Nadine’s gone, up to the woods of Exeter, NH for a few weeks of rest before starting school in the fall. I’m sad that she’s gone.
What I *am* feelin’, though, is the male contingent of the Lincoln Park Boat Club. Andrea, I want to thank you for inviting me to your races last week, ‘cos those boys were fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. If you know anything about my personal taste in men, you will know that hanging out in Lincoln Park, ogling a bunch of shirtless rowers in spandex is, INDEED, my idea of a good time. Take that, and Andrea’s mom bringing a huge-ass picnic (shrimp, prosciutto, fresh bread, cold cuts, bing cherries!, and other assorted treats), and you will have one happy Flip girl on your hands.
For those of you who don’t already know, askauntjazzy.com is up, if in name only. The Free Press fucked me, in that they seem to have lost the disks that contain back issues. Whatever was on the U of C RSO server is either deleted or lost. So, I have back issues that I have to scan. Part of me wants to keep the issues intact, but I am often seized by an irrepressible urge to just rip them to shreds.
I wonder if I am a victim of self-importance, guilty of vanity and not knowing when to disengage myself from over-indulgent behavior. Who really wants 4 years of “Ask Aunt Jazzy” to read? I mean, it could be interesting from a personal standpoint, and even then, that would probably only apply to me. I can’t imagine that those of you who have been referred to in past columns would want to read your old gossip. Let me know what you think.
My power to seduce men at 20 paces is practically nil. I think it’s my sort of rock chick haircut — now that I can’t wear my normal, “safe” ponytail, I’ve been forced to tease up my hair a bit so I can avoid looking like Jean Teasdale. I’ve been marginally successful, if only because I don’t wear glasses anymore. Listen, I take what small victories I can get. It’s all in the power of positive thinking.
I was walking down the street the other day and a homeless guy on crutches happened to catch a glance at me as I ambled past. “Oh, I feel dizzy!” he exclaimed at me. My response? “It must be the Thunderbird! Keep up the good work!”
I think my sister was right. If I want a man, I need to lower my standards. Forget hanging out at such hipster palaces like The Hideout and The Empty Bottle, hoping to impress somebody with my record collection. I will no longer put on lipstick before I walk out the door. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach as I give him $5 towards his next few bottles of malt liquor, then so be it.
Call me a hobo groupie. I don’t care. If I am voted queen of the bums because I’m wearing matching shoes and I still have my own teeth, great. Years from now, I’ll be visiting you lot with my man by my side, backpack in hand, fresh from a 30-hour stint on a freight train carrying lint from New Mexico. Now put *that* in your Brearley alumni newsletter (“Jasmine Davila, ’94, has conquered the exciting world of train-jumping! This, and marrying longtime boyfriend, Donald ‘Donkey’ Dawkins, has made 2001 a stellar year for Jasmine. You can e-mail her at firstname.lastname@example.org.”) and smoke it.
One last thing: I’m a-comin’ home. That’s right. From Tuesday, September 5th to Tuesday, September 12th, I will be in the New York metropolitan area, visiting the family and loitering on the same East Village street corners that have gone untouched by myself since the early ’90s. I hope to see my New York peeps during that time. I can’t imagine that College Point (my parents’ neighborhood in Queens) would have much in the way of entertainment. Unless you count the Target they just built. And the Korean sports bar. I guess we will have to wait and see.
No Roger! No Rerun! No Rent!