Cultivable

I've never been good with entry titles. I used to just take them from songs I was listening to. Now I've taken one from Word-a-Day at thefreedictionary.com.

Last night, went out on a last-minute whim to a lounge across town called Organo to meet up with a high school friend of mine I hadn't seen in at least a year. Sylvia, her name was. She was late, so I stood in the alleyway outside the place, staring at the lights on the construction site in the middle of the road where they were digging a new line for the MRT.

The apartment complex across the alley looked familiar; the more I looked at it, the more I started to think that it looked a lot like the apartment where Kristii lived. It was kind of near my old school, so it could've been the right location. Sort of knew her back in middle school; can't remember what her Chinese name was, for some reason. Met her that one afternoon the summer after junior year of high school after I got out of work (was working at my mom's friend's office that summer). She was coming back from spending the day at Danshui; she gave me as a souvenir a rather elaborate, gold-streaked spiked seashell. Then I walked her back to her apartment, which the apartment in front of me last night didn't very much resemble anymore after 10 minutes of staring at it, for some reason. I kept the seashell on my bookshelf for a long while, but somehow the spikes started breaking off.

Eventually Sylvia and a few of her friends arrived in a cab. She'd gotten some ridiculous leveled-bang haircut which, combined with the retro hornrim glasses and business suit skirt, landed her somewhere in the confused region between flirtatious librarian and sex-wielding businesswoman. Of course, she's actually a college sophomore and neither of those things. Recognized her friends' types pretty quickly: flared hair, possibly designer clothes, chic grins and matching demeanors--either born and raised overseas, or born here and raised to go there. Either way, post-adolescent expatriates from rich Taiwanese families, not surprising given the company.

When we finally went into the place, some sort of revivalist disco was playing--eventually succeeded by Thom Yorke's "Cymbal Rush," an unlikely choice, among other things--and a medley of short art-house films, introduced by a Frenchwoman, was being projected on the wall. Sylvia knew one of the waitresses there. She explained that all the waitresses had day jobs as models. Not really the situation I'd normally get myself into, but that's why I have friends: I use them as excuses. We talked, Sylvia smoking one Vogue cigarette after another and drinking the Liquid Heroin she ordered--which tasted essentially like an alcoholic nectarine--and me sipping the one gin and tonic I allowed myself. Let her do most of the talking, of course: about Cornell, about her being foolish freshman year, about her sorority and why her pledge name was "Envy" (the other pledges envied her; she envied the spotlight), about her boyfriend, about that time Kevin H. got drunk with her when they were in Hong Kong, etc. I know I'll never live these lives, but it's amusing to hear about them once in a while. She asked me about Baltimore and the murders a couple of years ago. She asked me about the band, and I told her about the band. She thought the story of how I got wasted on Jim Beam and Pepsi while watching Deep Throat on the Shriver screen (biggest in Maryland!) and then passed out in the basement restroom was hilarious. So did I, even the day after it happened.

I was right about the others: one of them went to Purdue, another guy from Purdue showed up later, and another guy went to some place in Florida that I can't remember. Eventually the guys started ordering shots. 151s and then the multilayered B-52s, which were set alight on top and then sucked from a straw from the bottom. The second Purdue guy tried to get me to split a 151 shot with him. I declined. It's legal for me to drink in this country, but I'm always reluctant to do it. Especially in light of recent events. (I didn't suppose one gin and tonic in two weeks would hurt.) Sylvia's model-waitress friend brought us free fries, which were delicious.

Around 1AM I decided it was time to leave. Said goodbye to Sylvia--never will understand how she's so nice to people who are so utterly unlike her. The other kids headed off to karaoke--I didn't particularly feel like it--except Ken, and we split a cab since we lived somewhat close to each other. On the way back, he talked a bit about the boarding school in Vermont he went to (they have a ski team), and other things.

After all that my jacket felt a little smoky. And a bit inexpensive, but that's not the same thing as cheap, not by a long shot. I'm the kind of guy who wouldn't know what to do with money if you gave it to me. Well, I'd probably buy a few basses, but that would be it.

Just trying to dance to the right songs here, as I've always tried.