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April 5, 1997, Saturday

Now I incite: capitalize on the lonely and depressed old ladies and counter the AARP oligarchy!

I was at work at 8am. That's an hour early. But I had no desire to sleep anymore and couldn't think of anything else to do, so I went to shoot the shit with Bn, who, as you recall, had done the graveyard shift there. Catching up on gossip with him is perhaps the highest use of my time available at that hour.

Well, I sort of recalled this from the night before, but it's true: Bn had been doing a little kissing with Karen the German Girl last night. Now my musings are one big unabashed Kiss & Tell. Karen and Cecelia the Brazilian Girl went on to stay with Bn at Comet almost the whole night. Even Theresa came by at some point. That sort of thing just doesn't happen on my shift; I make it clear that I need my time here for my OWN projects. The only one who can come visit me and not drive me nuts is Jessika.

People who can entertain themselves are like self-walking dogs.
Okay, I take it back. My mother came and visited me and was able to entertain herself on the Web. People who can entertain themselves are like self-walking dogs, dark beer, $1 motor oil and multi-file search and replace; they're the kind you want. My mother is not only low-maintenance, she is also useful; I sent her on a mission to Doctor Ho's Burritos on Elliewood and she picked me up a burrito and chili. She would have gone to Two Moons Burritos (in the location of the old Rising Sun Bakery), but they hadn't quite opened yet and even treated her rudely. Little did they suspect that this rudeness would be published on the World Wide Web.

Monster Boy came by, and he also managed to demonstrate an ability to entertain himself. In time, however, a variety of others started appearing, the phone started ringing, and even the Webmaster was sort of "hanging out," so I just gave up on the idea of getting any work done and concentrated instead on recovering from my hangover and socializing. Those present had a number of amusing little conversations about light topics such as the Heaven's Gate cult and some of my more amusing pages mocking both them and our culture's reaction to them.

I like this time of year so much that I thought maybe I'd have an orgasm.
As I walked home from the day at work, the temperature was absolutely perfect. The winds blowed only pleasantly, and the buds and little leaves on all the trees looked as fresh as "Smells Like Teen Spirit" was in 1991. For some reason I was intensely moved by it all. I passed Will on the street and told him I like this time of year so much that I thought maybe I'd have an orgasm.

I found Monster Boy and Persad on Wertland and then together we found what remained of the bottle of bourbon in the Dynashack kitchen. There was still quite a bit. We all stood staring at it respectfully for a moment, commenting on the danger we were confronting.

We went out to the Corner and ended up loitering in front of Follette's Bookstore, which recently passed into history almost unnoticed. Seth Alecko and other apartment-mates (who live upstairs) were hanging out there too. They'd brought down some of their comfortable couches and chairs to sit on. How can I descibe the beautiful ludicrousness of sitting on a big comfy chair on the edge of a sidewalk in a univerisity town on a warm spring evening, a jar of bourbon and coke in my hand? Meanwhile, Monster Boy was engaged in a shady drug deal with a certain sickly and appalling female drug dealer. He was pretty much sober, so I guess he knew what he was doing. But I wouldn't have taken the drug he took the way he did...

He was acting a little nervous and overwhelmed when he reappeared, and I suggested he talk to the nice goth girl taking a break from work over at Little John's. He ended up talking to her for a long time.

The evening was so pleasant that Persad, Monster Boy and I all ended up on the front porch of the Dynashack. We were joined in time by Karen the German Girl, Bn and Jesse. Cecelia the Brazilian Girl was off working at the C&O. The bourbon was already waning, so Jesse, Karen, Bn and I went on a vino run to Super Fresh and purchased a 5 litre box of blush and a litre of something else for Cecelia for when she got off work at midnight. Bn did the driving. Coming down Wertland from the west, just before Dead Man's Curve, I saw the Malvern Girls and some of their friends in the street.

My intelligence sources had led me to believe that Jessika was on her way to visit this weekend, and there had even been a siting of Jessika and Sara somewhere earlier today. So finally running across them on Wertland was no big surprise. Their contingent consisted of Jessika, Sara, Joanna (the infrequently-visiting Malvern Girl), an exceptionally thin version of Johnny Boom Boom Mancini, and Steve Weiner. Steve Weiner's pot belly is as big as ever, a discrete lump that sits unnaturally high on his abdomen. It seems Steve is having his largely-fictional book entitled Jessie Upattinas published. The book is inspired by his time spent among the Malvern Girls during their early Charlottesville phase (Winter 94-95). Steve wanted the girls to pose for pictures, and thus the justification for this particular trip from Malvernia. He'd bought them beers and given them some money; the best compensation he could afford.

We all ended up sitting together on the Dynashack porch, drinking lots of alcohol and telling our stories. What followed from there was a strange little fragmented walking tour of the Corner. Some of us ended up on the patio of the Baja Bean (a Mexican restaurant near Higher Grounds) and others went to Café Europa. We were being rather drunk and obnoxious by this point. Since she no longer lives in this town, Jessika had intended to sneak off without paying after eating her pasta at Café Europa, but Steve Weiner's inertia foiled her plans.

There seemed to be no attention paid to personal elegance by any standards with which I am acquainted.

allow me to be rude

My housemtes had all gone off to see the Curious Digit at the Tokyo Rose, so me and my various companions were the only contingent at my house. We hung out on the porch and in the living room. What followed was a long period of sloth. Jessika and I tried to coax some life into the others, but they would not be moved. So she and I together went two houses west down Wertland and crashed a party. We made no pretenses about who we were, simply saying that we were the neighbors. And we were warmly received. Some of those present acknowledged that they'd been to the Dynashack's now-legendary Space Party (early September). I have to say, though, that the partiers at this party, in addition to being totally unfamiliar, were of an entirely different demographic sector from those who normally attend Dynashack parties. For one thing, a strong "big dumb jock" element was present. Such guys are ludicrous to behold and almost impossible to squeeze past on forays to the keg or bathroom. People were dressed casually and conventionally. There seemed to be no attention paid to personal elegance by any standards with which I am acquainted. This is in marked contrast to either my Dynashack or goth contingents. You see: with almost everyone I know these days, style is recognized, whether it be mocked, subverted, or accepted. At this party, though, there was no style. People wore tee shirts and baseball caps. They looked and smelled clean, but what of it? They reminded me of those infernal joggers I always see on the streets. Helplessly and silently I inevitably dehumanize them in my subconscious. I know that my subculture is regarded with a similar feeling of disgust by those in their paradigm, so I do not think my thoughts on this matter are unnatural. Only unfortunate.

Jessika had heard that Eric the Huffanator Huffman is back in town. She's drawn to skinheads of any persuasion, even Nazis like the Huffanator. There appears to be a contingent of skinheads living on the corner of Wertland and 10th Street (ironically on the very border of the 'Hood), and Jessika had heard that a party might be happening there and that certainly the Huffanator would be present. We walked down to the house where the party should have been happening, walking around it and shouting "Raging Party!? Raging Party!?" but it was quiet and dark within.

After we drove Steve home, we went to Raphæl's house on East Market Street, where Jessika used to live. I used to call this place "Nemo's House" in honour of its youngest human resident (who, along with his mother Ana, is now in Germany). Nothing much was happening there, but we lingered for a time anyway. Wonderboy Neek, who lives in Jessika's old room these days, was the only one there. We returned to the Dynashack.

misapplied bouncer instincts

Many of the fans of the Curious Digit had converged at the Dynashack to drink beer in the aftermath of the Tokyo Rose show. Those in my contingent remained as an undigested lump on the front porch, though I went in and said hi to those people I knew, including some of the guys in the 'Digit. A girl said she'd seen me driving my Dodge Dart around town, and that it was full of beautiful girls. She asked if she could be one of my beautiful girls and I said sure.

It seems that Darius is so used to kicking people out of the Tokyo Rose that he thinks he can come to my house and kick people out of there as well.
There were lots of beers in the refrigerator, presumably for the party. I helped myself to one of these and joined the Malvern Girls et al on the porch. Suddenly, we were confronted by Darius, the guy who manages music shows at the Tokyo Rose. He's a big swarthy man with intense brown eyes. Rarely does he look happy. In the past when we've snuck into shows he's the one who has thrown us out. Now he was demanding that we pay him money for the beer we'd taken. I was the only one who had taken a beer and while the others explained somewhat defensively that they were drinking their own alcohol, I said, "This is my house and those beers were in my refrigerator and I have absolutely no intention of paying for this beer!" It seems that Darius is so used to kicking people out of the Tokyo Rose that he thinks he can come to my house and kick people out of there as well. Cecelia, who was by now very drunk, rose to her feet and started shouting at a suddenly contrite Darius. Then she raved at the top of her lungs about "preps" while glass shattered around her and others stared in amazement. Darius tried to make amends by giving beers to those of my friends who wanted them. I was as maganimous as I always am in such situations. But I warned him about how "dangerous" Cecelia "is" and that he should stay away from her. I pointed to my "punk rock tooth" (smashed in the Fall of 1994 in Blacksburg by a blond American Girl in a mosh pit) and said that Cecelia had knocked it out.

For the most part I was in a giddy mood this evening. The Malvern Girls have a positive effect on my spirits. An example: as Sara went to light a cigarette, I snatched it from her and ran out into the street. She chased me with a plastic chair held threateningly over her head, and I taunted her from just out of throwing range. It was all fun and games until some observers in a nearby house shouted possibly rude comments and entirely changed Sara's focus.

When I grew weary of the evening I crashed in my bed. All my blankets had been co-opted by various passed-out friends, and I had to assert my host priviledges so that I might sleep without being cold.

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