Perhaps she was sleeping in on this damp chilly morning, oblivious to commitments in the warm arms of her boyfriend.

D


uring my night shift I could feel a head cold coming on. It was the sort of cold that starts with a sneeze and gradually progresses from there. As I was getting off work, my head pounded faintly with an aching pressurized feeling.

Through the cold and spitting rain, I rode my bike to the Downtown Mall for a scheduled appointment with Lydia, the director/curator of Gallery Neo. She wants me to make a web page to promote an exhibit of prisoner art that is coming to Charlottesville. It sounded cool to me, especially when I heard it would feature, among other things, the works of Leonard Peltier.

Mr. Peltier is the Native American political prisoner who is serving a Federal life sentence in the aftermath of a suspiciously kangarooesque conviction for the murder of two FBI agents.
But Lydia wasn't at Gallery Neo; the place was locked up tight and the lights were off. Perhaps she was sleeping in on this damp chilly morning, oblivious to commitments in the warm arms of her boyfriend. I wasn't upset. In a sleepy southern town this sort of thing happens all the time and it doesn't mean anything bad about anyone. But that's also why nothing of any note ever gets accomplished in the South.

The phrase "Down the Rubabdub in a Terry Nutkins Stylee" has infected her speech just like "in the Free World" infected mine some weeks ago.

I'd bought some orange juice at the supermarket near the Mall, and I drank the whole quart bottle in an effort to get some much-needed Vitamin C into my system. Vitamin C is an essential raw material with which the body manufactures interferon, and interferon is crucial in vanquishing viruses. I'm a firm believer in Vitamin C.

Back at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I found Jessika and Sara asleep in my bed, all cozy and warm. So I went off to watch teevee and sip on some post-work vino. When Jessika got up, she and I talked some. The phrase "Down the Rubabdub in a Terry Nutkins Stylee" has infected her speech just like "in the Free World" infected mine some weeks ago. "Down the Rubabdub in a Terry Nutkins Stylee" is the name of Rory's website, and we have no clue as to what it means, but it has a certain ring to our ears.

I began my post-work sleep without Sara even stirring.

---

I'm laughing in the face of my impending cold, for better or for worse.

I


t's afternoon, and cold rain is falling streadily. Jessika and Sara are asleep on the couches in the Kappa Muth a Fucka living room while Monster Boy plays VH1 on cable. I'm here at UVA's Cocke Hall after riding my bicycle through the dreary conditions. I'm laughing in the face of my impending cold, for better or for worse.

---

When I pick up the phone and Steve's gravelly voice greets me, usually with "Monster Boy?", I know it's my unlucky day and the topic is going to be Jessika's plumbing.

B


ack at Kappa Mutha Fucka, I was soggy and wet from the miserable bikeride from UVA, but I found myself suddenly empowered financially. My VISA/Nations Bank debit card had arrived, and I could suddenly do the mail order fandango. I immediately ordered a Pentium motherboard. Jessika was by now awake and, in her typical dignified lethargy, watched me going through the motions.

Then, unexpectedly, Dr. Steven Louis Weiner arrived. He has a real thing for Jessika that hasn't faded in the two and two thirds years he has known her. Most of his phone conversations with me concern her, particularly the details of the specific sexual uses he'd like to make of her, either acting himself, or projected on me. It's not very pleasant, but I always play along. At Kappa Mutha Fucka, the rule is whenever Steve Weiner calls, the person who picks up the phone must say that no one else is present. When I answer the phone and Steve's gravelly voice greets me, usually with "Monster Boy?", I know it's my unlucky day and the topic is going to be Jessika's plumbing.

Steve somehow manages to combine all the embarrassing qualities of a clueless parent with the interests and crudeness of an oversexed fourteen year old dork.

Jessika and I were none to happy to have to already be dealing with Steve Weiner so early in the evening. I have to admit that his conversation is kind of witty, but it's full of embarrassing proposals, suggestions, and interpretations. Before the end of the ordeal, he'd asked both Jessika and Sara to spend the night at his place, even asking Jessika if she'd consider thinking about spending the night, and to all this they'd respond, "No..." So then, in one of his typically appalling stabs at humour he asked me if, for some reason I didn't get laid with Sara or Jessika tonight, then perhaps him and I could have sex. Steve somehow manages to combine all the embarrassing qualities of a clueless parent with the interests and crudeness of an oversexed fourteen year old dork.

Whenever Steve was at a loss for something to say, he'd say "Hi Jessika" and smile his toothless smile. She finally got sick of it and said, in her usual calm monotone, "You said that already." Then he'd go into the kitchen and drink somebody's orange juice without asking. The worst part of all was his ungracious biology. He's in terrible condition. His belly has swollen up into discrete round sphere two feet in diameter that sits like a tumour under his shirt. It makes me wonder in morbid fascination what exactly lies under the taut skin that covers it. Periodically he coughs up a hunk of phlegm, which he gums open-mouthed in a revolting display. And of course he farts; there's a whole world of biology going on within that sphere under his shirt. I found myself hating biology a lot today. The only thing good to say about Steve these days is that he has somehow quit smoking. And only just a few weeks ago he smoked four packs a day. Already his voice has improved, as well as his overall fragrance.

It was an comfortable situation, what with the Matthew - Leah breakup still so fresh.

Jessika had told me earlier about what a brat Steve had been last night. He offered to treat the girls to dinner at Southern Culture, but when time came to settle the bill, he only paid a small fraction, saying he needed the rest to pay for a cab later when he'd need to go home. But then when time came to get a cab, he didn't have any money and Monster Boy had to cover for him.

Leah still works as a waitress at Southern Culture, and she talked to Sara and Jessika for a bit. It was an comfortable situation, what with the Matthew - Leah breakup still so fresh. Steve, pregnant with his usual anti-charm, broke the ice this way: "Why don't you just tell them about it, about your breakup with Matthew!" Wordlessly, she fled into the kitchen.

Jessika taunted Steve about his bratty behaviour last night, saying that Sara had been so disturbed that she'd already returned to Philadelphia and that Nicholas the Kitten had been so irritated that he'd turned into a dog.

He ate much of, sneezed upon and hacked phlegm over the green pepper pizza.

Sara awoke from concealment under blankets on the couch (her body is so inconsequential that if the blankets hadn't occasionally heaved, I would have assumed there was nothing under them). Peggy and Zach showed up with the Baboose, who managed to shit himself twice during the course of the evening. Peggy and Zach are the sort of parents who regard their child's every poo as a precious gift, the sort of thing you'd attach to the refrigerator if a magnet would only hold it. They don't bother putting anything under the kid's ass when they change him on our furniture. They think nothing of tossing diapers into our kitchen trash. It's disgusting to me, but I'm a voice in the wilderness. This sort of thing affirmed today's hatred of biology.

We ordered a couple of cut-rate Gumbys pizzas, but they took forever to come and were luke-warm once they did. Contributing to my misery, one of the Baboose's poos came while we were eating. And then there was Steve. He ate much of, sneezed upon and hacked phlegm over the green pepper pizza. Of course, he had contributed absolutely no funds to its purchase. In an existential moment of revulsion I moaned, "I hate biology!"

The whole time, VH1 was on the teevee airing a Tina Turner popumentary. Jessika commented that Tina Turner's neck looked like plucked chicken hide.

Eventually Zach and Peggy left, taking Steve Weiner with them. "Breath in the Weiner-free air!" Sara shouted in celebration.

Sara recalled for the assembled that Rory had recently stated in his online journal "the Gus is not all that."

When we're together, Jessika, Sara and I always form a fast cohesive conversational unit. No one knows why, though it has been brilliantly explained with astrology. As a group, we suffer from a few pathologies. One of these is our tendency to lapse into conversational tics. We'll have a phrase we keep returning to and obsessively dissecting. Today's conversational tic was "Down the Rubadub in a Terry Nutkins Stylee," the name of Rory's web site (alluded to earlier in this entry). We had no idea what it meant, but it was so preposterous that it fascinated us. "...in a Terry Nutkins Stylee" became a rhetorical flourish at the end of every sentence. Sara recalled for the assembled that Rory had recently stated in his online journal "the Gus is not all that." She took these as fighting words, proceding to call the Haunted House to have words with whomever picked up the phone. She told whomever it was something like "This is the house of the Gus, and I'm calling to inform you that the Gus is in fact 'all that' and, futhermore, you can take your 'Rubadub' and shove it up your ass in a 'Terry Nutkins Stylee'!" By this point my guts were splitting from laughing too hard.

Sara told us that "someone with an accent" (either Rory or his friend Alan from Scotland) had been on the other end. Later, Sara and I took turns assuming bizarre accents and leaving goofy messages on the Haunted House answering machine.

Clairvoyantly, Ocean said he didn't mind us hanging out "unless you shit on the floor or something."

We, or Sara at least, worked ourselves up into such a frenzy that we decided to go the Haunted House on a "sociological mission." First, though, we'd need stuff with which to dilute our vodka. Only Deya and are able to drink vodkatea. So, after spending considerable time mustering the ambition, we braved the rain and went on a walk to the Seven Day Junior. By this point Deya had joined Sara, Jessika and me.

Sara was distressed to find the "hot food bar" (a major Seven Day Junior feature for her) closed. So instead she bought overpriced jelly beans. She loves sugary candy and that's where she seems to get the bulk of her caloric intake.

W


e all marched into the Haunted House, but no one was home, so we sat around being bored and talking shit about Rory. Sara suggested that we all take shits in his bed, but we didn't do it. Eventually Alan the Scotsman and Ocean came home, somewhat surprised to see us all hanging out. Clairvoyantly, Ocean said he didn't mind us hanging out "unless you shit on the floor or something." Other than that, Ocean and Alan didn't really interact with us at all. Ocean was too busy rocking out to music he'd just bought, something like Frank Zappa or Phish. As we were leaving, he said something very mysterious to us (I forget what), and as we considered it on the way home, we decided, in a gross exercise of melodramatic alarmism, that it constituted "fighting words." So Sara called him up to abuse him on the phone. By this point Matthew had come home from work. He expressed concern that we might get into the habit of socializing amiably with Rory.

She said the odour and sight of the Alpo as the customer sprayed it out of his mouth was one of the most disturbing things she's ever experienced.

Among the several conversations we had was one about Sara's dominatrix career. She said she has one customer, a black man, who likes to have his head put into an unflushed toilet, whereupon he enjoys being forced to exclaim, "That's better than watermelon and fried chicken!" Humiliations for black customers often involve such stereotypical elements of racism, but they rarely emphasize the usual master/slave dichotomy. Sara says to do so would hit just a little too close to home even for the most masochistic of black perverts.

She went on to tell about an especially appalling day at work. One of the customers likes to wear a collar, prance around on his hands and knees, bark like a dog, and eat Alpo wet food from a can. One morning, Sara had a hangover and she had to supervise another Mistress who was humiliating this particular dog-masochist. She said the odour and sight of the Alpo as the customer sprayed it out of his mouth was one of the most disturbing things she's ever experienced.

There was a lot going on tonight. A prom was taking place at Freedom and Ian's place on the corner of Wertland and 10th Street (the edge of the 'Hood). An online journal keeper from DC had sent me email inviting me and "my crew" to a frat house where his band would be playing. And Lauren Hoffman, local rock star, would be appearing with The Ninth, local up-and coming lowfi band, at Trax. All these possibilities, coupled with the cold rain outside, made decisions difficult. But when Deya said she'd be going to the prom, I joined her. None of the others came along. They were still paralyzed with indecision.

A cameraman snapped polaroids of people on a well-lit stage, booze of all descriptions was in great supply, and two bands were lined up to play.

N


either Deya nor I were really dressed for a prom. I was wearing my dark blue hip-hop-baggy jeans and a nice cordouroy jacket that looks kind of formal, but it's just my choice for a light jacket this Fall. Deya was even less formal than usual. She wasn't even wearing a skirt. And on her head she wore a little crown she'd made out of scrap steel wire.

The prom was well-attended. The majority of people were well dressed, but for some reason it didn't strike me that anyone looked especially good, even the beautiful people. A cameraman snapped polaroids of people on a well-lit stage, booze of all descriptions was in great supply, and two bands were lined up to play. The bands were sterotypical emo kids (they had the spectacles, the velvety shirts, the black hair, the sideburns), and the music was wonderfully hard-core and atonal, the sort of thing I wouldn't normally associate with this particularly familiar crowd of alterna-college kids, hippies, and youthful party animals. To better satisfy the hippie element, Phil Ginini (dressed entirely in black and weilding a well-broken-in banjo) played Blue Grass on the back porch with various guitarists.

That girlie stuff really riles the fetishistic beast I don't usually admit to hosting.

I was chatty and flirty and took lots of opportunities to introduce myself to girls I didn't know. I was drunk, but not horribly so, and I felt socially capable and powerful. Even when I did nothing, people took pains to introduce me to their friends or say nice things to me. And I reciprocated with similar kindnesses to others. But there were periods of loneliness, where I sat on the couch and felt uncomfortable, if only for the fact that I was being seen sitting by myself. It would be embarrassing for me to admit the amount of thought I was giving to the social consequences of appearances.

Jenfariello and I were getting along very well. She was looking pretty good. So was Cory the Coffee cart girl, with her two distinct layers of sheer lingerie and three fine straps per shoulder. That girlie stuff really riles the fetishistic beast I don't usually admit to hosting.

Elizabeth, formerly of the Dynashack, was there too. She was being awfully sweet, though she did gently chide me for my daliances with underage girls. For example, when I pointed out that this one cute girl had kissed me on the lips tonight, but that she was probably only 17 years old, Elizabeth gave me "2 points" [of social credits] for her having given a kiss despite having a male escort, but "negative 3 points" for her age.

After the bands finished, the necessary early-80s pop was played on the stereo, and those remaining, as drunk as they were, all started dancing, me included. I danced with Cory, Erin "the girl with the eyebrow thing," and Elizabeth, as well as a beautiful dog, something long-haired and lupine. It was all very sweet.

She's that serious in her conviction that we will soon be spawning mutant babies together.

"A girl" said she'd be a lot more into me in a physically casual way if she knew it wouldn't end up in the musings. I told her I'd preserve her privacy. We ended up making out high-school style in her vehicle.

I got a ride back to Kappa Mutha Fucka and found Theresa and Jessika. Theresa was pleased to announce that she wouldn't be serving any time at all for her conviction in the Dink Boy Case. Then she asked if Jessika and I wanted to be alone together; she's that serious in her conviction that we will soon be spawning mutant babies together. Jessika seemed annoyed; I was embarrassed.

It was late and I had to get up at 9am the next day to serve the online world, so I kicked everyone out of my room and reflected fondly on things that had titillated me sexually.

---

Get a sense of what I was like exactly one year ago today.

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