To avoid the fate of Tycho Brahe: at a certain point dignity is foolish and you have to plead to get out and piss.

Oh, and word on the street has it that Deya and Monster Boy are -you know- "doing it."

T


he cash Matthew Hart had been intent on paying me yesterday is now safely in my wallet. He came to visit me here during my day shift. I might decide on a safer place for this rather large lump of lettuce until I can move it to a bank. Oh, and word on the street has it that Deya and Monster Boy are -you know- "doing it." Deya's parents are out of town and the cute little air sign couple is in a holding pattern in Scottsville even as I type, awaiting the arrival of 129 Observatory Avenue. Maybe I'll try to track them down such that tonight will be more interesting than last night.

Some kind of kiddie carnival is taking place across University Avenue from Comet. The clouds are threatening to rain them out, perhaps as added punishment for the children's original sin. God seems to have about as much subtlety as an excited skinhead.

I'm working on a resumé. I don't expect any of you to bother following that link. Still, I'm an adult now and it's time I started acting like one.

I


  ran across Monster Boy and Deya immediately upon leaving work. We were soon joined by Matthew Hart as well. He'd been kissing so much ass at the C&O that his boss decided to give him a two hour break. Right away we went to Farmer Jack and picked up two Grolsches for Matthew and a twelve of Schlitz for the rest of us. Then we went again to Nathan and Janine's place on Little High to either visit them or hang out on their astroturf veranda. They weren't there, so it was the latter. When they arrived, though, they joined us and handed out uniquely excellent homebrewed wheat beers. The weirdness of us hanging out on their porch, drinking beers and shooting the shit, would have made most people uncomfortable. But when you understand how thoroughly easy going Nathan and Janine are, it makes perfect sense.

Meanwhile, Harvey's balls hang on long sinews and swing back and forth as he half-heartedly wags his tail.

Nathan and Janine have adopted a dog named Harvey. He's some kind of ancient droopy-eared hound with white wrinkled hide and brown spots. Without exception he wears a countenance of concerned ambivalence. Harvey has extremely peculiar genitalia and since his hair is so short there is no avoiding looking at it. On either side of the base of his penis, his nipples have become distended and look like additional dwarf penises. The penis itself is semi-erect much of the time, exposing a long fur-less terminal section with a clawlike tip. Here, the pink flesh is rumpled and hamburgerlike, perhaps as a result of age and disease. It is wet and glistens in the sun and drips everywhere. Meanwhile, Harvey's balls hang on long sinews and swing back and forth as he half-heartedly wags his tail. He likes to have his rump scratched. When he's feeling affectionate, he backs up to whomever he considers most likely to scratch him. He doesn't sit down like most dogs; his ass is so bony that to do so would be most uncomfortable.

We discussed the new house on Observatory Avenue and the brewing of beer, something Matthew Hart has a little experience doing, though he's been mostly unsuccessful. He described the time he brewed a beer that was so carbonated that its explosion could have killed him. Matthew is such a charming conversationalist that I find him lightening my conversational load whenever we hang out with others.

Nathan and Janine were going to make brownies and go to a drive-in theatre with friends, so we left them behind and went on to Bodo's on Preston for yet more overpriced bagels. At this point Matthew had to return to the C&O.

Meanwhile we'd found a thick joint full of harsh-smoking marijuana leaves. But we relished our discovery and smoked the whole thing.

Y


esterday Monster Boy and Deya had found themselves hanging out in one of the unoccupied rooms upstairs in the iron-faced Follette's building on the Corner. In this time of turmoil, when people are moving out and cleaning up and leaving messes, it's not difficult to get into the building. Wanting to have a place to drink today's beers and yesterday's vodka, we decided to again hang out in Follette's. We climbed to the third floor and occupied a particularly messy room, sitting in the window and watching Colin the red-faced skinhead wanna-be taking his tough guy cigarette breaks. Meanwhile we'd found a thick joint full of harsh-smoking marijuana leaves. But we relished our discovery and smoked the whole thing.

Suddenly we saw Amy the goth girl. Monster Boy hasn't been much in contact with her (being, among other things, that he's homeless and other things). But he went down and brought her up to the room we were occupying. While Deya took a nap, Monster Boy and Amy snorted crystal meth.

Night descended. I was drinking my vodka-tea concoction again, getting kind of drunk. Amy and I somehow lost Deya and Monster Boy when we all went out onto the streets again. I took Amy to Comet at some point to let her check out one of those web pages that concerns itself with the strange things that have been found up the asses of perverted guys.

But then Dave Simpson, the owner, gave me an endorsement by saying I am "the man," so the SHARP had to suffer in silence.

We four managed to find each other again and then set out in Deya's car to find a party that Jenfariello had told us about. It was Sam's birthday party, and it was to take place at the house Jen shares with Sam, Ami Sage and others. That's the anomalous brick Jeffersonian Mansion over in "the hood" off of 9th Street Southwest beyond Cherry Avenue. But as much driving as we did in the region bounded by Jefferson Park Avenue, Cherry Avenue and 5th Street, we couldn't find the place. So we went to the C&O to ask Matthew Hart how to get there. Aaron the SHARP was working as a cook at the time, and he was about to bitch me out for coming in through the back door and for saying such bad things about him in the Glossary, but then Dave Simpson, the owner, gave me an endorsement by saying I am "the man," so the SHARP had to suffer in silence. As I'd expected, Matthew knew how to get to the brick mansion in the hood, but he was utterly incapable of describing how to get there.

So we returned to the Corner and ran across Morgan Anarchy, Toni Dirtbag, Cecelia and Leticia the Brazilian Girls, and the wormy psychotic dog named BN. They went somewhere to drink in semi-private while I wandered the streets without them. I really don't enjoy hanging out with stinking smoking gutter punks and their insane dogs. The begging, heckling, harrassing, and barking at passersby irritates me beyond simple justification.

I considered just going to bed. But Morgan knew the directions out to the big brick mansion in the hood, so I lingered on the skirt of the University grounds. Eventually they returned from the general direction of the Jeffersonian gardens. Cecelia said they'd come back specifically in search of me. My attitude towards most of them was so blasé by this point that her saying this gave me a weak feeling of guilt.

All of us (about 8 people and a particularly wormy dog) piled into Deya's reliable Mercury station wagon and before long we were all at the big brick mansion in the hood.

T


he people living in the big brick mansion in the hood are mostly UVA students and former UVA students, and as such you'd think they wouldn't have much in common with the dirty gutter punks and goths with whom I'd arrived. But Morgan is friends with Sam and knows Jenfariello better than you'd expect. We were accepted into the party with as much grace as anyone else. Most of the others who arrived would best be described as hippies, most of them teenage girls. The only person from the Dynashack who materialized was Elizabeth. I said nothing to her the whole evening.

There were also many who had taken max-alerts in concert with hard liquor.

I didn't know this at the time, but many of the people present were under the influence of LSD. There were also many who had taken max-alerts in concert with hard liquor. This, I am told, is a particularly exhilirating experience. Max alert, about which I can find no information on the Web, is some sort of over-the-counter stimulant.

My goth/gutter friends mostly kept to the back porch and backyard. They had the necessities of life: a keg, a couch, and lots of lawn to roll around on. Most importantly (and strangely), it also featured a rusty antique bathtub sitting up on little clawed gothic legs. For some reason this bathtub served as a center of activity for a steadily changing group of people.

Every time I found myself on the suspended second floor porch, I would tell anyone there that a piece of duct tape on one of the metal support rods was all that was keeping it together. No one believed me, even though a similar porch receiving far better maintenance collapsed recently on the University grounds.

The last memory I have is of someone putting a lit joint in my mouth as I lay there sandwiched between a couple of girls.

I made an immodest proposal to Ami Sage concerning what could be done behind one of the yard's many large trees. She didn't exactly take me up on this proposition, but I did find myself with her in her bed at a certain point. And it wasn't long before we'd been joined by Cory the Java Hut coffee cart girl and an assemblage of others, including the Kirsten who lives at Abundance House and Seth Alecko (who lives upstairs at Follette's on the Corner). The last memory I have is of someone putting a lit joint in my mouth as I lay there sandwiched between a couple of girls.

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