So there are some things one can only realize when one is standing guard as a break from the wind and the view for someone who has the functional role of a Joephet in your life, being lightly sprayed by the unending stream of much-complained about piss even as you are not looking, cuz you’ve seen that particular unit before, as the piss splatters on a Prizm you hope the guy walking across the street does not own. It is not clear what realization this is, but it is pretty clear that one should be pissing on a more expensive car.

And it started out relatively well, a bag of Cape Cod chips, and plannings with Alric to recoup the loss of last night, though not the $400 worth of drilling (teehee) that Alric did manage to somehow purchase. But waiting around so long for Joephet to show up was a little lame, and hot, but so it goes: falling in and out of sleep while reading Waugh is frightening: it makes one quiver like an English schoolboy about to be caned.

And after a dinner at Golden China with Joephet, which was a bit tense given what was discussed so drunkenly last night, it was off, late to Alric’s, where we managed to polish off a bottle of wine (we could have done more) and the first disc of Manhattan-based namedropping which now at last makes sense to us both. And yes, it is difficult watching this show as a Marxist. It is more difficult watching the show with a Marxist. And to Alric I grow closer, if only intrigued by how his attempt to make straight male friends in the city is stymied by the fact that his lunchdate casually mentions “this guy I’ve been dating for a few years” in the elevator ride back to the office. A lot of learning yet left for the both of us.

Out of loyalty I drag myself, sweating, swearing, my pencil broken, down to 46 Grand, for Joephet’s cousin’s birthday party, or somesuch. In any case, this is a drunken mess, in which Joephet loses his hat, and I am swallowing half of the bitterness that I could so easily spew (but it would be too easy…): and so I have little more to report, beyond perhaps the following attempt (for I have not much of an ear for dialogue, which makes my fiction suffer) at transcribing some Flip plans for what is to happen next in the evening:

“Yo, let’s just go to White Castle.”

“White Castle, their burgers are so small, yo”

“But they’re cheap, like fifty cents for a [gestures with hand, in a small square]“

“You need like six to get full”

“That’s like 3 bucks, though, so let’s go”

“Naw, 70 cents each, that’s 420. We should go to Chinatown.”

“For dimsum?”

“No, for 4 bucks you can get some fucking wonton noodle soup. That shit will fill you up.”

“I just want White Castle, I wanna go home, I’m tired.”

“No, you can get curry beef rice for 4 bucks, rice, man, they’re still open, and it’s like not far.”

Lather, rinse, repeat. Better Luck Tomorrow here we go again.

So late last night a great phone call out of the blue from D, who is dropping a line before his bujii Hawaiian vacation, and who has with him at his house this cool girl, with whom I might have been before acquainted at his May rock concert, if only I hadn’t been too busy staring at the fucking male performers, for she was one of the hairy-pitted slinky dancers on stage, about whom I remember little in the way of physical appearance. So D has in mind that this might be a sort of relevant introduction, and indeed it is occasioned by her mention of Marx, and D of course thinks I’ve actually read Marx, as opposed to just rolling around in class anger…

So in any case, after a bit, conversations had, and she is quite charming and enthusiastic, as was I, in that sort of honesty-not-needing-to-impress (“Well, to be completely honest with you, my Marxism begins and ends with class anger.”) sort of way. She is saying sensible, well-informed shit. Apparently, her work is currently wrestling (“personal issues or other people?” I quip. She deadpans, “other people.” This is a sense of humor I can work with), which makes me wonder if my old roommate Alric would date a wrestler. Hrm… A female one, at that… So in any case, I’m rather charmed and certainly engaged, but my Netherlands don’t get the fucking memo!

Why are all the commited leftists I know (and by this, I just mean someone who can talk the talk) women? Maybe it’s because they’re post-fashion, whereas most fags I know simply aren’t. Yeah… I do hazily remember some conversation with Joephet at some point about the Supreme Court or something gay like that, but that’s not very much for the time we spent together. Maybe that’s part me also. I guess it’s more about the ability to talk about things, rather than actual action: Joephet has donated, after all, more of his inexplicable income to charities than I ever have.

So it goes yet again. So I dunno if it’s dishonest to give it a try–I shouldn’t flatter myself, after all, into thinking that she’d like Chinamen–and surely there’s no harm in having another itinerant, well-educated, leftist, activist friend. But I guess this is why people come out, eh? Avoids confusions like this.