Snowbound and Irate

Well, I got what I wanted in some senses, and what I deserved in others. Which is probably the proper balance for that sort of thing, but that's a very zen sort of way to look at it, and my feng shui is all sorts of fucked up right now.

Homecoming was...well, not exactly what I expected it to be. However, I'm fairly certain that I didn't make a fool of myself playing with the band, so I'll at least count that part of things as a success. Honestly, the whole event made me inclined to give out extra awards. In fact...

* For "Shortest Reign of a Queen", Dot Rothschild. I mean, we're talking putting Lady Jane Gray to shame. However short, she was spectacular in her noblesse oblige.

* For "Best Catch of the Crown", Jane Austen. Because taking over after the abdication with that much grace and style takes talent. Plus, the crown was cute perched on Howie's head.

* For "Most Spectacular Failed Kidnapping", Chris de Troyes. Because that level of death-defying stupidity in the name of a girl is hard to resist. Especially if the girl is smart like this one.

* For "Had Most Fun On the Dance Floor", Hildy Doolittle. I'm sorry, the band has the best view of that sort of thing, and she wins hands-down.

* For "Clearly Born To be King", Nico Machiavelli. I mean, the man even arrived with appropriate entourage and courtiers. How can you beat that?

* For "Cutest Band Groupie", Anne Bronte. Even if she was technically our only groupie. And not my groupie, at that.

Aside from playing with the band? The rest of my evening could have gone better. Spectacularly so, in fact. Let's just leave it at that. The appropriate parties know what happened. Maybe they'll be kind enough at some point to even tell me.

Also, you all can consider this your official notice that announcements will be forthcoming regarding Dot's "Took the Crown" celebration, with the funds gathered up at the fundraising pizza bash. I'm aiming for a good weekend after this one, but well before finals. Suggestions welcome on all fronts: location, DJing, specific timing, and so on.

In less official and more 'keeping the rumors in check' news, word has it that the king -- at least the crowned king, since Freddy didn't make the dance -- was felled by a mysterious ailment Sunday night. As one of the guys on the spot, I can say that yes, he was taken away by ambulance. I can also say that, as of the very next morning, Nico was also awake and bored out of his skull in the hospital. He's already posted himself, I know, but consider this secondary confirmation that his majesty is in need of distraction. So drop by and drive the nurses up the wall.

Which brings us to Thanksgiving. No way my parents are fronting for a flight to India, so I'm on my own recognizance for the holiday. I did have plans for a road trip, but those seem to be unexpectedly nixed by fate and the legal system -- and honestly, I'm not entirely certain they wouldn't have been canceled anyway for other reasons. There had been nebulous plans elsewhere for a shorter road trip, but given the events of the last week, I'm not sure those are game either. So I'm weighing the benefits of taking that shorter trip on my own, so I'm not sitting around MacArthur alone for Thanksgiving. After all, I can come back and sit around for the rest of the weekend just fine.

Maybe I should bring back a turkey and try out the kitchen in MacArthur on Black Friday. If I even really leave town. Anyone who's sticking it out is welcome to come by. If you do? Bring pie.

They say Spring is the time for romance. I think they have never had to endure a New England Winter. As I ward off the ever-present threat of frostbite, and watch my fellow animals in this zoo we call Icaria, I've come to the conclusion that while Spring may be a time for lovers, these dwindling days of Autumn are just as much an aphrodesiac. After all, when you're snowbound inside, what would you rather be doing?

a. Homework
b. Gossiping about who's sleeping with who
c. Expanding the range of possibilities vis-a-vis who's sleeping with who

Let's just say I'm putting my money on the last two options. Maybe it's more than the cold; even a tropical snob like me has to admit that the leaves are gorgeous this time of year, the forest aflame in ways that I'll leave it to much better poets than I to attempt to describe. I'd quote Robert Frost, but all that comes to mind is Fire and Ice:

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

At least it's poetry that's vaguely on-topic, as well. We've certainly got enough ice around here these days, and I know it's just going to get worse. As for fire...well. We can count it a blessing for some that I wasn't burned like Guy Fawkes at Dot's Fundraising Dinner -slash- Pizza Extravaganza. Perhaps she's saving that for Homecoming, though; I would go up in a pretty good blaze if we soaked me in all the alcohol we can afford from donations. That, or maybe she'll toss me to the other girls who didn't have Campaign Managers. I know we've got to have a bacchanal around here at some point, dammit!

(Special note to someone who shall remain nameless: You still have three days. If you haven't yet, ASK HER.)

Of course, the girls apparently lost the lottery to see who would tar and feather me first. As previously and briefly reported, I was given what I do believe the young kids are calling "a trouncing" after the party. Four guys, none of whom I saw real clearly in the dark, and a pummeling later, and into the dumpster I went. Wounds were relatively minor: a black eye, some scrapes, a twisted ankle, a wounded ego, and one unrepairable shoe. Somehow, I was lucky enough to have a sharp-tongued Angel of Mercy drop in and apply first aid to the physical wounds, and a good lancing to the ego before it tried to fester. Add in a more gentle touch later that night, and a weekend to recover, and I do believe the limp and the shiner will be gone in time for Homecoming. Underlying causes? We'll address after we find out if I'm surviving Saturday.

Speaking of Homecoming: yours truly is dateless. C'est la vie! Thankfully, my fingers will be occupied with other pursuits -- at least, hopefully, this will be my debut as the trumpet section for Smutty Moll. Though still, given the way things are looking, I may be the only guy going stag. I was..let us say, pre-empted?...in my first choice by Mr. Fly-By-Night, and the second option...well. Apparently, even the budding possibility of Autumn romance is more whirlwind up here than even I'm used to. I can't be upset, though. Not in the face of budding adorableness to this degree. They may actually need to issue a license; I'm not certain this kind of cute isn't lethal in uncontrolled doses.

As I look back over my previous paragraph, a clarification: I don't mean to say that second and any other options unasked (one was suggested to me, but I think I'm staying further away from the knives than that, at least for that night) would have been consolation dates compared to who I had been considering at first. I'm not that cutthroat and mercenary a bastard. There is a damn reason I'm going stag rather than working my way down the list into the truly desperate for a date, just like there's a reason I'm not even asking the possible third. She, and everyone else? Deserves better than that.

Anyway. Enough self-reflection. I'll just end by noting that, despite not having really talked about it? There is some serious strangeness afoot in this town. I think I've shaken the majority of the cloud that'd been over my head since Halloween. At least, I'd like to hope I have. But that leaves questions. Consider this a note to self: Talk to D and E when you get a chance. Better informed than blindsided again, after all.