2004-07-19 - 12:05 p.m.
I think I have a slight case of Tourette's syndrome. Whenever I�m around people who are a little too sedate, a little too frou frou, I feel the need to say the word �cock� or �pussy� really loudly. It just comes over me, like the spontaneous eruption of a cold sore. Goddamn that Herpes simplex and goddamn my inability to let an evening get too sedate. We�re having dinner Friday night at a little Greek restaurant in the Fairmount Park section of Philadelphia. Very cute, very quaint, and we�re sipping wine and being oh so intelligent. So adult, so educated, so motherfucking boring. What is this skin I�m wearing that�s becoming so much like a blood pressure cuff disguised as a suit? Who are these people who are talking about buying boats and sailing? They are friends, I remind myself, and this is part of growing up: dinners are civilized, your tits remain in your shirt, and everyone you know has been to Europe (except you). Soon, I can�t take it, so I say something like, yeah, so and so is such a cock. And the response is a moment of silence before: �Would anyone like more Chardonnay?� Hellowwwww, I just said cock, someone laugh, or tell me to stop acting like a two-year-old, or show me something other than this perfect composure. So I mentally kick myself again and try not to say anything that�s not related to upward mobility or education. After these two get a few drinks in them, they loosen up a little. So I pull out my cute �tell me a story� move, which I use with boring people who are narcissists at heart. Now we�re relating to each other like people rather than lawyer, editor, Spanish teacher. After we kill the Chardonnay, a friend of a friend, we�ll call him Preppy Vintage Boy, orders Greek coffee. He takes a sip of it and makes an awful face, proclaiming it �made with city water, more likely, treatment plant water.� We all try it, and it�s definitely like drinking liquid shit. Preppy Vintage Boy notices that the porcelain cup in which it�s served now has a brown sticky line around the top, like ring around the toilet. Now, I�m having fun�toilet humor is right up my alley. It dawns on me: they need alcohol to liven them up. Only wine can take them to that playful, fun space in which I always reside (and I don�t mean this in a kissing my own ass kind of way), whereas I need alcohol to get to a bawdy, raucous space, which is always fun to visit. When I�m in that space, they�re still playful and flirty, so I have to stop drinking until they catch up. Then we�re all one dirty, happy family.
We adjourn to the 700 Club. Mixed crowd: preppy poseurs, hipsters in $5 t-shirts and horn rimmed glasses like mine, and everyone in between. There are a few black people here, and I thought I saw an Indian, so I feel buoyed by the bar�s token diversity. I start dancing and my friends are not ready for the experience. I take up a lot of space, and in my mind everyone else fades while I pretend I�m filming my own dance video. It�s pretty obnoxious, but I don�t give a fuck. Luckily, they are drunk and feeling their oats, so it�s all good.
Later, we meet up with Preppy Vintage Boy�s friends. They are assholes. I smell them immediately. As he spots them and we walk over, I think, please don�t let it be these toolsheds over yonder. Of course, it is. I�m not one to judge people by their friends, but I sometimes judge people by their friends. I wonder what a nice Preppy Vintage Boy would be doing in the company of three wannabes like the ones he�s introducing me to.
The one guy, Blue polo khaki shorts, is chatting up two vapid looking blondes. When he�s introduced to me, he does the looking over the top of my head thing as he nods hello. I�m not sure what his problem is, but if he can�t see me, he ceases to exist for me as well. Two of Vintage Boy�s friends kind of do the �why is this black girl standing with us� thing before they realize I�m a friend of a friend. Be surprised, if you need to, but don�t get stuck there, assholes. So I start talking to the only one of these fucks who has some manners. Turns out he works for full time goddamned Bush-Cheney campaign. Fucking A. In the face of what I perceived to be prejudice in some of Vintage Boy�s friends, I lose a little bit of my own prejudice. The Republican, while stiff and kind of nervous, is the nicest one of the bunch. Later, I catch Blue Polo staring at me while I�m dancing, but he�s beat. He�ll hear nary a kind word from these lips. If he says anything in my general direction for the rest of the night, I pretend not to hear and walk away.
All in all, Pencopal was proud of herself. She danced her ass off, resisted the urge to make the night a puker, turned down three phone numbers, and realized that not every Republican is an asshole.
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