From: richh@netcom.com (richh)
Subject: Story to make ABH wanna marry me #2
Date: Fri, 11 Sep 92 06:10:52 GMT
Organization: Netcom - Online Communication Services  (408 241-9760 guest) 

                 MY BROTHER THROWS A PRETENTIOUS PARTY

    Let's see, gang.  When we last saw my brother he was cooking up
a couple of omelettes.  Let's check in on him and see what's up:

     "Heat the plates first," I said.
     "I know," he called out.  "I'm not an idiot."
     "Yeah, all right."
     "Hey Keith, I'm having a party here next Friday."
     "Thanks for letting me know.  What kind of party?"
     "Just some friends from one of my classes."
     I perked up, remembering that he was taking two theater
classes.  "Which class?"
     "English 405--"
     My heart sank.
     "Between Hermeneutics and Deconstruction:  The Politics of
Contemporary Literary Criticism"
     It hit the floor.
     "Can you DJ?"
     "What, you think I'd let a roomful of postmodernists anywhere
near my 12 grand Nakamichi?!  Yeah, I'll be here."
     "Cool.  All the ubiquitous people'll be there."
     "Oh joyous day."  The ubiquitous people were what I
affectionately called all those people on campus that we seemed to
see everywhere.  I suppose, to be fair, that I was one of them,
simply because I was no longer a student but still hung around
campus a lot.  But I didn't wear nearly as much black as a true
ubiquitous person, nor was my skin quite that pale.

              FRIDAY NIGHT--PARTY PREPARATIONS

    I was going through my records, putting away the Naughty By
Nature and dusting off some old Scritti Politti and Pop Will Eat
Itself.  As I did this I chewed on some Dramamine, trying to fight
down the nausea that was already starting to rise.
     The first to arrive were about five pasty-boy ubiquitous-
person wannabes.  My brother called them the marginal guys because
they showed up in all his classes but never said anything, just
looked around a lot.
     Some women had arrived, including one fine arts student whom I
called my Buchenwald baby because of her severely short haircut,
hollowed-out cheeks, suspicious eyes, and black cape(?!).  She was
in a corner, dancing to some private beat while Pop Will Eat Itself
spouted banalities:
    ". . .Alan Moore knows the score
      . . .Alan Moore knows the score."
The pasty-boys were standing against a wall, all taking notes.  I
asked my brother about this.
     "Oh, they're deconstructing the party.  It's the latest
thing."
     I wiped the vomit from my lips and said, "No.  Just no."     
"Honestly.  They are.  Sure, you can talk about the Heisenberg
Uncertainty Principle and how the presence of the observer changes
the observed phenomena all you like, but it's undeniably fun.
Besides, who's gonna dance with those guys?"

     When he's got a point, he's got a point.

     My gaze returned to my Dachau darling, who was doing that
strange ubiquitous-person dance, all severe angles with lots of odd
elbow and knee movements and strange, disturbing glances.  I really
hated it.
    I looked over at my Naughty By Nature album and started to
weep.
     "Play Scritti Politti.  Play Jacques Derrida!"
     I was besieged with insipid requests.  And I was getting
bored.  But I had an idea. I queued up that old Chakha Khan song "I
Feel For You" on the turntable and plugged in my microphone.     
My brother saw me and hurried his way over.
     "Keith," he pleaded. "You can't rap here.  You just can't."
     "Relax.  I've got a plan."
     I started the record and started singing over it.
     "Jacques Lacan. .  .Jacques Lacan. . .I wanna hug you wanna
love you wanna squeeze you too.  Do you feel for me the way I feel
for you?  Jacques Lacan, Jacques Lacan.  I fee-eel for you, and I
think I love you. . ."

     It worked.
     After that, the party rocked.
     Now I'm swamped with requests to DJ ubiquitous-people parties. 
     Only problem is, none of my clothes are black.

RICHH
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