Saturday Morning

I hate football weekends. I've been awake for five minutes, I'm not out of my pajamas, and I've already been invited to a keg party. The back of my apartment building faces the back of someone else's apartment building, so as I shuffled into my living room this morning, a la Shawn of the Dead, I found myself the center of attention for about six coeds, who at eleven am were already clustered around a keg on my neighbor's balcony. The biggest, hairest one of the lot, the one wearing an Animal House "COLLEGE" t-shit, waved erratically from his lawn chair and made "Come on over!" gestures, because as we all know, standing in your living room in house shoes, frog pjs, and a knit monkey hat is the universal sign for, "Whoo, baby, I'm in the mood to get drunk and get funky." Still, it's nice to get invited, I guess.

Speaking of monkey hats, I've decided to become a sensitive artistic type. This way, I can wax philosophic on such disparate topics as the symbolism of hands in Sophie Treadwell's Machinal versus Shakespeare's Macbeth, or, I dunno, the benefits of a d-10 system versus a d-20 system, and people will assume I know what I'm talking about, because I'm a sensitive artistic type. I also plan to do strange and exccentric things, like randomly wearing a pirate hat to classes. I won't have a reason for this, but I won't need one. Sensitive artistic types just do things like that.

Hmm. I should buy a beret. Maybe adopt a European accent. Not French, though. Out of Vogue. Are the Brittish still cool? I don't know. I wonder if the kegger people know. They seem to be "with it." They might even be sober enough to ask.