Free at Last

"Cassie, I really appreciate the offer, but I just don't see it working out for us."

"Cassie, I really appreciate the offer, but I just don't see it working out for us."

"Cassie, I really appreciate the offer, but I just don't see it working out for us." It was my mantra on Tuesday. I said it when I woke up, when I walked to class, when I went to the bathroom.

"Cassie, I really appreciate the offer, but I just don't see it working out for us."

"I just don't see our relationship extending outside the classroom." That was my follow-up line, in case she asked "Why?"

She didn't talk to me during class. I thought maybe she'd just abandoned the idea altogether, after having a week to analyze my behavior. And as class slowly wound down, I started packing my stuff up. Maybe I can make a break for it after class, I thought. And I could have. I could have slowly snuck away, as everyone was packing up tables and cleaning massage oil from his or her hands.

But in my heart I knew I couldn't run. The madness had to end tonight. Besides, I was already a liar and an asshole, I didn't need to be a pussy as well. So I stayed, idly scribbling on a piece of paper, waiting for Cassie to approach me, like the old guy who's lived on the side of a dormant volcano his whole life, and won't leave even when an eruption is imminent.

And of course Cassie did come over, sneaking up behind me with all the stealth of a fire-breathing dragon. I could feel her presence over my shoulder before she even spoke.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," I replied, still scribbling, not making eye contact.

"How's it going?" She asked.

"I'm doing great," I responded. It seems I've developed a habit of lying to this girl.

"So did you and your girlfriend ever figure out what to do on Valentine's day?"

"Of course," I said. "We met up with another couple and swapped partners."

Ok, so I didn't say that. But obviously I should have, if she's going to keep bothering me. Of course, if I actually had a girlfriend, I'd probably be more than happy to talk about her. I might bring pictures.

My real answer was simply, "Of course." Which on it's own is not impressive, but it's a big improvement over "Mmmmmmmmm." Then the moment of truth came:

"So do you still want to go get some ice cream?"

I took a deep breath, girded my loins, stood up to look her in the eyes, and said:

"CassieIreallyapprectiatetheofferbutIjustdon'tseeitworkingoutforus."

So it didn't come off quite as smooth as I wanted it to. And I didn't look straight in her eyes, more like to the side of her face. But I said the words, and for once she understood them.

"Oh, ok. Yeah, I guess, you have a girlfriend and all..."

"Yeah." Whatever. Whatever reason she wanted to think, as long as she got the point. And she did, but she still took the time to make a truly awkward moment:

"I just thought...you know, it seemed like, you might like to, well..."





(BIG AWKWARD PAUSE)





"Yeah," I said. "Thanks for understanding." Then I grabbed my backpack, grabbed my coat, hat and scarf, and bolted. I walked out of that room like it had a dead body in it. I didn't stop to put my coat on until I was off campus. But I was happy. I was skipping along with a big smile on my face, swinging my arms. I felt so good I didn't even care when I got home and realized I'd left on of the school's $4000 cameras in the classroom, necessitating a half-hour round trip to retrieve it.

And since Tuesday night, I've been feeling a lot better. Less stressed, less worried. I think I've got my game back now. I can concentrate on other things, which is good because I've got to start cracking on casting for the movie I'm making this semester. I need four guys and three girls. It's really just the guys' parts that are hard to cast. The girls I just check for attractiveness, and say "you're in." There are no ugly people in my movie, that's a rule.

The script of the movie is quite male oriented. Most girls have found it funny as well, but it's very much like Wedding Crashers or 40-Year Old Virgin in its crass, masculine humor. There are three female parts, and one of them is very short, in the last scene, but incredibly crucial. I asked a girl who is in the Movie Making class for which I currently am the TA if she was interested; I'd seen her act in another film, and I thought she'd be right for the part. The scene, essentially, is the main character walking into the on-campus clinic, sitting down next to a "pretty cute" (the actual description from the script) girl, and striking up a conversation with her. So I asked this girl, whose name is NOT Clara, if she'd be interested, she said yes, so I sent her the script. Here is the e-mail response she gave me after reading it:

Okay... Kenny. I finally downloaded the file correctly and read your script. If you knew what I already thought of meatheads.. you'd know that sending me that only makes me hate men more. Also, I have a huge problem with being referred to as "pretty cute" while in fact in reality i am far better looking than pretty cute. Unless you can change that- there is no way I'm helping you.

NOT Clara

Well, it seems that I asked the wrong girl for the part, although I won't deny she's very attractive. I certainly wouldn't call my script politically correct, not would I claim that it glorifies women, except as beautiful creatures, but I think her reaction was a bit excessive. Oh well. The temptation to respond with a sarcastic, insulting, misogynistic e-mail was powerful, but I refused to lower myself to that level. I wrote a measured, mature response, saying I understand she was offended but that most people find the script funny, not offensive, and that it seems we simply aren't destined to work together. I'm a little dissappointed that I have to find a new actress by Saturday morning, but there is a big silver lining. Her reaction proved to me that my script is, indeed, damn funny.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Well, the situation with Cassie didn't exactly resolve itself as we all hoped. I'd been dreading the confrontation for a week, but also looking forward to what I foolishly thought would be the end. What an idiot I am. I would have to say that Tuesday was probably the worst Valentine’s day of my life. “Worse even than high school?” you ask. Yes, it was. Believe it or not, there are numbers less than zero.

The day didn't start badly. I actually had a pretty cool dream that night. I dreamt I got in a fight with Nathan Jones. Nathan Jones is an Australian professional wrestler; he’s 6ft 10 inches tall, he weighs 340 pounds, and very little of it is fat, as you can see by the picture on the right. I’d seen him in a couple of my beloved Kung Fu movies, but I never imagined I’d be fighting him in my dream. I won by hitting him in the head with a microwave (we were fighting in a Sears).

So that was actually a fairly exciting dream. But from the moment I awoke the dread gradually creeped upon me, a mounting nausea that I could suppress for brief periods, or forget about during class, but never fully escape.

For the first half hour of class, she didn’t come in. I thought maybe fortune was shining on me, that she wouldn’t show, and would be spared my falsehood. But as I sat, sweating bullets, not daring to hope, she finally walked in. She apologized to the professor, explaining that she’d been in D.C. over the weekend, and because of a big blizzard we’d had up here, she’d just gotten back an hour ago. Which begs the question of why she had to come in at all, but I think we all know the answer.

Fortunately, she had to sit across from me, and so for the next 45 minutes I avoided looking at her while a visiting chiropractor explained the shoulder muscles to us. But eventually we had a break, and of course, she homed in on me like a used-car salesman.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I replied. Just do it, don't think.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Cassie,” I said. “Last week when we talked about getting ice cream, I forgot today was going to be Valentine’s Day…”

“Yeah, I thought about that too,” she interrupted.

I don’t think she got it, I thought. It seemed more like she was trying to save an awkward situation.

“Yeah, so, obviously tonight I have plans,” I added.

“Oh,” she said, “girlfriend?”

Now, it should be known that I am a terrible liar. I don’t like it, I’m not good at it, and I’m really at a loss when I don’t believe in the lie, which is definitely the case in this situation. So that may help explain why my response was to look a the ground and say:

“Mmmmmmmmmm.”

God, I suck. But I just couldn’t face the lie. Saying “I’m single,” isn’t particularly embarrassing, but lying that I have a girlfriend was odious. It just drove my relationship status home with a railroad spike. “Sorry, I have a girlfriend,” NO YOU DON'T YOU LOSER! That’s basically what it was like.

“Ok,” she said, “we’ll just do it some other time.”

“Uh huh. Anyway, so did you just get back from DC?” I was desperate to change the subject.

“Oh, yeah, I got stuck cause of the blizzard. So what are you and your girlfriend doing tonight?”

“AUUUGUGUGUGUGUG,” I floundered.

“Late dinner or something?” She persisted.

“We’ll work something out,” was my ultimate lame response. This was just the most horrid, awkard conversation ever. This was “argument-with-girlfriend-on-long-car-ride” awkward. Maybe worse.

Fortunately, she didn’t work in my group, because we were working on the upper leg, i.e. the thigh, and I really didn’t want to take our relationship to that level. Class ended, and I was talking to another girl, a friend of mine, and of course Cassie came over. She first talked to one of the girls in her group, who was nearby:

“Are we ready to go?” she asked the girl?

“Yes,” said the girl.

“Well, I’m not,” I quickly chimed in, and walked away, to where my backpack was. Naturally Cassie followed right behind me, like an extra party member in a Final Fantasy game.

“Hey, so I was thinking about the ice cream. Do you just want to do it tomorrow?”

Man this girl could not take a hint.

“Um, I’m casting for my movie all week,” (I’m a student filmmaker up here). “I’ll probably have a shooting schedule by Sunday, so….”

“No problem,” she said, “we’ll just do next Tuesday.”

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!

What was I failing to communicate? Mercifully she left, leaving me to quiver helplessly with a combination of anger, helplessness, and self-loathing. I’d hoped the whole ordeal would be over, but I’ve just made it worse. Like watching a movie where the husband lies to his wife, and you say NO, YOU FOOL! IT’LL ONLY LEAD TO YOUR DOWNFALL! We’ll I’m that protagonist.

And next week presents another problem. We're going to be working on the back, which is fine, but I believe the guys in the class will be expected to go shirtless, and I don't think Cassie is going to be turned off by that. Damn my good looks.

So I simply must resolve the situation next week, because I swear this girl is ruining the class for me. The whole time I have to dance around the room, trying to stay as far away as possible, making sure we won't work at the same table, and then suffer through awkward conversations when she inevitably hunts me down during the breaks, like I'm a Goddamn 10-point buck. Which I suppose is exactly what she's thinking.

And it extends beyond class. These last two days I've gotten sick, and this happens so rarely that I can only assume Cassie is to blame. Maybe worrying about it weakened my immune system, or a higher power is punishing me for my lies, but it's no coincidence. And I did take my own advice, and listen to "Rythym of the Night." In fact, the very first thing I did when I got home Tuesday night was blast that song as loud as my little Powerbook speakers would allow, and it helped, but the song is only four minutes long, while this torture is forever.

But there’s no more sense in propagating the lie. Cassie will never give up, she’s shown that much about her. Next week I’ll have to just say, “Cassie, I really appreciate the invitation, but I just don’t see it working out with us.” It won't be easy, and I could easily choke just like I did two days ago, but I just need to practice, and remind myself that it may be awkward, but it's only sixteen words, and they might bring a world of peace to me. So in a way I look forwards to next Tuesday, when I can walk up to her, look her in the eyes, and confidently say, "Wugagaggagagaguuag."

The Rythym of the Night

I want to start today with a shout out to my bros Richard and Quinn down at Roanoke College, who are being blasted with work in their second semesters of senior year. At the very time when they should be maximizing their chilling out, they are beaten down under 15-page papers, hour-long oral presentations, and all other manner of terrible things. And I know they aren't alone. All over this country there must be thousands suffering the same fate, condemmed by an evil institution to servitide in the library. I don't know how much I can do, one man at a computer, but for all of you out there suffering this same fate, I recommend one thing: Rythym of the Night.

If you know the song, then are already happier than you were ten seconds ago. And if you don't know the song, I highly recommend you download the masterpiece by Debarge immediately. I really can't think of a situation to which it's not applicable. Take the sublime opening lines:

"When it feels like
The world is on your shoulders
And all of the madness
Has got you goin' crazy

It's time to get out
Step out into the street
Where all of the action
Is right there at your feet!"

So for those of you stuck in the library, or the computer lab, or some other dank, poorly lit cavern of despair, just listen to the words of El Debarge (meaning: "The Debarge"):

"I know a place where we can dance the whole night away
Underneath the electric staaaaaaaaars
Just come with me and we can shake it loose, right away
You'll be doin' fine once the music staaaaaaaaarts (oh!)"

And you will be doin' fine, if the music is "Rythym of the Night." You simply cannot be unhappy when listening to the song. And singing along is essential. Guys, this might require a few strategically placed rubber bands, because El Debarge is like Pavarotti in falsetto.

I wish I could do more for all of you out there, suffering in the times when you should be drinking life to the lees, but if listening to El Debarge sing in a voice that makes Michael Jackson sound like a three-pack-a-day-smoker doesn't lift your spirits, we're out of options. So keep your chin up. And if you know someone in this situation, make sure to send one up for him or her. I don't know what you'd send up, maybe a signal flare, but it won't hurt.

Me, I'm cruising. I only have class on Tuesday, which is pretty awesome. And none of my classes are what you would call "hard." Filmmaking, Japanese Pop Culture, Advanced Principles of Exercise, and the crown jewel of my schedule, the Hope Diamond if you will: Massage.

Yes, that's correct. I am taking a massage class. It's terrific. We show up, learn about anatomy, then cover our hands in oil and smear it all over each other's bodies. Well, maybe that's not quite accurate. Actually we've only done one day of hands on work so far, and it was rather tame. But the class is obviously terrific nonetheless.



I have run into one small problem in my class, however, which involves - what else? - a girl, Cassie. (Not her real name, of course. Her real name is Amanda). We've only had the class three times, but Cassie has taken a severe liking to me. "Alright you cocky bastard," you ask, "how do you know she likes you?" "Well," I respond. "I know because she's doing all the same idiot things I used to do to girls I liked, such as wait the leave class with them, even when I had no inkling of a reason to stick around."

I noticed Cassie's interest quickly, and did my best to dispel the attraction. I tried not being interesting, but let's be honest, that's like a fish trying not to swim. I also employed the "don't sit near her in class" technique and the "leave class without her technique," but to no avail.

It was ok for the first two classes (class is from 6 to 9 every Tuesday night), because we didn't do any hands-on work. I simply tried to give boring, uninteresting responses to her comments. I couldn't be a jerk, because you know how girls are, that would have just made her like me more. I considered just being a really nice guy, buying her lunch, carrying her bags, maybe even giving her a compliment, because that has never failed to deter girls in the past, but I thought it would be risky with her. Since she'd already decided to like me, being nice might just lead her on.

But this week's class presented a new problem, becuase we were about to start hands-on work. There are six tables for twenty people, so you work in groups, and I just knew Cassie would try to arrange things to be in my group. So when I walked into class I sat down on the other side of the room from her. We exchanged a greeting, and then I avoided talking to her, but after five minutes, she picked up her stuff and moved to the seat next to me! That move was both subtle and brilliant.

And sure enough, when we brought out the tables we ended up working at the same one, along with a football player named Derrick, which is appropriate since he's the same approximate size as an offshore drilling platform. Nice guy though.

We only worked on one part of the body, the lower leg. The teacher showed us the basic strokes of Swedish massage, and then we worked on each other. So of course my rubbing Carrie's calf didn't make her any less attracted to me. In fact, odds are it had just the opposite effect. Damn my magic hands.

At the end of class the teacher showed us how to balance each other's Chakras. It's an energetic thing, and some people buy into it and others don't. I'm not sure either way, but I can guarantee that you get to touch the other person's butt. So there are obviously situations where it's good, but this was not one of them. God forbid I line up Cassie's chakras and then her energy becomes inexorably tied to mine, or something like that. Fortunately, Cassie didn't seem quite comfortable with the idea of having her chakra's all in a line, so I gladly worked on other people.

Class ended, and then came the crucial moment, because I must at all costs avoid walking out with this girl. You understand, it's not that she's a terrible person, but I don't want to lead her on, and the surest way to avoid that is not to speak with her. I always talk to the teacher after class, mostly to get more information, but with the ulterior goal of delaying long enough that Cassie has to leave. If she talks to the teacher, I take off when she can't follow. What a cruel world.

So Tuesday I was talking to Dr. Warnock, and she left the room. "Oh, thank God," I thought, "I'm in the clear." The good doctor left as I was still getting my coat on, and as soon as he stepped out the door CARRIE CAME BACK IN! SHE'D BEEN WAITING FOR ME THE WHOLE TIME! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

It was like in horror movies, where you think the insane-psycho-killer-clown is dead, and you finally let out your breath and start to relax, thinking the terror is finally over, then all of a sudden he comes back to life and removes someone's eyes with a wine opener. I knew I was in trouble; she hadn't waited around to talk about the weather. I could feel the blood drain from my face as she spoke:

"Hey, I was just wondering if you wanted to get some ice cream or something sometime?"

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

I was trapped. My answer was "no," but how could I say that? She'd essentially asked, "Do you want to do something sometime?" What was I going to say? "Sorry, I can't. I'm busy. Always."

Of course, even in my panic I probably could have come up with a better answer than "sure." But that's what I said. "Sure." As if nothing could be better. I did manage to make a small save, and schedule it for next Tuesday after class, and thus avoid the weekend and make it a little more casual. But I imagine that now she's eagerly looking forward to her little date Tuesday, while I'm frantically running around asking all my friends for a way out.

The overwhelming advice has been "tell her you have a girlfriend." I think it's terrific advice as well, and really the only problem is that it is not, technically, true. The flipside is that, while I am a big advocate of honesty, sometimes the truth does hurt. Oh well, I suppose I'm already an asshole, I might as well be a liar.

Speaking of which, as you are all no doubt aware, next Tuesday is: VALENTINE'S DAY! I'm excited. I try to break at least one girl's heart every year around this time.
Actually, I think it'll actually work well, because I can say, "Cassie, I'm so sorry, but I forgot that today was going to be Valentine's day, so of course I need to be with the girl I'm seeing." Then maybe I can make a sexually-suggestive arm thrust to really drive the point home.

Will I hurt her? It seems inevitable. But also necessary. We've all been there, and we all wish we'd been let down a little easier, or a little earlier. So I'm not looking forwards to next week, but it has to be done. Especially because in class, we're moving to the upper leg, i.e. the thigh. And if my hands go anywhere above her knee, then I'll have to drop out of school and move to Micronesia to get her to stop coming after me.

At times life seems so unfair. "Why, God?" I ask myself. "Why give me an easy treasure, but in a box I don't want to open?" Yes, it does seem unjust. But then I think, maybe it's exactly fair. After all, as I am suffering now, so have I made others suffer. Perhaps this situation is my punishment. As is I have a few days to practice my lines before my big Valentine's day performance. It's a bit stressful, and I'm still talking the situation out with my friends. I suppose I should take my own advice and listen to the true sage: The Degarge (Oh!)

"Feel the beat and the rhythym of the night
Dance into the morning light
Forget about the worries on your mind
You can leave them all behind
Feel the beat and the rhythym of the night
Oh oh, the rhythym of the night"