I'm majoring in advanced Def Jam
I'd like to not talk about them any more, or think about them. I'm beginning to fear that my tendency to experience relationships in a primarily imagination-based framework is taking hold of my interactions with these my neighbors. For my sake I shall withold from avoidable contact with them until reality sets in.
Heather, Amelia, Ashely and I were reunited in the evening when Amelia returned from her grandfather's funeral in L.A. Our merriment was shared by Greg, Jason, and Lelena as we arrived at the Vid.
Beer, pool, nothing exciting... until I realized I had a Sharpee with me...
First I found a sign with the name "Michael" on it, so I added an "A".
Then off to the bathroom where I wrote, "I wish I'd remembered my Sharpee." And underneath where another girl had given a lengthy description of happiness, I simply put, "Happiness is a warm gun."
Once I was soundly trashed I did a once-over in the joint, since it's made up of a good five different rooms. Before I left the pool/dart room, though, a diminutive youth stopped and asked me my name.
"I'm Scott, but some people call me Jesus (/heysus/)."
"You're name is Scott?"
"Yeah."
"But they call you Jesus?"
"Two or three people."
"Right on."
In the next room I found Alex, and I assured him that the last time I'd seen him I was so competely drunk I barely remember anything I said, except for Sophia Coppola and My Bloody Valentine. He said we talked about just how not-Catholic I am. I don't remember that.
I can make Alex chuckle, and it pleases me, so while I did just that, a diminutive youth stopped me to ask my name. The same youth as before, nonetheless.
"I told you my name about three minutes ago. You remember it first, and then we'll talk. It's got three syllables."
Then I resumed talking to Alex - who now was chuckling at my condescension - while to my right and a little behind me I could here little Jesus rattling off an impressive number of three syllable feminine names. He stopped suddenly and exclaimed,
"Do you smell weed?!"
I pointed to the pin-ball machines and off he went.
Alex accompanied me to the bar for a fresh one and I bade him good night, when Amelia and Heather found me and began marking our heights on the door frame of one of the rooms, and we were only about six feet away from the bouncer. Either he didn't notice, or he enjoys our weekly tirades enough to tolerate such vandalism.
Before we could get all three of us marked, though, Heather demands the Sharpee. Her last vodka Collins had inspired her, and she would not wait for the current height-project to be completed before she simply had to commence a new project in the ladies' room.
It took her a while, and we rejoined our shitty-pool game and cigarettes until she got back.
With intensity (and another Collins) she arrived back in our corner saying, "I wrote I love Sergei in Russian!"
At around last call we were finishing up our pool game when a little dude leaned in on my shot and told me to do a combo. I stood a looked closer at him, and he's not attractive. But he's attractive to me, like the way Bobby Decker was (not).
After missing my shot I grabbed a smoke and my beer and walked over the fella and demanded why the fuck was wearing a name-tag that said "Brittney".
The entire conversation he held that his name is indeed Brittney.
He pulled the game where no matter what I said it was his "favorite" and then he repeated over and over that my eyes are "so big" and "so blue".
Suddenly my favorite bartender, Jim, was demanding we leave immediately because it was now 3:30 and the bar had been closed for half an hour. My friends began filing out the door, including Phil.
Wait, I don't know a Phil. But he was talking to me like I should know his mother. "Who the fuck are you?" I asked him. He said he's always there. He's just Phil. I cocked one eyebrow and said, "I'm considerably less drunk than I have been recently so perhaps I'll remember you next time."
Brittney wanted my phone number.
I laughed and explained how that was impossible, while fishing for a pen. Sharpee. And then for paper. I wrote my number down on my reservation form for the library carrel, and without a word of thanks he walked out the door.
I flooded the house-lit and nearly-empty barroom with a tidal-wave of, "who the fuck do you think you are?'s"
"I'm John the Turk," came a reply. For three minutes this talk, dark, handsome boy hearkened me back to NYC. 85th and Maddison he said.
More hands came along to push me out the door, and as we herded down the long stairs onto the street I pointed out John-the-Turk to Amelia along with his address.
"Only on the weekends" he said.
I felt I had no choice but to then start yelling, "Bridge-and-tunnel! Where are you from really? Jersey City? Staten Island? Jamaica?"...
On the sidewalk I saw Brittney, and in his face I stood while telling him I thought he was rude, and at the same time two other of my friends were bitching at him for having a name-tag saying Brittney.
I walked away before he could respond and I'll be very surprised if he ever calls.
He's an MFA in creative writing.
Before finally getting into Jason's car I recall lying down on the sidewalk because I couldn't stop laughing when Jason kept refering over and over to my ass as being "so big" and "so blue".
The night continued when a fella Amelia gave her number to decided to call and stop by with some of his friends.
That was a strange moment, because there's this tall, spectacled boy who I see all the time, and we always say hello, but we don't know each other... but he was friends with Amelia's (undergrad) conquest, so I finally got to meet him.
His name is Nick. I like Nicks.
Wine and more wine, and then some chronic, and then some snow-crab tortellini, and then Amelia wished me a happy Thanksgiving and I fell asleep on the sofa.
When I awoke Sunday morning the snow was blizzarding, and Amelia refused to drive, so we walked to brunch at the Spoon.
We met a child there. He was really small, and was running around our table proclaiming his intentions, "to infininity and beyond!"
He looked like Toby Macguire.
After some conversation we figured out that he was only two years old, and named Jacob.
"Jacob, Jacob, Jake... Jack in the box! I'm Jack in the box. that's the way the monkey goes, so POP goes the weasel!" We laughed so hard at his imagination... at only two... and then we marveled at his articulation and perfect grammar.
At one point he was asking, "where am I?" and then he'd answer himself with either: "here I am," or "I'm right here."
After only two years of life he has grasped very complicated concepts of syntax. Amazing.
I walked the remaining twelve blocks to my apartment, wearing Chucks, in fresh snow.
My feet were not pink when I took off my icy socks. They were a greenish/white color, and they had no sensation whatsoever.
We girls decided that family-dinner needed to be postponed for the inclimate weather, so I watched Godfather III and did math homework.
I really don't love that film too much, but it's *so* important to the trilogy. Otherwise there's no understanding of how Michael deals with Fredo and Kay. We all know Sophia blows, but her speaking parts are fairly minimal, and Andy Garcia is effing hot (though a little too hairy).
Monday: covered in snow and back to the library.
