Assault on Arcadia and Other Nonsense
Friday night I left work in the midst of another silly-in-hindsight panic attack, stressed out over the perceived complexity of my trip. It hit as I learned that to get to my destination, I'd need to A) take the subway to a place I've never been; B) walk from the subway station to another place I've never been; C) take the bus from said location for 2+ hours into Philadelphia; D) walk from that bus stop to a nearby train station (with a completely different scheduling system); E) take a train to Glenside, just off-campus from Arcadia University, my final destination. With all this behind me it of course seems silly. But my utter incompetence with (and failure to retain even basic knowledge of) directions has gotten myself and others lost on many occasions. Really, I have no confidence in myself when it comes to this sort of thing, and subconsciously I just don't want to remember things that don't involve celluloid or spandex. That, and it seems I don't like having a destination; I've become comfortable with being directionless, I'm at peace when I'm just drifting. I don't like this, but this is how I've evolved as a person thus far. This is something that I'm going to be dealing with, but I know it's going to take time. But for now, it's anxiety attacks and obnoxious whiny all-caps LJ posts (better than keeping it inside, I think). Anyway, back to the trip.
With my inside jacket pocket full of maps, I left the office, and made my way. I only had to turn around because I was going the wrong direction on a street once (if I didn't have my maps, I'd still be wandering around Canal Street, probably dancing for nickels outside a bodega). The subway system isn't a big deal at all, if you think about it. It's just all this uncomfortable information becomes a blank wall when I stare at the map in the station. Off the subway, and towards the street corner in Chinatown where my bus would be. Of course, there were two buses there (both bootleg - I purchased the tickets online, but they weren't any kind of recognizable brand name like Greyhound or anything, just a street corner in Chinatown where the bus was said to leave), on both sides of the street, with small groups of people outside both. I was pleased that I wasn't the only confused one, and luckily these little Chinese women were directing the human traffic to the proper buses. The other bus was going to Washington, D.C., so I amused myself as I took a moment while boarding my bus thinking of what I would've done had I gotten onboard that one, taken a nap, and woke up on Pennsylvania Avenue. My boss would've gotten another so-sad-it's-funny phone call from me, and then I probably would've embarked on an amateur terrorism spree. The bus ride to Philly was fun, though I couldn't read because there was no light so I contented myself in just spacing out, watching scenery, and listening to the bus driver yell at other cars on the road in Chinese. I scribbled down "da boon jow" (jao?) and "hung lan hway" (can't spell that last word phonetically), because he said those multiple times. Two hours of cruising, and I got to Philly a half-hour earlier than I thought. Then I consulted the next map, and made my way towards the train station. Of course, along the way, I had a conversation with a street corner drug dealer (I have no idea how the fuck this happens - I just end up making small talk with homeless people and/or drug dealers randomly, once a week). He had me pegged as a mark, but you DON'T buy anything from some guy off the street you don't know. It's just common sense. I recall the guy was genuinely upset I turned him down. Must've been a slow night. I made my way to the Market East train station, and while I'd already been briefed on their alien mass transit structure, seeing it firsthand hit me like a suckerpunch. I stuffed another anxiety attack down into my stomach, because I was really annoyed with myself for having such an obnoxious one earlier in the night, and went straight to the Information desk. She was a depressed, apathetic little shrew who clearly hated her job, and my presence at the desk bothered her. Little Miss Information, who actually gave me misinformation. After studying the map carefully, I realized there was an earlier train to Glenside than the one she told me about, and the train attendant I spoke to just before boarding confirmed it. A half-hour later, I got off the train and met up with the first friend I'd made in Jersey. Almost a decade in touch. We hugged and she did that sudden excitement burst that women do when something genuinely excites them, and we then we started walking. Her apartment on campus is walking distance from the station. And so is the local pub. We hadn't seen each other in a while, and tonight would be Yenta Night.
She and I were part of a loosely-knit group of friends and acquaintances that met at a local diner almost nightly back in our post-high school days. Time passed, and we pretty much all drifted apart. She and I kept in touch, and we would meet up after several months, go out to a bar, and sit there and bitch and moan and whine like a couple of old Jewish women about our lives (usually our love lives). Thus, Yenta Night. I'd spoken to her recently before I made the trip to her school, and she was depressed and told me point-blank she needed Yenta Night. So, rather than wait until mid-December when her semester ended and she'd come back to Jersey, I decided I'd go up and see her that very weekend instead. Plus, it's college, and I love college. I've never gone to college as a student, but I've spent plenty of time on campuses. So that was the plan, and it was underway. We hit that pub like a blacktop bully, spending about $30 apiece on drinks (we're both on budgets), staying until last call. It was a great night. I love all my friends. We got back to her apartment (it's interesting, there's an apartment complex with non-students on campus, but the school assigns and furnishes some of the apartments for students; they're actually in the process of having the students take all the apartments, as well) trashed like whoa in the dead of night, and she went to bed and I took my rightful place on her couch. I've been The Guy On The Couch many times in many places, so I like to think I follow in the tradition of Floyd from True Romance and (of course) The Guy on the Couch from Half-Baked.
The next day I hit it off with her roommate, a comic book fan who makes references to films and TV shows randomly. Yep. He was Earth-2 Dario. And the day was Saturday, and thus the three of us hit the party scene. At one point I was in a game of Strip Poker, and took over as dealer after the man-child who'd formerly been dealing walked off in a tantrum after I and my friend notified the drunk girl who'd just a hand that was told to take off her shirt that she could take off one of her shoes first. That's not cockblocking; you don't take advantage of people in Strip Poker, it turns the game sleazy. My favorite part of the evening though was the "Pimps & Ho's" party, wherein you had to dress like one or the other. My friend, her roommate, myself, and three of their friends piled into one two-door car and made the unnecessary drive (fifteen to twenty minutes walking? That's nothing) to this place. I couldn't dress up, so I figured I'd make sly comments about how I'm a pimp in real life if the need arose. Of course, the idealist in me imagined a party with dozens of porn star quality women dressed like brazen hussies; the realist in me imagined two girls in short skirts and a bunch of guys in bad suits with optional hats (maybe one guy going the extra mile and putting a feather on it). We arrived, and it was like stepping into Larry Flynt's id. There were dozens of people there, and yes, it was a vast majority of women in their late teens dressed in lingerie and corsets, all drunk out of their minds and dancing. And at least half of them were theatre people. You know the type. Thus, there was spanking and gratuitous posing and threeway open-mouth lesbian kissing being photographed for posterity. And everyone was loud. I like theatre people. I think I am one at heart, just not as loud as the rest. Theatre people make parties and social gatherings interesting. The party had only been going on about an hour when we arrived, and shortly afterwords when I was outside on the balcony having a cigarette surrounded by Girls Gone Wild material, a campus security car drove up, shining a spotlight on us, and letting us know they'd already received several complaints about the noise. That warning was accepted, as was the next one a few hours later when a nervous neighbor came in, stood on a couch, and gave us all the speech about how it's a $500 fine for people over the age of 21 and all that jazz. Things quited down a notch, although that was due to the party thinning a bit. The atmosphere was still golden for me; it wasn't about being horny or anything, I'm fucking 25 and time's running out for me to be at places like these. Besides, I'm in a relationship. And I behaved myself. Just like the pub the night before, my friend and I (along with her roommate) were among the last left standing circa dawn. I myself had been carefully mixing alcohol (had to - it was in short supply, so you had to take what you could get), and once again, I got blitzed without making an ass of myself or blacking out or puking. This is good, a habit I'd like to get back into after recent adventures in drinking have raped my self-esteem. My friend's roommate won a dance-off (yes, I'm serious) with another guy, whose friends said point-blank "you got served" without a trace of irony (and filmed the event for posterity). It was hysterical. His opponent had gone so far as to take off his pants to try and win, but in the end my friend's roommate won it for all the fanboys out there. The defeated offered up an excuse of being tired, which was quickly waved off by his friends. "pwn3d," as the virgins say. We'd left the party amidst drama with a girl who'd never drank before who'd downed three shots of tequila within a half-hour (poor bastard), and we were off to go to another apartment to continue the trashing. The three of us walked the campus, my friend's roommate on one side of my friend, I on the other side of her, holding hands and singing (I think). My recollection is rather hazy. Eventually we returned to my friend's apartment in the morning and continued drinking. At that point my shirt was off, and I decreed that "shirts are for sodomites who wear seat belts!"
Something that really stuck with me about this weekend was the number of parallel people I met, who were like alternate reality versions of people I knew (or did know, when I was college-age). Film students in particular seemed to be in abundance (I'm pretty sure Arcadia is an art school), and it's almost heartbreaking how familiar they all are. Listening to a guy who reminds you of a friend from film school (physically and personality-wise) describe how he's going to be a cross between Quentin Tarantino and David Lynch is a melancholy joke by a sadist god who gets off on unfulfilled potential and broken dreams. It occurred to me that in several colleges I've partied at, when I got the chance to get to talking with people it's almost as though there really are base models for personalities with sub-categories determined by a number of common variables. I look around, and I realize now more than ever I am not a beautiful and unique snowflake. And neither is anyone else.
Sunday is the day of rest, so drinking began in the afternoon. Nothing really interesting happened, although I see I attempted to update and ended up brainfarting. I decided on this day I need to get a PS2 when the PS3 comes out (January, I've been told), because it'll be cheap and then I can own and play Evil Dead: A Fistfull of Boomstick all I want. That game gives me mahogany.
Sunday night, as I was at the bus stop in Philly preparing for the ride back to NYC, I finally got to talk to my girlfriend (haven't since exchanging e-mails Friday afternoon). We're getting together Tuesday night, which gives me enough time to think of something else to do besides just laying on my mattress and watching Buffy.
It was a great fucking weekend. I find myself thinking of Eugene in Biloxi Blues, and his voiceover during the closing scenes describing how his time in the army was a great time for him and the other guys because they were young. It was an experience. When I was watching that film years ago (I was maybe 11, 12), my father was in the room and he went off on a lionhearted rant about youth and savoring experiences as the closing credits rolled on that film. That stuck with me.
My father called me on Thursday afternoon. My sister lost her job, and he wouldn't say why, which means she made some sort of devastating mistake. The loss of additional income for the household confirms the two of them will be moving out of their current apartment. My uncle is going to be sending my father some money, and he asked me if I wanted to live with him in a two-family house. He was dead serious. He went on and on about how great it would, how I would have my own space and pay much less rent than at my apartment, and how I could help my sister just being there. I politely explained to him that that this plan was impossible, that sharing a house with your father (and sibling) in your mid-twenties is like shoving a red-hot fork into your taint, and that it wouldn't have any space at all. He understood. The issues he's having with money and looking after my sister tear my heart in half. He needs help, and there's nothing I can do. Unless I become rich, and give him a sum of money in the six-figure range. He's been screwed out of everything, his company took away his pension and he doesn't even have a bed. There's nothing I can do. It's like watching a plant die very gradually, and being unable to water it. I'm watching my father wilt, despite his best efforts and superhuman will. He'll survive anything that's thrown at him, but his health is poor and the quality of life creates a crushing depression for him and my sister. I want to do something.
As I rode the bus towards NYC, with a carton of orange juice as my sidekick (my cold's gotten much better, and my throat isn't a desert, despite Marlboro's best efforts), I got messages from two friends. One of my favorite wrestlers (like superheroes, I have dozens of them for unique reasons each) died. 38 years old, of a heart attack. He was one of the most entertaining individuals to ever step into a ring. Six years ago, he was driving drunk and hopped up on coke, when he crashed his car and was thrown through the windshield, doing an impression of a missile followed by one of street pizza. He survived, and nine months later, he'd returned and was better than ever. Five years ago, he jumped ship with three other close friends to sign with Vince McMahon's near-monopoly. During one of his early appearances in a then-WWF ring, he dislocated his elbow. Months later, he returned, and was given a shot to shine by McMahon despite his bias against wrestlers who injure themselves in matches. And then a few months after that, he was fired for drug-related issues. At that point, the McMahon monopoly had taken over the business, and the only work he could get was the bush league independent promotions that pay shit. Despite being light years beyond the scene, he simply picked himself up, sobered up for good, and worked his ass off in the ring. Three years ago, he was given a second chance by McMahon - another rarity in cases like these - and was given another shot. Because he's Hispanic, he was directed to color his dialogue with gratuitous "eses" and "homes," and his on-screen persona was that of a sneaky Mexican whose motto was "Lie, Cheat, and Steal." He ran with it, did the best he could with what he had, and still put on great matches. Last year, he co-main-evented WrestleMania XX, and the final scenes from Madison Square Garden were he and his best friend in the business holding their respective championship belts above their heads, amidst a standing ovation and fireworks. Shortly thereafter, a documentary about his life was made, called Cheating Death, Stealing Life. And after all that, the man has a heart attack while brushing his teeth. I won't eulogize him, as I'm not qualified and far better words about him have been spoken by his friends (and internet wrestling nerds), but I do want to say that I'll miss him. Eddie Guerrero 1967-2005 RIP.
Now I'm at the office again, doing the all-nighter (again), writing and relaxing. The truth is I just didn't want to deal with my home. I even have some issue with calling it my home, apparently; I usually call it "the apartment," though I've been making an effort to call it my home more. I need to understand and fully, completely feel that this is my home, I fought for it, I earned it, and getting another will be harder than watching a Star Wars prequel. This is my life, that's my home, and this quintessential vagrant style I've been working for years needs to stop. I realize there's no point to this particular paragraph, and the caffeine in this Kosmic Kola is making me ramble (I haven't had one of these caffeine bombs in some time, so it's hitting me like a battering ram). I'll most likely ramble later.