Work(ing Title)

I regret not sharing this with you earlier, my loyal audience, however I don’t believe anything I write here is truly useful information, nor have I made the time to tell this story with the nauseating length it deserves until now.

This past Friday started as quite an excellent one. Having dispatched math class, I got my free beer/pampering while shopping with Jenny at TBL and scored a free sandwich courtesy of Jenny’s oversized mealplan. After picking up my steamed and tailored clothes, I proceeded towards an evening of work.

Selling iPods went well, and the afternoon turned quickly into evening. Promptly at nine, I slipped into the restroom and did a bit of Clark Kent in the phonebooth. I emerged dressed to devistate, tie knotted and hair arranged to the oohs of my coworkers.

Bang into the car I went, warming up Georgia’s V8 on the surface streets and letting her loose off Sand Hill onto 280 north, flirting with the ton before settling back at ripe old 80 miles per. I clipped off the miles and turned onto 92 smack into 50 people who had apparently never driven this route before, as a brisk jogging pace was all they would allow themselves. North on the PCH and at Allie’s beach house by 2300, I had finally arrived to join Sara’s birthday celebration.

The party had obviously started long before I arrived, so I made quick work of my sobriety and hunger. The dancing was anemic at best, and though the crooners on the boombox limited the mood, it fit the dresscode rather well. Swimsuits appeared and the jacuzzi was enjoyed by many. The walk to the beach was pediaclly painful, my solo sojourn into the Pacific was chilling, and the cheering chorus of Latino kids who applauded my swimming was uplifting.

Soon after my return to warmer, more chlorinated waters, Dolores made her exit, punctuated by hugs and, “happy birthdays.” Let’s mark this point in time as 0200 Saturday morning. Normally I would have made my own exit soon after and be fast asleep by 0300, but normal was not the order of the evening.

Allie picked up the phone at 0325 and sent me into what Dolores would later dub ‘Adult’ mode: “Dolores has a shredded tire at 280 and 92.” I rallied a drunkcoma Nicole and a coherent Dan out the door, took a blanket and a flashlight from Allie, and kicked Georgia to life. Nicole asked from the back seat as I pulled onto PCH, “Are you ok to drive?” God bless Dan, my faithful wingman for so many years who has been witness to me in ‘Adult’ mode, answered without hesitation, “Yea, he’s fine.”

Pulling off the road at the scene of the crime as it were, I slid in behind Dolores’ off-balance SLK. She took a seat in the back of my car as Stapleton and I went to work on the Merc’s spare tire. Ten minutes later, we had Dolores’ car rolling again, though a little off-balance (I would later learn that her spare needed to be inflated, though this oversight proved to be inconsequential). With everyone back behind their respective wheels, we limped onto 280 with the idea of monitoring Dolores’ 40mph progress for the next 40miles.

This black, german convoy was cut short however, when not a quarter-mile onto 280 the Merc’s rear right tire rolled gracefully off. Dolores smartly pulled to the shoulder, I followed and began dialing AAA as soon as I stepped out of the car. Some verbal juggling on the side of the road had a tow truck directed to our location on what was theoretically a 0400 estimated time of arrival. I stood outside between the Merc and Georgia for a while, mentally preparing myself for what was becoming an exceedingly long evening.

I set myself back down behind Georgia’s wheel and dialed Dire Straits into the stereo. There we sat, my history professor, my closest friend, a fellow student, and Mark Knophler for what seemed an eternity. At some point I called Eli and left a message explaining my predicament in the most positive terms possible. She called back a while later, having awoken from a sound sleep at 0400. I stepped outside and meditated to the sound of her voice for fifteen minutes before letting her get back to sleep.

Bill, the mutton-chopped, tattooed captain of midnight towing arrived and got straight to work with the jovial urgency I’ve come to expect and appreciate in tow truck drivers. Bill had us on the road again and en route to Autobahn Motors in Redwood City by 0445. Pulling into the service center and tipping Bill for putting up with our snobby-overdressed selves, I snapped some quick photos of Dolores’ car for insurance and got on 101 with a determination to beat the sun to bed.

Alas, I put Georgia to sleep in her space at 0545, just as the first rays of morning crept across the rooftops. I myself spent the next thirty minutes unwinding by watching the beginning of one of De Niro’s finest films and then blacking out my bedroom.

Head-to-pillow was approximately 0615, and loss-of-conciousness was approximately 0618. In short, last Friday was a very long night.

20 dollars later, Monzel and I have taken one step closer to Han Solo nirvana. Though you never see it in the films, Solo is no doubt a man who enjoyed a straight-razor shave.

In the basement of Citibank on University Ave is Debon’airs, the domain of Marco and Randy. After cleaning up my neckline, Randy warmed up my face with a hot towel and then went to work.

Pulling the skin and slicing down the edge of my face and neck, he would clean the razor against his palm and restart. My skin voiced discomfort at first, but ultimately I enjoyed the lively feeling of such a sharp blade.

Now we sit at the RnC, watching proper football and waiting to sink our newly shaven jaws into good pub burgers…hump day hu-ZAH!

So for the past week, Joe has been without his new favorite beverage, Henry Weinhard’s Black Cherry Cream soda. I have tried it. It is excellent. It absolutely must be enjoyed.

I find myself now in search of this refreshment, leaping in and out of the shotgun seat of his green Bonneville, barreling through Silicon Valley with a reckless fury I’ve never felt before.

We have been through the the soda aisles of six different markets in the last 45 minutes. At each stop we have rushed in with a sexual explosivo, and at each stop we have returned, heads hung low, spirits bitch-slapped. We have decided that war must be brought to the doorstep of California’s soda distributers, as clearly only violence will teach these fools what products are most important to mine and Joe’s sanity.

“Dude what the hell is going on?! So far we know of only one that has existed today-doesn’t that strike you as odd?” Yes Joe, yes indeed it does.

Rini and I got out of Troy an hour ago, and a couple things have sunk in.

First, the film was quite good. Better than the previous epic war films of the year in so far as here you have two equally honorable warriors leading their forces into battle.

Second, I have found a more pointed disapointed in ‘The Greek Life.’ The function of
fraternities seems to have been distilled to drinking, taking advantage of young women, and ruthlessly leveraging the alumni roster.

It makes me want to start a fraternity–no not with Vince Vaughan at the helm, but rather something that lives up to the honor and dignity of superheros like Achilles and Hector. What if fraternities were more like athletic teams; pitching great battles for respect and glory, like Il Palio.

No doubt such an organization, composed of young men, would have its share of drinking and partying. However, the pursuits of these men would be more noble and beautiful, in order to avoid the unsavory moniker that hangs like a long shadow over so many college campuses.

Visiting Eli last weekend, she pointed out the, “rapist frat,” as we were walking back from dinner. I suppose knowing people you care about live in places with that word on their mental maps can crystallize your viewpoint.