sociology


Listening to: “Death Car” – Wheat

Item 1: In which I am (sloshedly) walking my dog circa 2:30am, and I overhear band of (fucking wasted) BU kids behind me:

Chick: Is that a raccoon?
Dude: What, that dog?
Chick: No the… isn’t that a raccoon?
Dude: No, that’s a dog.
Chick: Oh. [beat] It looks like a raccoon.*

Item 2: In which my dog takes an inordinately long time to scope out a shittin’ spot, and I watch no less than three cockroaches rush between my feet in the direction of my apartment building.

Item 3: In which I light up a cigarette and think on the bright side–more material for my hypothetical comic strip about Allston.

Item 4: In which sleep eludes me, as always. Happy June!

* Tucker does not look remotely like a raccoon.

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You wake up folded awkwardly on your too-short-for-a-human-body couch around 6 in the morning. You’re dehydrated, and you really have to pee. You stretch, yawn, and rise, trying to remind your legs that they’re meant to go straight.

You go to the kitchen (which, in your tiny apartment, is pretty much the same room as the living room) and feel around in the dark for a glass in the dish rack. You open the fridge, bathing a corner of the kitchen in yellow light and the vague scent of guacamole.

You pour yourself a glass of cold water from the Brita pitcher and guzzle it, perhaps too quickly. You stuff an errant bud of weed back into its box on the counter, hunched uncomfortably between the crusty George Forman Grill and a plate of half-eaten Mexican rice. Having thus dispatched the glass of water and organized your counter, you plod to the bathroom to pee.

Only you’re not alone in the bathroom. There’s a sleeping man spread across the floor, His head propped up on your dog’s bed underneath the sink. You remember that this is your roommate’s friend from work, whose 21st birthday it was last night, who was puking in your toilet while you were entertaining the rest of the guests. He is now curled up, shrimp-like, in the vicinity of that same toilet.

You still really, really have to pee.

Do you:
A) Step as best as you can over the body, do the deed, and pray the sound of peeing doesn’t wake him up to find you standing pantsless over him?

B) Hold it for 3 hours until he wakes up and leaves?

The choice is yours, boys and girls.

Well, not exactly “on the road.” More like, “on the other side of the office again.” My desk has been re-moved back to where I was this summer. No more watching the sun set out the window, or listening to the mysterious other guys in the corner butt heads about obscure things.

I do wish I was on the road, though. Walking Tucker this morning, in the relative heat of an unseasonably warm January, I caught a whiff of something indefinable that made me think of London. It actually made my heart pull a little. I gotta get out of town, dude. And not to New York, or DC, or Rochester, or Vermont, which are the only other places I ever go lately. I mean like the fuck off the East Coast. Smell some different air. Realign my perspective.

Last night after seeing a show, I stopped in for a pizza slice. While I was eating, I overheard one of the most inane conversations I’ve ever been privy to. This guy and a girl, apparently on a date, discussing…condiments. Seriously. It’d be a full minute on ketchup, two minutes on mustard, and just when I think they’re done, the guy’s like, “So what do you think of mayonnaise?”

Then it hit me: this is why I hate going on dates! Because they’re inane and awful! Absurd little mating dances where nobody learns anything real about the other person, and you come across as the lamest possible version of yourself. Still, I can’t think of a better solution.

Can YOU?

Inquiring Cookie Monsters want to know.

Listening to: “Queen Bitch” – David Bowie

So I’m at a club tonight, one of those smallish clubs where you walk in the door and suddenly every pair of eyes in the room is sizing you up. You know the type.

Anyway, everyone at this club (myself included, I expect) is trying their gosh-darn damndest to be the super-cutest-indiest person in the room. And no one can actually dance, but everyone’s all ironic about dancing badly, so it’s okay.

One of the preciously shitty dancers accidentally bangs into my friend, knocking her drink out of her hand. While she heads to the bar for a replacement, I fill the time absently dancing to the neo-techno (I know…yuck) alone amidst the crowd. After a little while, I look around me and realize that I, along with several other solo-grooving strangers, have formed a sort of circle. There’s no telling who started this pattern, but somehow we’ve started a community here. We don’t speak, we don’t touch, we barely even make eye contact, but we are a community. By accident.

For a few minutes, at least, until the song dies down and my friend returns, and we disperse from our accidentally coherent pattern.

Makes ya think…what is communication really about? And what is community really about?

And why did I give both those guys my number?