Throughout the transition, the shoutbox will stay up and I hope everyone continues to shout-out.

Possibly Not Safe For Work.

I have a regifting party to attend this weekend. I don’t know how, but this photo must be incorporated. God wills it so.

This first quarter I’m completing prerequisite classes, which means a lot of my courses are undergrad. For my first class, I sat in the tiny desk and waited nervously for the professor to arrive. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting in a classroom. I looked around at the other faces, they didn’t seem to care about much of anything. Some of them obviously hadn’t bathed that morning, and others were trying to take a nap. I wanted to shout out to these people, “Don’t you get it?? This is for real! You have to get an ‘A’ in this class. It really will affect the rest of your life!”

But they wouldn’t have listened. At 19, I wouldn’t have listened either.

Behind me sat some chatty Cathy with her dopey friend. She wouldn’t stop talking about how she was failing out of every class. Once the lecture started she continued to talk and I astutely determined the source of her problem. About 30 minutes into the class I wanted to turn around to her and scream, “Don’t you get it?? You’re not listening and that’s why you fail! You have to shut up! This is important!” But she would have dismissed me as some uptight old guy who needed to relax.

The class itself was fairly interesting. I concentrated hard to absorb what I could. Early in the class the professor asked the students how many had programming experience. 40% raised their hand. He chuckled, then remarked, “Ok, I suppose we don’t have to go over boolean expressions and floating point numbers.”

I silently cried out, “Yes! Yes, please do! Don’t assume I know anything. I’m a theatre person!”

I’m excited to learn this stuff, but I’m resigned to the idea that it will be hard.

The new year also brings a city-wide change that affects more than just my tiny narcissistic sphere. A smoking ban went into effect January 1. Last night I went to a bar for the first time since the ban went active. It might have been that I wasn’t drinking. (Last weekend’s fiasco soured me against the spirits). It might have been that there was no smoke to cover it up. Whatever was the cause, the bar smelled like pungent sewer gas. It was so bad I had conversations with strangers about it. It was like upon entry every patron checked their coat and was given a urinal cake to chew on. I never got used to it. It never went away. I became sad. Does this mean I have to drink at home alone from now on?

The plan was simple, as is the case with most blueprints of evil. Michael had his first Saturday night available for bar hopping, and I was looking for a Birthday celebration. We would start with a little booze, have dinner, and then find some merriment and dancing. We entered the bar at 6:30 p.m. Michael talked to the bartender about the Gilmore Girls. While Michael enjoys talking about the Gilmore Girls, he knows that I hate tampon television and would usually refrain from breaching the subject. In this case, I let him continue as we both know the bartender is mighty fond of the Gilmore Girls and if the conversation moves at a steady clip, free drinks might appear on the table. To add to our plot, Michael whipped out his mightily eccentric cigarette holder. It worked. We drank.

Soon after, my birthday was mentioned. More free drinks appeared on the table. We drank. One would think that having no more excuses for charity alcohol we would receive no more free drinks. But they kept appearing. From all angles shots and steins were placed in front of us. We drank.

I remember a man who resembled Mister McFeely telling me that he wanted to lick my derrière. I remember Michael and the barkeep engaged in a slew of terrible jokes. I remember watching HGTV will reckless abandon. I remember the new bartender coming on duty, finding out it was my birthday, and offering me a free drink.

At this point I knew the insanity had to end. I pleaded that we get something to eat, and we stumbled to McDonalds. I ate fries quickly and Michael started on one of three cheeseburgers he had in front of him. I assumed we were being demure, but in retrospect, the idea that we were blisteringly drunk at 9:30 in a McDonalds might have drawn some attention. It certainly caught the eye of a boothmate down the way. He stumbled over and starting talking to us about Liza Minelli and his eggnog shake. It was then that I knew I would have a ‘first’ tonight. I politely stood, turned, and announced to the dining hall, “I’m going to go throw up now.”

I’ve never had an alcohol-induced vomit session before. It isn’t pleasant. The actual puking isn’t that bad, in many ways it feels cathartic to eject poison from the system. What makes this particular session all the more painful was that I was forced to stare at a McDonalds toilet for longer than I would have liked. I braced myself against the handicapped railing, which I felt I had earned the right to use, and I pushed and pushed. As much as I hated staring at that toilet, I couldn’t seem to leave. I wanted to stand up and walk out. I also wanted to go to sleep in the men’s room. I was stuck at a crossroads.

Michael came into check on me, then ordered two more cheeseburgers. The eggnog shake guy came in to check on me, then went back to yammering at Michael. It felt like I was there for an eternity.

I finally found the courage to stand. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I felt like a soldier in battle who had just been shot in the leg and was forced to drag himself across the jungle before the last helicopter departed. I busted out of the men’s room door and Michael grabbed my arm and led us outside. Somehow we caught a cab and somehow I handed Michael my keys. Apparently I missed the part where eggnog shake talked about being institutionalized. Oh damn.

Once inside my apartment I stripped off my coat and fell onto my daybed. It was grandest of all my falls that night. Michael managed to fall too. He fell on the floor. I could hear him laughing and moving as I stared at my ceiling in the darkness. He managed to crawl into my kitchen where he became enamored with the cold linoleum.

This was the scene Tim came home to when he finished work. Apparently Michael stayed on the floor for the next three hours before finding the strength to rise and depart for his home. Apparently it took Tim 90 minutes to get me out of my contact lenses and into bed. Apparently I had had too much to drink.

At any rate, I survived the night and thanks to some chinese dumplings, have little hangover. Some friends are taking me out tonight for my birthday. Should be fun.

.. take matters into your own hands.