2000-08-06 :: 07:40:51

no, I am not bloody fucking British

Soundtrack: Amon Tobin, "Supermodified"

I've really hit the home run lately as far as my culture intake goes. This is a goddamn good CD, and High Fidelity is 274 pages down in about 2 days of reading. And for once in a while I'm writing an entry after I've had a thought, not a few weeks after I've sat on it and let it lose its core. I had a really excellent weekend last weekend -- quite the story, if you were there -- but you weren't and I didn't have a camera (blame Pa�l) and I didn't write about it when I should have. I wonder how well I can recount it now, or rather, when I finally do write about it. If I do. I've bitched about all of this many times before.

But tonight, I was in a Hilton for the annual company party. Free drinks, Hawaiian theme. The whole week at work has been a sort of high school Homecoming-themed affair. My building (which is off the main building about 9 blocks down and filled with techs only) had no part of it. My boss (excuse me, coordinator) said something like "I think we have better things to do. Like maybe, work." I had to agree with him when I saw the signs shouting "Home 1,000,000 / Away 0" and football effigies lying about headquarters. People got caught up -- I mean really, sickeningly, caught up -- in it.

I left high school glad to leave high school; submitted a graduation speech about parting and remembering the good and bad, not just the bright spots but all of it, the total sum, the whole roller coaster. The smiles and the suicide attempts. It was probably the piece of writing I gave the most mind to besides my initial college essay, which was tweaked word by word, and quite painfully, at that. I ran it by an ex-girlfriend and she approved, which was good, seeing as how we met because of her thoughts on her graduation and how highly I thought of them.

Anyway, bloody hell, who was selected? The SGA President spewing on about "the people" (isn't that always what makes the difference wherever you are? how nice) and one of our champion debaters indulging her socialist fantasies (she suggested our Generation's "letter" be 'S' to stand for a number of things, such as "service," and so forth). At least the President knew I thought his speech was a pile of garbage (he'd left his copy behind at the auditions and I'd pocketed it). I showed it around with my marginal commentary on it and he was quite bothered by my pre-emptive strike. Well, the whole thing this week at work reeked of the same people who enjoyed high school flinging it down the throats of the same people that would rather have it remain in the past where it belongs; who really cares if the company's annual meeting is happening at a high school? I'm not too nostalgic for those years. I don't hate them, but they sure weren't anything I need to go through again, thank you very much. I was glad my boss kept our building clean of the Christmas lights and sloganeering -- and whether that's nerdy, or bitter, or punk, or some combination thereof, I don't much know or care.

The person I felt worst for tonight was the DJ. What kind of DJ wants to spin Jimmy Buffett's "Let's Get Drunk and Screw" and "YMCA" and all the hits of the eighties? Not a song you aren't familiar with, the same sameness as a Britney Spears concert. No real record-playing, no self-expression. He could have been a robot for all we cared, so long as we got "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" (to the best of my knowledge he didn't play that, but would you really have known?). And then being forced to emit such things as "You're all such good dancers, give yourselves a big hand! Oh... I'll play just one more song before the hotel will really shut me down," when in reality it's the same thirty-year-olds acting the same stupid way they do when they get a little liquored up and lose their repression. Meanwhile the interns talk about how shitty a party it really is and stay all the way through in spite of their spite. Until you play "Closing Time" for that final (really!) song, that is, and who the hell can dance to that, anyway?

The guy looked like he could be in college still, not one of the plumpish, irritating (yes, he was irritating, don't you worry) forty-something-year-olds you'd expect behind those CD players (does he really need to mix records?). I imagined him on college radio, playing hot indie picks, hoping to better humanity's musical taste with his quality vinyl selection and, finding that task impossible, being reduced to this. It was probably all of the stuff the book is bringing out in my mind lately. That seems to be the way of things with me. I woke up from a dream about a friend's girlfriend this morning, a dream in which I dreamt about writing the very dream down after I finished the actual "plot" (or rather, as far as the plot went) during the dream itself. How the fuck about that? It seems about right since I'd talked to Diane and Brent about The Beach in the past few days.

I also felt very bad for the woman at work who obviously wanted to sleep with someone. It didn't quite matter who that someone was, but she was clearly the nice, somewhat homely, a little out of the social loop woman who had her needs brought way out by the boozing. She was talking too much to everyone. People smelled the desperate scent and wanted to be far away.

During "YMCA" one of the company founders was dancing between two female co-workers. He grabbed me from out of nowhere and substituted me in his place in the middle of the song. I was fine but I had to note the weird lines being crossed by this situation (or not crossed, as the case may be). When I managed to get out from between the ladies and back to the crowd's circle, he said "I'm just making the letters up now" as we all fell into the familiar hand gestures of the chorus. You'd think it'd be nice between two fairly attractive women, and it should have been, but it was as if there was still a subtle line that couldn't be touched. No grinding. Keep some air in there, people. We are a company and we can't have any lawsuits, now.

I wondered how many people there were really happy. Was this party the highlight of their social lives now that college was over and booze wasn't quite so easy to come by (as one guy behind me on the Metro home so poetically noted)? On my happy-o-meter, I think I was reading relatively low. Sure, I chatted up a female co-worker that I've crushed on -- she was very drunk -- and I had some interesting discussions with a co-worker I'd met during a company paintball outing and his girlfriend. (Would you believe they met 13 years ago at Space Camp? Neither did I, but it's so.) [He recommended I read The Catbird Seat, by James Thurber. I put that there as a reminder, 'cause I bet he'll forget to remind me.] Sure, it was fun to see co-workers roaring drunk, to be proven right about my suspicions regarding a recently broken-up girl and one of the guys in my building that always seemed to spend just a little too much time together, and to hear one co-worker share the story of sleeping with his soon-to-be-divorced ex that is "psycho" and "can't just be friends." That last guy's been gotten by the balls by some friend's girl[space]friend that works at Hooter's in Richmond and wants to be visited, so he's hauling out there tomorrow. (This would be a great segue into last weekend but I'll resist temptation.) But on the whole I can't say I felt a particular desire to smile through much of it. I'm sure there were some funny bits and I remember some laughs but the rest is something of a blank, and I guess that's why I regret doing some of what I did.

The Metro trains are sparse when you enter at 1AM, and it took a good two hours to get home. I felt bad for making my mom wait an extra hour (she was picking me up, free drinks, all that). I caught the last Orange line, sat in Metro Center for what felt like forever. When I finally got into the car, she asked what I'd had, and I forgot "vodka tonic" when I said "gin and tonic, and whiskey sours." But I did get the number right at "four" and I remembered the vodka tonic when I told my dad later on as Mom put Flex-All on my right shoulder, which hurt like a bitch for no good reason (alright, I have shit posture). I have to say, my parents were very cool about the whole thing. I ought to remember to be like that. They seemed to think a four drink tolerance was pretty high: "Four drinks without throwing up?" Dad asked me, and I had to stifle a bit of a laugh. My tolerance is nothing to write home about whatsoever. Sarah could put me under the table any old day.

Amon Tobin, god. The man makes anvils beautiful.

I hope when I look at this tomorrow I'll feel like I sketched this right. That is what I wish for, the ability to sketch in words. There are a lot of things I need to get to writing yet, and if I'm to do that I can't let the backlog get any heavier.

Some nice memories: A few people commenting on some good posts I'd made on the site that they enjoyed reading, and getting back in touch with two old friends with plans made for next week. Dan called me; I called Jordan G.

Now to get a little more reading of writing better than mine done (am I saying much there?) and go to sleep.

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With all of that alcohol talk, it seems fitting to mention a recent post I made to photoplay. I am going to try to pick up some slack on that.