October 19, 2003

There is acoustic Christian contemporary music being played LIVE, outside my doorway. The lyrics go something like "Holy, holy, hoolll-eee, holy, holy." The vocals are a harmony, a girl and a boy, reassuring me that kids from across the country can come together to sing toothless porridgey soft rock.

Now it's "Stairway to Heaven," thus proving that anything can be turned into toothless porridgey soft rock if played to you by an 18 year old boy who's casting the wide "sensitive guy who's proficient at acoustic guitar" net and seeing what he'll reel in.

It's all right. I know the axeman, he's a good guy. Some of my best friends have cast that net, with mixed results.

This isn't all I did tonight, sitting here eating Halloween Oreos my aunt and uncle sent me, in the dark, listening to the hootenanny outside.

This is:


So I woke up from my nap and it looked like this outside. The morning had been spent meeting up with Jaclyn, barely being able to walk her past the Tisch building before having to go be in a video sketch shooting in the park. After playing pretend football, seeing Famke Janssen, proving (visually) that there is no masculine way to apply Chapstick (the point of the sketch), and watching other people eat schawarma because I couldn't possibly justify the expense when I had about 4 meals left on my card and only one day to use them, I went home. My lips were covered in layer upon sedimentary layer of cherry Chapstick, and it's safe to say I was in one heck of a kissin' mood.

So I ate lunch, read some of "High Fidelity" and fell asleep on my bed for several hours.


Andrew (Alyx's boyfriend) called me at four asking if I wanted to see a play tonight for just 10 measley dollars. I replied that I did. He then asked if I wanted to come down to Water Street, his dorm, and chill out beforehand. I replied that I did. I then proceeded to take an inordinate amount of time to get down there, what with a shower I'd needed all day, a package waiting downstairs for me from my aunt and uncle full of Halloween candy, subway delays and retardation on my part, and hot dogs that were screaming to be bought and eaten.

The McDonald's Monopoly game has been excessively kind to my boy Andrew, and we stopped in at his local Golden Arches so he could redeem a one-free-sandwich-of-any-kind prize. We soon learned that in New York, even a transaction as simple as giving someone a free quarter pounder with cheese requires the involvement of an orca-fat sassy manager, who has to be summoned by the girl at the counter, from where she stands, across the restaurant, telling a timid Asian girl she cannot move a chair to sit with her friends (and that, the manager later intones to the register girl while punching in the necessary free-burger code, she can "fucking sit by herself at another table.")

We walked around the southern tip of Manhattan, among office towers empty for the weekend, shooting the shit. We went to the Cyber Cigar Cafe (which is not called exactly that but a variation on the theme, an open air Internet cafe with a humidor wall and a number of import beers on tap) so Andrew could get cigars for Poker Night. We sat on benches in Battery Park, looking out on to the water and the Statue of Liberty, and agreed we both need to get out more. That's our view, at right.

We met up with Alyx at the theater. The play was Jezz Butterworth's "The Night Heron," being produced by the Mamet-founded theater company/school Alyx and Andrew are in, Atlantic. It was fantastic, and I'm glad I went.

Alyx went uptown to her dorm to memorize and Andrew and I went downtown to play poker back at Water Street. Poker was played, Andrew's friend Patrick did interesting card tricks (ever notice how even the BEST card trick is still not all that great, because it is, after all, a card trick? Deep.), whiskey sours were mixed and consumed, as was the substance responsible for this entry's rambling nature and dogged preoccupation with sweet sweet food.


I got up a buck twenty (it was a high-rolling five-dollar nickel dime quarter evening) and left at around 12:30 to go to a Hammerkatz (sketch group) party. By the time I got there the party was over, partly because I was directionally addled, and partly because I kept stopping to take seemingly crucial at the time pictures like this one:

A subway walkway, gated off and seemingly frozen in time since 1995. Fascinating social document. Note the posters for Outbreak and Boys On The Side, as well as one announcing the latest Boys II Men tour. It's like looking at a star, and realizing that the light being emitted from it is not actually from the present, but is just now reaching you, having travelled from a time when people paid to see a movie starring Whoopi Goldberg as a lesbian lounge singer.

Honey, I brought you to Subway because here they make your sandwich right in front of you, a degree of honesty I feel is lacking in our relationship.

Like I said, I took so long the party had ended, but there were people across the street at Grif Dogs. It was here that I had my third and final hot dog of the day. Excessive? Some might say so. But knowing my state of mind, as well as the presence, on the menu, of a hot dog called "The Good Morning," a frank wrapped in bacon topped with a slice of cheese and a fried egg...
...you will agree that I had no choice.

Then I went home, started this blog entry, got locked out of my room, woke up Justo the roommate and got let back in, and that pretty much brings us up to speed.

But here's last night, in brief, if you're interested.


You know that old joke about How many freshman hipster film majors can you cram in a room, blasting dance music off someone's iTunes, before the party gets broken up ten minutes after you arrive?

I found out:

This many.

Thanks to plain-sight rules and the kinder half of the RA team that busted up the shindig, the girls whose room it was only got written up for having too many people in the room, noise, and, of course, possession of candles.

Luckily, before the party got broken up I was able to use the bathroom and take mastrubatory pictures of myself in the mirror, which seemed like a really important thing to do at the time.

If you listen closely you can actually HEAR my hair dissolving into a self-parody.

I would later loan that sweater (which I promise is draped over my shoulder out of convenience, not a desire to join the Harvard crew team) out to a girl who was cold. "Nice jersey," she said. If you have the opportunity to keep a girl who has cute European ways of referring to things warm, I suggest you take it.


Later we saw an Asian girl inexplicably climb up onto the walk-don't walk sign outside the dorm.

It changed my life.





Oh yea, and I hung out with Chelsea and Ashley from back home on Friday. That was easily as fun as anything I did this weekend, but I didn't bring my camera, like a dumbass, and there isn't much to tell: just a lot of walking around the city with two of my favorite people in the world.

Have a good rest of your weekend.

Posted by DC at October 19, 2003 02:33 AM
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