Oye como va!

I spent Friday wandering the streets with Harry and eating chocolate, despite the fact that Matt's band (and every other band in the world, apparantly) was playing the Tsunami concert.

Lots of chocolate.

As in, when a bowl of fondue was placed in front of me, I dipped everything in sight into the fondue and ingested it. Including the decorative-purposes-only mint leaves.

And when I ran out, I tipped the dish and used the fondue tongs.

And then my fingers.

It was good chocolate, though. Really good.

Afterwards we went back to Elena's house. ("We" here means "Elena, Harry, Maya and I, plus half of Horace Mann." The female half.) I quickly discovered that, being of different cliques in a very large school, none of them really knew each other, and that, despite being from Friends, Harry, Maya and I already had an advantage over them in that we, at least, knew each other's names. (Harry quickly discovered that the bag he was carrying-- the one with the glass bottle of cooking oil in it-- had a hole in the bottom. Poor shoes.)

I was feeling terribly guilty for having missed the concert, especially since Matt's band was named after one of my all-time favorite poems (Haha! I can link!), so I allowed myself to be persuaded to go to Pucci's afterwards.

This odd collection of girls (and Harry and his oily shoes) was still feeling a little uncomfy in Elena's living room, and desperately needed an icebreaker. So when Matt called me up, what could I do but ask him, Lucas and Clark to come upstairs?

Apparantly, I wasn't the only one who was feeling a little hyper. Lucas, Matt and Clark wasted no time finding the Yamaha Acoustic.
And the Fender Strat.
And the Ukelele.
And the cake.

And Lucas played Substitute while Elena and I danced.
And Matt played the songs I missed at the Tsunami concert.
And I played Ballad of a Gypsy Girl far better than when I recorded it last year.
And Clark played the acoustic six-string like an electric bass.
And I danced. And danced. And danced.
And Lucas played The Real Girl and Penn's song from last year.
And I sang along to pretty much every song. Even when I didn't know the words.
And Matt played Something and Elena was happy.
And we stayed far later than we intended to.

At eleven, we were finally wandering the streets again in search of Pucci's. (I did a lot of wandering that day.) By the time I got there, I had a full five minutes to hang out before I had to leave. I think Will was actually kind of intoxicated. This was especially unusual, because last time I went to Pucci's I saw him win five rounds of Vodka Pong without blinking an eye. (I hadn't yet read Oona's blog and knew nothing of the events of the concert.) I got to play a few minutes of foosball, say hi to Rie, and take off my coat. Then I got to say goodbye to Rie, brush the chalk dust off of my coat, and walk home.

It would have sucked if Harry hadn't been so sweet and walked me home and stayed another hour, after which my dad started getting ready to throw him out.

Footnote- Clark, I'm sure you don't read this, but happy birthday anyway. Belated, because I haven't blogged since Thursday, but sincere nonetheless.

On Saturday we went to the Aztec exhibit at the Guggenheim and endured my dad's Violent Mexican jokes. ("We" here refers to my parents and Harry, because we're dorks, not Maya and the female half of Horace Mann.) It was actually really cool, and pretty violent. The oddest part was that I had already seen some of the statues two years ago in Mexico, when I had belly flub and short hair, which threw everything into a strange deja-vu-ish light.

Later we ate pasta and Harry and I went to see his mother's play. We sat in the cafe across the street beforehand and talked about life. I had jello with whipped cream and felt like it was five years ago. I kept thinking about this poem I read then, and couldn't rest until I'd remembered every word of it, and didn't dare say anything about it because it was so perfect.

The play was amazing. Depressing as all hell, yes, but amazing nonetheless. Afterwards we met the cast briefly and then-- surprise!-- the playwrite himself. Actually, I didn't place him until I was at home and tucked warmly in bed. Then I remembered his face from the photo in Great American Screenplays of the 1990s. Neil LaBute. Of course. In The Company Of Men. The Shape Of Things. Nurse Betty.

I hate realizing who I've just met the minute after I've met them. Agony! Still, better to have met him and not known it than never to have done so... and I had even said something along the lines of "Seeing your play enacted like this makes me want to write a play myself," to which he replied, "Do it." God, I felt like such a dolt.

Then I started thinking about how I hadn't really read anything good for the past month and how all I ever want to do is become a writer, no matter what the cost, and how I really wanted to read Oscar Wilde again.

So I did. I read Salome and Lady Windermere's Fan and at least half of The Picture of Dorian Gray while sitting crosslegged in the hall just outside the bathroom so the light wouldn't wake Renata up. I went to sleep at around four and felt grumpy and irritable and got into ANOTHER fight about my grades and my summer plans with my parents and cried yet again and had my plans to go out tonight forcibly cancelled. Finally I wrote this while listening to Santana out of sheer boredom.

Edit: Harry, if you're reading this, and have survived all the way to the bottom of this entry, you're definately online (although maybe not awake) and perfectly capable of changing your template... hint, hint...