Dancing Queen

I got drafted into going on this tour of the PUP warehouse. Let me just say, never again, man. This mean little gay man took us on a laborious tour of the facilities, regaling us with one anecdote after another. Did I ask to be told about the multiple prisoners from Texas who call with requests for scholarly books? I don’t even know what to make of that. Do we actually live in a social utopia without knowing it? Is inmate #A8997462215 better versed in Coleridge than I am?

When I got home, Clara and her friends were over and waiting for me before heading out to the DBar. All three of them went to college in Athens, Georgia. Heath and Blaine are visiting her this weekend – although Heath begins work at the Press this upcoming week. I felt a little awkward since he later told me that he had applied for the position I’m in. What do you say to that? I always wondered about the people who got jobs I applied for (half-resentfully, half-miserably), and even in this instance, I did pause to wonder what the other candidates were like. To meet one in a personal context really is an invitation for awkwardness.

This isn’t to say that Heath and I don’t get along. In fact, we get along so well that he unbuttoned my blouse, bought me a drink, grabbed my ass, and kissed me and told me how beautiful I am as only a rockin’ gay male friend can. He’s a sweetie, although he also has a very determined personality, and I have a feeling he can alter from a chill and charming guy into a catty little cow. Let’s see. People have never as yet failed me by being totally disinteresting.

Blaine seemed like a totally nice guy too. He’s stuck in Alabama – poor thing! – working as a reporter for a local newspaper, and is desperately trying to get out. I think he ideally wants to come up here and join the Princeton commune, as led by Clara. They’re kind of a hilarious trio – very fun, very inviting, a little intimidating.

Anyway, we had a great time. I love dancing to disco music. Vanessa and I found our own spot on the dance stage and twirled our arms and hips for hours and hours. I really admire her -- she’s such a self-contained person. Even on the dance floor. I usually need to be pretty intoxicated to move as unabashedly as she does. Still, dancing, well there’s nothing quite like it, especially when a guy in an afro wig and an unbuttoned silk shirt with polka dots is doing John Travolta (from that scene in Saturday Night Fever) right next to you. It just makes me want to boogie oogie oogie until the sun comes up.