I like my drinks with a splash of literature...

Last night, I ventured out of the Village to explore some nightlife on the other side of the city.

I know. I'm having trouble believing it, too.

I took a cab ride from the bar named after Darcy (Fat, Black Pussycat) to 81st and Amsterdam (best $18 I've ever spent...the subway system a little before midnight on a Saturday? No, thankyou). We started at a place called McAleer's and then went on to this great bar called The Dead Poet.

To say we 'went on' doesn't quite cover it. I mean, as English Lit geeks, we were drawn to this bar. We were compelled.

And the bar was worthy of the name. They had literary quotes on the wall, old books shoved into crevices, and drinks named after- what else?- dead poets. Poe, Wilde, Keats...I tried the Yeats (how could I resist).

The Yeats was like an alcoholic's midori sour. It was good, but the poet himself wouldn't have been caught dead drinking it. The man who wrote 'The Second Coming' did not enjoy the taste of sour melon. A drink named after Yeats should, we decided, taste like Irish whiskey and bitterness.

But don't think that just because we discuss the literary merits of cocktails that we don't have good, normal times at bars. My friend got in a fight with the bouncer and he took her martini away. There were shots and flirtations and now forgotten conversations about absolute drivel. English geeks are just like normal people...except we have to get up the next morning and read long nineteenth century novels. And then we blog to avoid the reading.

In other news...

The people who live upstairs have loud morning sex. Very loud. Once, one of the guys who lives upstairs came down and complained about our music volume. Can you lodge a noise complaint about sex?

And I'm spent...

That's right. I remember why I stopped going out on weekends.

It isn't because I can't spare a couple of hours in the evenings. Okay, sometimes I can't- sometimes there is far too much homework. But mostly it is because I can't spare the recovery time the next morning.

Not that it isn't pleasant spending all day in bed watching West Wing reruns. But it doesn't get the work done.

Smells like activist...

I don't want to write about school, because I spend all the time thinking about it.

Instead, I will write about:
A- The party I attended on Friday night.
B- My new tendency to say "Boo, whore!" all the time.

A: On Friday night, I attended a loft party in Brooklyn. This party represented, to me, all that the crazy-city bohemian life should be (not my life, per se- I'm a sell out). Everyone brought a bottle of alcohol and just hung out all night- evenly distributing time between the loft and the hodgepodge of broken patio furniture set up on the roof. The loft had been a huge, single room studio, and the four inhabitants built walls and rooms- some of them with multiple stories. It was covered in home-made art work and lights and had three couches and reams of mismatched fabric and was the most wonderful mess. The party was inhabited mostly by drunk activists. When I first headed up to the roof with a red, plastic solo cup of red wine (which I later spilled all over myself- while still completely sober), I was warned by one of the guys: "Don't sit next to him! He smells like activist!" We didn't spend too much time speaking of activism, but I did learn that a bunch of the guys road-tripped down to Texas where they protested outside of an Exxon dressed in tiger suits and got arrested. The party ended in the wee hours of the morning. I was made to salsa dance with one of the hostesses before I left, and I danced right into a table. The bruise is a glorious grey-blue.

B: Saw Mean Girls the other day, and have been running around the apartment saying "Boo, whore!" to the roommates. Nothing wrong with this, though I do have this fear that I will carry my new favorite phrase into grad class with me...

DRAMATIZATION

Classmate: I disagree with William James on this point. 'To You', and ultimately 'Song of Myself' as well, cannot be whittled down to pluralism. If you interpret the superlative terms as comparitive terms, you do eliminate some of the abstractions, but you also lose the essential essence of Whitman's work.
Me: Boo, whore.

Culture Check: 1,2,3 and 1,2,3

This weekend, I enjoyed a few cultural experiences that I have been putting off:

1) Reading The Old Man and the Sea.
I have been a huge Hemingway fan since eleventh grade, when I devoured For Whom the Bell Tolls and The Sun Also Rises. He's one of the reasons I'm moving to Key West once I become a famous writer (Hemingway + classic literary writer Meg Cabot). But the subject matter of The Old Man and the Sea never really interested me. It's an old man out in a boat, fishing. There's no doomed love affair. I was sure I wouldn't like it. But this Sunday, I took the book to the pool with me and read the entire thing in one sitting. The way to read that book is definitely in the baking sun with quick breaks in the cool water, floating, looking up at the sky, and thinking about the book. I should never have doubted Hemingway. I loved it. And now I really want to write a paper about Kierkegaard's Fear and Trembling, The Old Man and the Sea, and the myth of Isaac and Abraham. Yay, graduate school!

2) Watching She's the Man.
Do not mock. I wanted to see this in the theaters and made myself wait. I had hopes for another 10 Things I Hate About You. Teenagers have the perfect amount of angst for Shakespeare's comedies: oh, how they suffer, but you really can't take them seriously. While this movie wasn't quite on par with 10 Things..., everyone watching found it hilarious (the line that won the most laughter: How come when I wanted to ask Eunice out everyone made fun of me but when Sebastian likes her she's hot? No, screw you guys. I hate high school.). I was slightly disappointed that all the sexual edginess of Twelfth Night completely disappeared. Viola was introduced to Duke Orsino (that being his full name in the movie, not his title and name) early in the movie, at a kissing booth. Duke then became interested in Sebastian's twin Viola instead of having a very strange relationship with Sebastian himself. I love how, in the play, people just fall in love with each other without having any idea of their actual gender (of course, later, everyone ends up in gender appropriate relationships)...but this was a teen comedy. Also, there was a tarantula named Malvolio.

3) Salsa Dancing!
I went to a wine festival this weekend with some friends from Texas who have been taking salsa dancing lessons. They know the moves. I don't (it seems to be a lot of 1-2-3s and hip movements). But I'm trying to learn...it's a great workout and a lot of fun. And, I'm going salsa dancing next weekend, so I'll have plenty of opportunity to hone my skills.

In other news...

I've been finished Guilty Pleasures for awhile now, despite its continued presence on the blog side bar. Are the Anita Blake vampire hunter books any good? Well, I'm on the third one now, and I have a strong, persistent desire to start wearing a cross. Preferably a big, silver one.

It's hair cut time. Time to find the perfect style that is a) hip enough for New York, b) easy enough for lazy graduate student maintenance, c) compliments my round face and d) doesn't need to be touched up very often. Any suggestions would be more than welcome.

I found this article about the girl who wrote The Washingtonniene an interesting look at the legalities and purposes of blogs. Check it out.

Television Without Pity has started recapping the first season of Grey's Anatomy. Best work distraction EVER.

Happy Break!

So, I've noticed my blogs have been low on the warm and fuzzy factor, lately. There's been flooded basements, rants against former co-workers, hypochondria, the tortures of a high school talent show, leaving my childhood home and little of the happy-happy-joy-joy attitude that I am so well known for in life.

So here are a few paragraphs of happiness:

I had an excellent time this weekend at Preakness. A fabulous time. But...I was a little too drunk to remember the sparkling details that make up a clever blog. And really, a girl's drunken escapades might be a little too personal to post on the world wide web. The overall lesson of Preakness is this: Always go with your instincts where men and horses are concerned. Right. The day was full of family, good friends, and the sort of adventures that flashback at you while you're driving home from work and make you smile.

I'm currently listening to John Mayer's Room for Squares in the office. As if that wasn't happiness enough in itself, this particular CD reminds me of one of my best friends in the whole wide world and the greatest road trip I've ever been on. Current happy memory flitting through my head: Prancing around the apartment with my friend, wearing ridiculous spirit scarves, and singing the Mayer into Smirnoff bottles.

I took a huge step in preparing for graduate school last night: I bought 10 Things I Hate About You on DVD. Now I will be able to write my papers in the manner to which I became accustomed in undergrad. So NYU, here I come!

I started working on my tan during Preakness. My hair is blonder, despite the strawberry blonde dye, and my skin is darker. This can only mean one thing: summer. Longer, hotter days, warm and lazy evenings, field parties, wine festivals, days at the beach, hanging out by the pool...I am so very, very happy.

And finally: In less than 3 weeks, I'll be bumming around Spain with my sister! What could be more happy-happy-joy-joy than that?

Ms. Austen grooves at the Hippo

So I wanted to recap my favorite moment of the weekend:

Saturday night I found myself at The Hippo, one of Bmore's gay clubs, to celebrate a friend's twenty-fourth birthday. Once settled in the main dance room with drinks in hand, my friend offered me his arm so we could take a turn about the room. So we pranced about, seeing and being seen, and I couldn't help thinking about the Pump Room in Bath in numerous Jane Austen novels. I shared this with my friend and he said, "Nah, I just do it because of Clueless."

There is a grad school scholarship offered by the American Jane Austen Society where you have to submit a paper on 'New Perspectives on Austen's Characters'. I wonder if I can fit that in.

A Night of Make Believe

I lost interest in the Superbowl a long, long time ago. It was fun at first, when we decided to cheer for Seattle- since that's where Grey's is set- and we were pretending that the players were the cast of the show. We'd yell things like: "Go George! Pass it to McDreamy!" But that got old after awhile.

Still I sit here in front of the television, hoping for a good commercial and safe in the knowledge that, once I overcome this sports trial, Grey's Anatomy will be on. The trend in commercials this year seems to be people knocking each other over. The funniest one so far has been the Bud Light Magic Fridge. I've had far too much food tonight.

I threw a dinner party last night. I'm now writing a short story about it. Not now at this moment, but I started it before the Superbowl Party.

I think it was a good party. Everyone got so drunk off of wine that they couldn't leave and had to camp out in my family room. My cooking received many compliments. Everyone discussed what a wonderful writer I was (score!). And we spent a lot of time in a chain of pinky-swears discussing girl power, our own intelligence, and the need to find men who appreciate us.

Throwing a dinner party is sort of my version of playing House, except much more expensive. I feel like I'm playing at being grown up. I plan a menu, create a guest list, clean, decorate...and it's all prep work for being an adult, when I have to be able to run a household for real. I think I'll be able to handle it. I just need some money.

Less than seven minutes of this game...I wish it only took seven minutes.

Code Black on Grey's Anatomy tonight. What would you do if you worked at Seattle Grace and you thought you only had one day to live?

I would take George into the on-call room and have my way with him. But that's just me.

I drank something called liquid cocaine and everything went fuzzy...

This Indian became my good friend last night.

Apparently, the outcome of a night out drinking with my cousins involves me hanging all over a wooden indian and then enjoying a solo fifty minute taxi ride back to my house while I make my friend Matt sing to me on the phone.

My cousins have always been a part of my social life. Growing up, they were an important part of the baby pool/peanut butter sandwich routine that was my summer. I've always looked forward to holidays so we could all hang out. And since I can remember I've spent a week at the beach with the entire family, swimming and walking and gossiping with my cousins. Good times.

And now we're grown up and, for the first time, many of us live close to each other. So the social activities have grown and morphed a bit.

I could keep up with my guy cousins swimming. I could keep up with them playing softball on the beach.

I cannot keep up with them drinking.

Hence the intimate relationship with the wooden Indian.

That was a crazy game of poker...

On Saturday night, I met a man.

Lots of women's stories start that way. Not mine. I do not meet men. I know a lot of men, but so far that has done me little good in life. I never meet men. Possibly, I've met my 'new man' quota. Sometimes I fear I'll never meet another man again, a thought which is endlessly depressing.

On Saturday night, I met a man, while I was bartending at my cousin's party. I liked him immediately, based on the fact that he was wearing a suit and that he looked a lot like a co-worker of mine that I used to have a crush on.

Through the night, I learned that he could talk about basketball and that he liked to drink girly drinks while pretending he was drinking hard core stuff. I would make him a Sea Breeze and call it a Bloody Bullet. I kept his secret until now. The bartender knows everything. Remember that.

After I got off, we danced for awhile and he kissed me, twice. Nothing more. When we went downstairs all alone, I could have made a move, but instead I made a drink. I don't want to be the girl who settles for indiscreet fumbles in corners. I won't.

At the end of the night, I sat down next to him on the couch and said, "I'm leaving now. If you're interested, here's the part of the night where you ask for my number. If not, you say 'It was nice to meet you.'"

He said, "It was nice to meet you."

I said, "It was nice to meet you, too." And I left.

Believe it or not, that was all okay. Though it was awkward when I came to pick up my bartending stuff the next morning and he was sitting in the exact same place on the couch. Ah well. But it's been so long since I've had a brief foray into the world of men. My forays are long and often very painful.

It was nice to meet him.

How Adams Morgan stole my soul...

(or why alcohol is the milk of Satan)

Alcohol at various bars: $40
Cellphone, lost somewhere around the Peyote Cafe or Nolan's: $50 (or more)
Cab ride back to Adams Morgan to find cellphone: $25
License, lost somewhere in the quest to find the cellphone: $30
Self-respect, lost when I started crying in the Adams Morgan subway station, after realizing I had lost my license: priceless

There are some things money can't buy. But you can lose everything at Adams Morgan.

I was actually starting to have faith in my ability to grow up and take care of myself. I pay rent and insurance. I have a job that I dislike intensely (if that isn't a sign of being grown up, what is?). I cook and clean for myself, I go grocery shopping, I take care of small animals (but I still kill plants). I own two credit cards and pay for my graduate classes.

But all this independence was wiped away with one night of drunken celebration.

I should have just stayed home and worked on my novel.

Whenever I tell my friend that I have to work on my novel, she jokes that she can't do something because she has to cure cancer. Or wash her hair.

Psychiatrist: So, you said you'd marry him just to be polite?
Bree: Sometimes, there's a downside to having good manners.

Notes from the Underground...

Note to self:
Hurricanes taste just like juice. They are not. They have alcohol in them.

Also, there is a reason you do not go out on weeknights, besides your antisocial tendencies and your all-consuming desire to write your novel: It is hard enough to get up for work in the mornings without gallons of alcohol sloshing through your brains. You need sleep. You need sobriety. This is how you make it through the day.

Note to the Marketing team behind the new Pride and Prejudice movie:
Stop listing Jane Austen's credentials on the previews and commercials. It is retar-tar. Critically acclaimed author of Emma and Sense and Sensibility, my arse! Do people advertise Shakespeare's plays by saying: the beloved playwright of such hits as Romeo and Juliet? They do not. Crawl back to marketing school or under your rock or whatever.

Also, Pride and Prejudice is Austen's most famous work. It's like advertising To the Lighthouse or Mrs. Dalloway with: by the talented writer of The Waves and Orlando. Or marketing The Great Gatsby as another hit by the author of The Beautiful and the Damned and The Last Tycoon.

EVERYONE KNOWS WHO WROTE THE GREAT GATSBY!

Likewise with Pride and Prejudice.

I hate illiterate people. And by illiterate, I don't mean the poor souls who can't read; I mean the ones who choose not to.


And that old movie poster is ridiculous in an entirely different way.

Currently, my friend is calling my cat a dog and rocking her while singing 'Baby Beluga'. This is what happens to people to people who go out drinking on Friday nights.