The Leviathan Laments, part 2
Slightly less chuffed with self, our hero returns...
Planning to tell anyone who asked why I wasn't eating that I was on the Orkney Diet, I ordered Scotch on the rocks, J&B, which probably doesn't come from Orkney at all. Abraham Lincoln went from my hand to the bartender, and I returned to the woman with the orange backpack, the diminutive but wonderful Nadia, a staff writer at the Pitch, who was with a group of friends at the table in the front window. I was immediately introduced to Stretch (aka Sweet Baboo). I said, You must be the famous Stretch. He said something I didn't catch and I continued, shaking his hand and saying, I am the famous Jason. He then muttered things about being "almost famous" or "not really famous" and other weak attempts at humility and then went away.
I sat at the table with these people, Nadia the only one of which I knew, though I had met her boyfriend, Phil, who goes by the stage name DJ Sike when he's "spinning" with his "cru". Another black guy was at the table, and a couple of other minority-looking kids, and a white girl, sitting next to DJ Boogie, who became accepting of me when I averred that I remembered Plastic Man. I only mention the race of everyone at the table to show that this group was way too hip for me; had I not been on the Orkney Diet, I would have lurked in the back, smoking and nurturing my passion for feeling alienated from everyone. I couldn't have been any more out of place, though, than the white girl on DJ Boogie's arm, who, after thoroughly and needlessly questioning the extremely harried waitress regarding what all was entailed in the menu's "Beer To Go" claim and then demanded to know the entire beer menu, ordered a bowl of olives. Several others ordered nothing but water. Hip, indeed. I experienced a pang of dread as the entire group hailed the entrance of a good-looking, black-haired girl, as I knew I would have to give up my chair, which I did, despite (sincere?) objections from DJ Boogie, and retired to the back to stand beside a drink shelf and smoke and look at a tall, elderly black man in a trenchcoat and red fedora who looked expectantly at all the women who passed by, nursed a beer, and gave every impression that he was someone's Guardian Devil.
Some other noteworthy encounters occurred, but I dare not even gloss over them lest I go into too much detail and never arrive at the evening's final destination, where events took place that are of the greatest interest.
I gave $7 to the mohawk lesbian and walked into the Brick and was immediately dismayed to find no familiar faces at all and the air reeking uncharacteristically of patchouli. I went to the bar and decided to take up the Upper Midwestern Diet, the only liquid staple of which is Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can. Luckily, I noticed Alexi sitting in a booth in the back with some friends (none of whom I knew, naturally). I walked over to them and Alexi greeted me with a status-bequesting high-five and made room for me to sit next to him. I was now in the presence of Artists and Their Hangers-On.
I may well kill the narrative with this digression, and if I do, so much the better. But I wish to discuss now ... No, I'll return to the narrative and introduce the topic through a very illustrative dialogue.
The seats in the booth turned into a social trampoline, and in a few minutes, Alexi had left me to contend with a plump, feisty young woman -- the exact sort with whom I never get along. First I should mention that while out and about and partaking of various drinking diets, I quickly develop the rather risky tendency to rib strangers in an overly familiar and quite over-confident way. When not partaking of the diets and when surrounded by people I have some cause to admire, I usually sit quietly and stew in self-consciousness. But alcohol in the company of people I really don't give a whit about causes me to become a big teaser. For example, earlier in the evening, at the Farm gallery, one of the McCoysians who always has to wait on us during book club meetings and never gets to participate in the discussion said very innocently to me, "We never have really gotten to talk." Or something like that. And I immediately responded with a dramatically sarcastic, "Well, let's not start now, OK?" (I amended the mock dis by engaging him in enthusiastic conversation, and all was well, I suppose, but these ribbings inevitably color people's perceptions of one's character, usually to the effect that...)
They think you're a snob!
Anyway, I can't remember what all I said to the Nemesis-girl, but I quickly made myself unwelcome at the table by telling lies (which I thought were obvious) about how my family was Old Money from the South, and how we owned plantations and whatnot. The Nemesis then asked if we had lynchings, and I responded begrudgingly in the affirmative. The Nemesis then raced to call me racist, but I said, oh no, we lynched black and white alike, we were non-discriminatory in that regard, yes, we just liked to lynch poor people!.
I ask you, why is it that these scenester twentysomethings -- who laugh their tits off at South Park, which is chock-full of tastelesness -- spring like jackals upon even the tiniest hint of political incorrectness in real life? Granted, I am not the most charismatic person -- perhaps not even "safely" charismatic enough to go about affecting such irony -- but I think that most people in our generation, and it's even worse in younger generations, have adopted smug political correctness and used it to invent for themselves a feebleminded leftist groupthink in place of honest, self-revisionary thinking. And I might also point out that my openly faking a connection to the deep south was meet with grimaces in a club absolutely awash with white faces, white music, white spending power and, well, white everything. Give me a fucking break.
I left the Nemesis after receiving a cute note from a girl at the table who was writing everyone inspirational notes on whatever scraps of paper they would give her (a cute note that went into the trash when I finally got home). I increased my Pabst intake and found Alexi by the dead jukebox talking to a girl who works at a coffee shop in Kansas City, Kansas. I was so surprised to hear of such a place in mostly blighted KCK that I fell all over myself to find out about it and -- I wish I could keep my mouth shut in this regard as well -- proclaimed to her a great interest in writing about her and her coffee shop in the Pitch, all but promising her I would do it. And I would like to, but I've learned in my half-year at the paper that the things I find interesting are rarely appreciated by my colleagues.
Anyway, I really enjoyed talking with this barista, Molly, and when Alexi later told me that she had a crush on him but he was fatefully not attracted to her sexually, I rebuked him with the fury of an Old Testament prophet.
The Nemesis reappeared sometime later, drunk off her gourd, and came to me and said that even though "we were giving each other hysterical shit earlier," she had found her "calling": true love. This true love calling, however, consisted of accosting strangers with a felt tip and scrawling "true love" on whichever body part she could get. She introduced me to a couple sitting at the bar, who bore her mark on a leg and a wrist. I apologized to these people (I couldn't tell whether they were annoyed or not; they were of the class whom my family would have lynched) as the Nemesis dragged me away and asked if she could write on my neck. I refused, but in order to placate her, I allowed her to scribble on my hand. I couldn't read what she actually wrote, but it looked more like True Love, than, say, Rat Fucker. Did I mention that the Nemesis is a community college student?
They're right, I am a snob. But luckily I attended -- for both bachelor's and master's -- a school with no real academic prestige in even the most deluded churchgoer's wildest fantasies that my superiority can never be anything more than the inherently self-deprecating, affected righteousness of the underdog. Hey, we all need some source of strength, however small and fraudulent.
Ooh, I like that word: fraudulent.
Anyway, I left the Brick after several songs by the band people had been talking about all week, who, to me, rendered themselves completely fraudulent by employing one or two Brick employees as backup singers. Puh-leeeze. I didn't even mention meeting the somewhat friendly owner of the illustrious, reeks-of-prodigy animation firm MK12 (under 2000, watch Man of Action: The Terrible Cosmic Death, it's good). But I got the important things down, and they are: (1) that there are at least a few people out there I really enjoy being with becuase (2) I'm now getting to the point where going out without A. is not an exercise in self-torture, but (3) it's still difficult to function in society when everyone's so woefully beneath me.
I'm only kidding, dear friends, all of whom are my betters.
(And don't worry, I won't be posting blather like this very often. I know what blogs are really for.)
Planning to tell anyone who asked why I wasn't eating that I was on the Orkney Diet, I ordered Scotch on the rocks, J&B, which probably doesn't come from Orkney at all. Abraham Lincoln went from my hand to the bartender, and I returned to the woman with the orange backpack, the diminutive but wonderful Nadia, a staff writer at the Pitch, who was with a group of friends at the table in the front window. I was immediately introduced to Stretch (aka Sweet Baboo). I said, You must be the famous Stretch. He said something I didn't catch and I continued, shaking his hand and saying, I am the famous Jason. He then muttered things about being "almost famous" or "not really famous" and other weak attempts at humility and then went away.
I sat at the table with these people, Nadia the only one of which I knew, though I had met her boyfriend, Phil, who goes by the stage name DJ Sike when he's "spinning" with his "cru". Another black guy was at the table, and a couple of other minority-looking kids, and a white girl, sitting next to DJ Boogie, who became accepting of me when I averred that I remembered Plastic Man. I only mention the race of everyone at the table to show that this group was way too hip for me; had I not been on the Orkney Diet, I would have lurked in the back, smoking and nurturing my passion for feeling alienated from everyone. I couldn't have been any more out of place, though, than the white girl on DJ Boogie's arm, who, after thoroughly and needlessly questioning the extremely harried waitress regarding what all was entailed in the menu's "Beer To Go" claim and then demanded to know the entire beer menu, ordered a bowl of olives. Several others ordered nothing but water. Hip, indeed. I experienced a pang of dread as the entire group hailed the entrance of a good-looking, black-haired girl, as I knew I would have to give up my chair, which I did, despite (sincere?) objections from DJ Boogie, and retired to the back to stand beside a drink shelf and smoke and look at a tall, elderly black man in a trenchcoat and red fedora who looked expectantly at all the women who passed by, nursed a beer, and gave every impression that he was someone's Guardian Devil.
Some other noteworthy encounters occurred, but I dare not even gloss over them lest I go into too much detail and never arrive at the evening's final destination, where events took place that are of the greatest interest.
I gave $7 to the mohawk lesbian and walked into the Brick and was immediately dismayed to find no familiar faces at all and the air reeking uncharacteristically of patchouli. I went to the bar and decided to take up the Upper Midwestern Diet, the only liquid staple of which is Pabst Blue Ribbon in a can. Luckily, I noticed Alexi sitting in a booth in the back with some friends (none of whom I knew, naturally). I walked over to them and Alexi greeted me with a status-bequesting high-five and made room for me to sit next to him. I was now in the presence of Artists and Their Hangers-On.
I may well kill the narrative with this digression, and if I do, so much the better. But I wish to discuss now ... No, I'll return to the narrative and introduce the topic through a very illustrative dialogue.
The seats in the booth turned into a social trampoline, and in a few minutes, Alexi had left me to contend with a plump, feisty young woman -- the exact sort with whom I never get along. First I should mention that while out and about and partaking of various drinking diets, I quickly develop the rather risky tendency to rib strangers in an overly familiar and quite over-confident way. When not partaking of the diets and when surrounded by people I have some cause to admire, I usually sit quietly and stew in self-consciousness. But alcohol in the company of people I really don't give a whit about causes me to become a big teaser. For example, earlier in the evening, at the Farm gallery, one of the McCoysians who always has to wait on us during book club meetings and never gets to participate in the discussion said very innocently to me, "We never have really gotten to talk." Or something like that. And I immediately responded with a dramatically sarcastic, "Well, let's not start now, OK?" (I amended the mock dis by engaging him in enthusiastic conversation, and all was well, I suppose, but these ribbings inevitably color people's perceptions of one's character, usually to the effect that...)
They think you're a snob!
Anyway, I can't remember what all I said to the Nemesis-girl, but I quickly made myself unwelcome at the table by telling lies (which I thought were obvious) about how my family was Old Money from the South, and how we owned plantations and whatnot. The Nemesis then asked if we had lynchings, and I responded begrudgingly in the affirmative. The Nemesis then raced to call me racist, but I said, oh no, we lynched black and white alike, we were non-discriminatory in that regard, yes, we just liked to lynch poor people!.
I ask you, why is it that these scenester twentysomethings -- who laugh their tits off at South Park, which is chock-full of tastelesness -- spring like jackals upon even the tiniest hint of political incorrectness in real life? Granted, I am not the most charismatic person -- perhaps not even "safely" charismatic enough to go about affecting such irony -- but I think that most people in our generation, and it's even worse in younger generations, have adopted smug political correctness and used it to invent for themselves a feebleminded leftist groupthink in place of honest, self-revisionary thinking. And I might also point out that my openly faking a connection to the deep south was meet with grimaces in a club absolutely awash with white faces, white music, white spending power and, well, white everything. Give me a fucking break.
I left the Nemesis after receiving a cute note from a girl at the table who was writing everyone inspirational notes on whatever scraps of paper they would give her (a cute note that went into the trash when I finally got home). I increased my Pabst intake and found Alexi by the dead jukebox talking to a girl who works at a coffee shop in Kansas City, Kansas. I was so surprised to hear of such a place in mostly blighted KCK that I fell all over myself to find out about it and -- I wish I could keep my mouth shut in this regard as well -- proclaimed to her a great interest in writing about her and her coffee shop in the Pitch, all but promising her I would do it. And I would like to, but I've learned in my half-year at the paper that the things I find interesting are rarely appreciated by my colleagues.
Anyway, I really enjoyed talking with this barista, Molly, and when Alexi later told me that she had a crush on him but he was fatefully not attracted to her sexually, I rebuked him with the fury of an Old Testament prophet.
The Nemesis reappeared sometime later, drunk off her gourd, and came to me and said that even though "we were giving each other hysterical shit earlier," she had found her "calling": true love. This true love calling, however, consisted of accosting strangers with a felt tip and scrawling "true love" on whichever body part she could get. She introduced me to a couple sitting at the bar, who bore her mark on a leg and a wrist. I apologized to these people (I couldn't tell whether they were annoyed or not; they were of the class whom my family would have lynched) as the Nemesis dragged me away and asked if she could write on my neck. I refused, but in order to placate her, I allowed her to scribble on my hand. I couldn't read what she actually wrote, but it looked more like True Love, than, say, Rat Fucker. Did I mention that the Nemesis is a community college student?
They're right, I am a snob. But luckily I attended -- for both bachelor's and master's -- a school with no real academic prestige in even the most deluded churchgoer's wildest fantasies that my superiority can never be anything more than the inherently self-deprecating, affected righteousness of the underdog. Hey, we all need some source of strength, however small and fraudulent.
Ooh, I like that word: fraudulent.
Anyway, I left the Brick after several songs by the band people had been talking about all week, who, to me, rendered themselves completely fraudulent by employing one or two Brick employees as backup singers. Puh-leeeze. I didn't even mention meeting the somewhat friendly owner of the illustrious, reeks-of-prodigy animation firm MK12 (under 2000, watch Man of Action: The Terrible Cosmic Death, it's good). But I got the important things down, and they are: (1) that there are at least a few people out there I really enjoy being with becuase (2) I'm now getting to the point where going out without A. is not an exercise in self-torture, but (3) it's still difficult to function in society when everyone's so woefully beneath me.
I'm only kidding, dear friends, all of whom are my betters.
(And don't worry, I won't be posting blather like this very often. I know what blogs are really for.)