| [ |
mood |
| |
 exanimate |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
Prince "U Got the Look" |
] |
See, I knew this Facebook attention would produce a cornucopia of benefits -- just look, I'm writing more than ever now. At this rate, I should have a book deal by tomorrow.
So tonight wasn't exactly thrilling, but that's because I'm on "secondary." What's that? You're blindsided by this hip RA lingo? You didn't know I spoke thug? See, I don't write often about RA experiences because, one, I'm not allowed too, but also, it's a wacky sector of my life. As "secondary," I assist in supervising the buildings for the night, and sometimes that means I get called at four in the morning to help clean Tina's puke off her roommate's thong in the hall. What can I say? It's a calling. It's like the armed forces with better gossip.
Being on duty, particularly on a Saturday night, is like that scene in Ghostbusters where the guys sit late in the night, bug-eyed and silent, waiting for shit to go down. Essentially, I'm either entirely bored or entirely too occupied. When duty calls, you sometimes can't even grab a minute to gather supplies or throw on a decent jumpsuit -- especially if a wunderkind Burge resident is, like, punching pedestrians or Tina's been vomiting for three hours straight on everyone's thongs. So anyway, I'm secondary right now. Is that music playing...? There's somethin' straaaange / In the neighborhoooood / Who-ya-gonna-call? That's right, my jank ass. Or maybe Jessica (aka Slimer).
Do you want to know another really hard job? Writing for the esteemed medical journal The Daily Iowan. I've got "Letters to Louis" and a media column on Madonna's new album this week. Can you even handle these whopper assignments of noble distinction? I mean, granted, let's face it, if you ever read a commentary on anything Madonna says, does, or sits on, you want to know Louis Virtel wrote it. Baby, I will pull through for you. I'm like the sheriff of Madonna columns. Wearin' mah Sunday vest and keepin' on the lookout for rascal-y new whippersnapper stories 'bout Lourdes and Rocco. All for you, little lady.
The other night I fled to a bar and spotted some bar crawlers. In total mockert, I started dancing far faster than they could crawl. So embarrassing for them. The exotic locale was Fieldhouse, a somewhat happening joint that looks kind of like that underground gambling place/skate-park in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Lots of high railings, in-ground dance floors, and a few humanoid turtles, now that you mention it. They mostly wore North Face, I noticed. Anyway, Karess and I started a tsunami of dance moves that culminated in some fatal cha-cha sliding and enough sweat to cover a week of shooting on Amistad. Saw some unexpected dears there too -- some reserved types. As of this moment, I can think of no greater joy than having a couple beers (LEGALLY, mind you goddamn residents), hand-springing to the dancefloor, and absolutely unleashing my inner and outer Madonna. I get this really special idea when I start dancing that I fail if not everyone watches me in awe. Again, Madonna complex. You might have noticed I dream occasionally of superstardom. Just another case of dreams becoming (deluded un-)reality.
Aight -- I'm off to bed in desparation to escape the possibility of a duty call. Oh yeah, also, I guess I may be calling Diablo Cody's parents tomorrow in a way-legit attempt to interview the pride of Lemont and U of Iowa. I'm honestly prepared to say, "Um, hey... I used to bag your groceries... can I speak to your Oscar-winning daughter?" SO MANY ETHICS I HAVE. HUNDREDS OF THEM.
Okay, like I said, bye for now, fuck off, etc.
Love, xoxo,
April O'Neil, Channel 3, Eyewitness News
(Louis.)
|