February 20 1998, Friday

I

t was a busy day of job applications. In some ways it felt like the first day of the rest of my life. First I went to Olssen Hall to check my email. Upon learning that there were high paying computer repair jobs available over at Cavalier Computer, I headed off to the UVA department of personnel to fill out the long, arduous state job application forms. Somewhere along the way I learned I didn't have all the information I needed, so I returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka, where I found Angela sitting stony faced on the couch watching teevee. She's got a doozy of a boyfriend, and she's sticking with him through dick thick and infantile thin.

After my applications were finished and filed, I picked up a couple Big King burgers at the Barracks Road Burger King. They're ever so much better than Big Macs (which I ate yesterday). I think it's that char-broiled flavour; it tastes like a strip development in summer time, somewhat appropriate to another preview-of-Spring day along lower 29 North. I rode my bike up a steep Emmett street roadside and ate my burgers beside an ancient set of tennis courts along the railroad tracks. The courts had been built proudly back in 1971 with a grant from a foundation, but now the tarmac is cracked and the fencing has rusted. The water fountain clearly hasn't worked for many years. There's a unique feeling of desolation that attends sitting by one's self at the edge of a dilapidated athletic field in the off season. Especially on a springlike day with your squeaky bicycle at the ready.

N

ext stop was the Downtown Artspace across town. I had to make some photographs available for a new section of the Root 66 website that I'm building. The photos (taken by Jen Fariello) are full of fetishistic juxtapositions of legs, vintage cars and root beer bottles. The legs belong to none other than Charlottesville's esteemed actress Savitri Durkee. I'll keep you folks posted so you don't miss out on the sexy excitement (besides, you, my readers, are a ready-made source of not inconsiderable website traffic). While I was at the Artspace, I told Jen about all my latest Matthew Hart troubles. She invited me to go with her to see Raphæl play at Millers.

I

t's 4:00 pm, I'm drinking rumtea (a variation on vodkatea made with some of that ill-fated rum from a week ago).

I'm trying to get Jessika to move into Matthew's room. Send her some encouragement, money or doll heads.

I

  came home to Kappa Mutha Fucka to find Matthew Hart cleaning out more of his worldly possessions. He said "hi" and so did I. I guess he must be serious, but then again, so am I, since I didn't beg him to stay, even though he took his stereo system and Angela's television, things he'll never need at his mother's place. It was obviously an attempt at punishment. Hah! I'm self-sufficient in my own room.

Of course, when Deya came home, she had no teevee to watch so she had to join me in my room for the Simpsons on my All in Wonder Card and multiscan monitor. We're both happy that Matthew is moving out, though, even though Deya is the "good cop" in all this. Matthew was, in a phrase, awful to live with. Moral of this long, drawn out story: don't live with a spoiled brat, even if he's your best friend. Eventually you'll find yourself being his daddy or otherwise wiping his unclean anus.

Jen the Wacky Tokyo Rose Bartender came by spontaneously with gifts for Deya and me: an astronomy book for me and a North American geography book for Deya. Hmm, I wonder if Jen read that musings scene where I was teaching Deya geography at the Tokyo Rose bar. We hung out, I did wheelchair tricks, and Jen became acquainted with the various remaining Kappa Mutha Fucka animals.

I

  rode my bicycle over to the Brick Mansion in the 'Hood to hang out with Jen Fariello. She was all by herself watching Olympic figure skating. It's not nearly as fun now as it was four years ago when it was flavoured with the whole Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan metadrama. I never much like Nancy Kerrigan's skating technique. As I mentioned to Jen tonight, her landings always looked like rocks falling from the sky. Tonight the skaters were more graceful, although (even speaking as a non-breast man) it would be nice if their tits were just a little bigger. Now that there's no malicious subplot, the only thing to keep me watching is all that girlie leg action. For her part, Jen likes to watch because she used to skate.

I went on a beer run down to the Convenience Store on the corner of 9th Street and Cherry Avenue. It's a big 'Hood social centre, and the beers were obviously not targeted at my demographic group. The only "good" beer available was Corona and Heineken, and I hate Heineken, and since Jen had specifically ordered good beer, I was left with no real choice.

Jen's friend *&&* came by. *&&* is an unpronounceable pseudonym. At this point in the narrative, I'm feeling experimental, and besides, it doesn't really matter who she is. Anyway, *&&* told me that she'd received a spammish email from someone telling her that online journals are the "new rock and roll" and that she should check out each of a list of five. I have no disappointment to relate, folks, this journal was one of the five. I don't know what the other four were.

The skating went on for much longer than expected, and *&&* grew impatient. The only interesting moment on the ice was when Surya Bonaly (psst, she's black) did a back flip and landed it on one foot. It's refreshing to see something other than triple twirlies, which (from what I've seen) are nearly impossible to land gracefully (unless, of course, you're Michelle Kwan).

Finally, as planned, Jen, *&&* and I then went to Millers to see Raphæl play. Of course we showed up a bit too late and had to settle for the next band, Supertanker. It turns out, however, that Raphæl is in Supertanker too, so all was not lost. Supertanker, by the way, is not an especially wonderful band. They were more like some kind of singer-songwriteresque comedy act. Periodically the singer (a familiar face but I forget his name) would burst into "Saddam: you are denied!!" which was well received by the rowdy drunken audience of mostly trendy twenty-somethings. I'm neither trendy nor twenty something, so I didn't really feel like I fit in too well, even though I knew most of the people there, and even though everyone was very friendly to me.

The place was packed and there was nowhere to sit. For a long time Jen Fariello stood at the inside end of a split in Miller's long bar. A dapper little middle aged man stood behind her, groping, clutching and mumbling things to her in protosimian. He was extremely drunk and had no sense of propriety. I've been like this on occasion, but still I had no sympathy. Neither did Jen. She jokingly suggested I kick his ass. As it happened, however, I didn't need to. He suddenly fell over backwards behind the bar and lay unconscious on the linoleum. Blood began to pool behind his head. Savitri jumped up and ran to get a police man. The band stopped playing. Paramedics arrived. A stretcher was maneuvered into position. Eventually the little middle aged man was whisked away. I'll bet he'll have a killer head ache tomorrow.

After that happened, I felt aimless and bored. I didn't even really feel like drinking any more. I also didn't feel like interacting with anyone. I just wanted to go home. I had a sadistic desire to abandon Jen and go somewhere else with someone else, but it seemed easier to just let the night play out. But the laughter and frivolity of the others was functioning as some kind of torture device.

Eventually Jen took me back to her place and I rode home from there on my bicycle.