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Ahoy, fellow members of the midnight society. It is just after 1 AM on Tuesday morning... and we all know what that means. I just finished my giant-ass 80 Hours cover story for the Thursday issue of The Daily Iowan. If I calculated it right, this means I am three steps away from taking Roger Ebert's job and then becoming Madonna. However, I am not a math major. Anyway though, what's going on with y'all? Hopefully if you had a bumpy, half-trainwreck transition into the schoolyear, it turned out to be an enlightening one. I'm already surprised I made it through this past week without a DJ update... though I guess duty has been calling like fucking Avon lately. If it hasn't been this mystical thing "homework," it's been my DI working or DI avoiding. I had a couple interesting adventures this weekend, culminating in some strange attempts at fitting in at Studio 13 that weren't the most successful ventures I've ever tried. I'm sure I will get to that in a bit, though. This entry is my reward for getting through four classes, three and a half hours of Dance Gala reporting, and the initially grueling (but eventually pretty fun and fulfilling) article I wrote in the shadowy night at The Daily Iowan. I just wrote 30 inches of story for that insatiable paper, and now I retaliate by writing a lot more. This is pretty sick, yes. Somehow the "system" is beating me this way. Then again, what am I saying, the DJ is the last great rebel the system has yet to implant a microchip in. In which case, let's be outlaws, let's bitch about things, and let's keep it more real than even the most devout members of G-Unit can conceive. Let's do it all, and let's do it right.
First of all, I am sitting almost by myself in the computer lab of downstairs Currier. I decided to be momentarily respectful and let my angelic roomie Drew have some quiet sleepytime. He don't deserve it, that mangy old uber-volunteer Drew, but ah well, at least I can type out of control down here. At least there's a creep-ass in the back of this room wearing a wife-beater. Alright, the terrorism level in this computer lab just jumped to code orange. We'll just have to see if I'll even live through this entry... just let it be known that if this entry is filled with bullet holes, it is because I have been defeated, and my mealcard is now being used to feed Al-Qaeda. They will stop at nothing for free painini.
Okay, back to being a rational human being for eleven minutes. I've glossed over the fact that I haven't even introduced my feelings towards my classes yet. Well, in order:
Journalistic Reporting and Writing- The lecture for this class is short and undemanding thus far. I like the lecturer though, and the exercises we've done have been painless. My discussion is occasionally intolerable because it is two goddamn hours of trying to make smalltalk (or ANYtalk) about what's in the newspaper. Also, how some of these word wizerds got into the journalism department is a pretty big fucking mystery to me. Today we were correcting some DOL style sentences (I know, lucky me), and this one girl was assigned to correct the sentence: "It was an act of god." Seeing as there's almost no room for anything else to possibly be wrong, the answer to this is quite apparently that "god" needs to be capitalized. However, the blonde behemoth sitting across from me instead grumbled, "I don't know this one. Is it supposed to be 'a act of god'? I don't know." Yeah, Stimpy, that's it. "A act of god" is the correct answer. Who the fuck would ever utter the words, "a act of god"? I think there should be a new pre-requisite to the school of journalism... like maybe literacy should be a part of it. I don't know, I'm really making shots in the dark here. I am probably out of line.
History of Theatre and Drama- The lecture is a throwback to the scribbledown notetaking method from Literature of Rome, but Kim Marra, the lecturer, is so cute. She wears man clothes, and she is actually Meredith Alexander (of Acting I fame)'s girlfriend. They live together apparently. Kiki, Rollin, and I discussed who would be the man in the relationship... and it is just too hard to tell. Kim's got the tucked-in man shirt while Meredith has testicles. It is kind of tricky that way. I like my discussion quite a bit. My TA is a funny, easygoing Dramaturgy grad student (hmmmm might be a plan for me, kids, you never know), and she is really pop culture savvy. During the tutorial on how to write a test essay, she used the example of comparing the annoying-ness of Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson. It really got our wheels turning. First of all, Britney clearly is the most annoying. We have the blatant stupidity, the lovely husband, the insistence from Britney that she is somehow the next in line to Madonna's throne (I'm getting stompy just thinking about it), and the touching video to "Everytime." Hands down winner. Hell, I will party with Jessica. As long as she hadn't just made out with Willie Nelson. Anyway, that's the party that is History of Theatre and Drama.
Legal & Ethical Issues in Communication- Sounds invigorating, doesn't it? Mmmmm, you better believe this class is a study in moral philosophy, rational criticism, and the ways a journalist can fuck up. Things like libel, slander, all those things I do for fun in the DJ... they're up for discussion in this class. It's plain but relatively undemanding. Apparently it's really difficult to do poorly in as well. I'm down with it.
Technology & Society- It would be a terrible shame for anyone to think this was an actual chemistry course. Thus far, we've only done really basic review (scientific notation, anyone?), and I don't think it ever gets extraordinarily difficult. The lecturer is so the sweetest woman you could ever imagine. Like so sweet it hurts. So sweet that people walk all over her. \People like the fine, considerate surely-not-jocks in the back of the room just shout things out sometimes because they know this nice woman wouldn't ever have the nerve to yell at a class. I love her so much, I swear I will make her valentines if she gets taken advantage of. I will probably also make puppy chow.
And a footnote to all of these classes is that there is this one kid, pretty obviously gay as far as I can tell, who is in three of my classes. I spoke my first word to him today in JRW lecture when he ended up sitting next to me... alright, I have a bit of a crush. Word, this is not necessarily a good thing. When I have a crush, it usually indicates there is only room for the crush to have a tragic downfall. So far this kid seems pretty pure and nice. He always wears a baseball cap, and he dresses comfortably and colorfully. I thought I saw him at Studio 13 last Saturday... but thankfully it wasn't him. Unless I really am mistaken, and in that case, I've seen him in his tighty-whitey underwear. But I doubt it was him. And I'll explain about Studio later, I swear. But good lord, he is in 75 percent of my classes. How won't he be my study buddy? I am so conniving that shit together.
Okey doke, what else... well, last Friday was Lauren "Enemy of Chipain's" Neybert's birthday, and so we celebrated by going out the night before, playing on swings, and walking around absorbing the nightlife in Iowa City. When the clock struck midnight and she was officially 19 (and I was officially her fairy godmother), I whisked her off to Sports Column, an Iowa City bar. Can you even believe I went to this place? It wasn't too bad, and aside from some pig-looking straight people that sat like were melted into their seats, we all had fun. Drewy the roomie was there, and so were Andy, Max, and (hold your fucking breath) Phil. This is not the first time I have shown up at a random location, and Phil has been there. I am going to start to keep a tally of the times I run into him at places he and I both shouldn't be. Also, I want to anoint Phil with a new name. You guessed it: Frannie. It's perfect. That's all I want to call him now. Well, I did my best to keep my distance from Frannie, but he saw me out of the corner of his crazy little eyes, and so he rushed over, starting whispering insane gay shit to me, and before long, I think I tuned him out. He left kind of early, so the rest of us were left to dance to lame songs by ourselves. Not too bad, and also, I sipped a Sex on the Beach, and you know, it was pretty good. Maybe my mom can tell me how to make a good one. Later that night, strange things began to ensue, and eventually Drew and Lauren started cuddling on the couch. I was kind of put off by Drew that night in general, so for that to happen right then was inconvenient and unnerving to me. They're kind of pseudo-dating as far as I can tell, which is honestly cool with me... though it sure seems like Drew is determinedly avoiding telling me anything about what is going on. He thinks I'm too on-his-case about this situation. Frankly, the self-professed makeout slut should expect suspicion on my part. I really don't have the intention (or energy or nerve) to seek out whatever the hell it is he must not want me to know, but in the end, I hope they're both happy with whatever they're doing. I sure as hell heart Lauren to death... my love for her transcends any grocery war for the end of time. And Drew I really have a good time with, although I think he sometimes lets himself get away with doing things carelessly because he's spent so much time chalking himself up to be an upstanding, very-good-citizen. Thing is, whenever I think of the people who need to feel like they're "better" or more impressive than others, I'm also reminded how those same people depend on such status as a means of convincing themselves they aren't petty when they are. I don't know, I'm sure I'm coming down too hard on Drewy in a way. However, I refuse to ever believe I am "analyzing things too much" as he put it. If I am analyzing something too much, prove it to me. Hit me with the logic I am obviously missing. Until that can happen, I'll wonder. And be as bitter (or bad) as I wanna be. Holla.
Saturday night was really Lauren's birthday, so we did the hippest thing we figured was possible. We went to Studio 13. By "we," I mean the assembly of me, Lauren, Drew, Andy, and Max. This first visit to Studio has been a long time coming, and my experience there on Saturday was ultimately a mixed one, sadly enough. First things first, we were there too fucking early. We kind of just sat on stools far from the empty dance floor and putted around conversation topics for a bit, which really wasn't a terrible thing... it was just not the immediate dance party I hoped for. They did have a drag show that was pretty riveting for fifteen minutes. Then it decided to go on for an hour. Props must go to the Missy Elliot drag artist who busted out "On and On" like it was her calling in life. By the end of the interminable drag show, lots more people had piled in, including the expected barrage of barcrawlers and the group of what the porn world calls "twinks" (innocent looking boys who are basically out to get fucked at all costs). One of these boys wore a baseball cap and therefore reminded me of my crush from class. I thought this kid's head may have been a little too filled out... but don't get me wrong, he was fucking fine too. And umm, when the hardcore dancing started and we were all on the floor, suddenly my maybe-crush and his twink associates are all in matching tighty-whities with red trim. Not only that, they were humping machines. It seriously looked like they were designed to hump in all different positions and look cute as they did it. Microchip style. I danced next to maybe-crush for a little while, and we definitely eyed each other for a second or two. Alas, he was not who I ended up trying ridiculous shit with. That prize belongs to the muscular manwhore who somehow wrangled me, got me behind him, and started grinding with me. I know, how exciting! Unfortunately, there is some memo I did not get about grinding with others in unison. I did not understand the rhythm, the goal, the relation of the humping to the music, nothing. I was the last guy on a train of three people... and this meaty shirtless guy was in the middle. I did get to grab some firm abs, but that event was largely a disappointment... not to mention a bit awkward because my straight friends were looking on as the whole fucking thing went down. But the party wasn't over yet. One of the guys in just briefs was laying against the wall, and I turned to him, and we sort of motioned like it was time to explore each other's space. Suddenly I am getting hardcore groped (like how did he even reach back there), and he is doing this elaborate snake manuevering and grinding against me. Looking back, I don't think he wanted me to do any work. He seemed pretty content going at me and being the power-holder in the situation. Unfortunately (again), I decided I wanted to participate quite a bit. I was kind of on my own plane of thought (and rhythm), and so I started grinding against him, but harder and more against the wall. Guess THAT wasn't in the etiquette book, because he summoned one of his fat female friends who seriously pushed me off him with her huge ass and then proceeded to LAUGH AT ME with the guy. It was a big ego bruise at the time, and it still does sting a bit, but okay, was I supposed to assume utter subservience in that situation? All I was getting was a detached, drugged-out look from Buddy the Boxerbrief. There was no message there... or if there was, I am illiterate. And I shouldn't be a journalism major. Our posse went home soon after, and I was so tired and so done with gay culture for awhile that I just wanted to sleep. There ended my night. I was defeated, not the king/queen of the club, and I couldn't even hump straight. I felt like the elephant man. HEH HEH IF YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. Woah, it is getting late.
I had a journalism meeting on Sunday that was so overwhelming I wanted to quit everything I ever joined in my life, facebook clubs included. I was assigned so many random little stories to work on that I didn't even know how to begin to tackle them. Additionally, I volunteered to do a story on being a drag queen... and what that turned into was a story about me masquerading as a drag queen for one night. Lee and Gloria, look what college has done to me. That's all tentative still, I guess. If it happens, I will so hook you up with pictures though, believe you me. In more important news, the VMAs happened last night. Some comments:
-Mariah, where the hell were you performing? Get your ass to the party and not to the random-ass waterfall tribal party you were pretending to be at. Way to choose the "We Belong Together" remix though. Those decisions will keep you out of Glitter territory.
-P-Diddy, who the hell ever told you that you were funny. Or original. Or at all captivating. The tribute to Biggie = lame. The theme of the night ("Anything Can Happen!") is fucking bullshit. Don't even bring out MC Hammer like he's the joke. He trumps you any day. Go have zero good hits about it, Puffy.
-Kelly Clarkson, your closing performance ruled. You belted it out better than I ever remember Pat Benatar belting. You had fun with the audience, showed them that "Since U Been Gone" is still hot, and you were fucking adorable when you crawled through the goofy fountain fixtures on the stage. Glad you got Best Female Video too.
-Green Day, I enjoy you guys finding success. I'm down with that. Six VMAs for "Boulevard of Broken Dreams" including Best Video... I'd call it a stretch. It reminds me of Ray Charles winning 5,000 Grammys for that album he sold at Starbucks. Luckily, Billie Joe didn't have to die in order to receive the accolade.
-Gwen, we aren't even speaking. What the hell were you wearing? That leopard was still barking when you put it on. However, "What You Waiting For" did win best Art Direction, so that means somebody with half a brain did remember that's your best video. Justice for all.
-Missy. MISSY! Best Dance Video is alright... though I think you and Ciara deserved more. Frankly, I think "Lose My Breath" deserved something... and I bet it would've if released later in the year. I'm also debating whether the Killers really deserved Best New Artist. Hmmmm. I think they should let Ciara have the award on weekends... I bet they can settle that in claims court.
So okay, enough of that. As a matter of fact, I'll get back to y'all on the article I wrote today after it comes out this coming Thursday. For now, all that is important is that after I left the Journalism building at 12:30, I had the most refreshing walk home I've had in awhile. Had the very-not-old-school discman with me, and I partied to Supposed Former Infatuation Junkie about it. I felt victorious and free from nagging stressors for a little while there. May have even pumped a fist in the night air about it. I wouldn't put it past me. But okay, dear children, I have class in eight hours, and I still need to finagle my way into my room, get my shower gear, take a shower, and brush my teeth all without waking up gooey Drewy. If I can benchpress four hundred pounds, I can certainly do this too. The same strategy applies for both skills; it's all in the wrists. Use that one to help hitch your wagon to a star, ladies and gents.
But yes, I am doing quite well, and I'm actually excited for classes tomorrow in addition to a double-check on my Dance Gala story down at the newsroom. It turns out that beating the initial fear of the bigness and scariness of new situations is what feeling good and productive is all about. I think there's a lot more of that envelope pushing on the way for me... in big and small ways, I hope. Do continue to be in touch, and thanks for joining me on this very late night edition of the DJ. Thanks for showing me the value of communication, conneceedness, sincerity, and the very specific value of being able to know you. And I thank you for once again opening your arms and eyes to the fun, frustration, and freedom that is Louis S. Virtel. We are both still on our way to greater things, and the best thing about that is we will always have one another to report back to. As much as we want. Unconditionally. Unbelievably. But for now, the sandman has won the last spot on my dance card.
Enjoy yourself and all the fine-print insanity that comes along with it, xoxo,
Louis.
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