Parties I Didn't Join

For some reason, it's been hard to write this entry. I keep meaning to write *something,* then don't. It's not that too much is going on, or too little; I just don't know what to write.

It's still unpleasantly warm. Last night, while a party raged at the neighbors', we bunked down in the basement, watching Ask Rita and Late Night with Conan O'Brien on TV. Earlier, I fell asleep watching Clerks: The Animated Series Uncensored on DVD. It was only in part a comment on the interest level of the program.

Anyway, as I said, the neighbors were having a grand old time with hipster friends--there were around four Vespas parked across the street--listening to 80s music and actually dancing, which we could see from some windows. Two of them came over that afternoon and invited us to join them. While a bunch of them were on the front porch, smoking and drinking (you could smell the smoke in our house, too), I felt it was necessary to water my tiny plants.

But I was too embarrassed to go out there. They'd *see* me. Our porches are practically conjoined, they're so close. After some cajoling from Chris, I finally did, and of course, one of the neighbor girls talked to me as I huddled over my plants and poured water. She reiterated her invitation and said they had drinks and music. "We've got Herman's Hermits!" referring to the "Henry the VIII" that blared on the stereo. My response was more huddling and a mumbled "thanks" she probably didn't even hear.

Chris later decided to be "neighborly" and "polite" and go over there since they had invited us, despite my suggestion that the invitation was not so much to be friendly as it was a warning and a request not to call the cops for noise. He wanted me to go, but I hate being in situations where the point is drinking and socializing, I don't know anyone, and it's really smoky. Shows are my only exception. "It's just like a show," he argued. "No, it's not. There's no band." "But they've got Herman's Hermits!"

He returned in about 15 minutes, a can of MIller in his hand. He said it was weird because everyone was already drunk, he didn't know a soul, and they were frequently the legitimately-too-hip-for-you type.

So I continued dancing around my dining room to Talking Heads and Sugarcubes. My own damn 80s music.

Other stuff has happened, but I don't know what to say on it. I need to shower, hit up the Farmer's Market, and go help Jenny clean the old apartment. Sad. Maybe it won't be so deathly hot there, though.