thediastema's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Dimples! Alcohol! Weed! Castrati! Miz Richard Burton has declared her "mission in life" to be "finding [me] a fuckbuddy." I put in quotation marks because that's verbatim. Can you hear me now? Good. I was genuinely pleased by this offering on her part, to pimp me out, but I did have to supply a few stipulations:
~~ Yesterday afternoon Dimples and I met up with Texas and another guy from marketing, whom we shall call Pelican Man, in honour of his tattoo of a beer-swilling waterfowl in flip-flop sandals. Pelican Man is another in the long line of men Dimples is currently "playin'." And the four of us swing with the aid of didactic videotapes, supplied by Tex and hosted by a woman named Erin Stevens (who looks like Steven Tyler might look after raiding Paula Poundstone's wardrobe) and an octogenarian Frankie Manning. We also spoke on the phone with Imelda, who is recovering from surgery to remove her ovarian cyst. "Texas thinks you're reeeeally cute," she said. "You ARE on some good drugs!" I replied. Actually, PrettySnorts (back from limbo for the summer) said the same thing the other night, adding in "but, you know" as I nodded and made "glug glug" gestures to indicate that I already knew full well he didn't approve of my libertine lifestyle. ~~ O, yeah, speaking of. Dimples invited me to a party planned for that evening. I very nearly missed the whole thing, just like last time. A number of factors contributed to this, not the least of which was the party MOVING several blocks from its original venue without notice. Dimples did phone, though, and gave directions to the new location (Boondocks) and promised beer, music, maybe a movie or something, but for now she had to go to her other line and direct a very stoned party guest, so she'd see me soon, okay? and she was really sorry about this. Okay, sez I, and hangs up and gets in me jalopy and drives to Boondocks, taking several wrong turns before I see the boxy cerulean DimplesMobile with its Idaho plates (shrug) parked in an impossibly tiny circle. She's standing on the porch of a cute suburban house, watching my painstaking attempt to parallel park on the damn circle. Finally I leave Hamilton in the least-precarious angle I can manage and meet my good new friend/unknowing archrival on the front stoop. "ERIN! ERIN! Did you have a really terrible time getting here?" She might have appeared worried, had it not been for the pungent odour of her hair and the fact that you could've fit both her pupils on the head of a pin. You know. Concurrently. (Can you hear me now? Good.) I said no, not a really terrible time. She ushered me inside, giggling. "I might be a little hiiiiigh..." "O, yeah?" "It's my first time!" "[Dimples]!" I cracked up. She led me to the fridge and equipped me with a beer, then introduced me to the posse -- her friend Dinah*, a thin, swarthy beauty whom I already knew (and liked) by reputation, and a big bunch of guys who were all funny and clever in the exact same educated-pothead sort of way. One was rolling as we spoke. Dimples sat me down and somehow we soon found ourselves discussing boys. "I'll set you up with my friend Jedediah*. He's perfect for you." "We'll see." "Texas likes you, you know." Again, with feeling: "You ARE high." "I thought you had a thing for [Al]." "WHAT?!" And then, in what I'm pretty sure is a shoo-in for the Ironic Conversation of the Year award for 2002: she devoted ten minutes to the cause of convincing me that "[Alternayuppie Four-Eyes Bitchtard] is hot!" In fairness, even I don't find him "hot." But then I don't go for the "hot" ones, do I? I was not even a little buzzed yet; I'd gotten myself around two or three sips of watery local beer. So I can only come up with one explanation for what I did next -- raising my beer can in a toast and boldly intoning, "Go get 'im!" before politely acquiescing "he's an okay-lookin' guy, but his legs are way too short." And that explanation is, I'm making progress. I decided shortly ago that the best possible course of action was to start hanging out with Dimples until it stopped hurting like hell to do so. We bumped beer cans celebratorily, and I asked if Four was still in Europe, and she said he's back in town, doing literally nothing, ass sticking out his parents' fridge all day again. And then The Roller finished his craft, motioning for all of us to join him on the deck. We stepped into the nocturnal July air and became, eh, philosophical. By which I mean we started singing "Pass the Dutchie" (we did not, you'll note, become creative) and debating (heatedly!) the merits of chicken vs. cheese enchiladas. (Dinah and I are both unethical vegetarians, and sided with cheese, noting that it does in fact contain rennet and we're both really, really horrible people for eating it. We totally bonded.) We later veered into the tricky anthropological topic of tracing the roots of the current, seemingly-indestructible (but inscrutable) success of boy bands. We were able to see the direct ascendant of our case study (a group we shall call "The N Street Boys") in an earlier group (we shall call them "The New Chips off the Old Block" for their protection) and from there we traced the heritage to one Latin American sensation (herein, "Confundo") which kicks out its members when their voices change and replenishes its ranks with fresh prepubescent blood. From there it was only a logical hop to the "Bienna Voy Choir" and from there to the cursed castrati of old. We determined that the success of new boy groups is based on their formulation, carefully calculated by record companies to trump the immunities built up by society to protect it from its bad taste in the past (i.e. loving "NCOTOB" and then waking up one day to realise what a bunch of talentless closet-cases they were). Indeed it's like the mutation of viruses. The current formula, we discovered in our, er, altered state, is to mix all that appeals to people in castrated boy sopranos (squeaky voices, smooth faces, apparent harmlessness, ever-present pouty faces) with all that appeals to ten-year-old girls in grown men (the fact that they are still medically classified as "male" and therefore very important to appreciate). We're jackasses. We thought we were so brilliant for coming up with this stuff. At some point we segued into a debate of "What is art?" (kids! don't do drugs!) and I found myself using the phrase "vector quantity" and announcing that I quit school years ago, all in one breath. Everybody told me I was brilliant. They were REALLY stoned. ~~ At the end of the night Dimples and I bid farewells. "You never toked up before, then?" asked I. "Nope!" "Me neither!" Another shared experience courtesy of "how lame, inc." I tried to back out of her driveway but she had a bit of a hard time shutting up and saying goodnight. I got home safely and remembered some dumb denotation of love in which it was described as "another person's happiness being crucial to/more important than one's own." Can you hear me now? ~ETK 15:32 - 28 July, 2002 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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