You ever gotten plowed on a sunday, had a shitty hangover the next day, and had to translate the bible into Dutch for a marmoset?

That's what sundays feel like.

I think it's an eternally conditioned response from grade school and high school days. Why children and teenagers haven't led a coup over that shit is beyond me. I think it's the half days that help.

Let's recap a few parties and this weekend:

*Becky's hawaiian bash in the middle of winter party: Brian had taken me up on my offer of driving him out to the place. His fiancee Abby was in town as well. Prior to the party we decided to get pizza at a damn good, though entirely too fucking greasy, place. Abby seemed less enthused than the last time I saw her, but I figured she was tired. Brian was doing his thing as usual and occasionally razin' me or her. Good-natured, mind you; that's his style.

It took some maneuvering to find out where Becky's place was. The mapquest directions were shite. I was nearly into another town when B called up Xtian for the info. According to him, we had to wind through and around a shopping mall complex. I drove the way he said, but I suddenly wondered if she lived in the mall itself or something. But we finally made it over there and I realized, oh, I've been here before drunk one night.

Party itself was really good. I couldn't drink because of this oral surgery deal, but I socialized with a lot of the usual folks and danced some. I met Owen's wife, who I can't say anything good about really except she liked my jokes. Also met a first year psych grad student I didn't know. She's doing imaging with kids or something. I quickly lost interest because she expressed none.

One curious thing was that Ros, the british chick in the department, was more friendly than usual. She told me she'd broken up with her finacee recently. Seemed like they had a good thing going, but it meant that there was at least one single female in the department. It's fucking bizarre that way: engaged, married, or with someone for 3+ years is the norm.

The cops eventually busted up the party, which coincided with Brian and Abby getting tired and wanting to go.




*Dan's wine tasting party on friday: I'd gotten a white wine from New Zealand for Christmas. Monkey Bay blanc, they called it.

As a lead-up, most of that friday had been taken up by a 3 hour meeting with my advisor to discuss experiment results, and a subsequent 2 hour meeting with the Phi Kappa Phi board. The advisor meeting went well in general, except that I probably can't use any of the 'individual differences' data I'd spent awhile analyzing. Complicated technical reason, but basically we disagree in the criteria needed to do the analyses. Eh. So far as the board meeting goes, I figured I'd volunteer because the president asked, that and it takes 6 hours a semester.

In terms of the party, it required 'cocktail hour' attire. After googling precisely what that meant, I decided on formal evening stuff. Tie, check. Dark shirt, check. But when it came to wrinkled gray pants with gray blazer or brown khakis with my brown carpenter's jacket, I decided the brown looked better. The jacket is way too big for me now (almost everything I own now is), but I still like it.

Without doubt, that is the worst party I've been to here.

For one, it was centered around wine tasting--and I can't have any alcohol. I have a sheet from my dentist emphasizing no alcohol consumption. Or my eyes explode or something. At first it wasn't bad, since most everyone was sober. I was more quiet than usual at parties, but I still talked with most everyone, including a long talk with Becky about photography and what's going on with her. But toward the end of the night, after 3 hours, I just got bored. I was still sober and everyone else was quite obviously not. Not that I mind that situation in itself, but it was hard to get a word in edge-wise anywhere.

The equally sucky part was the english chick. A few weeks ago she seemed, well, interested. She'd make eye contact, touch me, you know all the usual shit. But here, nothing. Granted, for the most part, I could barely hear her due to all the talking around me. I tried making conversation several times, but it didn't fly. Slightly disappointing, but her loss. So I ended up ignoring her mostly and talking with people who were, well, talkative.

*Saturday and today: I spent most of my day at Barrique's yesterday. It's my new favorite. There's this delightful, ultra-white pretentiousness about everything that amuses the shit out of me. The one male barrista I've seen there is gay (as a given). People go there exclusively to drink wine and talk about their lives. And the music is faded in the background, usually real jazz or some trance-y techno whatnot.

The one thing that pisses me off about the place is the age range of clientele, and the larger issue of cafe activities engaged in by different sorts.

For example, I'm in my mid-twenties. I go to cafes only to work, never to socialize. So spending 7 hours studying in a cafe is run of the mill usual. For others--and this is perfectly fine--a cafe represents some place to go to, relax, and drink. This situation conflicted, however, during hour 4 1/2. I was minding my own business, reading my favorite liberal-biased site about the fuck-all incompetent machinations of the American government. Suddenly I get that feeling I'm being watched. I look over at the late 30-something couple sitting in the Dr. Seuss chairs. The blonde chick with the obviously fake tits was eyeing me, but did that 'really I was just passing my eyes over the general area where you were' maneuver.

I thought whatever.

I'd been getting looks from a lot of people that day. I figured what I'd decided to wear looked good or bad. Didn't care either way. Cafe = working.

Later on I look over. Now the guy is looking at me. I squinted my eyes in that "and you wanted what in the fuck...?" manner and kept on taking my well-deserved break. At one point or another I heard the blonde talk about society this and that, and energy and blah blah blah. They kept going back downstairs to get glasses of wine instead of a bottle, so I discounted them as upper class urban morons.

Maybe I was throwing off their
Bourgeoise chi.

I'm pretty sure this was the case because, for yet a third time, they both looked over at me for more than several seconds. Now this shit had gotten repugnant. I had two options:

1) Turn around, look at them, and say something ranging from a "can I help you with something?" to "Could you mind your own goddamn business and stop looking at me? Thanks, kisses."

2) Commune with the white ancestors of old and counter-attack with some pretentious, subtle gesture.

I went with #2, consisting of an exaggerated eyeroll, head shake, and smirk in their direction. I'd decided they were worthy of the passive aggressive treatment.

And I got what I wanted. Shortly thereafter, they haltingly left after making disapproving noises. I can only hope I annoyed them as much as they annoyed me. Well-off urban white people, I swear. Probably something as simple as using me to comment about working in society, or the plight of the youth, or some other oafishly useless load of horseshit.

That situation just pissed me off for the rest of the evening--that and I couldn't get back into the groove of studying over there.

Back home, I talked with Michelle and Casey some about the usual.

And today it's just doing work at the office in the psych building. I'm kinda spent on cafes right now. I may go over and get a mocha at Indie Coffee if I get near coma, but that's it.

More catharsis than entertainment. What can I say.

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