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May 2, 1997, Friday

I've decided: There is nothing quite as horrible as an immature male human being.

D

uring the Comet shift I was beset with a range of aggravating troubles, none of which would have plagued me on a computer that I would set up and use all by myself. The others here install way too many whiz bang do dads on these machines that routinely get in my way as I try to do the things I love to do. For example, today the Mac refused to print from the laser printer. Who knows why, no doubt it is the result of a new wave of anti-hacker paranoia which has resulted in increased security on the network [actually, Bn pointed out that the AppleTalk CDEV was pointing at the Modem port, but who can keep track of all the things that can go wrong when all you want is a fucking print out?]. So I take my Microsoft Word files to a PC to print them out (a much faster process than printing from the Mac), and wouldn't you know, I'm stopped again. This time anti-virus software detects "viruses" in documents created on a Mac. I really don't think so and certainly don't care. After all, viruses are people too. So I am forced to convert my documents to Rich Text format in order to see them on paper. The run-around involved is much worse than any that Kafka could have ever envisioned; I'm a peon in a bureaucracy of machines.

But I did manage to have a little fun creating column-like structures using tables to classicize yesterday's entry.

I

  woke up at 12:44pm today. That's early. I might have fallen back to sleep but then the Smiths started blaring from an undetermined location.

I've had a Two Moons Burrito and withdrawn money for rent and fun from the bank. My mother is coming into town tonight again. I hope she doesn't get in my way. Perhaps I should go begin my day.

We speculated that the only way to save ourselves from this torture was to toss the half ball in front of an oncoming car.
H

oagie, my mother, turned up in the late afternoon while Monster Boy and I were conversing and listening to music on the front porch. Conspicuously absent was a bottle of bourbon I was convinced she would be bringing. A cute little black dog with grey whiskers turned up with what I take to be his toy, a half of a tennis ball from the neighbor's yard. He plopped the half ball on my mother's lap and gave her an expectant look. I know exactly what to do in such situations; I tossed the half ball and the dog fetched it and plopped it on my mother again. The process repeated an absurd number of times, well past my saturation point. Most dogs would have been bored or exhausted too, but not this one. He was single-minded in demanding to play "fetch" endlessly until the end of time. When Monster Boy put his foot on the ball to make the dog forget about it, the dog bounced his front paws on Monster Boy's boots in a crazy display designed to free it. My mother was hating the dog; the ball was by now saturated with saliva, and my mother hated getting dog drool all over her. We speculated that the only way to save ourselves from this torture was to toss the half ball in front of an oncoming car. I'd never met this dog before in my life and was amazed by how quickly he'd befriended and enslaved us. Wertland is home to many extroverted animals, though. Several houses down, there's a black and white cat that occasionally ambushes me from his hiding place in a row of bushes.

The only humane way to end our torture was to go for a drive. Hoagie and Monster Boy came with me. This was the genesis of a bizarre threeway association that lasted for much of the evening. In addition to escaping the pesky dog, I had plans of paying an old dental bill that my insurance hadn't covered. But at Daly's office, I discovered that Mutual of Omaha does not have me on their dental plan at all. The prospect of having to actually pay for the hundreds of dollars worth of dental work done recently was galling, especially in view of the fact that I'd assumed I was covered. Coming back from the dentist, I was so angry that it contributed an adolescence to my driving style. I proclaimed that if it turned out that, after all, I don't have dental insurance then, in retaliation, I'd advertise a "free beer party" at Mutual of Omaha's corporate headquarters. I drove my Dart on a crazy route through hitherto unexplored afro-american neighborhoods to the south of the railroad tracks between 5th and 7th Streets SW on my way to the Main Street ABC store. There I bought 1.75 litres of 100 proof vodka. I hoped my mother would get some liquor too, but alas, she didn't.

Back at the Dynashack I went through my insurance paperwork (I love writing but I hate paperwork) in hopes of finding the elusive evidence of my dental insurance. I could make no sense of any of the multiple pamphlets, manuals, leaflets, flyers and calendars that comprise my Mutual of Omaha package. What could I do but I give up and drank vodka flavoured with a teabag? My anger was swallowed in the sea of oncoming inebriation.

M

y mother drove Monster Boy and me to the Downtown Mall for the First Friday of the month extravaganza. I had a peanut butter jar full of a diluted variant of my vodka and tea concoction. Walking through the Downtown Mall on a Friday evening is such an ordeal nowadays owing to the sheer numbers of people I feel compelled to engage in small talk. It's almost like being famous. One understands why Chelsea Clinton stuffs all her hair in a hat before hitting the streets.

Perhaps they're behind the vicious and completely untrue rumour that "for kicks" bored Comet employees read customer mail.
We three went to the Mudhouse and my mother bought Monster Boy and myself various caffinated drinks. I didn't check my email because I've been advised that doing so could compromise security at Comet. A reputable source (a disgruntled former employee) has stated that archrival Cornerstone Networks, Mudhouse's Internet Provider, practices unscrupulous packet monitoring. That sounds like typical geek paranoia to me, but I've heard several stories about Cstone.net that lead me to question their integrity. Perhaps they're behind the vicious and completely untrue rumour that "for kicks" bored Comet employees read customer mail. The Internet business is remarkably cut throat. Coffee merchants, by contrast, seem to consider themselves members of a fraternal brotherhood; thus employees from Mudhouse can drink coffee at Higher Grounds for free.

We three went to Gallery Neo to yet again see the Christopher Makos exhibit. Lydia, the curator of Neo, has been having some strange problems with America Online lately. Using the AOL web browser, she gets DNS problems when surfing to a wide variety of sites, including those important to her. From UVA or Comet, or even Mudhouse, meanwhile, I can go to all these sites with alacrity. Apparently the proxy servers that stand between her and the freedom of the Internet are acting more like glue than grease. She needs to drop AOL as soon as possible and get some real Internet. It's more functional and more professional that way. The the little Pink Barrette Gallery Neo Vino Girl is apparently some sort of little Lydia slave; she was at Neo again tonight, this time with a white burette. Monster Boy thought she was giving him the eye.

At McGuffey, it was the usual well dressed middle-age art scene. We were there mostly for food and vino, commodities Monster Boy needs to get for free since these days he has NO MONEY at all. One exhibit at McGuffey featured the installations of David Borawski. These consisted of arrangement of safety and construction equipment such as orange cones, ladders and trash cans. I wasn't impressed in the least. There's a very fine line between cutting edge fine art and boring clutter.

A

t the Downtown Artspace, my mother presented Jenfariello with white vino and cake for tonight's Jacques deBeaufort opening. I think my mother sees the Artspace as being a possible venue for her art. Still, I have trouble envisioning her animal and nature paintings hanging beside the rude, the strange, and the avante-garde paintings and photographs typical of the Artspace. Despite my familial loyalties, I've already expressed this opinion to Jen.

In Charlottesville, where funk rules with ironclad tyranny, their rebellious insistence on playing rock and roll places Slackjaw in the category of "wonderfully refreshing alternative."
I stepped back out onto the Mall and started chatting with Crispina's Sister, Eliza, of Large Meat Pizza fame. I invited her to join me on a walk to the distant east end of the Mall to see the band play. I don't often go see the Fridays after Five band play any more. Invariably the music is utterly NOT to my liking, and the crowd is a dreadful melange of what would pass for socialites in Fratville. Today the crowd had its usual artless composition, and the music was Slackjaw, a rock and roll band that is, according to the Big Fun Glossary, "as hard as it gets." They sound much like Pearl Jam. In Charlottesville, where funk rules with ironclad tyranny, their rebellious insistence on playing rock and roll places Slackjaw in the category of "wonderfully refreshing alternative." I like Pearl Jam, and the fact that Slackjaw is a knockoff thereof takes only adds to their music. I know, I know, all my friends sneer at Slackjaw because they're derivative and relatively popular (on a local level), but for the love of God, at least it's live rock and roll. In Charlottesville, they're a rare and beautiful thing.

I didn't stay with Slackjaw long. The crowd was a throng of strangers and Eliza wasn't enjoying herself. So I got a chili dog from the familiar hot dog guy and we headed back to the Artspace. We passed Eliza's father, who is perhaps the least restrictive parent imaginable. She said vaguely she'd be back "later tonight" and he said "okay." She's still fourteen, you must understand.

My mother claims she'd been walking around on the Mall with an open glass of vino exactly the way I do. I was amazed. At her age, she takes almost no risks, and "drinking in public" is something that she has warned me not to do. Strangely, it seems she is gradually picking up some of my outrageous social habits. She says she can get away with a lot more than I can at her age.

I said that I'm tired of being regarded as a "safe asexual" by my female friends.
B

arefoot, I walked down to the bar known as Millers and came upon Catherine deGood, Deidre, this guy who I thought was named Jeremy but who is actually named Gabe, and some other guy. They were in the outside patio area of Millers, drinking greenish drinks. I found myself talking mostly with Deidre. I said that I'm tired of being regarded as a "safe asexual" by my female friends. Deirdre said that, despite finding me to be sexy, she could rather understand... I hate that. I found myself thinking that I will do anything possible to destroy this perception, even if it involves making much more obnoxious sexual innuendo and performing disgusting behaviour (does the word "pelvic thrust" ring a bell?), things that girls mock and deride but evidently secretly admire. Such things seem to be shocking at first but always, in the end, endearing.

I drank vino in the artspace and watched Jacques deBeaufort's videomovies when he showed them. I was so drunk at this point that I really can't say much about what happened. I liked them, as I have always liked them, though some of the newer ones seemed to proceed slowly and were difficult to follow. The first videomovie was one he's shown in the past; it's the one that looks like an innocent male sexual fantasy. In my drunken state, I was being rather obnoxious, making comments for all to hear while at least one person tried to shush me. Penley told me the next day that one of the things I'd shouted was "more titties, less allegorical!" No doubt this was part of my new plan to increase my sexual vulgarity.

The part of one of the movies where I appear nude and red is relatively brief, but it's well-edited and makes for some stunning visuals. I'd like to see it again sometime when I'm sober or nearly so.

Matthew Hart and Leah his on-again-off-again-lesbian-girlfriend-now-wife, just back from a trip to New York, were there, as were Nathan VanHooser and his wife Janine. My memory of them all is extremely foggy. Peggy was also there, as was Joanna, the least famous of the Malvern Girls. I learned later that Peggy is looking to move back to Charlottesville. I know that Joanna also wants to live here. She never got a chance to become sick of the place as Sara and Jessika did.

A linear chain of memories stops at this point. I continued recalling things, but the memories aren't linked together as they normally are. Thus, had my mother not told me later, I would have had dismiss the rest of the evening as a blackout period. Interestingly though, when she did tell me about events, suddenly they leapt clearly into focus and I could recall them vividly.

I was full of enthusiasm, but Monster Boy and my mother were far more hesitant.
M

onster Boy, Leticia the Brazilian Girl, my mother and I joined a group of scruffy street musicians (including Phil the Rogue Ginini), who told us about a party happening upstairs in York Place (above the Mall's Higher Ground). We joined them and climbed the stairs. I was full of enthusiasm, but Monster Boy and my mother were far more hesitant. We were promptly kicked out, too. According to my mother, it was no big deal to me. "Happens all the time!" I proclaimed.

My mother drove us back to the Dynashack and, for want of a parking space, was forced to park in the 14th Street parking garage. I went promptly to bed and slept in my clothes.

I awoke at about three am and chatted with my housemates on the front porch. Intelligently, I drank a lot of water and returned to bed. My mother, on a pad on the floor of my room, started coughing at around this time. I found it very difficult to resume sleeping.

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