February 11 1998, Wednesday

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ear the Downtown Mall is a little theatre called Live Arts that occasionally features small homespun productions. Apparently in the past they used to have something called "coffee houses" where a series of skits would be performed before a varied audience, some of whom having ordered a foods catered by a local restaurant. Tonight Live Arts was hosting a revitalized coffee house entitled "Monster Therapy," and Jessika wanted to go, partly because one of our local favourite bands, the Ninth, would be performing. The only problem was that our other friends had abandoned us essentially alone at Kappa Mutha Fucka. Abandonment is never much of an obstacle to Jessika, and she suggested that we go down to JPA and catch "the Hoo Bus" (a free but irregular bus service). Jessika has the power to convince me to do some very uncomfortable things, so I was agreeable. We set off into the rain, big mugs of flattened keg beer in our hands.

One of the JPA bus stops is directly in front of the Haunted House, so we waited on the Haunted House porch until a bus came. It was just a UVA bus, but UVA bus drivers are well known for their mellowness, and we boarded for free, assumed to be UVA students (who are allowed to board UVA buses for free). As we'd expected, the bus driver was cool, he was even playing punk rock music on his little cockpit stereo system. Unfortunately he could take us only as far as the Corner, but from there Jessika quickly hitched us a ride in a pickup truck to the Downtown Mall.

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t Live Arts, we were informed that the place was already full beyond capacity and we would not be allowed in. We aren't the type to see our transportational efforts so easily counted for nothing, so we snuck around the back, accessing the back hall through a room occupied by friendly teenagers playing existential Buddhist games in a tub full of sand and marbles. The back door of the theatre was, as expected, completely unguarded. We made our way inside and enjoyed the bulk of the first half of the show standing on our feet. Jessika was wearing incredibly elevated boots, and her calves were giving her shit, so after intermission we found a place to sit.

There's something about the loudness and overacting of live theatre that I hate. It works well for one-on-one narrations, or extremely funny skits, but for anything serious or sad, it sucks. So, for example, in tonight's skit called "Social Consciousness," the medium was perfect for the hilarious satire. A hippie, a feminist radical, and a gay existentialist spontaneously designed a model utopia out of boxes and foodstuffs stolen from "the fascist state" only to see it destroyed by human-sized Godzilla upon whom they'd taken pity and given shelter. But other skits dragged along and made me yawn. The Ninth were good when they played between acts, but I found myself wondering if they're becoming too popular in this town. Perhaps they need to suffer a little more to add a certain dark quality to their music.

When the show was over, I found myself gleaning dinner rolls from the part of the theatre where the restaurant had been catering food. Jessika chatted endlessly with her good buddy Dave, the front man for the Ninth. He's got a girlfriend now and a baby is on the way. I hear and experience these tales of reproduction and I keep having an autumnal feeling of loss, like I'm being biologically left in the dust. It's irrational, it's basic, but it's part of the human condition. As much as I (intellectually) don't want to reproduce, there's something deeper and more subconscious at work. In weak moments, I find myself appraising the maternal values of those girls around me with whom my id might like to start a family.

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oanna Road Rage, Deya and Steve Weiner suddenly arrived. Steve was full of himself, heckling one of his male friends about his "concubine" (none other than Lauren Hoffman, local rock star). I convinced Joanna Road Rage to drive me to the Corner so I could get another BLT at the White Spot. I always forget to eat and I never remember to buy groceries, so the only time I ever get any caloric intake are during crisis moments when my stomach throws a fit, and I break down and buy something at a restaurant.

After Steve had been safely delivered home, we returned to Kappa Mutha Fucka and drank the last of the flattened keg of beer and watched the Comedy Channel. I almost never get a chance to watch South Park, but tonight I did, for the second time. I still don't really know if I like the show. There's an awful lot about the humour that seems to juvenile even for me. But there's adult content there too, and occasionally it's even brilliants. Perhaps the Simpsons have spoiled me too much to appreciate anything less.