Sunday, March 12, 2000

Yesterday evening I got dressed up, just for the hell of it. I was in full makeup, hair styled and everything when I got in touch with Vassar guy. He picked me up in front of the Union. Having not seen my new hair color yet, and never having seen me in makeup, his first comment when I got in his car was, "I didn't recognize you at first. I was wondering who was walking towards my car."

"Just some freak, right?" I replied.

He laughed and said, "yeah."

We ended up going to McDonalds because I hadn't had dinner. There is one lesson that everyone should learn: if one is going to enter a fast-food joint in a small town donned in the fineries of nonconformity, one must expect strange looks and comments. I was very aware of how I looked, and I as I walked into the McDonalds, all eyes from the counter and the dining area fell upon me.

I began to crack a smile and fought to suppress laughter. I don't know why I thought it was funny that people were staring at me, usually I would be really uncomfortable with a lot of eyes on me. However, this particular situation and these particular stares I found hilarious. Maybe I just really didn't care if people looked at me.

I walked up to the counter and chose a register to order at. The man behind the register looked at me quizzically for a split second, and then said, "Can I take your order?" I placed my order and as he got the drinks he commented, "You sort of remind me of The Crow."

"Yeah," I replied," I get that a lot." (Everytime I dress like this in fact. Why is it always The Crow?)

"Well, that's okay. I like The Crow."

I grabbed my food and walked by my friend who was cracking up at this point. I alone was quite a sight, but the two of us together was mind-boggling. My wardrobe, to put it bluntly is fairly monochromatic, simplistic and low budget. His, on the other hand is all colorful designer label stuff. When we're walking together, it's quite a contrast.

After dinner, we drove back to the campus, trying to find something to do. Canada was out of the question last night, because I had to work the next morning. There was a show going on at Hurley's. I walked in to find a hardcore band on stage that desperately wanted to be Slipknot. Not in the mood for hardcore, I left.

We ended up returning to Hurley's about an hour later to find that the atmosphere had changed. On stage this time was a rock band (oh, sweet rock - sweet rock n' roll). We stayed for a while. The Tall Guy was there, and The Silent One showed up before the next band (a punk band reminiscent of The Ataris) got onstage.

I talked with The Silent One for a little bit. She said that she liked my hair. She then got up to get closer to the stage, inviting me along. Unfortunately, she only ended up walking back to her seat, after too many close calls with the kids from the mosh pit.

I've noticed something about mosh pits over the years. When I first started going to Hurley's in high school, people would bounce around a lot. There weren't too many flying legs and fists to worry about. Sure, people would bounce against each other, but it wasn't bad at all. I even jumped in the pit now and then. Not anymore.

These days though, the object doesn't seem to be to have fun jumping around to the music, but instead to send the other "moshers" to the hospital. Moshing has been replaced by thrashing. If you're not bleeding, you're not having fun apparently.

Not only that, but it doesn't sit well for those standing outside the pit who just want to see the band. The pit takes on a life of it's own, expanding at will and going where it wants to go. If you're not careful, you end up a part of the pit, whether you wanted to be or not.

Vassar guy and I eventually hung out at a friend's room overnight. He was celebrating his liberation from a particularly nasty female in the traditional college manner: beer and weed. Yesterday night I watched my friends trip, so I figured that tonight I would watch my other friends get drunk and stoned. It's still fun to mess with the minds of those under the influence - I doubt that I'll ever tire of it.

The night grew very late. In fact, the night grew so late that the morning grew early. I had to be awake at 4:00AM so I could go to WMSA. It was about 2:30 when I decided to retire to my dorm room. I figured that I'd better get at least one hour of sleep if I was going to function at all this morning.

It's always the case that when you want to go to sleep for just a little while, you can never fall into it. You look at the clock, it's 3:00AM. Okay, I'll fall asleep now. I'm lying perfectly still. I'm rolling over. Checking the clock again...3:07AM. Come on...come on I need some sleep. I know I don't really feel tired, but if I don't at least take a nap, I'll pass out in the air studio. Rolling over...umph. What time is it? It's 3:19AM. Shit, I'm never going to get to sleep. Why can't I get to sleep? What time is it? 3:24AM. Fuck! I can't get to sleep. Beep...beep...beep...beep. What time is it? 4:20AM. I'm taking a shower...

I think I slept about 45 minutes, but I woke up feeling more energetic than I've ever felt before. Outside, a storm was dumping piles of snow on the ground, trying to fill the prediction of up to six inches.

My mother picked me up to take me to the radio station around 5:20. Since the snow was so quite deep and the plows hadn't really been out, the roads were quite treacherous. We didn't go faster than 40 miles per hour the whole trip. This left plenty of time for conversation.

Since Vassar Guy and I had stopped by my house last night to get a reaction from my mother, this morning was not the first time she saw my new hair color. However, since I didn't have a friend around this morning, she let her comments flow more freely.

"Your hair was beautiful as it was," she said, "I don't know why you'd want to ruin it like you did."

"I didn't ruin it," I told her, "I made it more to my liking."

"I can't see why you weren't satisfied with what you were born with."

I tried to explain to her that I liked the look better. I tried telling her that it made me happy, but she persisted in telling me that she thought I had made a very grave mistake. I don't care what she thinks. I like my hair better burgundy than blonde and that's all that matters. She has no say in it.

She went on to comment on my makeup last night. Apparently, wearing a little lipstick and eyeliner makes me a transvestite. Yeah, Mom, that's right - I'm just a sweet transvestite...from transsexual Transylvania no less. I wish she'd open her mind a little bit and see that all I'm doing is just having a little fun. An open mind would probably be too much to ask from a parent though.

She began to piss me off when she started talking about homosexuals. She does the whole "they're nice people, but they're not using their bodies the way God intended for people to use them - men should be with women" thing. I struck back at her god and her philosophy. Who's to say that anyone is meant to use his or her bodies in a predetermined way? Assuming there is some omnipotent being (if so, it's been a bit of a deadbeat parent for quite a while - our father who art in heaven indeed), who's to say that it intends for everyone to use their body the same way?

Next subject: suicide. "Life is God's gift and we should not waste it," mother says. Personally, I liked what Goth #1 had to say: "I hope, that when I die - if there is a divine being, I hope he says to me, 'How was hell?' so I can reply, 'Fuck you!'" Leave it to my mother to convince me that faith can be blinding. Not that I'm saying suicide is a good idea - I'm saying that life isn't necessarily a gift.

She was on such a major "god" kick this morning that it was sickening. Anything and everything she had to say seemed to tie in to religion. I thought she had given up on trying to convert me, but apparently she's decided to redouble her efforts. I feel that if I could read her mind, it would be saying, "oh, no my son is not only in league with Satan, he is Satan." Frankly, I can't confirm Satan's existence as I can't confirm God's existence - not only that, I don't care either way. She's only going to piss me off with her banter.

I was glad to get to the station and out of the car. At least when I'm running religious programming at WMSA, I can turn the monitor volume down and ignore it. My mother is much harder to shut up. She thinks that she is right, no matter what.

I do have a funny thing of the day though. Someone called up while I was in WMSA, complaining that the usual morning show DJ wasn't there. I said, "They hired me for Sunday mornings."

"Oh, it's Sunday?" the caller replied, "sorry, bye."

That certainly reaffirms my faith...in human fallibility.