Three years ago today, 6/6/06, I was still running with a crowd of Pharell and beer pong fanatics. It was a period of gross arrested development that tasted like a $2 jug of sangria served at room temperature, which, incidentally, is what we were drinking at my former roommate's birthday BBQ.
The night started early and included some bad behavior. 20-somethings puking in the back yard, I threw a drink in someone's face. Chaos erupted around me. I had found alcohol zen: The more bruised and purple my lips became from the drink, the more sober I became. My roommate had passed out at about 7 p.m. in the tiny tent-like bedroom without electricity where I allowed him to live.
After his friends had either a) stormed off into the night or b) left for slightly more risque outings or c) slipped into a coma in a lounge chair tilted to a dangerous angle in the backyard, I went inside to ding around online. In those days I was scouring MySpace for evidence that single, attractive, adult men who remembered Wham! still lived within 15 miles of my craptastic apartment in the Hillside. Not necessarily to date, but just to know they were there. It was a little like the game minesweeper, although I'm not exactly sure how.
My favorite was a black and white photo of a man sitting outside with a French Press coffee pot in front of him on the table. Chuckers McChuckerstein. I knew who he was: One of those Ripsaw guys. I closed one eye and wrote him a simple note on MySpace: I want to meet you.
The next day, I got his response: 3 a.m.? Are you drunk?
Me: Yes. But I still want to meet you.
And of course, we did. Months later, after I'd read and reread his blog posts, corresponded with dozens more witty emails, and looked for him everywhere I went. That was 6/6/06: Evil date breeds love.
The other day I spent the entirety of Central Entrance, on my way to Cub Foods, thinking about the little things I like about Chuck. In order to save you your gag reflex, I've chosen a simple one: I like the way he bags groceries. He has long, blueish fingers. I think they look like ET's. In a good way. He grips a package, like totally palms it with his entire blueish hand, and without looking at the bag, tosses the product in haphazardly. Doesn't matter if it's tomatoes or Annie's Mac. He has a recklessly accurate toss. It's cute and vaguely dangerous.
Anyway, I plan to tell this anniversary story every year, until it takes on a mythical, urban legend quality.
Also, today is my favorite person I've never met's birthday. Happy Day, Jodi! [Unfortunately, I'm posting this on 6/7/09 ... which means the anniversary has passed, and so has Jodichrome's birthday.]