home |
musings index |
feedback |
other journals
Returning to my house, I was quickly joined by Theresa, Persad and Theresa's sister, Angela. Two things: Theresa wanted me to buy them liquor (none of them are yet 21) and Angela wanted to know what vicious things I'd said about her "on the Internet." Okay guys, let me just say this just once:
You read my musings, you like my musings, right? Part of what makes these musings so fun is that I tell you socially stunted internrrrds TOO MUCH FOR MY OWN GOOD. Do you want me to limit my stories to the details of my toothbrushing technique and what CDs I buy? These musings work on the premise that most of my friends do NOT have access to the Internet. It's a readily apparent fact that some of you who read my musings know some of the characters involved. But if you want to continue reading the juicy details of their lives, it is IMPERATIVE that you keep your yaps shut about what you read here. If you (and you and I know who you are) keep using my musings as an attributed source of gossip that finds its way back to the people involved, you are only going to lose out. I'll have to find some other project that's less stressful and (for you) less interesting. Enough said. |
Angela and I went to her house and drank some nice expensive beer. She'd purchased it cheap since it had outlived its expiration date. It tasted fine to me. The music she played was refereshing ungothic. We discussed relationship issues and conversation began to approach more closely the subject of her place in these musings. She showed me some photographs of colourful patchwork pants that she used to sew at home for a local company. She was a model in some of the photos. Apparently these days the colourful patchwork pants company has no work for her. I suggested that the colourful patchwork pants company be advertised on the World Wide Web. Note my agenda: For Angela, the Internet had started the day being a menace, and now I was trying to expose her to its "good side."
Angela loves to drink. It's great to hang out with a girl who is always willing and able to drink one more beer. We went to my house and killed off the Beast Ices I'd bought today. We drank the final beers on the walk to UVA's Cocke Hall.
She looked over the musings and saw references to herself, but none of them seemed "vicious." She'd already decided that she wasn't going to be mad at me no matter what I'd written. When we became bored, we returned to the Dynashack and sat around in my room. That's when Catherine and Deidre showed up to take Elizabeth and me to a mid-week "party." Angela went off to track down her boyfriend Aaron, who works as a bartender at the Bluebird Café a nearby restaurant on Main Street.
We sat around drinking beer and wine and eating interesting food: pasta and chunky chicken sauce and Gespacho (which Catherine called "Gestapo"). We were in the company of a handful of the familiar fashionable Generation X regulars known to frequent Higher Grounds and Millers. Deidre and Elizabeth don't know each other so well, but I'd told Deidre good things about Elizabeth yesterday, and, as Catherine pointed out, they seemed to hit it off conversationally. Some of us went through a well-stocked workshop into a cluttered though spacious music studio. Catherine pointed out a collection of vintage dental office machinery; wonders of pulleys and bloated art-deco consoles. I ended up playing some bass while others played guitar and drums. These days my fingers are soft and weak and soon I'd developed a blister upon my thumb.
I was pretty drunk, but I drank a glass of wine and sat mostly just listening to the others. To be at a real adult social event was most refreshing for my weary 29-year-old sensibilities.
Catherine drove Elizabeth and me home. We'd lost Deidre somehow. On the way, we had an amusing discussion about Christian Breeden. Apparently he's well known for getting drunk and attempting to seduce girls who are not his girlfriend. I thought that was pretty cool behaviour, and said so. I have a similar reputation myself, see, and we drunken sleazeballs have to stick together. The conversation eventually turned to my relationship with Jenfariello. Someone in the car mentioned that my fling with Jen was not good for Charlottesville.
In time for my shift at Comet, we returned to the Dynashack. Angela was just returning to find me; she'd had some kind of vitriolic argument with boyfriend Aaron, who'd gone off to a Michæl's Bistro, a bar that only admits people who are over 21 years of age. He's 23 and she's 18. She ended up coming with me to work. I showed her more of the musings and set her up with an email account at a new free email service that Bn told me about: Rocketmail. Angela's first cyberdenity is sug@rocketmail.com. She went on to compose a very brief email to Monster Boy. And the evil Internet, what had been Godzilla only this morning, served her dutifully.
It had been a long day and I admit that I took a nap during my shift.
This entry has been anything but inspired. I feel like I'm filling out tax forms.