10/03/2005 - 9:11 p.m. | let�s hug it out, bitch

Sung a la Smacko: �Thank God for Classic Campaigns test postponement!! I can write this shit instead! Until Wednesday night now! Yeaaaah!�

I was not pleased with the idea of studying this night, but I am on a series of lucky breaks, which can only mean a family member will be dying soon. Damn it. For instance, I was quite a bit drunk last night and lurched up here to finish my last campaign. Email from Sheldon: Won�t be in class tomorrow, come with great ads for peer review. Also know as, �Play Freecell until you pass out in the chair.� Great night!

Saturday was pretty much balls. Maybe I�ve just got an especially bad attitude now, I�m not sure, but I�m getting less and less out of these drunken excursions. Most of the parties are terrible, the bars always are, and even if they�re not for some reason, what does that really mean for me? I�m not going to go seduce some chick � some chick is sure as hell not going to come seduce me, what am I even out there for? The expensive drinks, the dickheads, the awkward nervousness? And you might say, well it�s the experience, but it�s all starting to get sort of redundant. Smacko always destroys things, Spritz always smokes too much, Kyle will never shut up, on and on and on. Maybe we really should be getting in fights or going to really shady, nasty places. At least feeling dirty or hurt would be something new. And I guess the inebriation is supposed to fill in any gaps in the riddle � like, if gin makes our boring old house exciting, imagine what OUT will be like! � but it just seems a little stupider each time.

Yes, it does occur to me that if I got some BALLS, my whole nightlife experience would be completely different. I wish I could facilitate those needs. How do all of you not feel annoying doing it, though? Gosh.

Everyone was gone for the longest time, so I started drinking upstairs by myself, in the hopes that someone would show up and turn my alcoholism into social drinking. A little buzzed, I came down to iron a shirt. Gautum�s awful friends (e.g. Elliott) were here, so I made a b-line for the kitchen, Kyle and Shelly. Kyle was in the middle of another of his increasingly common rages. Those Nero�s Gyros bastards had put mustard on something they had not specified mustard would be put upon, and now he�s punching the refrigerator, scattering fruit magnets As an aside, I later explained to Shelly that these were the negative results of him not getting laid. Blowjobs and slippery genital manipulation are great and all, but Kyle is a big stupid ape, with instincts that need placating. I got no response from anybody on that.

It was a slow, slow night. We eventually shifted over to Smacko�s to avoid Gautum�s crowd, and yeah� I guess I was down to begin with and just wanted things to happen. I was fairly drunk, though, so I made another stab at calling Julie. Surprisingly enough, she called back like ten minutes later, and we talked for a while.

In case it was not clear, I am in love with Julie Downs.

Of course, she�s out in L.A. now, which is totally surreal to me. She was in some Will Smith movie, which I think I mentioned, and did local modeling and it�s just amazing that she ekes out an existence, not knowing anyone there. It�s so crazy, though, how she keeps falling ass backward into meeting different people. She had dinner on a yacht one night with the head of Buena Vista and one of the main producers of �Alias� (to whom she suggested she could fill in while Jennifer Garner is on maternity leave). And, you know the band OKGO? Semi-successful half-indie band? Yeah, she�s dating their bassist! My heart sank a little there, I�ll be honest, thinking of her with some debonair hipster hottie, but well� Take a look at him yourself:

I feel as though I could compete with Dave Attell. Then again, maybe she�s shallow in a whole different way than I am, fame trumping beauty. And I have neither. But anyway, she goes to their shows now, and the guy from Maroon 5 started hitting on her and asked for her headshot because they might want her for their next video. Seems a little like a line to me, but then Julie really is like the prettiest ever, which might explain how she does meet these people and how I am sitting alone on a rickety porch drinking Apple Pucker from the bottle as it is all the sad little bit of booze I have left.

What a generally nice girl, though. I dunno � she said Missy and I were the only good people she had met in Chicago, and she more or less insisted that we visit - or come see her (�and the band�) when they are back in Chicago. Here is my little sin, though: I told her that Missy kissed another boy and that we were now �on a break.� This is not untrue � I am certainly on very shaky mental terms with Miss Barmann currently � but I chose my language carefully to suggest that we were all but through actually and that my wounded sense of romanticism was all that kept hope alive. Clever, no? Well, then she�s all like, �Well, you should totally move out here!� and that, if she ever made it big, I could be part of her entourage, her own little Kato Kaelin.

Suddenly, a whole new chapter of my life opens. Fuck all of this shit, Kyle, Missy, family, advertising. I�ll just go to LA and be a fucking bum! Maybe get a job as a personal assistant (I think I�d be good at that) and write stuff no one cares to read and just mooch mooch mooch mooch. Oh, I know it�s a pipe dream, but it leads to the best story I see so far.

That briefly put me in a better mood, until I realized I would never have her, and then I sulked into Smacko�s room to play whiny Wilco songs. My mastery of Spritz�s camera is not complete � that little half-hold of the button to make thing focus is usually too much for my drunk brain to manage. Plus, the flash turns itself on and off at random. I have about three usable pictures from the past three days. I already miss Polaroids.

Allison came over (at who�s insistence? Lord, I hope it was not mine), and we were given the most recent set of updates. Apparently after Kyle�s little phone call the night before (re: the douche-bagginess of Mike Boehm), Allison asked Smacko why we all thought that about him. He did his best to explain (in surprisingly gentle terms for Smacko) and all of a sudden Mike�s like out of the picture.

Except not. But we�ll get to that.

Smacko pretty much only had vodka and milk, so we were left to our devices as far as libations went. I was lucky � I had some syrupy Pucker to choke down. Allison faired worse, drinking a nice glass of watery gin with lime wedge as well as a shot of Scoresby and Tabasco. The latter is innovative, I must admit, but I can hardly imagine it was good. And look what it did for her behavior.

I wanted big exciting parties, and it was just one hell after another. First stop, directly next door. 505 W. Green, also known as the home of my would-be internet stalker. Sobriety forced itself to the surface, and I was so not ready for this encounter. I saw her, and I�m sure she saw me, but we sort of dodged each other the whole time. Nice house, though. And a cowboy themed party, which I was already dressed for. Some creatures talked to me, and that was not pleasant, but I was willing to stay and build up courage to talk to this one girl who was possibly cute and who might have even looked at me funny. She had a skirt, and I am getting desperate. Like I can halt progress, though, so after Shelly and I shared a two-step in the sitting room and Kyle and Smacko shared a cigarette with some hipster, we got the hell out, me yelling at Giovanni as I went.

Incidentally, Smacko was smoking apple-flavored blunts the other night. He smelled a whole new kind of awful.

The booze was gaining on Allison. It�s always nice to see the same behavior return time and again. The fact that her top speed drops to 2 miles an hour, or how she�ll start clinging to me like a barnacle. Without being cruel, I try to slide away, as I am not about blocking Smacko�s game. I want nothing but success for him here and, to be honest, I am uncomfortable as all hell.

Tired of Allison�s slow progress, the rest of us leave her with Smacko and head to Dank�s old building, where this shitfest is supposed to go down. We only know about this secondhand from Brytne, and she�s not even there, we learn. I can see why. Never such a sausage fest hell have I seen. Besides Shelly, there are two chicks (Mexican Sporty Spice and Oddly Lumpy Girl), and they are all being swarmed upon by male uggos of equal or lesser value. Kyle has focused in on the half bottle of Bacardi Gold sitting on the table, Shelly is doing flippy cups with her horrifying squad of admirers, and I am about fucking ready to leave. I ran down earlier to guide Allison and Smacko to the apartment we were at, but when I went to check on them, they were wandering around two floors up on the wrong side, Allison opening up random doors. Yeah, I�ve had enough of this. I leave Kyle to the amazing fat nerd beast he is speaking to and head home. Contemplate the first awful party but sink into bed instead, watch a little �Arrested Development,� sober up.

It was actually fortunate I did this, as Allison got rip-roaring around this point, and I would not have aided matters by being there. For the most entertaining version, I�d suggest you go to Shelly, get her rather sloshed, and have her it explain it to you as she did to me. Her Allison impression was to die for. Anyway, Allison just kept talking about how much of a douchebag Mike was, always in italics like that. �Mike is such a douchebag! Kyle called me and told me what douchebag he was.� And then she�d shift gears. �Nate hates me! He hates me!� So then Shelly and Smacko (poor Smacko) would try and reassure her. �Nate doesn�t hate you, Allison. He likes you as a friend.� �Right! But he doesn�t like me like me. Where�s Mike? Mike�s a douchebag!� She couldn�t remember if she wanted to bang Mike or hate him, so she did a little bit of each, calling him and trying to direct him to her location without, you know, any clue of where she actually was. Slurred, �Corner of Springfield and Illinois!� Those are parallel streets, Allison. And then she would teeter dangerously in the direction of oncoming traffic and tumble over, at which point Smacko would heave her up. Again. And again she�d go, �Smacko! Why are you touching my stomach!� She is not a cooperative drunk. But, after they managed to flag down a SafeRide (They normally never allow this, so Allison�s state must have been pretty apparent) and sat on Mike�s car for a while, she did offer to walk them home. How generous. Then alternate crying and humping as far as I can tell. Yes, good evening.

I just wanted to sleep, but first Shelly, then Smacko, came in to relate the tale, and then Shelly wouldn�t leave until Kyle returned so she could blow him (Disturbing remembered detail from earlier in the evening: Me: �You�ve got some piss on your pants there, Shelly.� Her: �That�s Astroglide.�), but of course Kyle in the state he was in still had not left that second horrid party long after everyone had left, so we took turns calling and begging him to return to us. He spoke in tongues, I think, and Shelly begged him not, to NOT, go to the gas station and pick himself up a hot dog there. I have no idea if she succeeded.

Next day started late and was unproductive for a gratifying overall ratio. I keep making weird little communications buddies. I was at work (sort of feigning struggle with my work) and the chick who labsits after I do and I made tentative plans for a labsitter barcrawl. I may have volunteered to make shirts. Came home to color and then drink whilst the poker tournament happened. Jared kept getting up to �check the thermostat,� so I assume he pulled cards from out of the walls and won back twice his five dollar investment. Spritz did just as well, spitting in karma�s eye once again. They both pulled out early, the fuckers. Dank and I were on a team, in that I watched him play and occasionally yelled stuff with him. He knew the game about as well as I did, but hey, any reason to drink on the Sabbath, am I right? �Creative juice,� I kept calling it, and though it made me motivated, it was in an entirely unhelpful manner, with me forcing Shelly to drive to Schnucks so I could invent some spinach pasta dish. It was highly generic (olive oil and lots and lots of Kraft parmy), and I�m sure anyone who ate it now has heart disease, but it made watching The Mask entirely enjoyable, which says a lot.

I could not sleep, so I sat up and trimmed my butt hair.

I wish I were joking.