He was a skinny short-haired nerd, and he wanted to smoke some extremely seedy marijuana that happened to be hidden behind a shelf.

I


t seems that whenever I'm missing out on interesting things in the real world, my imagination compensates me for it in my dreams. Last night I had a delicious sequence of vivid dreams.

I was doing the day shift at Comet, but it was a much bigger place, full of little offices and extraneous workers who would come in when not on the clock and actually do work even while I wasted away the hours for which I was being paid. A group of friends came to visit me, and though I hated their distraction, I felt the need to entertain them. One of these was the online journal keeper Andrew Denyes. But he wasn't looking or acting anything like he does in his online journal. He was a skinny short-haired nerd, and he wanted to smoke some extremely seedy marijuana that happened to be hidden behind a shelf. But whenever I went to fetch some for him, one of those off-the-clock employees would wander up and foil my attempts at discretion. I eventually had to give up.

He didn't want to hit me in front of so many witnesses, so even though I was much smaller than he, he couldn't get by me.

At the end of my shift, I walked out into a brilliant sunny day. Comet had apparently been in some sort of shopping-center-type structure surrounded by big empty parking lots. I joined a couple middle-aged ladies taking a cigarette break seated around a little plastic table. We engaged in idle chit chat about how long the walk is from one end of Comet to the other.

Suddenly the middle-aged ladies had been transformed into Jenfariello and her housemate Amy. A group of lunky boys approached us and either Jen or Amy made a nasty comment about their being "frat boys." They said something nasty in response, and one of them spat and I felt the saliva hit me on the head. I sat there for a moment, enraged. Then I stood up and followed them into an Alcohol Beverage Control (ABC) store behind us in the storefront. Jen shouted after me, "They're going to kick you out!"

I hadn't seen which frat boy had spit on me, so I walked up to them one at a time until one of them started acting belligerent. He was seated in a chair and quietly grabbed me between his knees. I immediately started raising a fuss, shouting to the store management that this guy had assaulted me out in front. I blocked the frat boy's exit as he went for the door. He didn't want to hit me in front of so many witnesses, so even though I was much smaller than he, he couldn't get by me. The police were called and the belligerent was seized, along with his buddies. He tried to claim that I'd started everything by putting a tiny hole in his arm (he even rolled up his sleave and showed us a little black hole), but the police could tell he was lying. By this time, the ABC store had morphed into an upscale espresso bar.

Her face became sensitive and introspective and she bent her head in an awkward display of shyness and took my hand.

As I stepped out of the store, a group of teenaged girls came up to me and began to berate me for calling the cops on the frat boys, whom they claimed were their friends. One especially angry girl got up in my face and stomped my foot in anger. She had longish black hair with thin grey streaks. Her face kept changing, but suddenly I realized that she was a beautiful creature whose escape would be, for me, a personal tragedy. I said "you're really cute." With that, her anger evaporated. Her face became sensitive and introspective and she bent her head in an awkward display of shyness and took my hand.

By this point Jenfariello and Amy had morphed into the contingent of Malvernians, or Jessika at the very least. Since the frat boys had been the teenaged girls' ride, they were left with no option but to ride with my contingent. We drove off in some sort of big American car. I was seated in the back seat with the girl who had stomped my foot. She was letting me innocently caress her shoulders.

We drove until we came to this place where the mountains had been stripped of all their soil and upper layers of rock. It was strip mines as far as the eye could see and looked like Arizona. On the edge of this vast wasteland was a school, evidently one the teenaged girls attended. It had a long Hawaiian name which the girls were eager to pronounce and define for me.

In its own way, her disappearance is as tragic as a real death. What of her soul? Can she just be gone?

I awoke very pleased with myself for having had that dream. It had been every bit as good as it would have been in reality. That angry foot-stomping girl's entire life was spent entertaining me in my dream. She had no past, she had no future. She fulfilled a need and vanished when I awoke. In its own way, her disappearance is as tragic as a real death. What of her soul? Can she just be gone?

I checked my email and returned to bed.

I


n the morning I made coffee for Hoagie, my mother. She'd slept in Matthew Hart's room. Some guy had come into the room in the middle of the night whispering "Angie, Angie." There's only one guy who would do that, and he would be Aaron, Angela's old boyfriend. What's so twisted about it is that he probably assumed Angela was in there sleeping with Matthew, and still he wanted to talk to her. He's a nice guy, but he's repeatedly demonstrated that he has absolutely no personal dignity.

Others were suspicious that she might be a reporter, perhaps doing an exposé on underage drinking at UVA.

Hoagie told me what had happened last night. She'd been to the Haunted House party and had taken her sketch pad so she could draw pictures of merry partiers. Being far and away the oldest person there, she'd met with a variety of reactions. While some people where intrigued to get a chance to meet "Gus' mother" others were suspicious that she might be a reporter, perhaps doing an exposé on underage drinking at UVA.

Hoagie drank beers with Tyler and Ocean, and ran across an especially friendly Matthew Hart and Angela. It turns out that Hoagie knew a fair number of people there. By the way, according to Hoagie, Ocean is a big fan of my art, but he hates my musings. That's only because I wrote about a somewhat humiliating incident that happened between him and Jessika. He really shouldn't feel too bad though; most guys (and quite a few girls) who hang out with Jessika have that experience (or some variant of it) at least once, me included.

It's kind of fun hanging out with Hoagie on a Saturday morning, though some things get a little old, like when she goes on and on about the specifics of her wise investment strategies and all the income she manages to get "while just sitting on my ass."

She headed back to Staunton and I took a bath. I was feeling weak and a little sick to my stomach from last night's drinking.

During the day, Jessika plays her music as loud as she can, but she can't escape the unceasing whine of chainsaws devouring her childhood.

J


essika sent email telling me how shaken up all her friends have been by Shira's death. I didn't know this, but apparently heroin overdose is a fairly common thing among the junkies up there. Jessika says that it's almost always possible to save someone who ODs. In Shira's case, however, the guy she was with freaked out and left when she went unconscious, and later denied he'd even been there. This story grows more fucked up with each new detail I hear about it.

Jessika says she just wants to leave. I can understand. For her, it's all coming to some kind of head. Shira's death is just the latest devastation. Some days ago, you see, the developer who owns the woods behind Jessika's house began to cut down the trees that have stood there since her childhood. She used to play in those woods. She grew up in those woods. It's all being sacrificed in the name of new housing. During the day, Jessika plays her music as loud as she can, but she can't escape the unceasing whine of chainsaws devouring her childhood. It's a special form of torture for someone who has so befriended her own nostalgia.

---

When you click to close one of these bastard fatherless windows, it does something very bad to the browser. It seems it infects the system with a virus or deletes an essential .dll file.

T


oday I figured out an excellent idea to improve web browsers. Instead of "content filters" to keep little Bobby out of Analsex.com, how about a personal configuration scheme that allows the user to pick domains and URLs from which only text would be downloaded? The user could set his browser so that whenever he goes to Altavista, all he gets is text (which is all he needs since everything else is advertising). But whenever he goes to Mancow.com, he gets the images essential to his visit. This would be a nice little cloudburst upon the glitzy corporate web parade. (I'd originally had a mixed metaphor here but I changed it.)

Speaking of which, I'm very displeased with how the new pop-up advertisement windows in Geocities operate. When you click to close one of these bastard fatherless windows, it does something very bad to the browser. It seems it infects the system with a virus or deletes an essential .dll file. Maybe it deletes a whole sector off of your hard drive. (Is it this easy to begin a malicious rumour?) Anyway, it's stuff like that which has at times forced me to reboot after visiting a number of my favourite Geocities sites today. Stay away from Geocities, folks, it's very bad over there.

You can know some people a long time, and have certain ambivalent feelings about them, and then they'll say something unexpectedly witty and you'll have this instantaneous feeling of contact.

B


efore coming to work tonight, I gathered together a range of old computer equipment with which to make a little technologic outfit. I'm going to a space party at 1am after I get off work. It's being held at Blond House, the Dynashack's biggest offspring. This is the low-key social event I mentioned the other day.

I came in to work and told my co-worker Bud about my plans to make a robot outfit. He asked if I would be using "the old tin foil technique." That phrase moved me far more than you'd imagine. Here, let me explain. You can know some people a long time, and have certain ambivalent feelings about them, and then they'll say something unexpectedly witty and you'll have this instantaneous feeling of contact. For me, the whimsical sardonic quality of the phrase "the old tin foil technique" fired a series of well-developed neural pathways in me head.

Towards the end of my shift, I started tearing apart a segment of old ethernet cable to get at the little copper wires that I'd be using to stitch my outfit together. Then I threaded my arms through tight metallic anti-static bags (the kind in which circuit boards are shipped) for a modern remake of that "tin foil effect." As I was attaching old monochrome and CGA graphics boards to my legs and a 286 motherboard and pressure gauge to my chest, Robert (my replacement) came in. Chuckling, he provided advice and helped tie up loose ends in the back. Complete with impressively coiled monitor power cables, I stalked off down Wertland to the space party.

W


hen I made it to Blond House, there were a lot of people there already. They were familiar faces mostly, many of whom knew my name asymmetrically. Nearly everyone was already very drunk. This was refreshing, since often I'm at parties earliest & drunkest. I had an opportunity to see everyone else looking like fools, feeling pleasantly out of place as people allowed their hormones to burst uncontrollably forth from their gyrating pelvises pumping to deliciously repulsive überpop.

I began telling people that aliens had removed all my non-essential organs and replaced them with explosives, and that I'd been sent to this party as an inter-galactic terrorist act.

To do something about my sobriety, I headed for the kitchen for a drink. The Blond House people were running a tighter ship than was the case at the last space party; they'd set up a bar and kept good control of the distribution of drinks. What they had was mostly hard liquor; I drank gin & tonics exclusively.

Matthew Hart and Angela appeared in the crowd. I was dismayed that Matthew said nothing to me at all. He wouldn't even look me in the eye. When I directly said hello to him, he grunted ambiguously. Either he's been reading my insulting musings or he is so ashamed at his needy selfish behaviours that, to appease his guilt, he's decided to cut me off. I suspect the latter; it's typical Matthew Hart. It's sad, but at this point it's not evidence of much of a loss.

Despite my last-minute costume expediency, I was one of the most "spacey" people there. Some said I looked like a human bomb, so I began telling people that aliens had removed all my non-essential organs and replaced them with explosives, and that I'd been sent to this party as an inter-galactic terrorist act. My costume was unusual because instead of the usual emphasis on making my head look weird, the costume emphasized alterations to my body.

I'm not happy getting too close to any one person or falling into a routine unless there's something like real love involved.

In addition to the usual collegiate party staple of playing pop dance music upstairs, there was a nod to the "avante garde" with harsh live music in the basement. I went down there to check it out. One guy in a cowboy hat was "playing guitar" (mostly letting it wrestle with the amps in unpredictable feedback) while another guy kept a fast beat on a drum kit. I suppose there are drugs that would have made the experience more palatable, but it didn't matter because I was mainly there to watch the members of the sparse audience.

I could have fallen into a predictable pattern and gone home with the girl I've been going home with for the past month or so. She was there, after all. But I don't know, I really don't like having a predictable sex life. I'm not happy getting too close to any one person or falling into a routine unless there's something like real love involved. So I went home with another girl instead. I've mentioned her in here before, but I've never "hooked up" with her or seriously entertained erotic thoughts about her. She's a UVA student and even keeps a sporatic online journal. For once, I'll reserve a little privacy for myself and not say anything else about this.

one year ago

For linking purposes this article's URL is:
http://asecular.com/blog.php?971206