Friday, January 21, 2005

Operation 'Whiskey Retrieval' in a dress

Maybe I put a hex on Jesse a week or so back when I lovingly and drunkenly threatened to kill him should he ever lay his hands on a certain someone. As it happened, I am now in the akward position of having to follow through with my outrageous claims of menace. I haven't killed him (he's just too darling), but by making him carry my half pint of whiskey in his pocket because it didn't fit in mine, I succeeded, unfortunately, in getting him kicked out of Neo last night.

This happened, laughably, not 15 minutes after we arrived. The Young Archers role deep and we piled in more than appropriately festooned for 80s night.
I wore a dress, a rare occasion, and If I say so myself, looked rather pretty. We quickly got to our usual business of dancing wildly and scavenging beers off the tables. All was going well until Grady received a distressed call from Jesse out in the parking lot-the whiskey having been confiscated and thrown in the trash, his person having been thrown out of the club. We debated going somewhere else for the evening but eventually he, having to work in the morning anyway, elected to take the train home.

I kept thinking about my brand new bottle of whiskey and by the end of the night I had become obsessed with Operation Whiskey Recovery. As we prepared to leave around 2 am I even tried to enlist the help of a cute boy near our table. I happen to think this might have been one of the more fantastic pick-ups in the history of the world:

Me: "hey, are you interested in a secret mission?"
him: (blasely) "What do you mean?"
"see that garbage can over there?" I gestured toward the coat check area, "we have it on good intelligence that there within lies a UNOPENED half pint of Jim Beam whiskey. All we need is a hero to retrieve it. Are you up for the challenge?"
"what do you mean?"
"I mean, will you go look in the garbage can for my bottle of whiskey?" I explicated with a charming grin.
"Uh...that sounds like a lot of work."
Clearly this boy was not much for adventure or free whiskey. In short, a total waste of my time.
"You then, good sir will NOT enjoy the bounty of the spoils once the mission has been completed!" I thundered snottily, turning on my heels and heading for my coat.

On the way out, Michelle chatted up the doorman and covered me while I rummaged in the trash. I did not find my whiskey but I quickly managed to slice open the top of my right middle finer on a piece of wet broken class. "Fuck!" I cried out, drunk but far from completely anesthetized. "Keep looking!" Michelle barked, momentarily turning from the door tender. She's right. Heros shouldn't give up so easily.

I wrapped my bloody finger in my scarf and went back in. Nothing. As my finger began to throb a realization dawned on me that I had been too drunk, stubborn and tunnel-visioned to consider before: there was no way any door tender, even the most surly or vindictive, would let that bottle go to waste. After banishing Jesse, I'm sure the staff quickly pocketed the booty.

Using my scarf as a tournequet, I stepped out into the snowy night defeated and morbidly depressed. Michelle had the idea to check in the dumpster which I did lamely, finding only some cardboard air filters before another meat head chased us away.

On the way home someone in the car pulled out a Reader and showed me a picture of a stupid band whose song had premiered in the club that night. We immediately recognized the lazy, Heinekin-sucking cute boy as he was wearing the same plaid shirt that night was he was in the picture.

"That boy is a hater of adventure!" I seethed, waving my bloody scarf in bitter anger. My coherence ebbed in an astonishing inverse proportion to my swelling gloom. The dancing had been fun but, as is the case with most "fun" outings, I was returning home feeling empty and inexplicably sad.

To my friends' amusement, I spent most of the ride home muttering about how I had given that boy a PH test and "boy did He turn up fucking BASIC!"

Sunday, January 16, 2005

Love is like a pie.

I've been given the thankless assignment of reviewing dirty books in the Flaxman Library collection for the school newspaper. I'm not in the mood to talk about what I found (my review will be published in the Feb issue, though probably under a psuedonym or simply, Abbyg. since I know various members of my extended family are in the habit of googling our highly unusual last name and turning up my articles-this would upset them to say the least) other than a book of Andy Warhol's nudes. Mostly drawings and...are you sitting down?...paintings. Not just paintings but PAINTINGS- these almost sappy excersises in formal abstraction. As I leafed through these renderings of thighs and butts that virtually floated off the page in fields of shape and color, I couldn't help but fondly recall his picture book Love, Love, Love (there's also Shoes, shoes, shoes and cats, cats, cats just so you have a sense of the gravity with which he treats this hallowed theme). It's a great book, in fact, I'd love to own my own copy if anyone feels compelled to waste money on a really good present kind of present and buy it for me. It contains the line I've carried with me for years and continue to love perhaps more than any other line I've read:

Love is like a pie, I only stop when I'm full.

I was full indeed when I went out on Saturday night. Not of love, but basil noodles and dumplings and other delicious things Avi paid for. I figured there was no point in drinking since it would be impossible to get drunk for a few hours at least and let me say that going to shows and parties sober is a horrible, painful, eye-bleeding bore. I didn't feel like making conversation with anyone but I felt trapped. It was 5 degrees outside and I wasn't about to walk or wait for the bus back to bridgeport. I decided there was only one thing to do being so suicidally bored at this party: nap. There weren't many seats so I asked a handsome young boy (and I do mean YOUNG) if I could share his chair. When I first arrived at the party this boy was naked but for his socks. I truly appreciate having naked people around at parties, have even been a naked party attendee myself, though not in the dead of Chicago winter. He was quite attractive in the face, the usual things like tossled hair and long eyelashes. He was very young and hairless; more like donatello's david than Mick's in his slightness. Also uncircumsized I noted. very exotic. I guess they don't do that anymore. Boy was now dressed and rolling himself a cigarette. I thanked him for sharing his seat and lay back to close my eyes until some housemate walked over, car keysjingling to announce the boring nightmare was over.

Eventually Boy and I started talking. He just moved here from Nebraska. I said I'd ever been and predictalby he answered "you're not missing much."
"so what do you do, S___?" I asked.
To his credit he was irritated with this question.
"I Never know how to answer that. What do YOU do?"
"I worry a lot. I mull things over obsessively."
He nodded. "what is there to do really? I guess there's friendster..."
A trap. A minute later he says he's never been on friendster in his life. But it seemed like we were on to other things anyways.
"I know this is a rude question to ask a lady" he began "but how old are you?"
I laughed and without thinking twice, I lied.
I lied about my age but still felt ancient. Hopefully sexily ancient. Now it was my turn to return a query.
"19."
"That's what I figured" I said with a laugh that I hoped sounded as tinkling and incestuously maternal as I wanted it to.
As it turns out, we go to the same Art School. He seemed non-plussed about the whole affair, much more sophisticatedly cynical than I was at that age, wide eyed, reading voraciously, spending my lunch hours in the museum.
"I dont' really even like Art." he confessed blasely licking closed a new cigarette.
I'm thinking I could like this kid. At least enough to kiss his face for a few minutes, sober as I was.
"It's really just a play thing for the rich and I don't give a shit about it much anymore myself." I returned like some worldly bolshevik. Again the laugh. The laugh was maternal, urbane, didactic and above all bored.

I think that had we sat there longer engaged in what I suppose could pass as conversation I would have ended up kissing him and probably vomitting upon returning home. Thankfully, I was wearing a white shirt so no one could chalk a condeming 'M' on my shoulder. This kind girl Liz offered to take me and several of my housemates home so I bade farewell to my new friend and told him with a wink that I'd see him around school.

Not suprisingly, upon returning home I found that I was hungry again. Len and I split a cheese quesadilla and some chips and salsa. That's what I mean.

I'm very far from full.

Thursday, January 13, 2005

You Can't Hug with Nuclear Arms

Last night Aay and I began production on an idea that's been in my head for a couple of weeks: plushy, hugable missiles. Cheers to Pixar, Oldenburg and of course our bloated defense budget.

I am an amatuer quilter and clothing modifier of the lowest order (incidentally, did you know I accepted a "dummy" diploma at my college graduation all because of a quilting project I didn't complete on time? I like to imagine the kid of my childhood friend puking all over that calico denoument to my undergraduate experience...) forever botching my calculations and crying over my sewing machine. (the one I don't have anymore because I gave it to Carlos when I left Brooklyn).

But Thankfully Aay, owing to his perfectionist nature and crafty know-how produced his scientific calculator (There's a button for pi to the 10th digit!) and measured us up a brilliant pattern which we have yet to piece together. After all the tracing and cutting our legs were quite cramped so we abandoned the project for the night for pizza and fun with fonts on his new computer.

Hopefully, the first cuddly missiles will be ready in a week's time and available for hugging. In case you haven't spoken with me lately I've been losing sleep worrying about nuclear war. Anyone else out there too young to remember the cold war feeling a draft? This is hardly the most productive way of neutralizing my fears but a nervously funny ha ha one at least.

In the meanwhile, I am already thinking about my Halloween costume for next year: an atoll bikini.