Sunday, September 12

Boo PoPo

Few weekends have a theme as pronounced as this one. And this one screamed…

“Fuck the Police”

It started Friday when Nickname and a few of my peers decided that it was time they started learning the art of selling booze out of backpacks. Yup, the youngest upper classmen have stepped up to the log bench and started their own bonfire.

Or, maybe I should say that they attempted to step up. But a little scheduling snafu and a stupid freshman rained on it. And then PSafe came. So despite it being barely past 11 the fire was extinguished, though hopefully not along with our not-terribly-shitty reputations.

From there we all piled into cars and headed over to the scheduling snafu—a house party.

We got there right as things were at their peak. The music was good. The pong table was hot. And all my favorite people (including a recent alum that I’ve always had a strange, inexplicable liking towards) were there. I hit my party-groove and was sipping and mingling immediately.

Everything was smooth talking guys and wonderfully biting drinks when all of a sudden I heard the word that every underage kid dreads—COPS!

Normally the cops come, the homeowner goes outside to talk, the cops tell everyone to shut up, and we all disperse calmly. But this was in no way a normal situation.

The homeowner went outside, the cops talked, the homeowner came inside and told us to shut up, and the cops continued sitting outside.

Eventually all the youngins’ were advised to leave or risk a popo encounter, so I filled my car with Westchester and Mr. Jackson and tried to leave. But the cops had most of the roads out blocked. So a few crazy turns later we managed to make it back to campus. I promptly dropped them at the curb and made my way to the Minimalist’s where I learned the reason behind all the hooplah.

Apparently, a couple of girls who had been walking to the party got hit by a drunk driver. The names or condition of any of the girls is unknown.

And despite the fact that cops never showed up to Saturday’s shindig their presence was still felt in the form of a creepy old man.

DeVirgin, who was throwing the party, apparently has some more than slightly odd neighbors living behind him. And from what I can gather the middle-aged father heard to festive noise and decided that him, his Great Dane, and 16-year old son needed to join in. So they hopped the fence—with the dog—and told DeVirgin that if they weren’t allowed to get their party on then the cops would make sure no one could.

Because that’s the mature thing to do, right middle-aged man?

So they stayed. And the dog pooed in the house. And the son was nowhere to be found. And the father got far drunker than me and hit on everything that may have had a vagina between its legs.

The cops never showed, but needless to say, the presence of a man old enough to be my father and creepy enough to be on To Catch a Predator was in no way appreciated.

But I hate to end things on a sour note, so I’ll tell you something I did appreciate about this weekend:

I appreciate that Westchester and I have the same taste in so much and that she decided to go to my favorite veg-head restaurant for her birthday dinner.

And I appreciate all those lovely ladies.

Thursday, September 9

Crash Course: Grass is Green


I’m going to give you some advice I suggest you heed.

Don’t rock the boat!

If you have yourself a man/boy-friend and it’s good -- not just good to the point where you haven’t found anything better, but good to the point where you’re not even looking -- then don’t think for whatever reason that the grass will be greener on any other side that you might come across.

Take if from a girl who has fallen for fake grass more than a time too many, it is never greener.

And now, just as I had to last year with Connecticut and Arch Enemy, I have to remind myself of just that.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch, though, because the Minimalist and I are still sailing smoothly. We’re peachy keen, over the moon, and disgustingly happy. But there’s also Misfit*.

I met Misfit when he wrote for my section in the newspaper. He asked for my number under the guise of needing my help, and then invited me to his place under the guise of wanting me to go over his draft with him. Things evolved from there, thanks in part to GoodMan telling him that the Minimalist and I were a thing of the past.

While Misfit is undeniably wonderful and attractive and intelligent and a whole host of other favorable adjectives, I’m not convinced that his lawn is any better than the Minimalist’s. Ginger suggested a pro/con list and while normally I’m a not-so-closested list-lover, I can’t begin to compare them because they’re so completely different.

Misfit and I shop at a natural foods co-op. The Minimalist and I screw with freshman boys.

Misfit meditates. The Minimalist drinks.

Both make me laugh.

Once again, don’t take this as any kind of confession of feelings or intentions. Take this as what it is—advice on how to handle a situation that will undoubtedly spring up at some point, and one that I will never know how to handle.

If only Twin was here to tell me what to do this time…

*Misfit-GoodMan’s former roommate.

Wednesday, September 1

Heads Up

In college don’t be surprised if…

…You find yourself turning into the kind of person you HATE by writing complicated, confusing academic papers with big words and sentences like…

“’Six Characters in Search of an Author’ is an Italian modern play that attempts to define reality by blurring the lines of reality under the pretense of the theater and the battle between actors that play characters and characters that really are characters, all of which, I believe, is an allegory for the refraction that occurs when reading a text designated as world literature.”

Yes, that is what a 64-word thesis sentence looks like.

…Your roommate walks into the room and says she wants a piercing. And half an hour later goes from this,

to this.

With a little of this

in between.

…You find a penis drawn in the dirt on your car. Because penises are funny at any age.

… People (mos’def not me, mind you) go on dates to the dining hall. Or even more gag-tastic, double dates.

…You watch at least 2 of your ‘mates eat Chef Boyardee in a day.

It’s the new Ramen, haven’t you heard?

…Especially when you go to Crunchy College, you debate between getting to class on time and pressing your tofu.

Or maybe that last one is just me.