The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to Friends and the General Crunkitude of Impromptu Evenings In.

A slow, expectant smile alighted upon Butters' usually composed features, as he revealed it to me. Oh, he took his time with it, but, as if out of the blue, it was staring at me right in the face.

"Go on.." he said.

"What? What?" I questioned in my usual befuddled manner.

"Go on...put your hand to it." he encouraged.

"What? NO!" I refused vehemently. "I wouldn't know the first thing to do with it!"

"Just, you know, slap it around a little bit..." he said huskily.

In the background, Wendy tittered brightly.
"Yeah," she chimed in. "Go on! It's all warm and sweaty..."

"What? You too pretty for this?" Scott Tenorman demanded of me. "Just slap it! Slap it good!"

I sighed deeply, and looked down in consternation, only to see that Butters was still holding it out.

Oh whatever would I do with a volleyball?! I was never sportive in school. I have always been The Kid with The Note!

Oh whatever could I do with a volleyball?! A lot, actually, as I soon discovered. Off came the cashmere and floated wide, the tie (skinny!) was thrown onto the side! I popped a button on my shirt, and got my game on.

Yes, I did just type that.

The volleyball flew across the room, and I propelled it forth. I slapped it, slapped it good. Laughter came thick and potent, but on the inside I was conflicted! My 'propah' self was losing it! This wasn't right! I didn't do this. Ever. My propah-self needed to chill, so I gave him the night off. I went down to my room, put on 'Sureshot' by Yellowcard and got ready. You see, in my world, there is a perfect outfit for everything, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with this one right here. In about 5 minutes, I returned to Tenorman's room, clad in a punk-rock-esque T-shirt, a pair of baggy Adidas sweat-pant thingies, that I had bought in case an 'in-case-of-emergency-slip-on-baggy-sweat-pant-thingies' situation ever arose, and my trusty Skechers. Butters, Wendy and Tenorman were delighted, and I was too. You will not believe how difficult it is to manoeuvre oneself in skinny jeans! My propah self was not on-call anymore, instead I was Lane. Lane, of the disheveled hair. Lane, who exclaimed, "Dude!" everytime the ball came awfully close to hitting him, and he deftly deflected it with a well-timed SLAP! I rather like Lane, he's not a snob. Or a prude. Or overly self-conscious, 'overly' being the operative word...

What we went on to play was 'Room Pepper'- a variant of true volleyball adapted to the constraints of limited space. As the ball flew from one avenue to another, something in me just...broke. And I dove headfirst into the game, laughing (rather than effetely gasping) whenever the ball struck me, laughing at the persiflage, the jokes, the many, many times that Butters and Tenorman yelled out, "Cha'mone!" and sweetly chastised me for "being ignorant"! As the game (where I, allegedly, dominated) began to die down, the volume of the Southpark episodes that played in the background, rose up. (Yes, Tenorman with his 'slight' OCD liked it when people changed their Room Pepper positions in the interval between episodes-he's a man after my own heart!). The cries of 'Cha'mone' and 'Get the beat down now!' and the zany anecdotes that punctuated every burst led into a dance-off. Yes, a dance-off involving a darkened room, four twentysomethings, a joyous speaker-set that made its pleasure known with a fluorescent paroxysm of lights everytime the right beat was hit on the song that played, and Rihanna. Choreographed beautifully by Tenorman, we rocked our socks off to 'Disturbia'. (HEE-HEE!). I felt that twitch in my pelvis, the very same that signals an unfettering of my pretensions. Oh yes, it was all very dum-dum-de-dum-dum-dum-de-dum-dum...At one point in the proceedings Tenorman became Aladin and Butters Princess Jasmine, and they sang to us of 'A Whole New World'- I gave them a standing ovation, for sheer testicular gumption.

There is something from that night that shall stay with me for a long time, perhaps forever: as we got our groove thang on to Rihanna, I piped up, "I feel silly."
A shimmying Butters said: "It's okay to be silly around friends."
It is strange how touching something like that can be, despite the fact that I never was unpopular or lacking for friends at any stage in life. Except for that one time in the 8th grade...but we never speak of that. No! I am grateful: grateful for mellow, unpretentious Butters AND unhinged Butters who can do a mean falsetto that would make Disney purists see a whole new world, for obsessive, fiery Tenorman who, like his name, can look at you with a fierce intensity and urge you not to 'dare close your eyes', for effervescent Wendy who will chalk you up on the Awkward Board as someone whose exploits would make the marker run dry, and for charming Bebe (Butters' significant other) who will listen as you weep over your self-pity sundae at Cold Stone. I had had a terrible evening before this: I was missing the festive season back home, and my paycheque hadn't arrived. I was basically a Joad in Dior, Dior bought by swiping the Daddy Card! But that was before I took a step down the rabbit hole...

Without further ado, then:

The Intelligent Metrosexual's Guide to Friends and the General Crunkitude of Impromptu Evenings In.

1) It is perfectly okay to have friends. You can get very annoying to yourself, though you may be too polite to mention this. To yourself.

2) So you had a good time...good for you! Stop trying to be all Kate Chopin about it, and writing the blog equivalent of 'The Awakening'...oh wait! Never mind.

3) Your pretensions are obsessively assiduous. They are basically Ted Baker clad Oompa-Loompas who strive very, very hard to get you through the day. Give them a weekend off, once in a while. They may need to be pushed out of the door, but you (and they) will be better for it.

4) Stepping outside yourself is as salubrious as a brisk, early morning walk. You will find yourself being relatively sportive, laughing with your mouth gaping, (as opposed to low chuckles that show 'good breeding'), and not questioning the political correctness of a 'Cha'mone!'.

5) Peppering your verbiage with a 'dude' or two is perfectly acceptable, as long as you do it organically and not gasp and cover your mouth as your brain rattles off a strange amalgam of a 'Hail, Mary' and 'The Lord's Prayer'. Please don't do that. Don't be THAT guy.

6) You will not blush if someone asks you, uh, "Blow [them]" in a different language. Instead, give them the finger.

7) Stop apologising. Ho!

8) It is okay to be silly around friends.


Until the next time,
GossipGuy!