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dead animal day in the bender
Sunday, May 26 2002setting: Hogwaller, Charlottesville, VirginiaMy hangover was so horrible today that after I walked to UVA's Cocke Hall, all I could do was print out some articles and then read them out on the lawn whilst drinking a Diet Coke, the only beverage available in the Cocke Hall drink machine. Further worsening my mood, I'd received an email from my mother saying that her horse was dying. She didn't say which horse, but I assumed it was her new Arabian Rica, who had been sick a few days ago. In my emotionally-fragile hungover state, I felt unusual empathy for my mother, and after sending her my condolences, I wrote Gretchen an email telling her how upset my mother must be.
During the hours I lay on the lawn, I began noticing patterns in the things people were doing. There was something happening somewhere within Old Cabell Hall (the building at the lowest end of the UVA lawn) that was attracting smartly-dressed young women, but whatever this thing was, it was something that only drew a few at a time over a very long period.
Meanwhile, a number of geeky-looking men kept appearing behind sailing frisbees which, after landing, they would ultimately hurl at the statue of Homer. It looked to me as if they were playing a frisbee-based version of golf. I've seen people playing this same frisbee game in Brooklyn's Prospect Park too, and I know the people who play it tend to be especially no-nonsense about it. One time in Prospect Park Sally grabbed a fall frisbee golf frisbee and I thought its owner was going to hit me (or at least slap me) as I returned it to him. There actually was an independently-minded dog running around today while the frisbees were flying and it didn't seem like he belonged to anyone. When he grabbed one of the frisbees, though, one of the geeky frisbee people yelled at him.
A Charlottesville bicycle cop rode leisurely past me and lingered for awhile within view and I wondered if perhaps he was taking note of my presence on the Grounds. It's not like the cops know who I am and as far as I know I'm not even persona non grata at UVA, but there's still no telling the extent of police interest in my presence in town. Hangover, you see, brings its own special paranoia. What's more, I found myself incapable of rehearsing a credible, legitimate explanation for my presence on the lawn. All the same, I was too weak to get up and relocate, so I took my chances where I was. Happily, nothing bad actually happened.
Frisbee-golf geeks.
The column-studded corner of Old Cabell Hall.
The material I was reading included a number of interesting printouts of articles found on the internet, most of them from Adobe Acrobat documents. Among these was a proposal by the movie industry to patch "the analog hole" (analog-to-digital conversion) as a means of controlling the flow of copyrighted content. Amusingly, the document contains numerous variations of the phrase "[A given copy-protection technology] does not mean less functionality for video devices, including PCs. Rather, it adds [their emphasis] to these devices the ability to determine the difference between protected and unprotected works." As if, as a consumer, I should be pleased that my new digital camcorder comes with the additional functionality of refusing to videotape my television when copyrighted material is playing.
A more interesting approach to rights management in the digital age was an article called "Taking the Copy out of Copyright," which draws attention to the fact that copying is an integral part of using digital media, and that what needs to be controlled instead is public distribution. Unfortunately for copyright holders, however, is the fact that much distribution today is done privately on peer-to-peer networks. You see, if you think about peer-to-peer transactions you realize they're really just advanced technologically-mediated versions of the CD swapping relationships we had back in college (or we did have, back in the 1980s). Technology has managed to distill out the essence of those relationships, and we no longer have to deal with all the other stuff we had to put up with back then just to tape someone's Pixies CD. Gone is the sharing of pot and the swapping of yarns. With KaZaA (say), we form a brief personal relationship with some stranger based only on the fact that this person has some digital file we want. Once we have what we came for, the relationship is over, and no one has even asked for a beer. Indeed, if someone tries to chat with you while downloading from your machine, you're likely to view this as overstepping the bounds of the relationship.
One final article that commanded my interest concerned the design and deployment of hypothetical internet worms with truly devastating consequences. It's a must-read for any would-be internet terrorist.I was reading that last article at around 5:00pm as I walked back to the Downtown Mall. I hadn't arranged any time to rendezvous with anyone, and when I got to the Jefferson I found neither Jessika nor her scooter. So I continued walking all the way to Jessika's place out in the far reaches of Belmont (this neighborhood is actually called Hogwaller by those in the know). When I arrived I found Jessika and Peggy just sitting down for five o'clock vodka drinks and I found myself thinking, "I miss the days of such matter-of-fact decadence." They were just getting ready to leave for Peggy's mother-in-law's wedding party, and they wanted me to come along too. I didn't know either of the people who'd just gotten married, but evidently it didn't matter. At this point in history I don't need to feel weird or uncomfortable about crashing parties when I'm with Jessika and Peggy; surely nothing as embarrassing and sagaworthy as the Jehu End of the World Party will ever happen again.
The wedding party was way down route US 29 in Nelson County, beyond that guy who stands in the median strip waving at commuters every day. As we were driving along, Jessika observed, "The bender continues." How true! Here I was, still horribly hungover, about to start drinking all over again.
The party was in the backyard of a fancy house in the foothills of the Blue Ridge. There was a swimming pool and it appeared to have the shape of an old-timey pistol, though we later learned from the woman hosting the party that this shape was purely a happenstance consequence of the pragmatic needs of her husband. The weather was still a little too cold for swimming, but this wasn't stopping Abu and one little girl about three times his age. They were by far the two youngest people at the party.
While Peggy did plenty of mingling and Zach performed with a ad hoc bluegrass band, Jessika and I stayed at one particular table sipping beers and eating the sort of food common to pot lucks. There was some salted Scandinavian-style salmon that we found particularly delicious. Various people came up to us and chatted for awhile, including the woman who owned the house. She told us about the various frog ponds and the species living in them: Green Frogs, Tree Frogs, Goldfish, etc. The Green Frogs were making a rubber-bandy "Thunk!" noise every so often in a pond nearby, while out in the woods the Tree Frogs would periodically chatter like crazy people. Our host was clearly something of a lefty pinko nature freak, admitting to releasing her cockroaches outside and hoping vehemently that Charlottesville's recycling program not be scrapped. When I told her I'd recently been to Iceland, she wanted to know all about it.
Since it was a wedding party, it didn't last too late and didn't feature anywhere near the drinking and decadent goings on of a typical Charlottesville party. I was pushing the envelope a bit when I uncorked yet another bottle of white wine after darkness had fallen. Unfortunately, I couldn't see what wine I was opening and I found the liquid inside tasted a lot like pickle juice.
In the course of talking about what beers we like and what beers we don't like, Jessika told me that she's grown rather tired of Yuengling, especially when it isn't perfectly cold. This was, she explained, the reason she was holding a can of Bud Lite. I told her about how the microbrew revolution would have passed my parents by had it not been for my influence. "Back in the day," I said, "their idea of a good beer was Becks Dark." "But I like Becks Dark," Jessika said. "Actually, so do I, " I agreed, adding, "I like that skunky smell." "Yeah," Jessika agreed, "It smells like retard salad." On hearing the words "retard salad," I burst into laughter. It had been a long time since I'd heard such an original term for marijuana. Evidently Jessika came up with it on her own.
Peggy had managed to leave Abu with Zach and Holly last night, thereby giving herself the freedom to enjoy a night of decadent non-responsibility. Tonight she arranged to do this a second time, although this time she had to work a little deception on Abu, who didn't want to spend a second night with his Daddy. By spelling-out some of the key words, Peggy got Holly to offer Abu a piece of wedding C-A-K-E, and while he was distracted by this unexpected windfall, we snuck off to the car and drove away.
The big party tonight was taking place behind the Blue Moon Café, a place that, when it has parties, tends to have especially crazy ones, or so Jessika led me to believe. We got there and were disappointed to hear 80s DJ music; Jessika had been expecting the Hogwaller Ramblers to be playing.
Aside from a few of the usual suspects such as Raphæl, I didn't really know anyone there until Rose the Instigator, Saras, and the Dirty Fingers arrived. Rose has a water bottle full of gin, which I used to supplement the anemic blood-alcohol levels attainable from the keg of cheap beer. I don't know if it was a persistence of the hangover from last night or what, but I wasn't in a particularly social or talkative mood, much though I wanted to be.
That changed a little after Nelly Appleby showed up. She had a Polaroid camera and a mind open to ideas for microadventure. When I announced that I had to go take a leak in the adjacent vacant lot, she decided we should turn it into a urination photoshoot. She pulled Dave Sickman from the crowd and got him to shoot the camera as we were about to piss. But it didn't really work out, because Dave prematurely blew through the only two remaining exposures and all Nelly had done was hike up her skirt.
I was feeling kind of punchy after that, shouting out to Jessika in simulated retard-speech and tweaking various people I didn't know and then sampling some retard salad that Nelly insisted had crack in it.
For all my punchiness, the party had taken an unexpected turn for the sad. Somebody had brought their dog and it had been off-leash, running around and having a good time until it wandered out into the street and was hit by a car and killed. Dave Sickman said he'd seen it happen. The moment I heard about the dog being killed, I was reminded of mother's dying horse. My mind discerned a pattern and was drawn to it as a means of understanding: today seemed to be a day cursed with unusual amounts of animal death.
As Jessika, Peggy, and I were leaving the party, Peggy (who was pretty well trashed from drinking illicit moonshine) grabbed my arm and said, "look at the fine lady you're leaving the party with!" I agreed, shouting behind me, "Yeah, look at the fine lady I'm leaving the party with!" At that, Jessika whirled around and hit me. A few seconds later, a couple Marines showed up and flashed their badges at Jessika and offered their services, though no one seems to recall what services they were offering.[REDACTED]
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