Sluts, Reminiscing

I went to a high school reunion tonight. We went to an avante-garde type school, very small, academic, eclectic. The reunion felt a bit more like a dinner party - which it was - than a meeting between a bunch of young people who had so much promise. I suppose that's the stereotypical reaction. Once my friends and I left, though, it was quite fun to reminisce about absurd liasons and folktales regarding penis size. Is there anything more compelling than a second-hand story about an old friend's habits with his old friend, so to speak? Fortunately, we had a male to consult, who clarified the situation somewhat.

It reminded me of the time when I asked a high school boy, sort of on a dare - because we all were wondering - where a guy puts his penis when it's not in use. Did he wrap it up? Push it down? We were on a school trip in the country. The boy I questioned was very open and relaxed about such matters. Still, I got a muffled response. Later,my friends and I walked up the big hill and saw a group of smiling boys. They called over with different explanations of where they put their dicks. We all laughed about it. That was the kind of intellectual interaction that took place, and noticeably, without any malevolence or repercussions.

Anyway, some of the best people at the reunion are my friends already. And others seemed like distant photos, barely catching my interest. I wonder why people are driven to reunite, even knowing that it'a a brief encounter? I wonder why women so quickly gravitate toward the subject of the guy with the tiny penis and the guy with the huge one? It's questions like these that are the hallmark of a prep school graduate. (Or perhaps life in early academia is different now.) Our experience could be called budding scholar/ practicing slut; or budding slut/practicing scholar. Either way, the study of the penis was an essential element.

Blogsource is Hurting My Brain.

I go to Kloe's blog. I read good stuff. I wanna comment, especially when she lists the things she likes to do, and I continue to find similarities between the two of us. But blogsource won't let me in. He keeps telling me there's already someone in there, and it's me. Finally today, he said I could come in, but only if I create a blogsource blog. No thanks! And the worst part is that I know it's because I am a tech doofus, and the solution is probably quite straightforward. How frustrating. The only person who can really help me is Jude, or !, the teen formerly known as my son. Meanwhile, times goes by, and I wanna talk to Kloe, goddammit! The little men inside this computer are really bothering me this week.

Skewering The President, a la Colbert

George W. Bush's people tried to add some levity to a fancy-pants dinner, and although I found Stephen Colbert quite clever, some of the folks there looked less than pleased. It seems I should be visiting Salon.com more often.

Compassion, Realism & The Random Nature of Life

There is a homeless woman who started writing a blog to keep herself sane as she manages the reality of her situation. Most bloggers probably know about her because the media found her and interviewed her. Following the media coverage, hoardes of people looked at the site. There was quite a reaction from some who believed it to be a hoax. The details of her humiliation, however, seem genuine, and her writing is compelling. She goes by the moniker "Wandering Scribe," and she lives in her car, in the UK.

At some point she had serious emotional problems and that contributed to her disconnection from people and general society. It is both humbling and bizarre to read the site and the comments. At one point she wrote about feeling overwhelmed. People have so much well-meaning advice. I find myself checking the blog, and worrying about her, as she seems so sensitive. Yet the Ball & Chain works with homeless people, and they are more remote to me, even though I see them frequently. When I have met people who are homeless, I have not been struck by their resilience, or their ability to persevere. They have been people going through a hard time. Certainly not heroic for being hurt: just hurt. The Wandering Scribe could be me, without the family, the medications, and the friends.

Why did Ball & Chain stay with me when I was breaking apart years ago? Life is random in many ways: who can have children, who can have money, who walks, who stays. Many people with mental illness have written to Wandering Scribe to tell her that they, too, have been in a bad way. I very much hope and want to fully believe that she is there, and she is genuine. And every time I write an encouraging comment to her, I wonder if I am an idiot, if I will be exposed as one of the many who fell for a con artist interested in manipulating people. Then I am mortified.