Today's lesson: an easy friend is not necessarily a permanent friend.

Secondly, I'm in trouble with the idiotic nazi simply because I told him the rude and unbearable truth while defending the honour of the Dynashack.

I


  had lots of crazy dreams last night. In one dream I was presented with the Nobel Peace Prize completely unexpectedly. Head injuries seemed to be a constant theme in my dreams also. I have no idea why.




A


fter I came back from my usual Sunday stint at Cocke Hall, I met housemate Steve at the Dynashack. At first he asked me mysteriously "are you planning on going?" Then he turned off the television and informed me that he'd had a "meeting" with the others (the only people currently there besides me are Elizabeth, Penley and himself) and that they'd made a decision. He said that I'd exceeded some sort of mysteriously undefined "limit" for the number of "incidents" and friends coming over, and that now, after the ridiculous nazi had come and stood in front of the house wanting me to come out and play (apparently skinhead Dean had dropped by again after I'd gone to bed last night), things had gone too far. Steve said he wanted me to leave as soon as possible. I was amazed. First of all, no one had ever really given me any limits for the number of friends I could have come over (true, Elizabeth had told me at the beginning that it would be best if all of Charlottesville Youth culture didn't start hanging out). Secondly, I'm in trouble with the idiotic nazi simply because I told him the rude and unbearable truth while defending the honour of the Dynashack. It is in my very genes to "not suffer a fool easily." That the nazi has become an almost comic belligerent as a result seems to me to be beside the point. The obvious subtext here, of course, is that my housemates are scared, and they will gladly sacrifice me for a small measure of comfort. It's a cold, bleak, and lonely world when you discover that your value as a friend measures less than your value as comfort ballast. Since I am the only one not on the lease, they have the power to kick me out. The implication even seemed to be that I should leave immediately. Steve seemed to have rehearsed his speech, because he said certain phrases several times. One of these was particularly condescending (and somewhat inaccurate), "you are 28 years old." This was said in a context that implied that I should have my shit together enough to find another place instantly.

I called Nathan VanHooser, since he has saved me before when I was suddenly homeless in Charlottesville, but he seemed to be away on Memorial Day vacation.

A


t first I raised objections and asked for more consideration, telling Steve that he was taking the "easy out." But his resolve was firm. I really don't enjoy being an unwanted entity, so after considering the matter in stony silence, I started moving out. I took back to Staunton a huge amount of crap that I won't be needing for awhile. My parents and brother were being their usual chatty selves, but I had no patience for them. They could tell something was amiss, but they didn't ask me what it was and I didn't say. I don't want them to know I have been betrayed by my housemates and turned out onto suddenly dangerous streets.

I had a lot of time to think about matters as I drove my car back and forth to Staunton. I'm not really surprised that Steve wants me out. I like him; he's intelligent and funny, and his Capricorn organizational skills were essential to the timely payment of bills. But he's always been the most uptight person in the house, the one most at variance with my lifestyle. We've clashed before too, most notably at the first Space Party back in September. So I'm not surprised to find him putting a knife in my back. As for Penley, well, he's always been the quiet type and I don't really know him that well. He lives a mysterious life and security seems to be important to him. He keeps his bedroom door locked and all of his food in his room. The person whose betrayal hurts the worst is Elizabeth. If anyone in the Dynashack should understand my situation, she should. I know I didn't handle this skinhead thing perfectly, but summary justice from Elizabeth is a devastating humiliation. It's doubtful I'll ever have anything to do with her again.

Their idea of a challenge is a big paper that needs to be written.

It's a terrible thing to suddenly find myself being kicked out of the Dynashack on bad terms with everyone there hating me or else thinking me some sort of sketchy person whose lifestyle is beyond tolerable. Ultimately it comes down to a culture clash. I live an active life in the seedy but interesting underbelly of Charlottesville. My housemates, meanwhile, want safe, predictable lives free of controversy. Their idea of a challenge is a big paper that needs to be written. If maintaining their pleasant college-daze-security means letting nazi views go unchallenged, if it means evicting someone who is in trouble with the forces of evil, then so be it.

In a way I feel like I'm paying a disproportionate amount for Space Party II. My CDs were stolen, I've got an ugly retarded skinhead hyped-up in an irrational animal anti-Gus state, and now I'm evicted from my home. It's almost enough to make me turn my background black.

Of course, it also makes a lot of sense for me to not live at the Dynashack anymore. The skinhead Dean knows I live there, and furthermore, he lives catty corner across the street.

When I returned to Charlottesville from Staunton, I went directly to the C&O where I knew Matthew Hart was working. I'd been kind of abrupt with him and my other friends last night and I wanted to smooth things out.

I ordered a pint of Guiness on tap, which, in a fine five star restaurant like the C&O, is served at about British room temperature, that is, 45 degrees Farenheit. It was an ordeal to drink. The bartender neglected me horribly and I was still in an anxious mood (I was even feeling occasionally nauseated; I don't take very stress well). Matthew was very busy, but still we arranged for me to come by when he got off work at midnight so we could go sleep at Leah's father's place tonight.

That paranoia was legitimate; in the aftermath of a zoning dispute two different neighbors fired guns at my parents and another used to shoot his gun during the wee hours of the morning as a twisted form of protest.

I armed myself with an iron rod hidden at my hip within my pants. It's the sort of rod used as a handle in a bumperjack. I didn't want to be caught in a vulnerable position should I run across one of the forces of evil in town.

I've never felt so threatened in an urban environment before. Back when I was a kid in the late 70s I used to fear being shot by the redneck neighbors. That paranoia was legitimate; in the aftermath of a zoning dispute two different neighbors fired guns at my parents and another used to shoot his gun during the wee hours of the morning as a twisted form of protest. But fear was part of the price paid for asserting our rights. We were proud of our resolve. We were not driven out. We stayed through the years and ultimately the redneck neighbors moved out or mellowed out. My childhood home is where I ultimately built my shaque; now it's the one place on earth where I feel truly secure.

T


he Downtown Mall was not exactly happening, so I went out to the Corner. Nothing much was going on there either. I talked with the weird post-goth guy named Dempsey for awhile. He'd been sitting in front of Follette's reading an anthology of frightful poems for children written in the style of Edward Gorey. After I told him of the problems with the skinheads and my subsequent eviction, he said that life in Charlottesville now seems like the scene in a movie where the desperate citizens await the arrival of a powerful leader to take care of the "town problem." A pied piper leading skinheads happily over a cliff would suit the situation admirably.

I slammed the Dart into reverse instead of forward and backed with a thud into the car behind me.

I parked my Dart in front of the Corner Market and moved some audio and video equipment to Comet where I might find it more useful. As I was pulling out, a guy was waiting to pull into my space. Owing to how flustered I was both by the background stress of today's eviction and the immediate stress of someone waiting for my space, I was driving poorly. I slammed the Dart into reverse instead of forward and backed with a thud into the car behind me. No big deal; I surged forward, hoping to flee the scene. But then here comes Dwain the tall lanky Corner cop, saying I'd "just hit that car." Aw shit... But when we looked at the other car, it was fine. The bumpers had lined up nicely. He told me I could leave. What a relief. That could have been a major ordeal: it would have been yet more suffering resultant from Space Party II.

At around 9pm I went to the Pantops Food Lion to get a case of Schlitz. In the parking lot a couple of teenage boys asked me to buy them beer. I was suspicious that they might be part of some kind of undercover sting, so I quizzed "Brent" about who his friend was, etc, etc. He assured me he had no intention to drink and drive. Okay, so I went and bought him his case of Bud. I thought it might help my subversive karma.

W


ith no home to go to and nothing to do, I parked my Dart near the C&O and tried to sleep. Meanwhile rain fell from muggy skies and I found myself drenched in sweat, uncomfortably hot. I did sleep a little.

It had been red wine that time, and I vividly recall how the other bozART members tried to account for the mysterious red splash marks all over the white walls.

Matthew Hart woke me up past midnight some time. Then he went to park his car so he could ride with me out to Leah's place. It was a long drive some 30 miles to the east of Charlottesville to a very rural part of Louisa County. As we drove, we discussed my housemates' treachery and drank communally from a bottle of white vino. Opening it had not been easy; Matthew Hart used a screwdriver to plunge the cork into the bottle, and doing so sent a spray of vino droplets everywhere, exactly like the occasion a year and a half before when we tried to drink vino in bozART. It had been red wine that time, and I vividly recall how the other bozART members tried to account for the mysterious red splash marks all over the white walls.

W


e found Monster Boy and Leah hanging out, drinking Ice House and playing Nick Cave. "Weeping Song" is a particularly fine tune. It reminds me of Heather Bissel.

Conversation is very good in our emerging little clique. That's to be expected, we're all air signs after all. But I keep expecting the preponderance of Aquarius (Monster Boy may be a Gemini, but he has Aquarius Rising for God sake) to end up being more of a liability than an asset.

Monster Boy is the only one of us who seriously craves marijuana. Matthew Hart and Leah have lately been sneering at pot, but tonight, they were open to suggestion. I've noticed that non pot smoking members of the paraculture often will smoke pot in the company of good mostly non pot smoking friends. It's another delicious irony in need of a social scientist for explanation. Monster Boy's hopes were raised by the fact that Leah's father is known to have his own penchant for marijuana. Perhaps, thought Matthew Hart, we could find the hidden stash. So we went up to Leah's father's bedroom and, in an orderly manner, ransacked the place in search of elusive dank nugs. After all hope had been lost, Matthew found a mysterious bag of intact leaves. They smelled more like autumnal leaves than they did the Chronic, but what else could they be?

Leaves of three,
Poison Ivy;
leaves of five,
smoke that jive.


Just so you know, that paper is the perfect substitute when you have girls and their products but no rolling papers.

We didn't have any rolling papers, so Matthew resorted to the thin shiny paper that tampons come in. That was Monster Boy's idea. Just so you know, that paper is the perfect substitute when you have girls and their products but no rolling papers. Monster Boy attached the tampon to his pants leg like a little white mouse. He's a weirdo.

We smoked God only knows how many joints. It was harsh smoke, but we managed to get a good buzz going on. At some point we went out to the living room and I crashed on the carpet.

For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?970525