riday morning it was, but owing to last night's excesses, it felt rather more like a weekend morning. I wondered why the public radio station was playing classical music instead of news. When I figured out my error, I flipped on Judge Judy. I love the way she, school marmishly sees right through the shit people try to pull over on her. Then came Jerry Springer. My mother (who had spent the night in my bed while I slept downstairs) had never seen Jerry Springer before, and was astounded when the guests launched into a scuffle shortly into the show. As a side note, I'd like to point out that watching old Jerry Springer is a little like "old Krusty the Clown" as it's depicted on the Simpsons.
Chat chat chat, my mother yucked it up, especially after the girls were awake. Her cheerful banter was the last thing I wanted to hear in my hungover state, and I spent a little time up in my room with my computer figuring out the complexities of my new sound card. By this time Peggy and the Baboose had come over.
fter my mother left, I went downstairs to hang out with Peggy and Jessika. Peggy floated the idea that we should go to nearby Ana's Pizza for slices of pizzas. I'd had no idea that they sold pizza by the slice and was eager to try it out to see if it (the "pizza by the slice" concept) "actually works." As best I could, I put from my mind the fact that I had hangover-induced nausea.
We cut through the fratboy yard as a few stray droplets fell from a partly-cloudy sky. Jessika had brought her umbrella of course; it has successfully become a new accessory that she now must take everywhere.
As we ate our slices, a downpour fell outside. But as the pizza somehow cured me of nausea, the skies cleared. By now it was about 4pm.
ater in the evening, Morgan Anarchy came over. Then Ken, my old boss came over. That was unexpected. More unexpected still, he bore a sizable check for work that I'd done in December and January, work for which an insane megalomaniacal client had never paid. This was money I'd never expected to see. I was so overjoyed that I immediately set out for the Seven Day Junior and bought a 12 pack of Molsen Ice. Morgan, Jessika and I were going to be drinking out of bottles tonight, damn it!
eya came home, Wacky Jen showed up, and then Sarah Kleiner came by briefly to tell us of a party down in Batesville at the Triplets' House. Triplet parties have a sort of connotation in the Tandem School folklore. I've never been to one, but the rumour has been that they're the occasional scene for wild and crazy lesbian activity among other things. The fact that tonight's party was to be sort of a birthday party for the Triplets' older brother Danny seemed to temper that possible angle. Anyway, it was a party, and we wanted to go. Especially Morgan Anarchy.
We eventually went to the Triplet's Party, but not until all the Molsen was drunk and it was fairly late. I have no strong memory of what we were doing up until the time we left. I was working a little on painting a dreary cityscape on an old 486 motherboard, using the various chips and sockets to define the edges of buildings.
On the way down to Batesville, we stopped at the Taco Bell on 5th Street. Gordita time. Morgan Anarchy, who has been a gutterpunk in Mexico, delights in pointing out the fact that "gordita" in Spanish means "little fat girl," with the Mexican connotation of "desperate for any kind of sexual activity, especially being fucked up the asshole." I tried a gordita the other day, since it was new and cheap, and I liked it. But you know, it's an awful lot like this new pita being heavily advertised by Wendys. I have an uneasy feeling that all fast food is gradually converging towards some kind of Einsteinian grand unification. Unfortunately, gorditas (and all other fast food) never look nearly as good as they do in the huge promotional posters and on television. Mine somewhat resembled a heavily-burdened diaper.
Batesville is in southwestern Albemarle County, in the high Pre-Cambrian plutonic foothills of the Blue Ridge. The Triplets live in a rarified forested development of expensive houses tucked in among these hills. The older Durkee girls, some of the first people I met in Charlottesville, live (or lived) in another house within the same development. Their party was well-attended considering its remoteness.
he first thing that happened when I came through the door was that an intoxicated KC offered me an expensive beer and then launched into a long, exclusive dialogue with me, periodically stopping and raising the concern that I was making fun of her. The first time she said this, I jokingly agreed that I was, but I quickly regretted it and spent the rest of the conversation backtracking from my joking. In her drunkenness, KC was intense and unrelenting. She kept saying "I'm really glad you came," and then she'd launch into some random discussion of issues that involved both of us. For example, she well knows Chaz, the would-be king of Charlottesville thugdom, and even seems to have a certain respect for him. She said that he'd had nothing to do with Matthew Hart's injury on March 7th and that "if Angela had just kept her mouth shut" Matthew would have never been injured at all. That sounded like a strange place to blame, and it made me feel uncomfortable. So I simply pointed out that anything verbalized could never constitute a reason to throw a bottle at another human being, something she of course had to agree with. Later on KC brought up the time she and I made out behind the Tokyo Rose. A self-declared lesbian named Mandy came by in the midst of this and had us test a drink for alcohol content. In my practiced opinion, I declared it barren.
On the back porch, Danny, the Triplet's older brother, declared a profound hatred for REM right in front of Deya, the biggest REM fan I know. I drunkenly agreed, saying both that REM is my favourite band among those bands that I loathe and that REM is the least-favourite band among the bands that I love. It was a ridiculous but perversely fun conversation. Meanwhile, Morgan Anarchy was celebrating the discovery of a small flask of Southern Comfort. He passed out shortly thereafter.
There was a live "band" present. It featured affable Dave Mack (present at almost any Charlottesville party of consequence) on drums and a very particular musician on guitar. The guitarist insisted on playing funk most of the time, causing me to verbalize to those around me my desire for a fictitious substance I called "funkicide." The guitarist, who guarded his equipment like priceless Vermeer paintings, wouldn't allow me to play his guitar, so before he passed out from Southern Comfort, I got Morgan to help me on vocals as we tried to inject a little punk energy into the music scene. I found myself singing about Jatasya's alleged lobotomy almost effortlessly. The very particular guitarist tried to get Naomi the Triplet to play his guitar, but all she really wanted to do was sing. She sang remarkably well too, improving on several complete Ani DiFranco songs. She and her Susan Pouderesque friend then did a cover of "Are You On Fire?", my favourite Indigo Girls song.
Sarah Kleiner and I teamed up against a Triplet-rich team for numerous unscored games of ping pong. We were all so bad at it that it was actually pretty fun. Jessika joined Sarah and me on my team after our opposition's team swelled to three members.
There was a long period during which I sat on a couch talking to fellow Aquarians Deya and KC rather candidly about our respective sexualities. This conversation refreshed my dim awareness of the profound differences between the sexualities of individual girls. Some, you see, can only have orgasms during sex with other people, while others perform best while working entirely on their own. Hmmm...
one year ago
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