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There was a Jenniffer! And her whole family! The boys, anyway, helping their dad with the catering for the reception after the concert. It reminded me how much I enjoy seeing her (and her family). Maybe when I get back at some point we'll both be in Houston at the same time and we can hang out.
At the beginning of yesterday's concert, after the strange meeting of Jennifer and before anything important had happened and while I was sitting on a beanbag outside the mezzanine reading, Dan called to invite me to dinner around six with John, the three of us as the triumvirate of sophomore Farwellites. We did indeed go, to a tasty burger place that plays my classic rock station. And then we kept going. We went to Hank's Ice Cream, the famous place in the ghetto that serves wondrous strange flavors (I got oatmeal raisin). We went to the studio (Dan didn't have the key). We went to my house and jammed (it didn't sound anywhere near as good as it looked, but it was fun). And then we dropped John off at Martel and went to the Jenny's a Ho party.
It'd been a long time since I'd piled to any reasonable extent. It's not that I forgot how good it is to pile, but there aren't many opportunities with my Ailurians gone and my Reggie never present nor inclined. Dan was simultaneously rather needy and slightly forceful about it, but he's plenty comfortable. I nominate Trevor to be elected the God of Playing With Hair, subordinate only to Grant. I don't have much to work with at the moment, but Trevor made my hair into a vortex of tactile pleasure, and was gracious about it, too. Dan's friend Guy, who came with us, has very interesting hands, lovely both to look at and to touch, though he didn't pile in the technical sense. Burfy piled peripherally, crawling halfway under Guy's chair. Parker was always around somewhere, being his lovable drunk self. I seemed to have become a nexus of gay piling boys. I don't mind. They're very comfy.
The party got less and less interesting, so Dan (having decided to stop drinking that night, and made good on it so far), Guy, Trevor and I made for House of Pies. There's nothing like strawberry rhubarb in the middle of the night with good company. Dan seemed determined not to let a minute go by without declaring his love for me and giving me an oddball compliment, which, while very nice and doubtless sincere, makes me decidedly uncomfortable when it happens with that frequency. I may be great and all, but you don't have to tell me very often. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. You're just as great, but I don't go around blowing your head up.
We went from House of Pies to House of Ryan, where many relatives were asleep, so I had to tread lightly to find the Undergrad concert from this year so Trevor and Guy could hear Dan's Apres un reve. They managed to wrest my Road Not Taken onto the track list, too, to my acquiescent chagrin, but hopefully someday soon I will have a recording that does not verify Rebecca Busselberg's appellation of my voice as that of a twelve-year-old. In any case, they seemed to like it, and had a good time before they hugged me and went off to sleep. I hope to see people once again before I leave tomorrow, but there are an awful lot of relatives here who would probably disapprove if I disappeared.
I'll be back May 31st, hopefully meanwhile with tales of my jaunts across the German countryside and the drive to Wales and Scotland. It'll be fun, even without my beloved computer. I'll have to write lj entries on paper, because blogging seems to be the format into which my writing skills have molded themselves.
At the beginning of yesterday's concert, after the strange meeting of Jennifer and before anything important had happened and while I was sitting on a beanbag outside the mezzanine reading, Dan called to invite me to dinner around six with John, the three of us as the triumvirate of sophomore Farwellites. We did indeed go, to a tasty burger place that plays my classic rock station. And then we kept going. We went to Hank's Ice Cream, the famous place in the ghetto that serves wondrous strange flavors (I got oatmeal raisin). We went to the studio (Dan didn't have the key). We went to my house and jammed (it didn't sound anywhere near as good as it looked, but it was fun). And then we dropped John off at Martel and went to the Jenny's a Ho party.
It'd been a long time since I'd piled to any reasonable extent. It's not that I forgot how good it is to pile, but there aren't many opportunities with my Ailurians gone and my Reggie never present nor inclined. Dan was simultaneously rather needy and slightly forceful about it, but he's plenty comfortable. I nominate Trevor to be elected the God of Playing With Hair, subordinate only to Grant. I don't have much to work with at the moment, but Trevor made my hair into a vortex of tactile pleasure, and was gracious about it, too. Dan's friend Guy, who came with us, has very interesting hands, lovely both to look at and to touch, though he didn't pile in the technical sense. Burfy piled peripherally, crawling halfway under Guy's chair. Parker was always around somewhere, being his lovable drunk self. I seemed to have become a nexus of gay piling boys. I don't mind. They're very comfy.
The party got less and less interesting, so Dan (having decided to stop drinking that night, and made good on it so far), Guy, Trevor and I made for House of Pies. There's nothing like strawberry rhubarb in the middle of the night with good company. Dan seemed determined not to let a minute go by without declaring his love for me and giving me an oddball compliment, which, while very nice and doubtless sincere, makes me decidedly uncomfortable when it happens with that frequency. I may be great and all, but you don't have to tell me very often. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. You're just as great, but I don't go around blowing your head up.
We went from House of Pies to House of Ryan, where many relatives were asleep, so I had to tread lightly to find the Undergrad concert from this year so Trevor and Guy could hear Dan's Apres un reve. They managed to wrest my Road Not Taken onto the track list, too, to my acquiescent chagrin, but hopefully someday soon I will have a recording that does not verify Rebecca Busselberg's appellation of my voice as that of a twelve-year-old. In any case, they seemed to like it, and had a good time before they hugged me and went off to sleep. I hope to see people once again before I leave tomorrow, but there are an awful lot of relatives here who would probably disapprove if I disappeared.
I'll be back May 31st, hopefully meanwhile with tales of my jaunts across the German countryside and the drive to Wales and Scotland. It'll be fun, even without my beloved computer. I'll have to write lj entries on paper, because blogging seems to be the format into which my writing skills have molded themselves.
