"Are those computers faster?" he asks. "They're better for graphics," she explains (without the slightest hint of irritation).

H


ere in UVA's Olssen Hall, the boy and girl behind me sound like voices out of a Sunny D commercial. He's impressed (in that high-school-popular Sunny D voice) to learn he can telnet from a Macintosh. She's not the slightest bit irritated with his annoying questions. My back is to them and I have no idea what they look like. I'm about to investigate. "How do you get your disks out of these things?" he just asked in that horrible voice. Hey: didn't I just hear your Daddy saying he won't buy you a fire-red Mazda for graduation? You can go commit suicide now!" Actually, the guy is like Oriental or something. She's not. She's small and Occidental-generic in a slightly alternative way. Well, there they go. "Are those computers faster?" he asks. "They're better for graphics," she explains (without the slightest hint of irritation).

---

Is he doing this as irony, as an indication of maturity, or (like me when I do similar things) a combination of the two?

I


  took a prolonged nap in the evening, awaking at 7pm to find Peggy and Zach watching the Simpsons downstairs. They've become such a domesticated married couple. Who would have thought Zach would have settled down the way he has. He hardly ever drinks now, and most of the time he wears a coat and a tie. Is he doing this as irony, as an indication of maturity, or (like me when I do similar things) a combination of the two? And Peggy always has that little big headed parasite attached to her breast. She fusses over the Baboose continuously. I can't stand anyone or anything for longer than 12 continous hours or 20% of my time (whichever is smaller); I can't imagine being a mother (or even a father). To domesticate me would take some awfully powerful hormones.

Matthew Hart woke up from his nap at about 9pm, and over beer he and I discussed Rory. We wondered who Rory hangs out with now that his only friend in Charlottesville is Leah. Matthew has a special loathing for Rory, but he wouldn't want to see him in jail (as some of Rory's other former friends apparently do). Matthew would just be happy if Rory packed his bags and got the hell out of our lives. To our way of thinking, it's the only possible trace of dignity he can sincerely express at this point.

Higher Grounds had actually been enthusiastic to hire Rory, until Dave told them "I'd be very careful to make sure all his papers are in order."

But other forces are slowly conspiring to drive "our least favourite Brit" from town. He's run out of money (recently on his web site, he claimed that the expenses of his first hit and run have already reached $2000), and it seems likely that he'll be looking at real prison time if he lingers around long enough for a conviction.
Rory has tried to get jobs, but everyone seems to be on to him. He made the mistake of using Dave Simpson (the owner of the C&O) as a reference when applying for a job at Higher Grounds (the coffee shop).
It's important to note that Dave is a loyal Matthew supporter and had even offered Tyler a cash incentive if he would evict Rory from the Haunted House.
Higher Grounds had actually been enthusiastic to hire Rory, until Dave told them "I'd be very careful to make sure all his papers are in order."
In a surreal twist, Rory had said on his application that he's soon to be an American citizen because he's getting married. That's just another helping of Rory's sociopathic insincerity, though this is not to say I think Leah has a firm grasp on reality quite yet.
I'm still in awe of Rory's amazing predisposition for befriending people and then alienating them with appallingly wanton acts of greed. The only thing I wish at this point is that Rory had shown himself to be who he is on the very first day he was introduced to me.

It's an inevitable result of American commercial success. Just look at what happened to punk rock, heavy metal and the X Files.

T


he day was Halloween, of course. Jessika hates what Halloween has become in America. She doesn't like the fact that the witches, goblins and monsters have been made into cute little cartoon figures, stripped of their evil and mischief and had it replaced with nauseating smiles and benevolent motives. It's an inevitable result of American commercial success. Just look at what happened to punk rock, heavy metal and the X Files.

But in our little world, from Big Fun to Kappa Mutha Fucka (and among kindred spirits throughout the land), it's always Halloween.

I'm not talking about the kind represented by kids wearing lame K-Mart costumes with cheap plastic masks and full images of the objects of their impersonations stenciled on their shirts, the safe and friendly Halloween where it's actually considered unfortunate to find a razor blade in your apple or a hit of acid in your Milky Way bar.

It's not just one day where we get to act weird (without the cool people in school telling us we have cooties).

No, I'm talking about a do-it-yourself salute to the dark side, made with junk, wires, bones, baby dolls, mirrors, coloured glass, neglect and accidental breakage. We're lazy, and we don't create as much as we're inspired, but our house is decorated for Halloween, and has been since we moved in. A cow skull (donated by Theresa) hangs with Mardi Gras beads on the Art Noveau metal supports that hold up our porch roof. A piece of warty, gnarly, beautiful driftwood hangs nearby. Our lawn is unmowed and dotted with ornamental plants stolen from area nurseries. They're slowly, beautifully dying as autumnal frosts bite harder and harder with each later morning.

No doubt our porch will continue to look more and more like Halloween the longer we live there. It's not just one day where we get to act weird (without the cool people in school telling us we have cooties). It's a way of life.

Of course, we did make a little special effort for this particular day. Peggy and Zach carved for us a pumpkin with a faceless message that read "FUCK YOU." And Matthew and I intended to buy some candy for any intrepid trick-or-treaters, but of course we both forgot. Matthew offered one little kid a sip of his forty while some nervous parents watched from the street. Too bad little kids have no interest in malt liquor.

I hate watching people do all the irritating little things they must to maintain their steady supply of warm wet horizontal repose.

O


ver at Jenfariello's house, the so-called "Brick Mansion in the 'Hood" (a name that even its residents use), there was to be a big Halloween party. That was obviously the place to go tonight.

Matthew was eager to go, but since he's "married" again, he had to clear it with Angela, the old trouble & strife (who was then at work).

I hate watching people do all the irritating little things they must to maintain their steady supply of warm wet horizontal repose.
Matthew had to go to the Seven Day Junior in order to call the girl; Monster Boy has finally moved out and since the phone was in his name, it was instantly disconnected. The electric bill is also in his name, and I'm hoping the power company will show us a little more leniency.

Matthew drove us to the Brick Mansion at nearly 10pm. When we arrived, the residents and their associates were still decorating the place. It was looking warm and inviting in that Halloween kind of way. But I wouldn't say it looked scary.

The one time I went all out making a place look scary for Halloween, my old girlfriend Leslie Montalto and I decorated a musty old basement at 199 W. College Street, Oberlin Ohio. We made lots of really disturbing collages and put them up all over the walls, along with various animal-skull headed monsters. Some of those decorations really were pretty frightening. The Brick Mansion, by contrast, looked conventionally Halloweenesque. But it was a thorough job. And the house itself always looks plenty ominous.

She and I shared a clove cigarette and discussed veganism. It's not enough to be simply a vegetarian in such jaded times.

Everyone except Matthew and me was dressed up. We'd been too lazy to worry about costumes. Mostly what we were after was beer and a little fun socializing.

The beer was a keg of Anchor Steam. There wasn't much of a line or anything, so we soon had Budweiser cups full of the smoky/meaty microbrew. The people were the usual Abundance House/Brick Mansion in the 'Hood/Downtown Artspace types, with the conspicuous absences of Sam (on vacation with the folks) and the bulk of the Blond House (former Dynashack) people. There were also lots of people I didn't know, which always flavours a party admirably.

Jen was dressed up as a green-wingéd forest sprite. Another girl was covered with orange leaves and silently impersonated a tree. Another, dressed as a goddess, carried a bottle of vino and she dispensed it to those who petitioned her.

Little blond Freedom was wearing a dark wig and looked like a college radio DJ, whether that was her intention or not. She and I shared a clove cigarette and discussed some things, including her veganism. It's not enough to simply be a vegetarian in such jaded times.

One guy was a clown, one had a knife protuding from the back of his hospital gown, and Franz was something, I forget now just what.

The best costume of all was worn by someone named Chris who looked a little like a paper maché chicken.

That radical environmentalist girl Kirstin from Abundance House was dressed as a revolutionary freedom fighter, complete with a cap gun and military fatigues. She kept shouting "Viva la revolución!"

The Dutch girl didn't have much of an accent, but every time she said my name, it sounded like she was hawking a loogie.

But most of the girls seemed to think that dressing sexy was a good enough costume. Cory the (former) Coffee Cart Girl was wearing a black slip and fishnets, and had dyed some of her dread locks maroon. One extremly flirtateous Dutch girl wore a silver mini-dress with a circle-shaped cutout over her cleavage. Her date (a familiar Charlottesville personality named Rob) was wearing a disturbingly-tight full-body spandex costume and a motorcycle helmet. Matthew didn't like having to see every curve of his ass so clearly.

At some point in the evening, the Dutch Girl and I were playing an ancient electronic organ together. Its keys were flaky and had to be pounded in order to register. And they weren't exactly velocity-sensitive either. I'd have to say that it was the most unresponsive keyboard I have ever attempted to play in my entire life. By the way, the Dutch girl didn't have much of an accent, but every time she said my name, it sounded like she was hawking a loogie, sort of like the way the Dutch pronounce "Van Gogh."

She told me she likes me "even though you're a womanizer."

Eventually I passed out in the teevee room under a blanket. That wasn't the end of the evening though; I was taken home by The Girl Who Cannot be Named. After a little innocent kissing and talking, we fell asleep. She told me she likes me "even though you're a womanizer." I asked how I could possibly be a womanizer and be getting laid as little as I do, but she never adequately answered me.

one year ago

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