Ah, Allentown. The place where I attended college. Billy Joel once wrote a horrible song about it. There’s a wonderful record store there, called Double Decker. The most beautifully built Wegmans supermarket is there, too. Some say Allentown is a dump. To those people, I say, “Well, duh.” Even that doesn’t stop me from returning. Why? Because I still have a friend or two there, the folks who operate Double Decker are stand-up individuals, and that fucking Wegmans makes me feel like I’m high on a Valium/Percoset/Ambien cocktail whenever I enter. Surely all dystopian novels, like George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, neglect to mention that Wegmans embodies an absolutely perfect place. It is a utopia unto itself, quite unlike its surroundings. I think it was voted the top company in America to work for on multiple occasions, but I have been known to pen many a bold statement for this blog without fact-checking what I’ve declared in writing. Consider this another one of those instances in which I’m shooting off my mouth, or hands, or brain, or whatever it is I’m using to relay my ideas to you people.
And by “you people,” I obviously mean my African American fans.
My father was supposed to wake me up at 9:00am this morning so that I could borrow his car for the day’s travels. I distinctly remember rising to the sound of his alarm clock blasting a renowned symphony down the hall, but I quickly fell back asleep, and didn’t awake until almost 11:00am. When I realized what time it was, I hopped out of bed and ran to make sure he hadn’t left for work and forgotten me. He was still asleep. I woke him up and told him what time it was, and he swore his alarm clock didn’t go off. Whatever. He showered while I fed and walked his dog, then I dropped him off at work and began my journey. Of course, I had to shower myself first, so I left quite a bit later than I’d originally intended. My lunch was planned for 1:45pm, so I had some time to spare, but not that much time. Plus, it was kind of rainy, so there was no way I was going to make it 75 miles in 60 minutes like I normally do, it was going to take a bit longer. I haven’t driven in a steady rain in almost 18 months.
As soon as I hit Interstate-78 it began snowing. I laughed at the idea of it snowing in October (Global warming? Huh?), and suddenly realized that the snow was actually sticking, and it was accumulating on the road as well on the grassy fields surrounding the highway. It was hard enough readjusting to driving in a heavy storm, but now I was having to re-learn how to drive in wintry conditions, too! For a few minutes there at the start I could feel the car hydroplaning, but once I found myself following the path carved by a Ford SUV I felt the tires gripping the road slightly better. The drive was slow, but I didn’t swerve out of control and kill anybody, so I guess that’s a fair trade off.
I reached Muhlenberg at a quarter past one o’clock, so I drove slowly around the perimeter of the campus (probably looking like a sex pervert or terrorist or something) visiting some of the familiar sites from my college days: the apartment I lived in during my senior year, the converted frat house I lived in my sophomore year, that one room where that girl tied me up to her bunk-bed and had her way with me, and that fancy dorm where I had to defuse my first-ever post-coital-crying-girl situation. Also, the library, which I distinctly remember visiting one time (to have my senior portrait taken), and the parking lot where I distinctly remember getting high in the back of the truck of a guy who later pulled a fucking automatic machine gun on me in a desolate park in the middle of the night. That was such a weird night.
Yup, the feelings all came rushing back like a bad sex comedy, equal parts Good Will Hunting and Rules Of Attraction. How so? I don’t know, I just made that statement up on the spot, quit asking me to justify it.
I spent thirty minutes wandering around the same hundred-or-so square foot section of the library, where I thought there should be a restroom. I eventually found it (while pretending to browse a row of books about law or science or some shit), and take a very relieving piss. Then I went upstairs and sat and waited for the lunch party to convene. Dreams of Wegmans danced through my head like flames, and as I inhaled the recycled library air into my burning lungs, I swore I could smell the market’s cafe. Oh yeah, I was pretty much rock hard at the thought of a good lunch.
Then I was informed that someone had to be somewhere, and that it was impossible to leave campus for an extended period of time, so we’d have to eat on campus. Great, just what I fucking wanted, college cafeteria food. I closed my eyes and tried to fight back the tears, my thoughts vacillating as I imagined a burning Wegmans being anally raped by God’s huge black strap-on dildo. I don’t think anybody noticed, but I silently mouthed the words “Fuck you, God” to myself as a solitary tear rolled slowly down my frozen-red cheek.
Lunch was alright. There were lots of awkward pauses and badly timed jokes, most of which were emitted by yours truly. I referred to an undergrad tinkering on a piano across the room as a “retard” to a series of angered looks, and I asked if the thought of fucking a bald fat man would give a girl who finds bald men attractive a semi. The company was not amused. I don’t know what the fuck I was prattling on about, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how badly I wanted to make love to a Wegmans twelve-inch sandwich, or have it make love to me, I didn’t really care at that point.
Jesus, this post is going on way too long isn’t it? I’ve only described like, the first two hours of my day. I could probably milk this for much longer, and use all sorts of uncouth-yet-flowery metaphors and verbiage to make it sound more interesting than it was. The drive home sucked. My mother fried up some flounder with a side of Spongebob Squarepants-shaped macaroni and cheese for dinner. My old boss came over and we chatted for a bit. While talking about my girlfriend and trying to show him a picture of her, he asked me pointedly whether or not I had any naked photos of her. I told him they were on my other phone and that I’d send them to him when I returned to L.A.. I hope he didn’t think I was being serious. Otherwise…sorry Nicci, but a promise is a promise.
Went to Jack’s house, met Ken, watched the video footage from the other night (see: The Simpsons Movie drinking game) and laughed copiously at all the things I definitely don’t remember. You people are going to see some jaw-droppingly drunk behavior as soon as those two clowns get the footage edited down. You don’t want to watch a bunch of drunken assholes staring at the television, clearly missing all the moments when they should have been drinking because they can’t possibly keep track of what’s being said anymore, do you? You want to see the part where I forgot to zip up my pants after I pissed and walked out of the bathroom seemingly without any pants on, or the part where Katie unintentionally smacks herself in the head with a glass of whisky, or the part where I go to pat Jack on the head and — unbeknownst to me — knock a shot of whisky out of his hand. Oh, and don’t forget all the unintelligible crap we say before finally turning the camera off for the night. The progression from buzzed kids enjoying a new drinking game to completely sloppy, on the verge of vomiting drunken fuckwads is truly a remarkable study in the effects of extreme alcohol intake.
You’ll see…
The Incredible String Band – Dandelion Blues
Rodney Dangerfield – The Gourmet
The Pretty Things – Balloon Burning
Oasis – It’s Better People
Low/Dirty Three – Cody
