of like giving up and taking a nap.

Even the Collegian was lame today. And not even in a vibrant, forceful, offensive kind of way. It was more of the same old shitty headlines ("Union Holocaust display educates visitors," "Students are asked to donate in blood drive," and the op-ed’s "Historical events should not be disregarded, forgotten" - which misrepresented the article - which was more half-assed irrelevant finger-wagging, just like "Media spotlight should focus on relevant issues"). At least Eric Davis shows he’s still on the cusp of culture; "MySpace, Facebook users must use caution when dealing with potential online predators." Confidential to Eric: if you’re going to phone in vacuous drivel of the "no shit" variety, would it kill you to take like THREE SECONDS and jazz up your headline? Just throw me a friggin’ bone, know what I mean? Also, according to Allison Voris, a rape occurred somewhere, by someone. Thanks for the heads up Allison! Kthxbai!!!1!!1!!!

Like I said, kinda lame. But sadly, not lame enough to evoke a more heady, vigorous thrashing. You know, the kind where you grab it by the balls, twist as far as you can, and giggle. Maybe some other time, eh? 

Cherry’s sick. Do you (just who am I writing to, anyway?) think that has anything to do with my blah mood? Like, we’re bonded on some deep, metaphysical level whereby I intuitively feel her discomfort? Or that maybe, like everything else in the universe, her sickness is really just all about me?

I hate worrying about these “feelings” thingies. I am a simple man, and these things are all murky and complicated.

Perhaps it’s the secrecy element of the whole sitch.

When Cherry and I are alone, it’s like being in our own corner of the world, a warm fuzzy bubble of awesome. Leaving the bubble is the most depressing thing in the world. There is you Inside the bubble, and there is you Leaving the bubble, and never the twain shall meet. But outside of the bubble, you feel alone and disconnected wherever you are. Keeping a secret like this "screws with your sense of reality. It makes you, in a sense, split right down the middle. It cracks you in two. [Strawberry Saroyan]"

I guess the fresh snow just reminds me of my own complicit silence in the whole affair. Le sigh.

So that’s why you disappeared in such a hurry.

What am I to make of this?

This girl, this rancid whore, was in my Shakespeare class. I found her to be kind, well-read, intelligent, and pretty dorky (the character of any single person is manifold and complex). Toward the end of the term, we sat next to each other in class, because we - along with a heavily tattooed lesbian - decided to perform a scene out of "As You Like It" for extra credit. In addition, this fostered a healthy informal discussion of our assignments and of Shakespeare in general. This acquaintanceship only grew and grew, until finally, exam day came (I studied with the lesbian).

Then, exam day went. At the end, I knew I had done well.

Then, we got our exams back. The professor announced that a few people had gotten A’s. I was certain I was one of them.

And I was! 92%! Smugly, I peeked over at hers.

96?

What the fuck? What am I to make of this?

Four points! She beat me! By FOUR fucking points? I re-read my short answers, my essays. I had gotten my facts right. My prose was subtle, gently ironic. I knew for a fact hers was too prolix. Four points!? Mind you, of course, that I wasn’t looking at this as a contest, but as sweet as she is, she’s also a Type A studyholic and mopping the floor with her would have been a symbolic triumph for chain-smoking slackers everywhere. And now I had failed them all. What are they to make of this?

Apparently she thought the same way; after we shared our scores, she said something to the effect of "in your face," which I actually found kinda cute.

Nevertheless, I let her walk a few steps ahead and then unloaded 3 rounds into her back.

I felt kind of bad, seeing her twitching and moaning in pain like that, her blood expanding into the fresh white snow around her, like she had laid down to rest on a giant maxipad. With wings. So I shot her again, in the head, and she stopped moving. Then I took all the cash out of her purse. But to be honest, it wasn’t much money, and I still sort of felt bad about the whole thing, even after using her crisp fives and tens to buy cigarettes and Snapple at the gas station.

Obviously, however, I couldn’t bust a cap in our unresolved sexual tension, because now that she’s made a full recovery she feels strongly enough to click in a few places and send me a photo of a heart-shaped chocolate candy.

What am I to make of this? If I were, in fact, as close to her as you fear, I would have probably told her that I HATE chocolate. The best way to make me lose weight would be to make me live in a Godiva store. The cloying aroma of chocolates sweet and bitter would always spur me on to do something else. To AVOID chocolate, you see. Something like scrape out my gums with a red-hot poker. Make out with a hobo. Swan jump off of a gorge and dash my brains against the rocks below. You know, fun stuff. Ahh, chocolate.

So there it is; this chocolate she has sent to me and about 19 of her other Facebook friends, many of them women who are probably also crazy for me. Surely, however, she was thinking only of me and wanted to disguise her passion by slipping it in with all those other nobodies. What am I to make of all this? Since when did overachievers have friends?

The lesbian got a 97, and believe me, her days are fucking numbered too.

Respectfully: on a serious note, I think you’re misreading the point of this site.

If this were eHarmony or adultfriendfinder, giving chocolate with little hearts would be cause for concern. Of course, I suppose if I were on eHarmony or adultfriendfinder in the first place, that would be cause for concern in itself. But I’m not on those sites, you see. I’m on the eff-bee.

The mood here is not "nice shoes, wanna fuck." It’s more of an idle, friendly merrymaking, but for people who can read (total facial, MySpace!). Some of the interaction borders on flirty, but it’s more or less what-you-see-is-what-you-get, i.e. not a whole lot of sexually charged subtext, so please don’t read too much into it.

People.
Are.
Just.
Being.
Friendly.

It’s not like someone actually went to the effort of thinking up an amusing, clever, sexy pickup line. She just clicked a few places and sent a picture of some chocolate. From the looks of it, she sent the same thing to like 19 of her other closest Facebook friends too. At the same time! Teh internetz lets you do things in mass like that. No big deal. People do it constantly. They’re just being friendly! If you hadn’t pointed it out, I wouldn’t have noticed it for a week, because sometimes I’m not so friendly. Sometimes I’m stabby.

"Sometimes people get cut. That’s life." There, I quoted a LiLo movie; now I’m going to go somewhere to re-evaluate my alcoholism.