| Secondhand Rants | Rock on, Sisyphus |
I can rationalize all I want, gentle reader, but weather will always affect me in powerful and mysterious ways. Does it affect you likewise? When it’s as dark as an unlucky cat’s belly, as wet as a flooded aquarium, what do you do? And don’t tell me, “Just pretend to be a flower,” because I’ve tried that already. Didn’t work. Give me sun.
The first thought that goes through your head, gentle reader, when Saturday makes its weekly rounds–quick, what is it? If it’s an overwhelming desire to make sure you’ve something planned, then we’re in the same boat. Back when we were in elementary school, a highly trained socialite vaulted into the topmost echelons of educational reform and injected a sinister agenda into the mix. The plan took a little while to marinate, which is why we felt its full effects only in high school.
This agenda, boiled down into a paragraph or less, taught us to pack our weekend to its gills, starting on Friday. Indeed, failing to do so would incur the scorn of all your peers, if not the scorn of humanity at large. Since Halloween lies right around the corner, people expect you to do something extra special to celebrate the souls of the dead.
I contemplated going to a party today. It would be a wild party filled with booze and “really hot stewardesses,” as my buddy told me, and there would be other things inconceivably more scrumptious than Jolly Ranchers. The way I operate in house parties, unfortunately, always breaks down into three simple steps.
Step 1: Find a cup of something ASAP
If I enjoyed beer, cherished it silly, it would likely return the favor and make parties infinitely more fun. The way things work now, I wait in the drink line for 10 minutes so I can retrieve a cup of Sprite. It’s more than a cup of Sprite, however, because it’s a prop, without which I’d look even dorkier.
What would you do with your hands if you didn’t have a beverage of some sort? Stick them down your pants? Once you have your drink, you’re free to use your other hand for gesticulating. Or groping.
Step 2: Socialize
This means you flit around from person to person, feigning interest until you run out beverage, in which case you’re sent straight back to Step 1. Too bad for you! Some conversation standbys to consider:
“Oh, this is utterly fascinating, even though I’ll probably never see you again.”
“Quick, give me your number so I can conveniently lose it!”
“Sorry, can’t talk now. The bass is just too good.”
Dancing’s also fun, at least until you start collecting other people’s sweat and beer on your festive party shirt.
Step 3: Disappear
All told, I usually last about 25 to 30 minutes at these parties. At my most recent party, I puttered around for a whole seven minutes before I had to go out for fresh air.
Three easy steps. That’s about it. I’m convinced we have a set number of social points to spend each week. You argue with your landlord, that’s 15 points. You talk to that cute guy or girl, that’s 20 points spent. You sleepwalk nude in downtown Chicago, that’s 50 points gone. Any points unspent will carry over into the next week.
What did I do yesterday? I did my laundry loud and proud. I’m still in the black.
I’m always wracked with sharp guilt, gentle reader, whenever we can’t have a proper conversation. You step into my foyer expecting nothing more than a brief exchange of words and pleasantries, and I repay the favor by blithely skipping through the lobby and into the garage. Away I drive, but not before dropping some candy into your open hands and patting you on the head.
The candy, in this case, always happens to be a link of some sort. There will come a day when we reach the end of the Internet. We will weep–weep!–because we will have no more links to share. Today isn’t that day, however, so make sure to check out this site. It’s clean, it’s fast, and it will remind you when everything on the web was free. Just make sure you, uh, own all the music you download.