10/10/2004 - 8:08 p.m. | retrograde

It's fucking freezing in the house right now, and though the often supported theory has been that someone (not me, I don't understand the thing) has been sneaking downstairs at night to fuck with the thermostat and make everyone else uncomfortable in some kind of insane power struggle, I lurched downstairs this morning without my eyes on, without any of my sense about me, really, and mashed buttons in the hopes things would get warmer. Man, and I smell like taco ass. Fuck.

What else to complain about then? Well, my desk is on its last legs, literally. The thing is a Walmart piece of junk - three boards nailed together, really - and one of the boards has nearly decided to pop out over and over again. When it does, it will be quite the calamity. Especially with all the full cups of urine I've been keeping about. "Never know when you're gonna need a big glass of lukewarm urine," someone always told me. Alexander Pope perhaps.

First off, before we move on to the good stuff, I'll just make note of the few, uh, notes I made to myself. Those oh-so important things that no one besides me would ever ever regard as interesting. You deal with it. Okay, so there's this interesting concept of "third ear music," I believe that is what my psych teacher called it, about how certain notes can be played and somehow go into your ears and come back out as a symphony of music. Well, frankly, I was pretty feverish and out of it, but that's what I caught the gist of. So he starts playing these wretched bleeps and tones for like five minutes, awful, awful stuff, and while I do not know if my ears were doing any projecting, it was like the sounds were coming directly from my brain. Hellish sounds that grew more and more entertaining as everyone started to freak out. I cannot find any evidence that this actually happened, though, so forgive me if it was a delusion. (2) I've been trying to absorb some new mannerisms. Real change is difficult to make, but mannerisms are all anyone really cares for anyway. Lately? Been tucking in about half of my shirts, right side only. It's weird and jaunty and kind of stupid, and I like it a lot. Can see some of my belt then, too. Next, the thing I like about my crossing guard job is that I get to see these weird little tiny people in everyday action, and it reminds me of things that we used to do. For instance, I love the fact that they always greet eachother by name. "Hey, Darren!" "Bye, Natalie!" I think it's really sweet, so I'm going to give it a go back in the real world. True, I am not nearly so isolated these days that I know everyone's name (Startlingly revealed shortly), but it will still be cute for the one's I do.

I was honestly really starting to dislike things at the candy store. Dad warned me the other day (week) that things were going to start getting really crazy around the holiday season and how it wouldn't be very easy for me to handle two jobs. And that was all fine; once I got through my (hopefully) successful six month evaluation at Hot Topic, I'd get a 50 cent raise and then there would be little reason for me to stick around at the other horrid place. Well, at this weekend proved time and again, you have to make your own fun, and I'm getting well on my way. I suppose that being sick had something to do with it. As you may have heard, my tendencies lean a little towards masochism, which I suppose has some logic to it. I can't be mopey about not having a girlfriend when I'm this dizzy, feverish pile of snot that is keeping himself perky through mere force of will. Well, anyway, I lived those 13 hours these past few days in a total haze, talking with a lot more people a lot lot louder than would typically be expected of Nathan Walsh. I flirt entirely without thinking about - is this an eventual bad thing? - I giggle as I'm sweeping up, wiping bins. I try forever to remember that awesome 80's song that came on on Friday night. Tears for Fears? Thompson Twins? Cannot recall even the slightest. Am I sluggish or wildly excited? The time seems to be taking forever, and yet it zooms by at breakneck pace nonetheless. I fear I'm making mistakes, giving wrong change, but that seems to mostly not be the case. I am shouting hilarious candy descriptions at patrons, being very careful not to swear. Lori, another manager I am supposed to be fearing - Lori, who is only 8 years older than me, a peer practically - if she can take on an informal tone with me, she'd better believe it's my turn. You will be made of often and directly, and we will have a great time because of it. "Move your giant head, Lori." "Nate, you're gonna have to treat me with more respect." "Move your giant head, ma'am." "Don't call me that." If I can be loved for my faults, then there will be few obstacles in my way, no? And ohmygod the New Girl. Fucking Christ, she is gorgeous. I feel all guilty her having to be around all of us. I mean, I prided myself on being the most attractive person on staff for a while now, but once again, that's hardly a notable distinction. King of the Retards. Sure, you're the king, but God, still a retard. How could she stand behind the counter with me? She's in a sorority, and I want to ask her all sorts of questions because I am just fascinated, have contemplated rushing a frat just to learn if their world is as nuts as some say (just to see if I had the mettle to survive it, as well), and all the Abercrombie guys come in and chat her up, but she doesn't like Abercrombie guys she says, and perhaps she might have been flirting back, God what the fuck. This was two days of work, and it was absolute insane joy for me. I wish you could live it just to have seen what it was like. And I watched as everyone mashed their way through the books, sipping out of the "Uncle" mug that I almost surely forget to wash and put back (ha!), like this little hyperintelligent, not too ethical, little thing. I just feel infinitely ahead of everyone right now, and I like watching you struggle to catch up.

Meanwhile, two more evenings pass. Occasionally, one must stop at look at one's role in the midst of things. Perhaps I am not the best conversationalist, definitely the most attractive, the best drinker, the most drunk, whatever. But lately, when I am on my game - and I have definitely been on my game as of late - I add this element of surreality to an evening that no one could have seen coming. Friday night, briefly: I wandered over to Brytne's because where is everybody? and it looked like the same old. Drinking games, Brytne smashed, same people, a little music, nothing special. A hundred nights in one hundred other places. Yousaf lying (poorly OH SO poorly) about his knowledge of the word "spate." Says my ego is too big to think he could ever know a word I didn't, that he didn't just pull it out of his ass as another rhyme for "Nate" and managed to get lucky. "Use it in a sentence," I said. "Dar," Yousaf said. The jury rests, and we each rest easy in our delusions. So, Nate Walsh comes in, is once again coerced by Kitty (everyone) in a platonic way to take his clothes off, is swing around like a lunatic helicopter by Andy. He asks for his clothes back - begs for them, he's getting strange looks - no dice. Instead, makeshift pants and halter top are fashioned out of pink Saran Wrap. And remember those weird animal poles when you were a kid? They were these plastic poles with an animal's head on them - a dinosaur or some shit - with a little trigger on the other end you could press and make the animal's head flap open and shut. Better start making out with one of those in your outfit on the floor, cackling because that doesn't make any God damn sense. Oh, I know. It's idiocy, but I was far more sober than you'd expect, and I was having a far better time than everyone else around. Well, except maybe Andy, who doesn't need shit to make his own fun. He's sitting outside in this inflatable kiddie pool, crazily sorting through all these papers he has piled up - storyboards, he says, for his next big film project. He tries to map it out for me, and the word "precocious" just keeps running through my head; he's this awesome little 8 year old manchild. All the ideas seem absolutely so far out there to me, but they all make sense to him, and I just sort of watch in awe. I will be playing Scorpion in this movie. That's right; Mortal Kombat, "get over here" Scorpion. Eventually bored by these cretins (and eventually having gathered my clothes), I stumble back home, stopping in the gas station restroom to breathe on the urinals. OK, that is a strange habit I have, sober or otherwise. But I love to fog up the metal fixtures on bathroom stalls. I get home and no one is still anywhere to be found. I crash on the floor for a while, under this pile of furniture and stuff because I once again think it is too funny to be allowed. I scrawl a little sign that said I had died tragically, missing Spritz. Then I ate the sign.

How much of this is truth? Well, I'm the sole witness for a lot of it, so I guess I'll die carrying the secret. I shall be attacked with requests, absolutely inundated, but they will all be ignored. Friday night was the warmup. Friday night was Sunday church compared to Saturday. Saturday tops my all time favorite nights out list. But let's not oversell us... or be overzealous, all right? Let's just get started with it:

Home, home, empty house, still way punchy, overexcited, willing to go out, get messed up, where the fuck is everyone? Downing a warm Beast, I call Spritz, because where the fuck has Spritz been, man? Haven't seen him really since Thursday night. Motherfucker's 21, has been 21, and we haven't had any time together to enjoy it. And man am I glad I did not go out to the bars on Thursday night, although I've been told I missed a horrendous little drama. Sooner'd drink poison, says I. So I call him, and he says he's at Brytne's, finish the beer, clean myself up a touch, on my bike. I know, perhaps not the safest mode of transport, but I feel all right with it because at least no one will be killed because of me. I am expendable, but none of you really are. It's not that I like you so much. It's just that I really, really fear the guilt. Ride over to Brytne's, feel so cliched, so cool (temperature-wise) and so free, zoom, much faster than usual, it seems like. I get there, and it's the same old thing, more drinking. Spritz and I go out on the porch and do our talk thing; it is not my intent to speak of it here. Perhaps I could be called hypocritical for this, freely divulging the expanses of Brytne's slutatude and all, but I am my own best editor. Ooh, speaking of which, it's scary how fucking good I am at advertising. Well, the creative aspect, I mean. I haven't had much chance to prove myself yet, but we were in these groups on Friday, making taglines for products (One girl did something about a tampon - "Go through the day without a bike seat in your pants" I laughed long and hard at that, as with "Where's the tape?" Not because it is such a good concept, but any throwback to Clara Peller makes me laugh more than is healthy for humans), and my group was getting all the kudos - where is your "Good job" you serious, uninspired, poorly executed bitches?! - and who do you think did all of the creating? "Your group rocked!" No, dear, with your giant boobs, lips, and bangs, I rocked. I regale my audience with tales of Nair gone wrong and whatever else. Slowly, they are converted. B-Rabbit is a genius. Damn skippy.

So we did that thing and sat inside for a while in antsy panic where to go what to do we are young and in love with our youth this idleness will not stand! Some of us set out - Spritz, Brytne, Tebbin, Andy for a while - and I was suddenly being carried by two people, one of them Andy, well only slightly carried, my back on a skateboard as we rolled along only falling once twice a much better track record than you'd think. We made it to Springfield and buttfuck maybe, maybe norther, mayber souther, I'm not sure. We wandered into some party for a minute, decided it was immediately not worthwhile (how), back out again, abandoning some of our party already. "Spritz," I kept whispering, "Let's abandon these fucks! They cramp our style! All you need is me, and all I need is you, and we will conquer the night. Say the word and we run." And I meant it, too. Lost Brytne once, twice. Spritz wrestled her once, twice. Good riddance, I thought. But maybe she led us to the second party, which is where we really got our flow going. Insert menstrual joke. Thank you. We just burst in this door and it's allllll these artfags ohmygod so many and they're all wearing their stupid artfaggy bullshit clothes. Some girl comes up to us, "Why aren't you dressed up?" What the fuck, Cocktail Dress? Can there be no happy medium here? Must we either dress up like you thrift store douchebags or the Abercrombie fuckwits over in Urbana? Well, these thoughts were all internal. While everyone else attempted to schmooze (oh look there's Owen. of course there's Owen, that motherfuck is everywhere I am, divided by fate, brought together by time. And why did he have a bandana on? Signs just getting worse), I stumble upstairs (There were some stairs in this apartment) and call Allison Helm. For information purely, I swear. I could not hear a word she was saying, nor her me, I think. This is preferable to the mythical Second Call I might have made her. I like to think this other call probably did not exist, will go through the rest of my life pretending that this call did not exist, and I will not be proven otherwise. What call. There was no fucking call. What are you even talking about, you schizo? Spritz comes up to me when I come back down. Conspiratorially. "Dude, we are going to steal their bottle of [Sunkist - I heard Sunkist] and their bottle of vodka over there by the door." I will hand them to you, and we will go. All right, man. We do so. Was there a hitch? I think not. In the back alley, I pissed while Spritz mixed our drink and Tebbin covered his eyes so as to not see my "peenor" (Good word, mine?). Turns out it was Sunny Delight. It did not taste strong, but it might have been strong.

We started walking lurching more really south towards an alleged party near FAR/PAR or something. We never made it that far, for Spritz suddenly remember some purported engineering party in the area, and we headed in that direction, drinking our D&V. "Orchard and Illinois," he was like. "Orchard and Illinois." And then we got there, and I was actually staring at the sign and laughing because there has never been a deader street in the history of the world. No lights, no sound. "Yep, definitely an engineering party." While calls were made to find the next step in our adventure, I don't fucking know anyone, so I called Missy and let her know ... something. She left me a message later that the call was all broken up, but I believe that is code for my incomprehensible, drunken English bearing down on her. Then, as we got near Europa, I started talking about how I sort of assumed the girls in apartment 13 - the girls I had not actually met but who had once come out when I was being excessively noisy and probably had thought I was cute - were in love with me and would not mind if we came and visited right here and now, whenever the fuck it was. We started buzzing apartments. Did we lie? No, I actually think we were honest at first. Somehow our arguments were not as selling as we had presumed. So then we lied to someone else. Maybe. My jarred recollection of events is like this. "Beeeeep" Blah blah blah bullshit. "Are you Mike?" "Yes. Let us in." They did. I affected an accent. I mean, the only accent I know how to even do at all, really, don't even do it all that well, but I have the devotion to carry this sort of thing out. A sudden discerting trend of taking some mail. Things that ended up with us from the mail that I do not feel, in fact, belonged to us: A copy of Baz Luhrman's Romeo + Juliet soundtrack CD. Volume 2. So not even the real stuff, the Radiohead song we sort of know. No. Bullshit instrumentals. An unopened electric flosser, cutely named and designed as "The Hummingbird." Two five-dollar ($5) bills. Numerous temporary tattoos, including Ladybug, Peace Sign Heart, and Rhinestone Hearts. A picture of 4 preteens maybe. These things were all stuffed into our pants as we approached apartment 13. Hello! That's right! We did manage to get it! And somehow we managed to get you to invite us in. This makes tons of sense. A smallish sort of party of sorts is going on inside. One guy is wearing a bunch of Christmas bulbs around his neck - purple, gold, green. Very bling-bling, I yell, which they find funny because of the accent. We are meeting everyone, and they keep asking where I am from. Here is why my genius is: I never lie to them. In fact, I act like I would if a person would come up to me any day of the week and didn't believe I was from Illinois. Belligerent. "I'm from Illinois what the fuck are you talking about we sound just alike all right" The one pretty girl (Amber, I'm so glad I remember her name), the one I would have wanted to like me, seemed to like me. "Do you want a shot?" she asks. "You bet I do!" I do not, in fact, want a shot. Spritz comes up to me, "You don't need a shot, man." Don't worry, I say. I can handle it. We do our little toast or whatever and I toss the vodka over my shoulder and start making enraged grimace faces and moans. Spritz laughs. No one else notices.

Unfortunately, my gimmick is actually a gimmick and will thus annoy some people. Worse still, there's nothing like a pseudoaccent to bring you into contact with people who actually are from foreign countries. This is a new rule I just found out. I've gone months - years, even - without meeting a single girl with a hot accent, and all of a sudden, they're thrust at me, assuming we would have more in common as we are both incomprehensible. So, we are all just slumming around, maybe there was a picture taken of us, maybe I just made this up, and I am talking to Amber, and things seem hilariously good when this British girl is thrust at me, very indignant about everything. Spritz asks if she's from London. "There are other parts of England besides London you know." She has curly brown hair and I hate it and I want to tell her but I am too busy trying to not get us kicked out of the apartment. She thinks it is a hoax. "What is a hoax?" I ask. "I'm just this guy from Illinois, and they won't fucking believe me!" She says I am insulting her island nation something something. "What are you talking about, you daft cunt!" I have a way with words. She keeps forcing us along, explaining it to these new people coming in in her fucking British polite-rude manner. "I'm just showing these people out because he [points to me] is a liar." I decry her "profoundly rude claims" all the way out. Oh, I'll be back next week, bitches. You won't remember me, or the fact that I had an accent. Clean slate.

Joke's on them, Tebbin says. I got their cell phone. I must have mentally tried to tuck this little detail away, but Spritz dredged it out recently, and now there is remorse. We walked about a half a block west to another party on Oregon, and in the brief time, it would seem we tired of this cell phone and smashed it on the asphalt. Other good remained safely tucked away in our pants. New party artfaggy but tolerably so. Buttfaced Jew is there, so I am great. I am still doing the accent. Go with what works. And it works well. I talk to people waiting in line for the bathroom. Another cute blonde maybe, but then I am sucked away by this hell posse. One is this uggo shorty, red silk shirt. Another was completely nondescript in my mind, brown hair, curly, why are you even here you're all so boring! One is definitely not boring. She is, in my mind, seven feet tall with red hair maybe in a pony tail, very eastern European descent. She will not tell me her name but insists I call her Big Red. This makes my stomach turn a bit. They are absolutely in love with me and my story. They think I am trying to be clever with my line about Illinois. I couldn't possibly be from Illinois, thus making it absolutely certain that I am from Scotland. Spritz comes up now and again and confirms that I am. I yell like the jig is up. You've caught my lies. Spritz manages to get a free cup, gives it to me. I give it to the guy who looks exactly like Luke Wilson, explaining my justification for the act to him. "You look like Luke Wilson!" He is grateful and has no doubt forgotten me. Cute blonde is gone, and the posse thing is going nowhere, so I head out to the porch to find Spritz and Brytne and Kyle 2, who have somehow caught up. Wearing ties. There is a furious political debate happening out on this balcony. Far more important than anything our presidential candidates could muster up, these two are bipartisan and have been drinking heavily, which is the only way these things should be. They yell back and forth, and it sounds very smart (OK, no nothing opinionated ever sounds smart), and Spritz watches part in awe, part because he wants to get with the brunette also watching them. I bore quickly and start off yelling at some more people. Tebbin comes up to me. I have stolen a boomerang off of their wall. It is in my pants. Once it has been firmly ascertained that I am from out of town ("No, you fucks, I'm from Illinois!") I am suddenly introduced to this other British chick. Two in one night. Things are strange. She is not very attractive at all, but I like the way she talks, especially drunk ("You're having me on, aren't you?") and so we chat for quite a while. Sadly, I cannot recall her name at all, which is sort of sad, because she ended up joining our party for the rest of the night. She is the real deal, I decide. She smokes and does cocaine back home and she flicks her cigarette on the car below. "Pour your beer on that car," I say. She does.

She goes to get more beer or something, and I run over to Spritz. Has he been monitoring my progress? Maybe, I dunno, but I'm sort of tired of this game and want to get the fuck out of dodge. As always, though, moving drunks is impossible, and she comes back before long. I am already out the door, but Spritz and Tebbin bring her along, our novelty for the evening. It would seem there is more to be done this evening, or so I am told, but I was not well-aware that our fearless leader was so drunk of his ass that he had no idea where we were. "I was so lost last night," says Spritz. "I was starting to get really scared! All the houses and shit looked alike." Tebbin whipped out the boomerang, and he and Britpop started taking turns winging it. Then it got launched into some foliage, followed by a frantic search and an even more frantic giving up. If I could remember the area at all, I would be on my way, but I was apparently pasted into the Generic Nighttime City Street backdrop, and so goes any hope of that. Somehow, after confronting some hoods on the corner by a church ("Hey, are you guys street punks?" No. "Don't beat us up!"), we made it back to the house. Oh, good. See, I am a firm believer in the one-night stand. Not so much as a sexual thing, because I think sex is too weird and animal-like and I don't get it, but I like firm lines drawn between here and there. I will fuck with you at that party, and then I will leave the party and stop fucking with you. Well, can't do that now, can we! Gonna keep up this accent gig for a long time, especially considering it's 3:30, 4. She crashes on the couch - well, actually, tries to politely lie and puke in Spritz's bathroom while Spritz and I giggle about it and our situation in general (Random Drunk British Chick. In Our House!) - and we all follow suit. Giggle giggle (BLECHHH) giggle (BLECH) giggle! She keeps making demands, and Spritz and Tebbin run off like little bitches because she is the best (only) chance they have of scoring tonight. Personally, I could care less. Not attractive, she, and unlike them possibly, my whole life is a dry spell; don't even know what I'm missing out on. They are all up on her, and somehow the subject of music comes up. I guess that's not such a difficult subject to broach, is it? I made it sound that way, didn't I, when really all it had to be was, "What kind of music do you like?" Well, anyway, she is total eurotrash (hahaha) and likes techno or trance or something absolutely horrible. She says she is a "classically-trained" singer. Babs Myers said the same thing, and it made me want to dig my eyes out. Someone could fucking classically train at tennis for the rest of my god damned life, but it doesn't mean I'm ever gonna play any better. She says she was lying down and wrong type of music blah blah blah, but she was fucking terrible, and I kept laughing and telling her. She is smoking in the house. "Oop - " I try to correct her. Aw, fuck it. We three are all on the couch with her, me sitting off to the side of her while both Spritz and Tebbin are up on her, stroking her and shit. I decided this is my clue to leave - let them battle it out for her affection or, god forbid, "run train" on her (as the charming phrase goes) - but as I start to scoot off, she summons me back, and starts trying to rub up on me. So I'm lying on her as she tries to touch me or whatever, and I can feel Spritz and Tebbin fighting for control behind me meanwhile, their hands bumping into each other or the back of my head and occasionally their intended targets. We are talking about some misplaced affections here, but she and I are doing most of the talking (What an in, this accent, no?). Spritz goes off to play Infantry (SHOOTIN DUDES), goes to bed, Tebbin passes out on top of us. "So... want me to walk you home then?" British girls are not forward, I've learned, so I figured this would end it. Well, actually, I was wondering if I could stay here. I have no idea where I am. Fuck. Fine. I'll go grab you some blankets and shit then. What, not a proper bed? A bit rude to your guests, aren't we? I can see where this is leading, and the little bitter sadist is totally on board now. So, do you want to sleep in my bed then? Being coy. NOPE! We got upstairs and I turn out the "dreadful racket" Doc Ock is making, and then I almost immediately pretend to pass out. Oh, Nate Walsh. You are a cocktease.

Like I said, this morning, it was absolutely freezing, and I was up early, and I sort of just wanted to sprint out, but it is my house after all, so I just waited patiently until she woke up, tried to sneak out, and kicked a hugeass jar of change over. Tebbin was awake at about the same time, and since they live near each other, it seems (Oh God, future encounters?) they made plans to get a cab back to their area. Her cell phone number, as she told the cab company, has about 90 digits to it. So yes, probably is the real deal :P I stand outside to wait with them. Lovely day, but they are both hungover and gross (whereas I am merely the latter!) - she goes back in to a puke some more - and the cab is slow as eff, so they eventually take the bus with some old man who had been talking with us. We are young, and you are envious.

She was sooo hilariously British, though. All else aside, I liked her sense of humor and her fastidiousness, and hmm. this was just the weirdest fucking night of my life.