Crushing Krisis

Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand

alchohol

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Last night was our second of three nights performing in our student written/directed plays, and we actually had an audience. A big audience. All of the major current Drexel Players showed up, and we had equally that many Freshmen in attendance for our little meet and greet function afterwards. The show was hilarious, the actors had a good time, and then things got interesting.


Being the Friday night of a show we were (of course) going to have a cast party later, and somehow someone got the idea to start inviting the people at the reception every time our program director turned her back. So, we went from a rowdy crowd of theatre people alternately hitting on each other and talking about how trashed we were going to get (or, in some cases, how stoned we were already) to leading a parade of assorted players and freshmen back to Kevin’s at 8:30. Yes, 8:30. I don’t think we’ve ever started a party so early in my entire time here.


Us regular peeps didn’t drink especially in excess, but there was an unusual amount of energy in the air between it being our first big party as a group this year and our first chance to mingle with our new recruits. Needless to say, things quickly got out of hand. I decided after only consuming half of what i typically do that i really needed to be a whore. A big, cheap, rowdy whore. Suddenly i found myself giving people peeks at my underwear and straddling others sitting on couches or in armchairs. And, somewhere in there, someone unfortunately asked me if i was planning to give lapdances.


I am infamous for my teasing at lapdancing at theatre parties, but last night i was all sexed up with nowhere to go and i happened to have Garbage with me, so suddenly “Queer” started popping up on stereos all around the house as i writhed around like a man whose clothes were on fire.

My first dance was for some girl named Adina who lamented “It’s a shame you’re not straight,” to which i replied “Oh, but i am.” Needless to say, that lead to some interesting conversation. But, anyhow, after another warm-up dance i decided to take my act down into the middle of the living room where i could be viewed in all of my inebriated bump-and-grind glory. Let’s just say that a lot of me was seen, and it involved a lot of writhing around on top of Chevy and Hillary. Somewhere in the middle Meg decided to start spilling beer on me (intentionally) and between all the adrenaline of dancing around half naked and how much i generally despise Meg i smacked her (but only in the nose, and she slams me across the face harder every night in the play). If anything, i figure that should make tonight’s kissing (and slapping) all the more interesting.

Afterwards i seem to recall being carried out of the room over Chevy’s shoulder and plunked down in the hallway, and afterwards i just followed someone around all moon-eyed while they talked about how they weren’t ready to break up with their boyfriend and how they like this creepy crew guy and i just sat and listened for the remainder of the night. Because, ultimately, i’m protective of my female friends even before i am possessive of them. At some point i danced to “Miami” and then facilitated Ross crawling into a bathroom, and then i collected Erika and Lindsay (both knee deep in their own inebriation-related drama) and we found someone who hadn’t been drinking to drive us home.

Wow, it’s almost as if this is a journal… or that i’m happy some of the time. Rest assured that i mentioned the pointlessness that is life and how much i hate everyone at least three times at the party, lest you think my depressed-cred is waning. And, now that i just gave an hour long tour to perspective students while slightly hung over, i’m off to locate something resembling breakfast.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/09/5995858/

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You would almost hope that if i wholly disappear for two days that i’m off experiencing something, unless maybe you are especially sadistic or disinterested – in which case you might be hoping that i’m having even more problems with my landlord or that my phone service was shut off. Either way you would be incredibly wrong, as the last 48hours of my life has generally involved a lot of boredom minus a couple of hours filled with jello shots.


Can i just discuss jello shots for a moment? They are colorful little bundles of deceptive joy. You swallow a jello shot and it doesn’t even hardly taste bad, and when someone offers you another one you gladly take it. And then, why not suggest a third? This all seems fine, but when people start groping for a fourth giggly cup of primary colour yumminess in under twenty minutes your brain should finally kick in and realize that all of that jello will eventually get melted down by your stomach, at which point the alcohol within would be released into your unsuspecting body.


So, that’s a word on jello shots.

I’m supposed to be making frantic last-minute arrangements to get my ass to folk-fest, and i am not. This is going to draw a lot of flack from a few friends of mine, but i honestly don’t care. I tried my bet to get involved with folk-fest and to make room in my schedule, and a certain friend decided i need to be on his committee and i had to leave early and stay late – and this was all well and good in theory, but everyone seems to forget that i work a full time job with full time pay and that i cannot just blow it off to live in a tent in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of hippy snobs who would string me up by my toes if they heard i skipped out on Erin McKoewn because i had tickets to go see Madonna. Long story short being that even in the middle of last week they were still expecting me to be at the fest until midnight on next Sunday, and even though they were willing to make exceptions for me i wasn’t interested in being the exceptions boy, so i’m not going.

I think i have all of that banality out of my system now. I just packed up a box of schoolbooks and papers and things that i never even touched this year, and i still have miles of clothes and sheet music and guitars and cds ahead of me. But, at least i’m not going to be stranded in careless folk-land for the entirety of the week, so i’ll actually have time to finish all of this.

Bleh, why did i even wake up?

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/08/5174763/

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Last night i went to bed with my creaky windows propped open by hangers wearing only my first pair of jeans restyled as cutoffs with piano drifting past like a breeze. At some point much later Matt came home and out of habit turned on the air conditioner to go to bed, and so i woke up freezing and sniffling from being so naked to the cold and because pollen had crept up through my window to strangle me. But, i could hear the outdoors for the first time since we shoved the drippy machine into the window, and the sounds of neighbors chuckling and saxophone pouring note by each note from the windows of the house across the street was much better than the electric holler of my alarm clock.

I feel a bit hung over, but in fact i am just water-logged from last night. This makes me suspect that being hung over is more about being too hydrated… like the liquor is hiding out somewhere beneath my cheekbones and i am heavier than it so it is trying to float up past my eyes and brain. That would at least explain that same dull pressure i’m feeling right now behind my face and below my temples … same difference. Or, it feels like the same difference, anyway.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/08/5104265/

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On Friday night i had an argument with Justin about what was better: sex or concerts.


To understand the context of this discussion, you need to know a few things about Justin. First, he’s my “one male friend.” I don’t mean this to imply that i don’t consider any other men as close friends, but Justin is my guy friend… the only human being on Earth who you’ll catch me assessing the merits of an ass to, or talking about who i truly think is “hot.” Justin has impeccable taste in music, but it isn’t any of the organic thoughtful music you hear me whine about from day to day, it’s bump’n’grind and rhythm’n’blues with Prince at the helm of his collection as his own version of Garbage or Ani DiFranco. Finally, Justin and i have known each other for a long time, and while we don’t always agree with each other i tend to defend him in conversation just because i get to play advocate to his devil.

So, on Friday night we had taken one too many purity tests and everyone had ingested at least a shot of some sort of Jersey moonshine that came in an unmarked plastic anti-freeze jug, and somehow we started talking about sex and music. I opined that an amazing concert is better than good sex, and that a great song easily outpaces a good orgasm. And, Justin ripped me to shreds. How could i value something audible and intangible over sweaty lusty tangled bodies in heat? How could i rank singing along to a great song higher than getting off?

Two things became rapidly apparent in this conversation. The first was that neither of us were referring to “making love,” but to sex – and that in my book the latter doesn’t really exist without some semblance of the former so “sex” as an act wasn’t even comparable to a really shitty pop concert. The second was that Justin had only ever seen one or two concerts where the performer wasn’t merely reciting their catalogue of songs to the audience. With such incompatible views on sex and concerts, it became obvious within a few minutes that Justin and i were meant to agree to disagree.

Physical attraction is a wonderful thing, but in my world i lust after music. Imported singles make me hot under the collar. Newly announced release dates make my heart skip a beat. Getting good seats at a concert evokes a cry of passion. The day that Izabelle and i charged our Madonna tickets to my credit card my whole world was an excited explosion of joy and rapturous numbness … it was hard to believe i was living rather than dreaming. And, yet, somehow i’m sitting here at my computer and in four hours i’ll be seated inside of the First Union Center, and the lights will go down, and i will suddenly find myself in the same room as Madonna for the first time in over a decade. And, though i’ll be singing along to song after song about physical attraction and lust, i’ll know in my heart that it’s love that matters. And, right now, the love i will have for the woman singing to me from a stage in South Philly is greater than anything i could feel for anyone i’m sharing space, a bed, or body fluids with. When Madonna strums her guitar to open “Candy Perfume Girl,” or when she explodes into the vocals of “Ray of Light,” or when she closes the show with a electronically infused “Holiday,” i will be barely able to catch my breath – those moments will be ones i’ll try to replicate for years without ever being able to put them into words. The experience will be between Madonna and i and thousands of other adoring fans, and we’ll be the only ones who will ever be able to understand.


Maybe one isn’t quantitatively better than the other, but i think each of us is still a virgin with respect to what we’re not defending. And, the same way that making love to someone for the first time must eclipse everything that came before, tonight i’ll be like a virgin again; touched for the very first time.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/07/4671183/

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Have i mentioned that i’m going to the Philadelphia Folk Festival? Well, i am. In a tent. Well, i’m getting there via car, but once i’m there i’ll be very much in a tent except for when i’m not. And, there will be folk music – however, the Festival seems to be in Schwenksville and not Philadelphia. Anyhow, i don’t know quite how i managed to get myself into this, but i took off a ton of days from work to do it and i’m going to be working as some kind of volunteer and i don’t really know what to expect, but it all seems like it’s going to be very intriguing. Erin McKeown is playing on Friday afternoon. Other than that all i know is that i’m bring my guitar and enough mosquito spray and vodka to keep a small village itch-free and inebriated, and that Izabelle is lending me a six person tent that’s big enough to entertain in. Yes, nightly itch-free trios with Peter and perhaps a martini or two if i can score some ice. Sure. But, really, if i can find a cheap enough 4-track i’m going to be recording trios the whole time. Anyhow, i can’t imagine how i didn’t manage to mention my musical committment, but that sentence had some very nice consonance going for it, and i think i should go to sleep soon.

https://crushingkrisis.com/2001/07/4335974/