athan VanHooser came by during the tail end of my Comet shift as I worked on video frame capture. The scenes of Steve Weiner being humiliated on video tape provoked much laughter. Especially the part where Matthew managed to coax him into exposing himself. And whenever Steve broke into song with that incredible voice of his, scarred and battered by tracheotomy, toothlessness and countless thousands of cigarettes.
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The only real offensive smells come from the many dirty socks lying around.
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o one was at my house when I returned in the evening from a day at work. I kind of liked it in that unusual state. There I was was in the messy comfort of my living room reading one of Monster Boy's RE/search books, the one about the übermasochist with cystic fibrosis, Bob Flanagan. My house may be a disaster of clutter and dirty dishes, but it's the good kind of clutter in that it doesn't smell bad. The single biggest factor contributing to the pleasantness is the no-smoking policy. The only real offensive smells come from the many dirty socks lying around. But I have mostly myself to blame on that one.
onster Boy's chum from Norfolk (and former Charlottesville personality), Ray Roebuck, suddenly pulled up in an aging black VW microbus. He'd brought a girlfriend and a pair of enormous speakers belonging to Monster Boy. He had every intention of taking the girlfriend back to Norfolk, but the speakers were to be left behind.
Soon enough others arrived. Monster Boy picked up Leah from work, charging Matthew Hart an extravagant $3 for gas (as a consequence, Matthew and I instituted a new policy the next day; from now on we'll be charging Monster Boy for each beer he requests). And Jesse and Jasio arrived. I decided to to embark on a solo tussin adventure.
I did a good show of swallowing six ounces rapidly. Monster Boy was the only witness as I sat in the middle of Observatory and chugged the thick red syrup in seconds and then used copious amounts of water to flush every trace from my upper gastrointestinal tract.
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A combination of weaker will power and stomach often results in vomiting.
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Leah and Deya, meanwhile, had begun drinking Mad Dog fake vino. They had the Banana Red, a flavour I have never been able to drink since deciding it tasted exactly like tussin. The flavour of tussin is only to be endured for a moment, like jumping into a pool. It has nothing to do with pleasure until the effects kick in.
For awhile though I just felt mildly nauseated. It was something over which I had firm psychological control, but a combination of weaker will power and stomach often results in vomiting. The idea is to keep the stuff down if at all possible. Anything less is wasted money and futile discomfort.
When the dextromethorphan kicked in, I experienced a loss of balance that manifested particularly when I would rise to my feet. I kept complaining happily about how messed up I was.
I also experienced weird thoughts. These were mostly of a pleasantly semi-paranoid nature. I kept thinking that these times are particularly interesting ones, like I'd entered a critical juncture in my life. Nothing was unpleasant to me, though I didn't note any heightened appreciation for music. For the first time ever while on tussin, I discovered that I couldn't experience pain. And my palms itched and needed to be scratched.
eah, Deya, Leticia the Brazilian Girl and I went to Farmer Jack for some more Mad Dog. This time we picked up a 750 mL bottle of that new cleaning-fluid-blue flavour, Hawaiian Blue, along with 3 litres of Carlo Rossi Paisano, the light chianti. To my tussinated eyes, the store was a chaotic garish riot of shifting cubist planes. My mind refused to take it in coherently as my balance caused me to careen down the aisle.
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How often in a Turkish man's life does he get an invitation to go driving around on a Saturday night with three crazy girls and a guy tussing his face off?
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On 14th Street on the Corner, we ordered a big cheap mushroom/cheese pizza at Gumby's. While waiting for it to come out of the oven, the girls were being extremely outgoing to passersby, such as Junebug, a little black man who is one of the town's more familiar middle-aged drunks. He gave Leah his a cup of oversweeted Mudhouse coffee. Meanwhile, Deya was chatting with a big-haired Turkish guy she'd met at last night's Wertland Street party. His name was Utkhan, and he spoke almost no English. But when we randomly invited him to join our contingent, he was more than willing to go. How often in a Turkish man's life does he get an invitation to go driving around on a Saturday night with three crazy girls and a guy tussing his face off?
I tried to eat a slice of pizza, but the tussin had erased all my cravings. If anything, I was mildly nauseated. I ate a slice, but doing so was an ordeal.
Then we drove to the C&O for some reason. Matthew Hart was there, working one of Zachary's abandoned weekend shifts. We stood around babbling excitedly from the depths of our various intoxications while Matthew was rendered almost speechless in embarrassed sober amazement. Meanwhile, the other C&O employees could be seen through the window carrying out the important business of five-star-quality food preparation. Aaron the SHARP was one of those working tonight. After I'd left he told Matthew that this time I was "lucky." He apparently still promises to break all the fingers of my hands as payment for his definition in the Glossary.
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I was feeling an almost altruistic love at this point and I referred to Ian's house as our house's "sister city."
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ne of the few understandable statements that Utkhan managed to utter was that he knew some of the people over at Ian Cohen's house on Wertland. We decided to go there and continue last night's party. We ended up hanging out in the living room there, drinking vino (by now the tussin had begun to wear down I was able to start drinking) and listening to under-rated music from the '80s, such as the Fixx.
Leah and I also got a fix of beholding the beauty of an Asian girl who lives there. As you may recall, we both have an Asian girl fetish.
Not much else happened. I was entertained enough just by being on tussin. As we left, we gave the members of the house a standing invitation to visit us anytime they choose. I was feeling an almost altruistic love at this point and I referred to Ian's house as our house's "sister city."
think I'll start referring to our house on Observatory Avenue as "Kappa Mutha Fucka" or "K-M-Phi." That name was coined by Zachary and connotes the ironic suggestion that we're a fraternity or else crack-crazed homeboys. We're sort of a punk rock fraternity, I suppose. And we talk a lot about "cappin' homies" even though as of yet we have no guns.
razy driving brought us home safely, though I'm sure poor Utkhan wondered if he'd ever live to see live Ankara again. Then Deya and Utkhan started walking off towards JPA together, who knows why or where. A malicious rumour passed through our ranks that she was sick of Monster Boy and had found the Turkish boy of her dreams.
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So I ran my fingers through her hair and said "there there, don't be such a silly."
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Later Deya returned alone. Perhaps from drunkenness, she was very sad. She said she felt insecure about how I feel about her. In particular, she was concerned that I might be concerned that she wasn't pulling her weight around the house. So I ran my fingers through her hair and said "there there, don't be such a silly." Leah was amazed to see me being so tender.
Read some more tales of tussin.
