March 25, 2002 | 2:08 PM

7W)### Thurston St.

John and I�d had a good run. If nothing else, the Thurston Street apartment will be remembered for a string of successful galas.

My surprise birthday party.

The Cinquo De Mayo bash.

The celebrations thrown after our performances at The Middle East and The Playhouse.

The Summer Barbecue.

So many many more.

Each one fabulous in its own way. Each combining elements from The Algonquin Round Table and New York�s Chelsea Hotel circa 1977.

With a pinch of Animal House thrown in for good measure.

The debauchery. The sexual tensions and releases. The relentless live music. The joints and whiskey bottles passed from mouth to mouth. The alliances formed and broken. The erotic cakes courtesy of Sweet & Nasty Bakery. The late night bodies strewn across the futon or the kitchen floor. The survivors awakening at 3PM and brunching on hangover curing grease elixirs at Bickord�s Family Restaurant, followed by more drinking and guitar playing.

Good times. Good times.

The laws of probability would dictate that somewhere in the mix of all these parties, there would have to be at some point one dull gathering. One absolute stinker.

The �Be Creative� Party stinks to high heaven.

The first warning signs come early.

The whole point of the �Be Creative� Party is um, you know�to be creative�to share what you do outside of work with all of your friends. It was conceived as a performance art project/depravity festival. I had imagined everyone jamming out on instruments and writing collaborative poems or finger painting at the kitchen table all the while doing shots and getting silly.

It doesn�t happen that way.

Almost nobody brings anything creative to share. I hadn�t counted on such malaise. People mill around waiting to be entertained but aren�t willing to do any of the entertaining themselves.

John and I play a set, and even though we have a couple of solid new songs the usual energy isn�t there. The response is tepid.

Josh plays a tape of his newest 4-track recordings, all of which are excellent. Nobody pays attention.

Josh is bummed. He leaves early.

The only other person who actively participates in the �Be Creative� portion of the �Be Creative� party is Angus.

Angus (in typical Angus style) brings 50 copies of his newest short story, expecting everyone to read it while shotgunning PBR�s. Fat chance.

Angus�s story is inspired by a premise I came up with as a sick joke. I wasn�t interested in exploring the premise as a literary piece, so I let Angus use it.

It�s about a father and son on a hunting excursion. They shoot rhinos and lions and other unusual wildlife. At the end of the story it is revealed that the father and son are in fact shooting defenseless animals at a zoo, as opposed to being on some exotic African safari.

I had pictured it as a macabre satire on the nature of father/son relationships and male machismo, stylistically resembling Earnest Hemingway.

In Angus�s hands it comes off as an earnest melodrama. The tone is all wrong.

Oh well.

Nobody at the party reads it besides me.

Until Emma Pelegrino saunters on in.

Emma Pelegrino is a friend of Josh�s and accompanies him to the party. I have never met her before. She is an audio major at Mass Com, and commutes every day from Worcester.

Emma Pelegrino looks exactly like Enid from Ghost World. She sports horn-rimmed glasses, dark shoulder length hair and a thrift store T shirt that says, �I�d rather be cheerleading� in iron-on letters. She has a gorgeous, round, voluptuous body, and the carriage of a science geek. If all of that isn�t enough, she speaks eloquently on a variety of topics including, Hal Hartley films, Jeff Buckley�s untimely death, Monte Python, and Home Recording equipment.

As far as the indie nerd boys in the room are concerned, she might as well be Marilyn Monroe.

John is breathless over her.

Jesus Christ. Isn�t she amazing?

And Angus of course.

Angus goes in for the kill.

Angus spends the entire evening glued to her side, hanging on her every word.

He completely and totally ignores me.

Emma reads Angus�s story. I overhear her subsequent critique.

Well... it definitely needs a lot of work. But the premise is really funny and interesting. How did you come up with it?

Without missing a beat, Angus launches into a detailed explanation having to do with reading The Short Happy Life of Frances Macomber the day before visiting a zoo and putting two and two together.

He doesn�t mention me. He doesn�t mention that I gave him the idea.

Instead of taking this with a grain of a salt, instead of letting it roll off my back, instead of recognizing Angus�s lie for what it is-- some good natured posturing on the part of somebody who just desperately wants to get laid, I am livid beyond reason. If I were a cartoon character, steam would be shooting out of my ears.

How dare he hit on this chick just two weeks after we almost slept together, and how dare he have the nerve to lie to her about where he got the idea for his crappily written short story.

Mutherfucker.

I pour myself a quick succession of Rum cocktails and grow increasingly upset.

People begin leaving early. The party is boring and I, the usually lively hostess, have spent seventy-five percent of my time skulking about spying on Angus and Emma. My eyes shoot daggers at their newfound bliss. To my horror and chagrin, neither of them even notice.

John in turn spends the evening checking up on me.

Honey, is everything OK?

I brush him aside.

Yeah, everything�s fine. Don�t you have something else to do besides follow me around?

Angus and Emma wind up sitting very close to each other on the futon, staring deeply into each other�s eyes, conversing only with one another. They are in their own little world.

I pour myself a shot.

And another.

And another.

The room spins. My vision blurs. I stumble out to the porch for some fresh air.

John follows.

Honey, are you OK? Do you need anything?

I being sobbing and blubbering incoherently.

I...I.. shoulda slept with him when I had the chance. Now nobody likes me and I�ll never get to.... Why doesn�t anyone want to fuck me? I�m pretty. I�m a good lay. Why doesn�t anyone want me?

Sob sob sob away, selfish little girl.

John takes me in his arms.

There there sweetheart. I think your beautiful and I want to sleep with you.

I lash out at him, still sobbing and clutching him like a child.

You�re lying. We never sleep together anymore. You hate being with me. You wanna be with that Emma girl. I�m too fat and you�re bored with me.

John�s tone is that of a consoling parent.

Oh honey. I�m not bored with you. I love you. Maybe it�s time for you to get some sleep. What do you say.

I nod miserably and allow John to guide me back into the apartment.

Almost immediately I pass out.

Stay Tuned for Part the Fortieth

Just a perfect day!

Feed animals in the zoo!

Then later, a movie, too!

And then home!

Oh it's such a perfect day!

I'm glad I spent it with you!

Oh such a perfect day!

You just keep me hanging on!

You just keep me hanging on!

Spend the day reading the SAGA from The Very Beginning!

time capsule from heaven - Sunday, Aug. 21, 2011
31 - Saturday, Mar. 15, 2008
Dead/Alive - Monday, Mar. 10, 2008
Do not trustTIAA-CREF-- they are fucking their customers - Friday, Jul. 28, 2006
Shilling - Tuesday, Jul. 11, 2006

Before After