2003-05-08 - 3:53 a.m.

I wanna read a dated novel filled with then-trendy pop-culture references that only I�d get (and at that I�d only get about half of �em) about a good time I should have been having five to ten years ago.

Again.

I went to the Enormous Room tonight to see the Art Gurl. This time I brought reinforcements--the Roommate and C. (from work). I dunno--I don�t dislike the place, but it�s loud, eternally crowded, and way too hip, but not in an awesome way. I do my very best to avoid such places.

And lo, the folks in my party, in turn, all complained that the place was too loud, and too crowded.

And then I kinda got it. A little bit.

I felt like I was at somebody�s party. And I have mixed feelings at parties. I love �em, but I have a history of running away, or of spending hours anxiously coping with the fact that I have nobody to talk to, and nothing really to say �cause it�s too crowded and �cause the music is too loud.

I�m just not built for such situations.

But then, like parties, sometimes I get a little groove on, and that�s nice. I drank a glass of Haitian rum, recommended by the Art Gurl, and it was sweet and smoky and smoky and had a hint of cherry. I hate rum, but I knew it would be good before I tasted it.

And then, and it�s not like it�s all about drinking rum, but now I�m sitting on a couch with my baby and my friend C., and the Art Gurl is about, and I get to watch crazy hipsters make undignified asses of themselves as folks flee to catch the train.

Parties? By the way, I came up with a survival solution. Here it is--the best part of a party is the very beginning IF IF IF you know the hosts really well. Like hang out there all the time, and you get to hang out with the principals before the action begins, at which time five seconds of their time becomes diamonds.

Then it�s staring at plants and artwork, and not talking for stretches, and waiting it out.

Beyond that, to the flingiedos of the world, if you haven�t figured it out, the end of parties are the bomb-diggity. That�s when tons of randoms take off to catch the train out, and you�re stuck with the die-hards. It�s like the beginning, but everyone�s drunk, and especially you. That�s when it�s time to get your Irish on. Boo yeah.

But then, above all else, YOU GOTTA LEAVE WHEN IT�S TIME TO LEAVE. I suggest leaving before it�s that time. That�s just me, though. Say when before you know when it�s time to say when. Did people say �when� a long time ago?

I dunno--that how I do it. It�s worked for me to varying degrees of success, and of course if I get on a happy roll, I go with it, witnesses be damned.

I don�t know how I got on this tangent. It was a good night, and I had a good time. I shared a Store 24 sandwich with the Roommate while we waited for the bus in good weather, and I realized that the rolly statue-thingies in Central make music when you turn them. I had to go to the bathroom, and took a look around the corner, but a cop car came rolling down. C. was waiting for a bus and went all HEY! HEY! Why are you walking down THIS street? and I was all like no reason, I just wanna.

We checked the schedules for her bus, and then kinda hung out, and I could feel the breeze rustle the hair on my arms, and everything was OK. And some random dude decided to chat with us, and the Roommate and my�s bus came before it got too weird.

Nifty, eh?

We got home, and then some nice things transpired, and now I�m listening to a recording (made the year I was born) of Canadian gradeschoolers singing Mandy.