Everybody's got their own angel, and this is about mine
So you came. Hi Mark. This is not a homepage like any of my others.
My others are supposed to be funny. Whether or not they are funny
depends on loads and loads of external factors, both subjective and
objective, including, but not limited to
- my dubious sense of humor
- you, the reader's, equally dubious sense of humor
- the meshing thereof. for instance if you are
- a fundamentalist Christian
- a jock
- a conservative
- an engineer
- my freshman year roommate, Dana, the single most annoying person
on the face of the earth
then you might not recognize the intended humor. which
is not, frankly, a bad thing, since some of it is at your expense.
So let me clarify. This homepage is not for you, the Surfer. Am
I rude to get it out in the open like that? Probably. But I
think I should be honest. Yesterday this guy Mark asked me why I
always make new homepages instead of updating the old. I have, to date,
three homepages, and this is the fourth. And the answer is because I
like having a record. So that's what this is. A record. This was a
fucked up year. And it ends up here. The internet, physical incarnation
of impermanence. According to Boethius, immortality is impossible
because no matter how great the dimensions of the finite, it becomes
obsolete when measured against the infinite, meaning time. I love
The Consolation of Philosophy, and I made myself love Geoffrey
Chaucer because he translated it into English. This is Geoffrey's
and my connection. Lewd jokes and The Consolation of Philosophy.
So as I say this was a fucked up year. The title of this page is not
accidental. I have the most amazing friends in the entire world. So
this is about them. If you want to leave, leave now. Here's a
for your exiting pleasure.
Seen all the good things and bad running down the hill
all so battered and brought to the ground. I am hungry again; I am drunk
again with all the money I owe to my friends. If you walk out the
door will I see you again if so much of me lies in your eyes.
This is Jane. She and
were the light bits in my fall semester depression. Before I found
myself and became a Classics major. When I was still trying to pretend
that I could love John Milton. And I wanted more than anything else
in the entire world to be in London, where I lived last summer. Anyway,
Jane possesses the unique ability to make me happy when the entire
world has crashed and burned on my doorstep. Which, this year, it did.
This is Tristan. He is the other half of Jane. And I mean that in
the most complimentary way possible. They are the only couple I have
ever known who are able to always be together and maintain separate
and unique identities. Tristan is furthermore the only guy I know who
is willing to repeat, in unison with Jane and I, the words "vaginal
yeast infection." It's sort of a ritual by now. Sort of?
And here, The Artist Occasionally Known As Nicholas. Usually he is
known as Nick. We have cigarettes and bitch about the void of the
universe together. Yeah the void of the universe.
I don't have any pictures of Kendra. She's been my best friend
(whatever that means) since week two of freshman year, when she
grabbed her breasts and introduced herself as "Kendra of the Hills."
I had actually met her before then. She was in my roommate, Leah's,
academic advising group, and we could never remember each other's name.
That's how freshman week shapes up. A lot of vague people with elusive
names. But anyway, Kendra and I and Todd formed
the core (and only) group of smokers in Holder Hall. My RA, Dave,
called us the Unholy Trinity. The unholy trinity died a spectacular
death in February, when I got back from intersession and Todd came
into my room and informed me that Kendra had attempted suicide for
the third time in two years and had been asked to leave for a year.
Kendie is one of my rocks. She makes me solidly happy. What can I
say about her? She is impossible to express. I wrote an awful poem
once in which the only redeeming line was one that compared her to a
halogen stand lamp. Nick wanted to put it in
the lit mag we edit, and this one guy said that the image wasn't
in keeping with the rest of the poem. Well, fine. Maybe he was
right. But it was the only image that could even come close to
expressing the way I see Kendra. When she left, I spent two months
in a strange grey lethargy, and tried to write a story to get out of it.
I never finished the story. It was about me. I couldn't make it
fiction. There was no point. Anyway, in it, there was a line
they had nothing in common except a certain elaborately
Everything else in the story I could classify. Either it was real,
it was about Todd and Kendie and I, or it was fiction, a conscious
effort to delinate recitation from creation. That was the only bit I
wasn't sure. Not because what we had in common wasn't
nihilism. But because I don't think it was the only thing.
Desmond T. Barry, Jr. was my first friend at Princeton. He lived
upstairs from me, in 133 Holder, freshman year. I met him at our
RA group dinner, when everyone was silent and nervous and he leaned
across the table and said, "Hi, I'm Todd." And I thought
praise the fucking lord someone who talks. It all went
from there, frankly. How do I explain freshman year? T and Kendie
and I laughed at everything. Everything was a huge rollicking joke,
and we were the instigators. Am I romanticizing? Possibly. This
was a rough year for T and I. We were the ones who lost the most
when Kendie left. To say that we were adrift would be an understatement
as well as a cliche. If this is my record than I have to be honest.
We are what he calls "residential friends". When Kendie left we were
destroyed. Not as friends, as people. We reconstructed ourselves,
something that happens every day but usually with less drama, and we
did it by turning outwards. I called Jane crying in the middle of the
night, after Campus initiations. I remember standing in 1879 arch at
the blue phone and saying Kendie tried to kill herself again I need to
be with someone can I come over. My nonresidential friends are the
creative writing crew. Jane and Tristan and Nick. Todd's are
musical theatre people. I'm overanalyzing. I have a habit of that.
Anyway, this painting is by Picasso, Blue Nude. Todd's got it
up on his wall. I remember one day in February he told me that he
finally understood it. That the blue is inside the woman as well as
outside. I thought it was possibly the most beautiful analysis of art
I had ever heard. Eventually I will plagiarize him and put it in a
...and I are no longer friends. We were friends for eight months before
I realized that he has no idea who I am or in fact anything about me.
I've drifted apart from people before, but never actually had a
mutual decision to sever relations. It feels like a breakup, frankly,
which is ironic in so very many ways. Ah, Mac. Funny how you can
think someone knows you and then realize they think you're a spoiled
private school girl with a 36D, and that the last is your primary
attribute. Har de fucking har. You live and you learn, right. He
lives next door to me, and I keep trying to return his CDs but he
won't answer my knocks. I figure that gives me license to keep them.
Hey, the eight months weren't totally wasted... Optimism being the
key to life. Yeah.
If Pat Akhimie is the Incarnation of Calm, Shannon is the Muse of
Well-Balancedness. Shannon and I and Choss
are linked by the bond of Limelight, the newspaper we edited
together in high school. We spent many a nightmarish hour in the
Limelight office, formerly the teacher's smoking lounge, which was
how I developed a latent addiction to nicotine. Via the secondhand
smoke that was lodged in the carpet. Excuses, excuses, I know...
Shannon was my cohort in London. A city to which she was allergic,
ironically enough. The irony is in her name, Shannon Carty. If you
don't get it...well, you don't get it, do you then? Life sucks and
then you develop hemorrhoids. Anyway, Shannon and I lived in a
two-bedroom apartment (the Fourth floor flat at 3 Prince's Square,
W2 4NP) with Jill, Shana, Jen, Wendy, and Emily, and then halfway
through Shana went off traveling and we inherited this girl named
Mindy, who was possibly the most midwestern thing ever to cross the
Atlantic and had a wardrobe consisting entirely of earth tones.
Anyway, the crackup was that the flat developed into two loosely
defined camps. The nice all-American sorority girls (Jen, Wendy, and
Emily, and then later Mindy) and the sarcastic liberals (Jill, Shana,
and I, defined as liberal primarily by a liberal use of the word
fuck). And Shannon managed to navigate between this. Everybody liked
her. It was amazing. She went to church with Jen and to the pub with
me. And she never, ever, told any of us how to do our laundry, which
was frankly one of Jen's least attractive habits. Also not bathing,
but don't get me started. The sorority crew left two weeks before the rest of
us, and I had to air out the apartment for freaking ever to get rid
of the smell.
Choss' real name is Jessie. I think it's important to get that out in
the open right now. She doesn't even like being called Choss. But
with Shannon and I she understands that there's no major point in
protesting. Or at least, she understands that all of her very voluble
protests are primarily rhetorical in nature. Choss talks a lot.
That's her defining feature. Her boyfriend's name is Scott. His
defining feature is his baseball cap, which as far as I can tell—which
frankly isn't very far, since I've met him a grand total of twice, and
never actually engaged him in conversation—never comes off. Although
I mean, it must. I've got enough confidence in Choss to say with
relative certainty that Scott, unlike Jen, bathes.
Newsflash: Choss visited this page and sent me an email
confirming that Scott bathes. Regularly. Extensively. Without his
hat. Inquiring minds want to know.
Amy and I are linked by a mutual obsession with
The Artists Formerly Known As On A Friday. First we were mutually
obsessed with the Beatles. Now we're forming a band. Which I want to
call "Nag Hammadi" but I haven't told her that yet. Look out for us,
probably not called "Nag Hammadi" (my other bandname suggestions have
been "Octopus in Bondage" and "my sweetheart the drunk") at a small,
extremely cruddy, and probably very dark venue near you in the not
indefinite future. So far we feature Amy Prosen on vocals, guitar, and
piano, Victor Mazariegos on guitar, me on drums, and Chris and
Christina both do guitar, vox, and piano, and will be duking it out
for possession of an upright bass sometime in June. Stay tuned for
details. You heard it here first.
Lilly goes to Yale and is theatrical. When I went up to New Haven this
spring, she was in an absolutely smashing production of Equus,
which I enjoyed very much. As far as I know, her family
is unrelated to the Tuttle Library of Enlightenment, but you might
as well check it out
anyway. Lilly and I have been friends since the second grade, when
we became Girl Scouts together. It's one of our deeper darker mutual
secrets. Selling cookies and everything. And those awful uniforms.
Ouch. We quit in the sixth grade, when we didn't get promoted from
Junior to Senior girl scouts. In it for the long haul, Lilly and I...
...is the randomest of my friends, being athletic. Me, with athletic
friends? Who knew it could happen. Actually, Espy and I became
friends in the fourth grade because we were mutually unathletic. Then
she went off and became a nationally ranked fencer, leaving me alone
in the domain of flab-ridden thighs. Not that I'm bitter or anything.
Espy also goes to Yale. After seeing Lilly in Equus, I went and
got rollickingly drunk with the fencing team. I've got to say that
I love the fencing team.
see pics of
the New York crew (and my parents) at my high school graduation
back to the front page