Saturday, September 18, 2004

samedi, etc.

The clock is still ticking on the FCC paper. And so far, all I have is an intro.

And it's not even a particularly good intro. Most of what I have so far was written at 2 in the morning. This is a time that is usually reserved for blogging, and it shows. One paragraph in particular was tragically sprinkled with verbage that is in no way suitable for formal legal writing. Terms like "drama", "closure", and "not that simple" sounded nothing short of bloggish. So they got 86'ed, thus bringing closure to that drama.

And West Nile isn't helping the matter, seeing as how West Nile generally isn't conducive to staying awake for longer than two consecutive hours at any given time. Last night I went to bed at 12:59am. I woke up at 12:08pm. That's a lot of sleep. However, halfway through lunch with Martha and Big Jer, I was feeling ready to slip on my jammies and tuck myself in for yet another mosquito-induced coma.

Lunch was enjoyable nonetheless. My dad seemed to be extremely adversely affected by an incident that occured yesterday that involved getting heckled by a 12 year-old girl at the post office. "So we meet again, plaid-man!" This was enough to give him a complex. I tried to explain to him that the opinions of 12 year-old girls are kind of like the opinions of people who watch professional wrestling. Every opinion that person has, simply by virtue of their affinity for professional wrestling, or her status as a 12 year-old, is rendered completely null and void.

I explained it like this:

"If some overweight guy with a mullet, wearing a XXL black t-shirt with a picture of some muscular guy with a goatee and a speedo, with the slogan, "Slammin' Yo Momma" emblazened on the back, walked up behind you in the post office and insulted your plaid shirt, would you be upset? No. Because that person is clearly an idiot. The same is true of 12 year-old girls."

Martha was also in perfect form:

"Had any run-ins with [stalker]?


"She's weird."

"Well. She is a stalker."

"[Preacher and Preacher's wife] went to dinner with her family, and [Preacher's wife] said that [stalker] talked about you a lot. Like, a whole lot."

"That's what stalkers do."

"I just think that's weird."

"Of course it's weird! That's why she's a stalker!"

"You shouldn't talk to her. She's weird."

And don't even get me started on a run-in that D-Lew, ChrisA, and I had with a freind of [stalker]'s, an indescribably annoying high-school girl who was hanging around Sugar Brown's.

"Your name's [The Hoov]?"


"Are you in law school?"

" . . .yeah."

"Do you know [stalker]?"

At this point my blood pressure shot up like Tony Soprano's whenever his sister or Richie Aprile is around. Also at this point, D-Lew and ChrisA tried unsuccessfully to stifle their laughter.

"Yeah . . . I know [stalker]."

"The first time I met her she said you were the hottest guy she'd ever seen in her entire life."

More blood pressure. More poorly-veiled guffaws.

Why is it that the best compliments always come from the most whacked-out people? Jen wouldn't even return a text message, and that cute 2L wouldn't give me the time of day if I was running late for my brain surgery, but the crazy high-school chick is lauding my appearance in the routine course of social introductions. Hi, my name is [stalker], and The Hoov is the hottest guy I've ever seen in my life.

Quoth the Martha, "she's weird."