Introduction
This is the thirty-second installment in the “From the Archives – Bits & Bobs” series. Volume I of the series is here, Volume II is here, Volume III is here, Volume IV is here, Volume V is here, Volume VI is here, Volume VII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume IX is here, Volume X is here, Volume XI is here, Volume XII is here, Volume XIII is here, Volume XIV is here, Volume XV is here, Volume XVI is here, Volume XVII is here, Volume XVIII is here, Volume XIX is here, Volume XX is here, Volume XXI is here, Volume XXII is here, Volume XXIII is here, Volume XXIV is here, Volume XXV is here, Volume XXVI is here, Volume XXVII is here, Volume XXVIII is here, Volume XXIX is here, Volume XXX is here, and Volume XXXI is here.
What are Bits & Bobs? They’re short essays and other missives I wrote ages ago, usually taken from letters to friends and family. I wrote these long before I had a blog and (in the case of this week’s batch) even before I had email. When writing them I tried to be all literary and highbrow, whether or not I had any faith my words would even be read. In that sense these letters were a whole lot like albertnet…
The different volumes of Bits & Bobs are not organized chronologically, thematically, spatially, or in fact at all. You can read these in numerical, alphabetical, sequential, or temporal order, or according to your religious, philosophical, ontological, or spiritual ideals. Are some volumes better than others? I have no idea … I only wrote and compiled them.
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Today’s Bits & Bobs are in chronological order, and all happen to have been written when I was a Berkeley student.
July 28, 1990
A bunch of B—’s friends came up to visit for the weekend, and we went to this San Francisco bar, the Savoy Tivoli. Everyone was ordering cocktails. I’d never had a cocktail in my life and didn’t even know their names. I felt tongue-tied and almost panicked. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to note what the person before me ordered, and parroted “gin and tonic” as my order. It felt weird to hear this phrase come out of my mouth—like a lie, almost. I mean, I didn’t even know what a gin and tonic was, so to suggest that I actually wanted one was somehow fundamentally untrue. The drink went down easily enough, but I had no idea what it had cost, and you know how broke I always am, so it was the only drink I ordered all evening. (That ended up being a good thing because the entire rest of our party got completely clocked, and it fell to me to be the designated driver.) It was pretty funny: Fat Head started hitting on this girl in our group he didn’t know, somebody’s friend, and he thought her name was Connie but he wasn’t sure, so he was kind of introducing this “H” sound into it, like “CHonnie,” so that if he had the name wrong she’d think he was saying “Honey.” (I wouldn’t have put this together at the time; he explained the strategy the next day.) Well, the girl’s name was actually Alicia and she didn’t buy his BS for a second. So anyhow, B— and I have noted how soft and wormlike guys can tend to get when they’re overly smitten by a girl, and we are perennially on our guard against that. So when one of us is talking about some fly chick we’re into, we always refer to her as “CHonnie,” as a way to downplay our interest, kind of like saying “what’s-her-name.” As a linguistic innovation, it’s right up there with “Hector.”
Speaking of trying to maintain our dignity in the face of beautiful, terrifying girls, B— and I try to balance things out by turning the love interest into a foil for our own joking around. For example, B—’s “friend” M— came to visit, and I knew she wasn’t just a friend, he totally pined for her as he’d described in great detail prior, without even remembering to refer to her as “Chonnie.” Yeah: that smitten. As I was introduced I said, “It’s so nice to meet you M—. Gosh, B— has told me so much about you.” But I made sure to get her name slightly wrong, as a little inside joke to B—. And then when B— left us alone for a few minutes, while he finished styling himself out before they left, I took M— aside and spoke to her in a hushed tone: “Sorry if B— sort of embarrasses you when you go out tonight. I keep promising I’ll take him out clothes shopping so he won’t look like such a dork, but I haven’t gotten around to it. He’s cool though, I mean seriously, except when . . . well, sometimes he acts kind of cheesy. He can’t help it. But you guys will have fun, trust me.” I delighted in wondering how M— would recount this little pre-apology to B— later. Ideally, they’d share a laugh over my “clothes shopping” comment, since B— dresses better than anyone I know, and I shop at Ross Dress for Less. [Note: you can read here how, not long after, B— turned the tables on me. –Ed.]
June 20, 1991
Seems I’m finally getting some acne, after having been mostly spared as a teenager. (Who knows, maybe I’m finally hitting puberty.) But I don’t get a lot of zits all over my face, like a lot of other people. I get one, and only one, except that it only seems like just one, but really it’s like five—four of which are beneath the skin, right underneath the visible one, burrowing deep into my face. Only one makes it to the surface at a time. So it gets good and ripe, whitehead and all, and I go to pop it and the seed comes right out, springing clear of the skin of my face in a valiant attempt to reach the bathroom mirror, sometimes even making a distinct “poip” noise, but to my horror there’s still something there. And that next one lures me into a false sense that it’s ripe, and I invariably try to finish it off, and the whole thing gets red and bloated and really sore. This has happened twice now, once on my forehead where my hair kind of covered it up, and again right near my mouth. I cannot convey to you how pissed off this gets me. Near my mouth, I resisted the impulse to pop the zit, but then when it finally went away, the zit beneath it dropped right down the little pimple-tunnel into exactly the same place as the first. So much self restraint is required here that I’m not sure I can take it. At least it’s not as bad as that forehead one: that one had so much zit-puss behind it I could feel a raised section on my forehead the diameter of a quarter. And you know what the worst of it is? None of my zits has ever been as bad as the ones I see every day, on all kinds of people. On the way to a haircut in the San Francisco Castro district the other day, I was taking Muni, which is this really scummy subway, and I saw this old guy with about seven or eight huge warts on his nose. It was so hideous I could only look for about a second at a time. I got to thinking, what would happen to me if my nose began to grow warts like those? First, this would destroy my social life, as nobody would be willing to subject himself to the heinous sight of me. I would honorably remove myself from people’s sight and become a hermit. I’d only venture out via shitty big-city subways where everybody’s too busy rushing around everywhere to notice me, except for maybe some college kid who thinks he can boost his own self-image (tarnished by a towering whitehead zit, perhaps) by noting the physical deformities of people like me.
September 10, 1991 - Berkeley
I’ve finally mostly got my health back after that heinous, endless strep throat business. There’s just one symptom remaining: I can’t open my jaws more than like a centimeter, because of the residual swelling. So I’m eating a bit slower lately. A friend had me over for lunch at her sorority house and all we had to choose from was roast beef sandwich or salad (which, as you know, is ideal for rabbits and chicks, but not guys like us). So I’m there dipping this roast beef sandwich in the “au jus” and kind of smashing it into my lips and sucking it through the narrow gap between my upper and lower teeth. My parents would be shocked at such table manners. For a moment I worried that the sorority sisters were grossed out, but then quickly grasped that nobody was paying any attention to me. I mean, why would they? I need to get over myself.
I had some totally heinous nightmares when I was sick, dude. The last one I had, maybe a week ago, was that I was with my family at this weird place, sort of a cross between a hotel and a museum, and there was this exhibit on the top floor where you would walk through and see the corpses of all these people who went crazy (some sort of mass hysteria) and killed themselves with scalpels. So I went through and all these people had sliced themselves to ribbons and a few of them weren’t even dead yet. Yow!
Today I was riding my bike through campus (a highly illegal activity, for some reason) when I saw The Most Intensely Beautiful Woman in the World. Have I told you about her? She was in one of my English classes last semester. She makes the second most beautiful girl in the world (her friend, actually, who sat with her) look plain. I’m serious, if you saw her you would instantly reorganize your hierarchy of most attractive females in the world, with her at the top. I’ve never even seen a picture of a model who’s as attractive. At the final exam last semester I arrived a bit early, to make sure I had all the time I needed, and she came and sat right next to me. It was a huge lecture hall, still mostly empty, so there was no need for this; I’m certain she was just messing with me because she’s probably caught me sneaking looks at her. So the lecture hall filled up and then the exam started and for like twenty minutes I couldn’t even think. She’s that fly. I should have waited after the exam and gone up to her and said something really suave like, “Insofar as you totally distracted me just now, and my grade in this class will probably suffer, can you at least tell me your name?” Anyhow, when I saw her again today I almost passed out. I’m lucky I didn’t crash my bike. Damn.
October 1, 1991
Some of my friends are older and have already graduated, and since I’m in my senior year, I’m starting to worry (just a little) about joining the workforce and what that will be like. Here is my composite of what my friends’ stories suggest: the “real job” is distinct from a “summer job” mainly by the level of decorum. Even if you mainly sit in an office talking on the phone all day, you have to wear a necktie. Why the tie? Beats me. Maybe it’s like a collar and leash, to remind you of your submission to your employer. And then you have to drive incredible distances on the highway to get to work, which sucks because of traffic, and then when the traffic finally clears up and you want to make up time so you’re not late to work, you see a highway patrol car and have to slow down again, cussing and moaning about how you’re going to be late now and why doesn’t that cop get the hell out of here and let you be, and then you get to work and whenever the bossman comes around you have to speed up your work, and why doesn’t that jerk get the hell out of here and let you be, and then you drive home and bitch about the traffic, and about the cop, and then you drink a beer and figure out a way to fill in the time before you go to bed, wake up the next morning, and do the whole thing over again. On the weekends, exhausted, you need to get away so you do a trip somewhere, and drive along the freeway and cuss and moan when you see a cop cruiser, and then hang out at a beach and go to a few bars and visit old friends from college and then have to part ways and drive back across the highway and get ready to begin another five-day grind. Man, I can’t wait.
November 5, 1991 - Berkeley
I’m taking this Native American literature course and it’s pretty rad. First we read lots of trickster tales, which bear an interesting resemblance to the African American Brer Rabbit tales. The Native American trickster is usually a rabbit or at least rabbit-ish. The really weird part is how often these stories mention his penis—either its being extraordinarily long, or detachable, or getting badly injured. This is one of the benefits of being an English major: I can regale my roommates with what I’m learning, and they’re actually interested. It doesn’t wash the other way. E— can’t really talk about Political Science because everyone (including he himself) knows that’s pretty boring. M— is getting a PhD in Mechanical Engineering which I suppose I’d find interesting except how could he possibly dumb it down enough for me? The other guy, J—, is majoring in Forestry, and maybe that could be interesting if described by a bright guy, but J— is just a dumbass. When challenged about having the easiest major there is, he replied, “Dude, there’s a lotta trees!” (I didn’t make that up, he really said that.) In contrast, when I recount a tale of the Trickster sending his incredibly long penis across a river to achieve sexual congress with the daughter of another tribe’s chief, I have my roommates’ full attention.
I’m reading this hella dope book called Fools Crow now. I didn’t grasp the point of the title at first because I thought it was “fool’s crow,” like some fool had a pet crow or something, like maybe he’d have been a falconer if he wasn’t such a fool. But it’s actually a verb phrase, “fools Crow,” as in he fooled the Crow tribe. Turns out the Native Americans in the protagonist’s tribe (and probably others) had this convention of giving you a really lame name when you’re young—the protagonist’s was “White Man’s Dog,” i.e., very derogatory—and then if you do something impressive, like using cunning to kill the Crow chief, you get a cool new name honoring your achievement, hence “Fools Crow.” I have been trying to turn this into a new tradition for my roommates and me, giving each other lame names based on our lack of achievement, e.g., Wets the Bed or Chases Bimbos. This didn’t take hold, but then I happened to mention that White Man’s Dog called his wife “nothing-woman.” That immediately stuck, and has become something we invariably call one another (e.g., “Stop leaving your wet towel on the floor, nothing-woman!”) and is also a way to refer to one another’s girlfriends (e.g., “So are we riding this weekend or is your nothing-woman dragging you off somewhere?”).
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