Gallery Night
Gallery weekend in the winter time always has the same effects of a full moon: unbalanced. People puking on eachother, taking elevators up instead of down, walking backwards up stairs, sucking on dum-dums in a non-sucker environment, and ordering chocolate shakes at the bar (no, the bartender is NOT a large black lady from the Weiner's Circle). I realized this wolf-in-the-womb mentality, so I always proceed this weekend with caution. The only problem is that my friends were on the same crazy pills as everyone else. So, in other words, there really was no escaping it. I just had sit back, watch my step, and give my friends small doses of genius every once in a while.
I was about to leave the house to check out a Bob Marley exhibit down in the third ward when I ran across a discussion about tapeworms. It involved roommate #2, Smatrick, and high guy (or, to illustrate, the guy on the couch. He didn't say shit). They agreed that they're not fun, and some people have real problems with them. It moved on to the hypotheses of how many tapeworms could swim around your insides at once, if they had eyes and ears, and if they did have ears if they could hear what we were talking about. It was an obvious discussion driven by the fine effects of marijuana, not to mention this gizmo 'slash' gremlin weekend we were in the middle of. I gave it little attention, waiting for Ms. Jameson to get her ass downstairs so we could get out of this brain cell killing conversation.
All of a sudden the topic took a sharp twist. Roommate #2 had the look of realization, the expression of wonderment and eagerness to possibly research this profound thought into a career inspiring lifestyle. He said, "Hey, aren't there buttworms too? I mean, I never really heard of them, but sometimes it feels like a worm is swimming around in my butt. It's awkward sometimes..."
Silence. My jaw dropped slightly, but not all the way to the floor. They continued to discuss.
"I wonder if there has been any research on it because I'd like to be a part of that non-profit team." Roommate #2 said.
My thoughts: "Where the FUCK is Ms. Jameson. We have to abort, NOW!"
It then took ANOTHER u-turn at the intersection of stupid and stupid.
Smatrick blurted at me, "Dude, when we workout together, you're like a greek god with how much you can bench. It's awesome."
I didn't know what to say. Thanks? I then thought about what he said. I said, "So now I'm a greek god? I guess that's pretty....awesome....thanks Smatrick. You really know how to make someone feel good AND awkward at the same time. You should be a male cheerleader maybe."
He answered, "No, no, no. You're LIKE a greek god. There's a difference."
Rather than give this conversation any more of my intelligent time, I decided NOT to ask what the difference was or verbally determine Smatrick's sexual preference. I went to warm up the car instead.
We all met at the bar later and another friend met us out, let's call him Matt X. He was high on life from winning at poker, and was ready to get his hands on anything (I mean this in every way. Just wait).
He bought shots, talked about TELLS at the table, his lack of interest for souvenirs from the equator, and his love for R.Kelly. He asked me if I could ask the DJ to play an R.Kelly track, and I obliged. The track came on shortly after, and Matt X celebrated like a bull rider realizing his balls didn't get crushed like Sonoma grapes. All of a sudden, I felt my shoulders being massaged. Was it a women? No, too rough. The hands ARE quite feminine though. I turned around to see if Too Wong Foo was the culprit because that would be the only logical explanation. To my dismay, it was Matt X. He was dancing to the music and rubbing my shoulders to the beat. I tried to escape his kung fu grip but failed miserably. He was in a trance, a 'dance in my room by myself naked' state of mind. Not wanting to be a part of ANY of this, I turned my head slightly and said, "Hey Matt X, I hate to break your footloose stride but this is kinda Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal on the mountain if you know what I'm saying."
He replied, "No it isn't." Massaging continued.
I felt like Harold and Kumar at Guantanamo Bay. Was he gonna ask if I was ready for a cockmeat sandwich next? I had to do something.
I motioned to the DJ to change the track. He looked at me like he had been in my situation recently, and quickly changed the track.
Matt X said, "Oh come on, DJ! I was just getting into it!"
I escaped successfully as his rant only grew.
I'll save gallery night for the summer from now on.
