The Frisbee Social Plus

I do this partially, oddly enough, to test my sobriety. I've always sworn that I wouldn't blog, telephone, or otherwise contact people after drinking, but so many people were annoying me tonight with their "you're drunk"s and similar sentiments that I feel that some record of my current state (at most, buzzed) is necessary.

Jonas had a picnic today. That's how this story begins, with another person, and on some level I suppose that's appropriate. It is, in any case, an interesting sidenote.

Jonas had a picnic today, complete with crackers and cheese and that inexplicable snack known as "ants on a log." He had a picnic in a fort, his way of seeming original for that seventh-oldest of human traditions: a first date. It was a cool fort.

Meanwhile, The Politician and, to a lesser extent, Ben, had been brooding all week, planning some sort of drunken shin-dig. The Politician, always the creative genius, limited his designs to simply "getting really drunk." Ben wanted to play our tried-and-true Mariokart drinking game.

After some errand running and a pancake dinner courtesy of the Ultimate Frisbee team, we tore down the fort. Jonas and his date (who I've been ironically and, I'm sure, hilariously referring to as whats-her-face) had long since vacated my roomate's monument to forced originality and parts of the fort had injured Rock Show Girl aleady.

It was, however cool, inconvenient for the four of us who wished to play Mariokart. So it had to go.

Perhaps due to the hype we've piled on this event all week, the latest Mariokart drinking game fell far short of my expectations. Other people showed up, shifting the focus of the game with their temperance and foiling our attempt at a quick and guiltness general inebriation.

I slinked away at some point to watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force episodes in the other room with Jubb and Sockless Pete. I'd had half a liter of vodka and delicious Kool-Aid, and I had a beer with Jubb while watching my successfully-downloaded cartoons.

Eventually (less than a half hour later, by my count) everyone in the other room got sick of 8-player Mariokart and decided to go to Frisbee Matt's house for a party. I tagged along, one of several non-frisbee leeches, and found myself at a decent and well-appointed party.

Frisbee Matt and The Insurrectionist (to dig up a very old moniker) had spent, by their estimate, over $70 on alcoholic beverages. They even had a few bottles of German wine, a few glasses of which were enough to fill me with nostalgia and a general goodwill towards even the most annoying of men. Give or take.

Wine drunk, for the uninitiated, is a holy happy sort of drunk. There were also crackers, and hummus.

The party was fun, partially because I knew I wouldn't be cleaning up after it the next day.

But mostly because of the people: frisbee people seem to be naturally friendly, and I already knew most of the other guests.

I talked romance with Jinx and The Politician and proposed a sham marriage to one of the freshman girls (who, come to think of it, I kissed on the cheek as I left: evidence enough for some that I was indisputably drunk).

I talked of nothing at all with other freshmen and with the rare Lawrentians intimate enough to know all the inside jokes from last year. Many of which came up, to my chagrin.

Just when I was starting to tire of humanity, Jubb proposed walking back home. I was a bit tired, and the promise of a clove cigarette on the way certainly didn't hurt matters.

Also, I was growing sick and tired of most of the other guests, in my typically cynical way, and didn't wish to alienate them while in some altered state. Still, I submit that I wasn't, and am not, drunk.

I've always classified myself as a "declaritive drunk," one full of wisdom that he or she thinks interesting, who, when drinking, falls into the trap of spouting off every clever observation that comes into his head. Didn't fall into that trap, at least not all the way; a victory.

Someone finally supported my argument for International Klein Blue, by the way.

All in all, an interesting albeit imperfect night. I'd take a week full of them, though.

Borey McBoring

Reacclimating myself to the library, one night at a time.

I didn't get any work done tonight, however, because I got sucked into an old, very reactionary essay on religion and modernism written by one of my literary heroes, the late great T.S. Eliot himself.

Quite a shock to hear him partially attribute the works of D.H. Lawrence to "demonic influence."

By the by, I can't find "reacclimate" in any of my usual dictionaries. One of the nerdier sentences I've written of late, I know. Anyways, I trust that it is actually a word.

Anyways, if you've made it this far down the page you get to find out that I'm trying, now, to go to the library on a regular basis. I started this term on the wrong foot. A fun foot, but the wrong one.

A Half-Assed Call To Arms

For those of you who, like me, don't usually read The Lawrentian, here's the letter to the editor that Miss Bates and The Politician prodded me into finally writing.

I use the term "editor" loosely, seeing as it's clear that my letter wasn't read by anyone at The Lawrentian. At least, not by anyone who can use a keyboard or a spell checker.

The version I wrote (which I'm looking at right now) didn't have the many errors I see here, and I've never liked seeing bastardized work with my name on it; unless I'm the one who bastardized it.

Done

On-Campus Point Totals (Final):

1. Bucky's (1268)
2. Just Another Phallic Symbol (1152)
3. Dostoevsky and the Sunshine Band (1104)
4. Nerds with Gynophobia: College Years of Co-ed Glory (1088)
5. Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Select Start (1060)
6. Uberdammerung: Twilight of the Uberteam (840)

Having missed (in some cases just barely) all of the gerudas, we've placed 4th. Now to clean up, watch the awards ceremony, and sleep…

Over The Hill

The action question was "perform some improvisational music" and, lacking both instruments and talent, our team decided to become instruments.

We sounded great and we won.

Other action questions so far have resulted in an upside-down game of Mariokart, the most offensive radio ad ever (with an endorsement from Eve Ensler written by me), Jubb wrasseling Sockless Pete, and, perhaps most memorably, The Politician giving birth to Our Bold Hero, his dead and ugly baby.

Trivia!





The Great Midwest Trivia Contest is about to commence. The Politician has gathered the TAB and we've had our toast.

"Nerds with Gynophobia: College Years of Co-ed Glory," our team, is huge. We've crammed a ton of computers into our living room, along with a ton of people.

We're poised to win. Or at least place.

They're reading the first question.

It begins.

Should Be Sleeping

So I'm blogging now. I should be sleeping, what with work and all my other obligations tomorrow morning, but I refuse to. I've been looking over too many Notes From The Underground papers lately; some kind of irrational breakdown was inevitable.

Since I'm blogging, here's the news.
Profoundity will have to wait.

Went to class despite my faux-hangover, or "fangover." I earned said fangover last night from drinking too many sugary vodka-laced drinks and sucking at Double Dash.

I tried to kill my Symbolic Logic prof with my mind. I still lack that ability, it seems. Fiction Writing was more enjoyable.

The Bombastion, Lawrence's reigning king of galling vocal inflection, had written an excellent story based loosely on the works of H.P. Lovecraft and Douglas Adams. Everything that annoys me about this person turned out to work beautifully in fiction.

I also got to destroy somebody. I'm almost certainly putting too much faith in my ability to affect other people here, but I cold-heartedly told one girl that the phrase "literally decimated" should never appear in fiction unless it means, literally, what it's to supposed mean.

Etymological fallacies forever!

Anyways, I think I may have hurt her feelings, ultimately, because Prof Dintenfass emphasized the point with one of his fifteen-minute mini-lectures, adding insult to injury as they say (but shouldn't).

Today's non-academic adventure was my shopping trip with the only two freshman guys I've met this year; among other things, we got clove cigarettes for this weekend.

And I learned about Matt's magic coat, which has the power to set off anti-shopplifting safeguards whenever he enters or leaves a store.

By-the-by, you're all tapped for the trivia contest this weekend. If we think you know an answer, you're getting a phone call.

Being in another country will not save you if we need your help Sunday night. You've been warned.

Now: to sleep.

Green Shells, Red Shells

Ben and I combined a good game with a stupid one last night, which had the effect of making me even stupider than I was already being. That makes sense, right?

That Useful Malaysian Word

Having a little post-dinner chat with Jubb.

He seems to want a tattoo (it's come up several times already this term) but can't think of anything good to put on his skin.

The best tattoo idea that I've heard is still Manney's old idea.

Three somewhat-familiar sentences:

War is peace.
Freedom is slavery.
Ignorance is strength.

Gray Matter

I'm sick. Pity me. Coddle me. Love me.

Skipped class today so that I could eat and take a much-needed nap. We had a convocation with Stephen Pinker, a renowned person in the field of something-or-other who talked up the nature side of the neverending nature vs. nurture argument.

Afterwards, it was skip class or skip lunch. And I'm sick: see above.

I was impressed by his arguments, especially in his bashing of Descartes "ghost in the machine" theory, which (a healthy dose of Nietzsche has convinced me) is outdated and ultimately a bad thing. The idea of an inscrutable "soul" seperate from the brain is a comforting lie that could cause a lot of trouble.

I'm a Lapsed Catholic, as I'm improbably fond of saying, and as such I can believe (albeit, for me, in a purely academic fashion) that human free will and divine knowledge of the fated course of everything can peacefully coexist. It just seems so obvious.

But, of course, it isn't to everyone. Over the years, I've found myself arguing this point against various people of varying intelligence, most recently The Pancake Man and The West Coaster in Germany.

Their argument: that reducing people to the level of extremely complicated clocks whose actions can be predicted takes away free will and, therefore, leads to determinism (there's nothing I can do) and nihlism (so why bother?).

But, be it God or science who knows the final score, our choices still have meaning to us. Like I said, it seems obvious to me, to the point where I can't argue it effectively without getting frustrated.

So I agree with Pinker; I just wish I could carry him around so that he could, when necessary, agree with me.

So last night Jubb hosted a huge party in honor of his 20th birthday. Because I like incestuous links, I'll mention that you can find more information here.





Here he is in his "party outfit" (he has dozens; I keep finding them hidden in various nooks) accepting one of many similarly-themed gifts. Because Jubb would never drink illegally, the tequila, whiskey, rum, beer (Coors Original: Jubb's choice) and two bottles of jagermeister various people provided have been put in a box, in storage, to await his 21st birthday.

Official census estimates place the number of people involved at well over seventy; Jubb is, if nothing else, a people person, and he was determined to celebrate his twentieth birthday in true extrovert fashion.





That's the rabble; it was like that all over the place. For everyone except Sockless Pete (who started drinking around 7, so as to better enjoy some play or something he had to go to) and Jonas' friend Shawn (who'd spent a few hours playing pool at a place called "Sharky's"), the party started slowly.

But, like a well-written essay, it snowballed to a huge conclusion. After a certain point (I pestered some people into playing King's Cup, which hampered my sense of time) people started coming who, I swear, Jubb does not know.





I love King's Cup. Jubb and The Streber did a stall count on Ben as he drank the cup; it's some kind of frisbee ritual I don't quite understand, but approve of highly. Apparently people in the other wing of our dorm could hear those two shouting out the seconds.

Jubb's aforementioned love of people, different people, made it a rather eclectic party. The entire ultimate frisbee team, including a professor and several R.A.s, had been invited in a casually aggressive email; they didn't all show, but dozens did. Jubb's weightlifting buddies showed (he's addicted to endorphins, which, to be fair, are much smarter than most of us). Non-Lawrence friends of Jonas, like Shawn and The Twins, were there… the group I watch Survivor with as well… Jubb's old roommate too… and probably about twelve R.A.s (the system, it seems, is corrupt).

Speaking of R.A.s, ours stopped by to give us a noise warning. Now, my track record with R.A.s, while brief, is not good, but since Jonas and Jubb were nowhere in sight at the time, I had to talk to her. I handled it well, compared to last time. Trouble elsewhere on campus kept our party under the radar, as per usual.

I have no idea when, but at some point I fell asleep on the couch while trying to watch Big Trouble in Little China. The party had thinned out by then, but Jonas tells me that some people were hanging out here until at least five.





Here's Our Bold Hero and The Politician about half an hour before I passed out. This wonderful picture belies the fact that we were, in fact, having a heated argument about whether or not I'd offended him.

The elaborate backstory to this party is worth mentioning. Jinx, who stood us up several times after promising to help buy provisions, earned a fair-share of ire before the party. She did partially redeem herself by giving us her fridge as promised, but we had to make a few attempts before we got the booze.





Here's Jinx, hiding in shame. Since a certain high-ranking busybody in Ormsby has promised us to each other, her betrayal cut me deep.

When Jinx failed to show Thursday night, Carrie stepped up to the plate.





That's my artistic picture of Carrie. She spent last term in Australia and is now fluent. Anyways, after waiting fifteen minutes for Jinx (and with only half an hour left before the stores stopped selling our desired merchandise) Carrie volunteered to Carrie-out.

In the second act of the farce, we see Carrie at the register with a suspicious amount of ethanol. The clock ticks, the hand clicks into place. It's 9:01, and we're screwed.





Our savior was a gruff and bearded chess-master: Shawn, seen here with The Twins. He happened to be around on Friday so we took him to the store. They didn't even ID him, after all the trouble we went through.

At a stoplight, Shawn honked my horn at the car in front of me. I'd already honked at them once, so now I look like a jerk. But that's Shawn, and that makes such behavior fine, typical, even praiseworthy.

And he came through for us, and a party was born.

An All-Too-Typical Entry

I've noticed two personal trends, one of which I've decided to try and stop.

First, I've become unable to express myself concisely.

I mean that I can't say anything quickly and accurately without using hundreds of delicious modifiers.

I mean that it now takes me at least half an hour (and usually longer) to write even the simplest email/blog/story, once I start thinking too much.

I mean that my obsession with being a good little writer (through self-conscious asides and rhetorical devices like repetition) has given me the English major's gift of endless blather at the expense of, well, something or other.

Let us remember Quentin, who thought too much. Although I did defend Kill Bill today, I don't mean that Quentin.

Secondly, while my writing become, in some respects, more elaborate, my vocabulary has shrunk: I'm unable to express myself verbally in a satisfying way.

I misspeak. I stumble. Even my sad little quips seem to be missing their mark lately. I'd blame Germany (I've found it very hard to abandon some very useful German words, though I assume that no one has noticed) if I'd had this trouble since I got back.

But it seems more recent. I suppose I could blame video games or, well, whatever else I've been doing more of lately (see the previous two posts).

(Perhaps I, like most bloggers, accountants, and teenage poets, actually have nothing worth saying at the moment; it would certainly explain my inability to write a short story for class.)

This, the second trend, is more dangerous, because it reflects poorly on me on a daily basis. My writing is, I believe and hope, more secluded from the ever-judging real world. Apathy should keep them at a safe distance, if nothing else does.

I've decided to think before I speak, or, barring that, to remain silent, spinning things instead of contributing. There's something about spinning that mesmerizes me of late.

This is, of course, the kind of thing you say to fill up space and push a few compromising pictures further down the page on your weblog.

Don't get me wrong, Dear Reader: it's all true, but I know very few people who are able to stay silent rather than risk sounding like a fool, perhaps because I wouldn't want to know such people.

Still, a little restraint is the key to checking my inaccuracy. Probably.

The first trend (loquacity) is, as you can see, apparently unstoppable.

The Five Best Pictures From Friday

Thanks to The Politician, I'm now in possession of some good pictures from last weekend's party, winter term's First Friday Party.

Better late than never.





This picture contains all of the King's Cup players, Jonas and The Politician excepted: here we're about to play on the table we requisitioned. From left to right: Ben, Jubb, Our Bold Hero himself, The Politician's fiancee, and Rock Show Girl. The awesome glass on the table, a gift from Arno, is mine.





Jubb pummeling Our Bold Hero in the most good-natured way possible, presumably in response to some of my patented cynicism. He's holding our racquetball for some reason.





Here's the legendary third bunk, previously deemed unsafe by a more sober Jonas (the second person from the left). We had quite a few people at the party, and this is one of the pictures that can prove that.





Here's drunken makeout picture number one; your first clue was the various drinks on the table (Jubb and I both have "our" glasses, as you can see). I'll have you know that Jonas and Aaron "slugs-and-shots" Jubb actually touched tongues; I'll leave you to guess whether or not The Politician is really making out with his future wife.





And here's a little something for the ladies. It seemed like Ben and I were a lot closer at the time, which explains the disgusted look on our respective faces.

Mock-homoeroticism aside, it was a good party. Next weekend: Jubb's birthday.

Google This, Res Life

We had our first decent-sized room party Friday night, even if Jubb (who doesn't seem to consider anything a party proper unless at least 100 people show up and some sort of crazy adventure is had) might not agree.

Comatose Caitlin slept (passed out?) on the bed we/I lovingly call The Sacrificial Altar, for what I'm told I should refer to as the "first time" this term. I woke up in Jubb's bed, and he slept in mine. Used to sleeping on the bottom bunk, Jubb rolled out of bed this morning and plummeted to the ground with a mighty thump.

Jonas slept on a mattress in the living room, as per usual.

But before all the exciting sleeping and passing out, there was a party, a good one as far as I'm concerned. Ben (a freshman who makes daily appearances in our room) and I requisitioned a card table from the lobby and, once The Politician arrived with lots of legally purchased booze, we played a rousing game of King's Cup.

Drawing the last king, Rock Show Girl got stuck with the King's Cup and drank beer mixed with kool-aid and vodka. We both proved ourselves wiser than we were at the Drinkeroo by not throwing up. Only Jonas, already embattled by a surprisingly tough flu-like virus, seemed worse for the wear the next day.

Jubb no doubt paid the price today for eating much of my venison sausage and the plastic wrapped around said sausage, but that's only tangentially related to his other consumption.

The drinking, ultimately, isn't important. It was a good party because the crowd was good and everyone seemed to be having a good time. Most of yesteryear's ultracool Drinkeroo crowd was there, either from the beginning (The Politician and his girl) or later in the night (Jinx and that shirt-stealing Kora girl; Carrie and her party-hopping crowd). It helps that a few people I knew only vaguely last year suddenly seem much more interesting.

And the freshmen… well, I'm impressed by this year's new arrivals. Those who've passed through the social filter of my roommates (if I may torture the language for a second) are stand-up gents and ladies, despite their varying levels of craziness (there are several vegetarians, fanboys, ultimate players, and generic Hamline-quality liberals—all more or less crazy things to be—among them) and questionable ability to consume alcohol (at one point Jonas' girlfriend had me hiding a waterbottle
filled with some mysterious liquid from the aforementioned Comatose Caitlin).

Today, alternately, was low key. Jubb and I disc-golfed in the cold with our RHD from last year (I got a 38, my worst since Fall 2003) and I played Vice City. I assume I played Vice City; I don't see how I could have gone a day without playing it, honestly.

Tonight we went to Big Fish, a decent beautiful movie I'll probably recommend to my mom. The story-within-the-story was good, ultimately even great. The overarching narrative was hit and miss. Also, even I know that you don't jig fish with spinnerbaits.

Afterwards and some schmoozing, we watched Dead Alive, Peter Jackson's second movie and one of Jubb's favorite movies. Then, more schmoozing.

That's enough of a ramble, I think.

False Procrastination

Noticing that my alarm hadn't gone off (a.m./p.m. was to blame) I leapt out of bed and frantically finished my German homework. I threw on some clothes and rushed to the library.

The usual last-minute ritual, an hour too early.

I'll use this extra time to shower. I can't tell time before I've showered, obviously.

Nonsense on a Thursday Night

I had something to say, but I've forgotten it. All I want to say at the moment is that the previous sentence could have functioned just as well without the "I." It's pretty obvious already who's speaking, after all. I also feel compelled to add something about the verb "say" and whether or not it can be used when I'm simply writing about something instead of actually talking to someone. I'm not sure I could talk about writing something without using speaking verbs, at this point.

All this, of course, is pretentious nonsense. Not even clever pretentious nonsense, really.

But I really did have something to say.

Anyways, we just ended another night of communal X-files viewing; the X-files parties Jonas told me about while I was in Germany are a reality. I haven't been to a good one yet, I'm forced to assume, but hanging out in a room with a bunch of people and watching the X-files takes me back to high school, when (high school being here a point in time and not a place… language is giving me some serious problems tonight) we all occasionally gathered at Graham's.

Although I'm both prone to and proud of my snap judgments, I'm still sizing everyone (new) up on some level or other. Trying to think of apt ways to describe people I barely know. Conceptualizing.

I'll be done soon enough, I think. I'm trying to allow for gray areas in my characterizations of people, partially because I suspect (have always suspected) that pigeonholing people (yes, I often do think of people as the impersonal generalizations I use here) is hurting my ability to participate in the real world, such as it is.

Anyways, after this weekend I'll smugly assume that I have everyone figured out, I assume.

The good word is that there'll be some sort of something here this weekend. I'll put on my socialization hat and drink from my socialization cup.

These are things you write when you should be sleeping, probably.

But: Friday.

We're trying to lure The Politician and his eventual bride (I can't think of how to spell a certain French word at the moment and feel disinclined to borrow anyways) to the room, you see, with promises of King's Cup.

Basically, I haven't played since I taught Arno and his friends and I'd like to play again at Lawrence, this time without throwing up: as always, it's about me in the end. That game is fun and requires little skill.

Otherwise not much is up. I'm shuffling papers, running errands, avoiding homework.

Let The Procrastination Begin

Saw Underworld tonight with Jubb and two of the more interesting Freshmen my roommates have befriended in my absence. It was a solid B movie, and well worth the dollar it cost me.

For the (hypothetical?) people who like minutia: I've got four classes this term.

First, a German class at eleven. There's one other student in the class and, since our Prof is in Germany, we don't (officially) meet for two weeks. Unofficially, we're required to meet with each other in the library three times a week.

I'll have to get up early tomorrow in order to finish my homework for that class, come to think of it.

My second class here and tomorrow is Modern British Fiction. I love Modernism, now that I'm both mature and pretentious enough to have a favorite literary period. Rock Show Girl, who's working towards an English minor, is in that class with me.

That's it for my MWF classes. Tuesdays and Thursday I've got a four-hour chunk of classes which eats up my entire afternoon. I'll never have to get up before 10, usually, which is glorious.

My very first Philosophy class, since I'm thinking about majoring in Philosophy now, is called "Symbolic Logic." It's filled with underclassman and taught by a besweatered man who seems like a slightly evil version of Mr. Rogers. Still, it covers the language-side of philosophy, which interests me at the moment.

Lastly, I've signed up for Fiction Writing again. The Cheerful Cynic, The Idyllist, The Young Loveress, Representative Man, and The Postmodernist are just a few of the somewhat clever handles I get to reuse this term.

(Now that I'm back at Lawrence I suppose I have to start compiling character sketches of these people, for the (once again hypothetical) people who care to know who exactly I'm talking about. Also, it gives me another thing to do instead of homework.)

Fiction Writing is the most useful class I can take here, and I'm glad I can take it over and over again (as an "Independent Study" course). Once again, I have to write at least 50 pages of fiction by the end of the term. I barely managed that last year.

This year's class is English-major-heavy and could be (but isn't, really) divided into three loose factions:

1. Lawrence's thesaurus-using would-be Literati. Excellent, lazy, and self-critical writers, for the most part.

2. A loose coalition of Tolkien fans and Sci-Fi fans. I have a nagging suspicion that J.R.R. Tolkein is posthumously ruining a generation of writers, but we'll see.

and

3. Estrogen-fueled (for the most part) scribblers who decided at some point to trade their Bad Teenage Poetry in for short fiction. The people with the least ego attached to their work, they tend to see writing as a hobby.

If I had to pigeonhole myself, I'd be with the Sci-Fi fans. I'm trying to cultivate a counter-counter-culture attitude towards the talent elite, even though I secretly wish to be one of them. I'd need to buy hipper, darker clothing, though.

And write better, which I expect to do this term. My problem at the moment:

Since what I'm working on at the moment is turning into a story about a writer writing, I can safely assume that I've run out of original ideas. There's nothing so ubiquitous, easy, or pretentious as semi-autobiographical stories about writers. My best effort from last year, Essence of Story, was such a work, sorta.

I've still got a lot of crap to do, papers to get signed and all that. I should go to bed now if I'm really planning on an early start.

Back Again

Back at Lawrence. Our room is amazingly cool, of course. In every conceivable way. With the exception of Jubb's cell phone, which feels compelled to beep every two minutes so we know it's there.

I can't really process anything just yet; everything is just a blur of color and sound. Once I get moved in and situated, I'm sure I'll delve into the more interesting aspects of Room 207 in more detail.

Life As Side-Scroller

On my way out the door momentarily.

I'm not planning to stop in the cities (I have no cell phone with which to organize anything), so hopefully I'll be at Lawrence before sundown.

Going along with the no-cell-phone-thing is my fervent hope that nothing will happen to The Deathtrap, which at present contains most of my non-book worldly possessions.

A New Year

The Ultra-Exclusive New Year's Eve Party at Jenna and Manney's was, despite possible reports to the contrary, a success. Why, you ask.

No one threw up, no really annoying people showed up uninvited, and since prettymuch all the guests brought something or other, we didn't run out of food or booze or anything. There were some minor squabbles I didn't quite understand, but said squabbles proved to be as entertaining as they were pointless.

And as long as I'm entertained, Dear Reader, everything is fine.

I showed up freakishly early, as per usual, so that I could twiddle my thumbs until Adam showed up an hour or so later. He drove Jenna and me to Applebee's (curiously empty; we were seated immediately), where ate dinner and chatted, working on our sparkling dinnertable conversation.

(Adam's probably the only person in the world who always gets my jokes, even if he doesn't always laugh at them. Factitiousness was the order of the day.)

Jenna and Adam are an excellent conversation-making team. For several years, Adam and I have made debunking Jenna's outrageously sweeping claims a joint hobby of ours. Most, if not all, of my best conversations with Adam have been a result of some provocation from Jenna.

At one point, much later that night, Adam ended up defending the concept of "politics" while I stood up for "language."

Adam's big talking point right now is U.S. farm
subsidies, which he has brought up at least three times recently as the cause of all that is wrong in the world.

In the past he's held forth passionately on the Van Allen Belt (as a reason to fake the moon landing) and the health risks of aspartame. His track record is (nevertheless?) quite good.

Any intellectualism to the contrary, Adam was the first to drink at New Year's, having made Bloody Marys from a secret recipe. I joined in an hour or so later, having my first domestic beer not made in some random town in Wisconsin.

Here's a good place to bash the American attitude towards drinking, as opposed to the more casual (in every respect) German attitude; it took me at least an hour to get through one bottle. Suffice to say that Adam and I both know how someone can "maintain," a concept some people seem to find foreign.

Jenna (whose take on drinking is more in line with the Cookie Monster's take on snacking) refused to drink before 10. In fact, none of the Hamline people even showed up before 10. I thought that was a bit odd.

Also odd: making a toast "To Graham!" with said blowhard's girlfriend, for lack of anything better/more-creative to drink Tequila to.

I still haven't forgiven Tequila for the many times it has hurt me, by the way.

Except for Dylan and Larson, the/my whole crew from Brainerd was at the party. Not having to deal with strangers, and getting to celebrate New Year's with my friends instead of at the cabin with a half dozen relatives, was excellent. We didn't watch the ball drop, but NBC had Conan do a hilarious countdown for the Central Time zone.

I resolved… well, I make hollow resolutions all the time, so New Year's isn't special in that respect. Something about tolerance or patronizing people or something. I forget. It's all just bean counting anyways.