thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Also the other day I called HM a \"bitchcake\" to his face. Can you say "backlog"? I'll give a few highlights from the past couple of weeks. ~~ On 7 August, Dick took me to see John Mayer in Park City. Not only is the man much funnier and potty-mouthier than the quick-to-dismiss critics might have you think, he's remarkably acid-jazzier and gifted-er as well. Guster warmed up for Mayer, quite appreciably, I might add. Go to her journal for a better account. ~~ I don't know if my friend Amber Price from school in Toronto happens to read this, but if so, here's a confidential: You know the picture of the two of us, with Heidi, four sheets to the wind at that bar on Queen West where we became NOJO groupies? I have it on my desk at work, and now this Kentucky guy who sits next to me has a complete and total crush on you! You've been warned! ~~ And. Imelda has, by now, departed from the company for the company of all those suckers born every minute. We had a going-away party for her on Friday night; she came in and was showered with cake, gifts, and whatever sincere well-wishings can be issued to a colleage who is joining a "circus" in which men autofellate on beds of nails. Well, it still beats the old "going back to college" and "just got an internship" excuses everybody else uses when quittin' time comes, anyway. She was wearing her usual pink leopard-print slap bracelet and kitty-ear headband, and, up until her arrival at work, a pair of rhinestone-studded sunglasses (pink lenses, of course). But Texas promptly appropriated the accessories and sported them for the duration of the shift, giving rise to a host of tasteless Elton John quotes, cited at his expense. I, for one, called him "honky cat" all night, and bid my last farewell to Imelda with carefully-chosen words: "Your candle burned out long before your legend ever did." ~~ My destination thereafter was Dinah's 21st birthday party. I hightailed it to Suburbia straight from work, presenting her on arrival with an artfully-wrapped bottle of Wash Your Sins Away(TM) bubble bath (the indulgent message behind which was grasped instantly, with a formidable grin). Soon, I was nursing a Heineken at a table full of good-looking, heavy-drinking weirdoes I totally didn't know. Dinah and Dimples traded off introduction duties each time a newcomer entered the room, and soon we were all relaying stories. Over in the living room, a skinny, bespectacled guy who wore a lot of black had become the ringleader of a small, nerdy mob of guys, accompanying them on guitar for a chorus of BNL's "Humour of the Situation." None could carry what you might call, uh, a "tune," but they noticed me bobbing my head along and insisted I sit in on a number or two. We did "Shoebox," which I butchered, then "Hello City," which I crucified (but artistically so). After a few more numbers, Skinny ushered me over to the staircase where just weeks ago I was mirthfully crawling my way to Dinah's washroom amid a thick cloud of pot smoke. "Erin," he began, "I have a girlfriend," and I almost cracked a grin at what I initially perceived as the implication that I was indeed sizing him up. (Great guitarist, this guy, but ... not so much.) But he continued, "I'm thinking of dumping her so I can ask you out. Should I?" I blushed, flattered, and thanked him for the flattery, then asked gently just how much he'd had to drink. He made a quantifying shape with his hand and smiled. I inquired about the name of his poison, and he confirmed it was the strong stuff, and I patted his arm and we exchanged phone numbers on the premise of "jamming sometime" before he took off. Bah. Musicians. The party forged happily onward, and I imbibed a variety of things handed to me by nice strangers. Soon, I found myself on the love seat with Jedediah, realising from his curly hair and TMBG shirt that he probably should be set up with someone more like Heidi, not me. (Or maybe he's just That Guy, you know? That Guy every girl dates and then comes to the conclusion he'll be just perfect for one of her good friends. I am seeing a pattern emerge.) He did provide a scalp massage and I entertained him with humourously-rendered accounts of accidents which indirectly caused a loss of sensation in much of my head. He was later whisked away by a brother, or a cousin, or some guy who just happened to look a lot like him, I forget, and as they traipsed toward the wet bar, I turned my head to discover something: the young thing with the cleft chin, on whom I'd been pretending not to have my eye all night, still had his ass parked on the back of the loveseat where I'd seen him last. Indeed, he'd already failed to meet every criterion of the established Fuckbuddy Code of Standards (only 20, teetotaler, possible virgin, enjoyed country music) except for the first, most important quality: he was adorable. Somehow, as we continued talking and a sizeable number of people wound up on the couch, his right thigh became rather familiar with my left, and when people gradually began to filter back over to the wet bar, we sort of forgot to move apart from one another. We chatted at length, and as I probed the depths of his semi-gloss brown eyes we were able to discover two attitudes which we had in common after all:
Dimples came by periodically, honking Semi-Gloss's nose, asking if we were enjoying ourselves, then asking again. We both responded affirmatively, nodding toward the downstairs powder room in which two other partygoers were carrying out the task of exchanging shirts. (We had come to a rather drunken group consensus that it was very important for her to walk around in his pro-menage-a-trois tee all night whilst he modelled her pink-striped boatneck blouse. Heh.) I was hoping Semi-Gloss would whisk me in there to follow suit, but he suspected my tiny blue polo might not be able to go the distance, and soon we were back at the kitchen table, with Jed and others, discussing drink recipies at Hogle Zoo, exchanging more "Happy Scalp." (Okay, I didn't give, I received.) The birthday girl grabbed my hand and hauled me away from my chair, telling me it was imperative that we "go for a little walk" -- a phrase I've always associated with stern reprimanding, but as it turned out she only demanded to know if the gossip making the rounds was true. "I'm hearing you're into Jed, and Jed's into you, and you're into Semi-Gloss, and Semi-Gloss is into you, what's goin' ON?" I felt around absently in my pocket. "O, no, I lost that dude's number." "Jed?" "No." "Semi?" "No." "Another one?!" When I returned I discovered all my prospects had fled the scene. ~~ Saturday night, four of us decided it was really critical (that urgency, again!) that we drive to Wyoming in the middle of the night, have a few smokes in a truck stop eatery, and drive back to SLC by sunrise. I have since quit smoking twice. ~~ Last item: I've started taking notes on my lead cards at work in the form of haiku whenever possible. I'm being taken less seriously than ever, but hey, I've sold two nights in a row now. ~ETK "JOHN MAYER FUCKING RULES!" --Jessica, the rock and roll badass. 22:25 - 14 August, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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