I think we've passed the statute of limitations on this one.

TequilaCon was this weekend. And also, Grad School Reject had asked for tequila stories. Although there is no actual tequila in this story, the characters herein are tequila-related in my mind. Eventually, I will write tequila stories as well.

1997. My last semester of college. This class is held in one of the university's theaters. I'm sprawled in the third row, legs up on the seat in front of me, listening to the instructor differentiate among power tools and address their various theatrical uses. I take out the plastic container of leftovers I've brought for lunch, mostly consisting of slices of candied yams. He watches me, quizzically.

Fuck. I forgot a fork.

I eat with my fingers.

He watches me some more. Not so quizzically. He tosses in some mention of how this will be tested. I keep eating. And listening. And nodding. Eventually, he stops speaking.

Staredown.

He's not pissed off; he's trying not to laugh.

"You don't seriously think I need to take notes on this? I think I'll recognize the power drill on the midterm."

*****

Late some Saturday night a few weeks later. I'm flopped on a cushy thing near the bar inside of some Pan-Asian restaurant. This piece of furniture could seat three, but right now it's just me and the guy beside me. With some space between us. The place is dark, vaguely shadowy, and I'd probably be able to give more details if I hadn't drunk quite so much vodka. But that's okay, because I'm not the only one in such sorry condition--he's not much better, and neither are the people we arrived with. This is when the sober people show up.

And by "sober people", I mean "high-strung and anal retentive". There are two of them--one man, one woman--and both of them have some strange fixation on my sofa companion. I tell him he ought to start his own cult. He says that it's just a hobby. He'd rather be a designer. At the moment, he's also stuck being an adjunct instructor. Of course, when he says that it's just a hobby, what he really means is that he's done with her, and can't I please stop her from sitting down so he doesn't have to be the bad guy.

I can, and I do. Actually, we do it together. She approaches; he spreads his knees; I grab the inside of his thigh. Then we both look up and smile. Neither she (a grad student) nor the man in denial of being fixated on the man beside me (another adjunct) smile back. How rude.

They pull up two chairs, chat with the drunken posse, and order vegetable sushi. More conversation ensues, people come and go, we drink more.

Here's the next thing I remember:

Drunken sushi-eating female grad student filled with rage approaches the sofa, but remains on the other side of the small coffee table. She carries an immense martini glass.

The martini glass contains the partially-digested remains of her vegetable sushi.

Ceremoniously, she places the vomit martini on the table in front of us--an offering to we gods of we don't give a fuck.

Yay! A present!

She says something. What she says I have no clue, because my male cohort is shifting his body from serving as my pillow, and is searching for something. Feverishly. Checking every pocket. Shifting stuff around in the bags at our feet. He finds it.

A pen.

He pulls off the cap, grabs a napkin, and begins sketching.

The vomit martini.

Sketching. The vomit martini.

"Look at that." He is deadpan, sincerely excited. "That spittle on the side of the glass, hanging down..."

(Indeed, there is a long path of drool dripping to the table.)

"The perfect detail. It fucking makes the shot."

We look on as he finishes. He is practiced--the sketch is quick and accurate. Someone puts her in a cab, our group disperses, one of our friends goes home with the inked napkin. Actually, one of our friends takes another one of our friends to her home, and with them goes the sketch.

Or maybe she takes possession of it later.

Not sure.

Mostly, what I'm sure of is that they all left us alone.

And a glass of vomit isn't as big a distraction as a sober person might think it would be. If you've consumed enough vodka and are too busy making out on the sofa.

And I honestly can't remember at which point the bar staff cleared the glass from the table.

The end.

...but not really, because I haven't even gotten to the tequila yet.

Dramatis Personæ

Hello. I'm Jillachetti. I'm in charge here. Miss Artistic Director...

...Jill Writes--she seems to think that she runs the place. But she's not doing too good of a job. She confuses people. She lets this one...

...the one that babbles--take over indiscriminately. That's right. I said "indiscriminately". What, you think just because I'm not old enough for pre-school, I don't know big words? A lot you know. I know enough to realize that someone needs to set things straight around here. And our "fearless leader", trying to juggle the play and the poetry and the expository stuff, she confuses people. She is vague. She is ambiguous. She writes random posts directed at God-knows-who--

I'm not God.

What?

I said, I'm not God.

Well of course you're not God. You're a chick from a Renoir.

Well, yes, I'm that. But I also know who JillWrites writes about. You said "God-knows-who", but I know who. And I'm not God.

Oh really, Miss Smarty-Impressionist-Pants!

Muse will do. You can drop the "Miss."

Uh, wait. I thought he...

...was our muse.

He is.

Not so easy to keep it straight, now, is it?

I didn't hear any one talking to you.

I was. You're me, kiddo. You were confusing yourself. Thus, you were talking to me.

Us.

Us.

So you're our muse?

I'm the head muse. I found him.

Why does he get the iPod avatar?

Because.

That is so not an answer.

Well it's a better answer than--

You're bickering with a fictional character.

What do you expect when she acts like you?

I expect you to remember which one of us is which.

You can't even keep it straight. I bet if Damon and I were both standing--

Someone call me? Hey man, what's up?

Wow.

Ambiguity. Ambiguity is up.

What do you have to complain about? You know exactly what's going on here.

Wow.

What?

And now you're male bonding with a fictional character.

Wow.

He's not fictional. He's me. Sorta.

I didn't think it was possible for you both to be in the same place, but... Wow.

This is not the time!

Are you kidding? This is the only time. This is the hottest thing I've ever seen.

I would have to agree.

Of course you agree. You're the one that gets us into these messes.

I would hardly call a well-developed appreciation of the male form and the male aura a mess.

What would you call it, then?

I think I'm too young for this.

Limitless inspiration.

You rang?

OH

MY

GOD.

I thought you'd see it my way.

Avatars courtesy of:
"Limitless Inspiration": Flandrin's Young Nude Male
"Muse": Detail from Renoir's Luncheon of the Boating Party
"Damon": Detail from Tillmans' portrait of Moby

On Birds, Blogging, Unanswered Email, and Magnetic Poetry

SATURDAY
Photographed by: Brandon
Posted to: Brandon's Flickr Account


MONDAY

Email: 1:53 PM
From: Peefer
To: Jill
Subject: Fresh, Exciting and New
[bunch of thoughtful stuff about web design]


TUESDAY
Photographed by: Jill
Posted to: Jill's Flickr Account

Location: Jill's Flickr Account
Comments
Scott : Too cool. You're like a National Geographic photographer now. This means, of course, that you have to stop shaving your legs and armpits. Sorry, it's a union thing. Hello, Jill.

WEDNESDAY

Email: 9:49 PM
From: Jill
To: Brandon
Subject: I feel so awful…
[...] Everything is coming out flat. This fucking sucks. I’m giving up writing. I’m going to move into the forest and photograph birds.

Reply: 9:25 PM
[Notice the reply is EARLIER than the initial email. This is because my computer is POSSESSED.]
From: Brandon
To: Jill
Subject: Re: I feel so awful…
[...] sorry, but moving to the forest and photographing birds is a position that HAS ALREADY BEEN FILLED, SISTER [...] silly [...]

Re-reply: 10:41PM
From: Jill
To: Brandon
Subject: Re: Re: I feel so awful…
[...] I’m feeling Silly Jill coming on tonight [...]
I am totally coming to the forest to join you.
Birds. Fucking. Love. Me.


THURSDAY

Location: Brandon’s Blog
Brandon’s post about… uh… not sure… “And By X, I Mean Y”. Just make up a sentence that somehow follows that pattern.
Brandon writes: Okay, someone please tell me what this ubiquitous rhetorical device is called, because it’s frickin hilarious, and by hilarious I mean enough already.

Comments
8:26AM
Jill: Is this what you were doing while I was suffering, and by suffering I mean not receiving a response to my last f***ing email?

8:58AM
Brandon: [...] Jill, technically, i was drinking. Yikes.

9:24AM
Peefer: Brandon, you'd better respond to Jill's last f***ing e-mail real soon, because only then apparently will SHE respond to MY last f***ing e-mail. Just saying [...]

9:30AM
Brandon: normally i'm very good about responding to emails and by normally i mean rarely. and by very good i mean very bad. unless used together in the same sentence.


Location: Jill’s blog
Jill’s post about… uh… not sure… there was a pen involved.
Jill writes: [...] the only thing you care not for in your hands, a pen.
Your words scrawled: a mere practicality.

Comments
9:52AM
Brandon: EXACTLY. I care not for a pen in my hands, and by pen i mean notebook computer. And that's why I didn't respond to your email, because my words are a mere practicality, and by mere practicality i mean i passed out 2 seconds after posting to my blog.


Location: Brandon's blog
Comments
1:01PM
Jill: /begin rant

PEEFER, answering your email has been on the top of my guilt-inducing-to-do-list, and by guilt-inducing-to-do-list, I mean STUFF I AM TOTALLY NOT SMART ENOUGH TO GET DONE THIS WEEK. But rest assured, I think of doing it several times a day. In fact, I just re-visited your blog, thinking, WHY CAN'T I JUST COMPOSE AN INTELLIGENT EMAIL????????

BRANDON, well I hope your drinks can leave you naughty voicemails, cause I sure as hell will not be doing so.

JILL, stop being a crazy bitch and go do something useful.

/end rant

Email: 1:53PM
From: Peefer
To: Jill
Subject: WHY CAN'T I JUST COMPOSE AN INTELLIGENT EMAIL????????
I believe you're making the erroneous assumption that intelligence is paramount.

Reply: 3:01PM
From: Jill
To: Peefer
Subject: Re: WHY CAN'T I JUST COMPOSE AN INTELLIGENT EMAIL????????
[...] Uh, yeah. Perhaps it's not intelligence. Perhaps what I should have said is that "This week, I lack the power to focus." And therefore, can't get myself to sit down and complete tasks that I have been planning to complete. I have completed many things THAT WERE NOT PLANNED but nothing that arose from previous intention.

In other words, my id has taken over, and my superego has been hog-tied.

Like, my id is totally babbling this right now. My superego wants desperately to open your earlier email and discuss [thoughtful stuff about web design], but my id is like "No way! I'm going to babble! AND THEN, you are going to take this pile of magnetic poetry and sort it into PARTS OF SPEECH. But not really parts of speech, because some words are several parts of speech; and some parts of speech we will separate. Like forms of "be" and other helping verbs must be separated from action verbs. Because you often look for the be/helping verbs for functionality, but the action verbs are more for BROWSING FOR INSPIRATION."

Reply, Continued: Now
From: Jill
To: Peefer and Blogosphere
And why I am sorting my magnetic poetry? Well, first, because I have a lot of it. And everyone knows, you can’t properly use something you have a wide assortment of unless you know what is IN the assortment. That’s why we have ARCHIVISTS, for God’s sake. Archiving requires degrees. That’s why LIBRARY SCIENCE is an actual course of study.

And besides just wanting to write some things with the magnetic poetry, I also had the thought that I would mail one of my friends a message in magnetic poetry. You know, to be reassembled. It would only be 2 sentences, and there really wouldn’t be any way he could get the message wrong, unless he can justify to himself some way that “rock told you remember” conveys actual meaning, and if so, I’d hate to think what he’d have to tell himself to make the remaining words seem like a coherent thought.

Because sometimes I send my friends random things. Like pictures of snow.

Or paint swatches.

Oh, no joke.

One of my friends received a paint swatch in his Christmas card; I’m sure his first thought was something along the lines of W.T.F., or maybe more like “Uh, Jill… W! T! F! ?” but the paint swatch had a message inked on it, and I’m thinking the message--which was in no way related to any sane message that one would expect to accompany a paint swatch, such as "Do you think I should paint my office this color?", or "Wouldn't this be a cool shade for edible body paint?"--made sense after following the proper directions, making the paint swatch make actual sense, given the context.

Though I can’t be sure, because we never spoke of it.

That’s right, we’ve just carried on for 4 months of emails and voicemails and assorted other interactions NEVER HAVING MENTIONED THE FACT THAT THERE WAS A RANDOM PAINT SWATCH ATTACHED TO HIS CHRISTMAS CARD.

And I can honestly say: Jill, W.T.F.? How do you find people that think it’s perfectly reasonable that you would send a paint swatch completely unrelated to a Christmas card, and they would continue interacting with you as if this were an everyday occurrence, that they get paint swatches in their Christmas cards? Or maybe I should say annual occurrence? Because who sends Christmas cards at all--let alone with paint swatches attached--at any other time of year, so as to make it possible for it to be an everyday occurrence?

[Note--Anaglyph, your Christmas card has been re-mailed. Coming Soon! Look for it in a post office near you!]

And--perhaps more importantly--how can we find more of those people?

And more people who will continue answering your emails after, in response to a discussion about web design, you send a treatise on compartmentalizing your magnetic poetry?

And--perhaps MOST importantly--CAN WE BUY MORE MAGNETIC POETRY?

Because we really don't have enough. There was no "rock", so we're going to have to MAKE a rock--that's right, MAKE A ROCK, one of us should call a geologist and find out how we do that--if we intend to send the aforementioned esoteric two sentence message that cannot possibly be misinterpreted.

Not to mention we could find no "very".

And definitely no "afraid".

Strangely enough, we did find "trenchant". Go figure.

Things Not to Say to the Man Who Just Bought You Dinner

Wandering through the multiplex, don’t stare too long at the guy with the skull tattooed into his skull, then begin musing aloud about why you don’t find that particular design and locale of body art particularly arousing. This begs the question: “Oh, so you find tattoos sexy?”

Suddenly floating through your mind: images of every piece of body art on any man you’ve ever touched, kissed, slept with, danced with, traveled with, worked with, been friends with, been more than friends with, thought about being more than friends with, ran into on the subway platform and began spontaneously composing poetry about…

Absent from the parade in your brain: the man questioning. He has no tattoos.

Then, by virtue of the two being so closely housed in your mental rolodex, images of the same men’s varied body piercings…

There is no safe way out of this conversation. You are now screwed. Royally.

”Damn, I didn’t know he had one there. Well, I guess I know now.”

“So. You find tattoos sexy.”

You can now only remember the few you found most surprising, or well-designed, or just plain hot.

“Yeah…umm…they can be.”

Shoulder. Upper arm. Leg.

“Really.”

You know what is coming. And you know it is a good idea, in your response, to avoid mention of any man that the man questioning
a) knows
b) has ever run into
c) has ever heard you speak about
d) can find programmed on your cell phone.

“On who?”

Bingo!

Shoulder, upper arm, leg. Shoulder, upper arm, leg. Shoulder, upper arm, leg. "Goddamn. I didn’t expect that to be there. Or maybe I did. Maybe I knew it was there all along."

“Uh…”

Ok, focus. Focus! There has to be a safe choice. An acceptable conversation topic. Brad Pitt? Does he have any tattoos? Even men think Brad Pitt is hot.

Shoulder.

What about Tom Cruise? Most likely gay. Totally a safe choice. Do Scientologists believe in body art?

Upper arm.

Colin Farrell. Obviously, a kinky fuck. A complete masochist. MUST have something, somewhere. But why can’t I remember? Have I been brainwashed? What the hell?

Leg.

Oh. Boy.

“Do you want to share some Milk Duds?”

When a Man Italicizes Feet, Then It Is Okay to Take His Suggestions

"Ruining your life...is an effective path towards writerly enlightenment. You should write a post of good ways to ruin your life for the sake of inspiration."

Disclaimer: It should not be assumed that Jill or anyone that confides in Jill has ever done, or ever intends to do, or even has ever had a situation that brought to mind the thought of doing, any of these things. Though it shouldn't be assumed the opposite, either. Believe what you will.

Good Ways to Ruin Your Life for the Sake of Inspiration

1. Regularly get drunk with one of your college professors who actually lives with his girlfriend and may or may not be certifiably insane. Let nature take its course. Let this develop into a long-term relationship. Write about it. Don't finish the project, though, because you HATE plots.

2. Regularly get drunk with one of your college professors who actually lives by himself and quite possibly is gay or at least bisexual, and most likely has some sort of crush on the professor who lives with his girlfriend. Sleep with him. Refrain from killing him when he decides to cut off all communication with you even though you are still in his class. Get an A in the class and then write about all the ways you could have killed him. Get grad school credit for the writing. Sell mucho tickets at a festival.

3. Date an actor. Write about his inability to accept compliments or express his feelings. Place very high in a writing contest with the result.

4. Become best friends with your ex-boyfriend, the actor. Write about how you get nothing done when you hang out together. Simultaneously, develop crush on 400 year old dead procrastinating fictional character. Write about how delusions of conversing with aforementioned fictional character dovetail nicely with how little work you get done when hanging out with aforementioned ex-boyfriend. Write an academic essay about your creative writing about your delusions. Get grad school credit for both. Sell out run at major festival.

5. Pine.

6. Pine.

7. Pine.

8. But, you know, don't admit the truth.

9. Truth, you see, is stranger than fiction.

10. Therefore, when you write the truth, vaguely enough, people think you're creative.

11. So, you know, why live the truth, when you could just write about it?

12. It's all in the telling.

13. Run away to someone you barely know.

14. Run away with someone you barely know.

15. Think of how many hits your blog would get if all in the blogosphere knew what you'd done, and couldn't wait to hear the sordid details. Think you, possibly, wouldn't care.

16. Self-publish your multimedia journal from the excursion.

17. Sleep with some guy who's probably gay, but at the least is unsatisfying. Become buddies once you get over it. Collaborate.

18. Leave that phone message you've been dying to leave. Sit back and wait for the response. Record the conversation. Transcribe. Publish.

19. Obsessively save all your email and IM conversations. Stop going out into the real world, so that you can stay home, cut and paste them, and turn them into a novel.

20. Ignore someone for as long as you possibly can. Then let sparks fly. Chick lit is hot market.

21. Wake yourself up every two hours and force yourself to write down all the naughty dreams you're having about the person you're ignoring. Sleep deprivation may be a torture method, but clit lit is a hot market.

22. Take a shower.

If you all have any additional suggestions, feel free to leave them in the comments.