So the party. Teensy, overpriced condo�potted fichus with white Christmas lights coiled around its trunk. How I despise the white-only Xmas light trend, which has persisted now for so many seasons I fear it has been adopted as some peculiar, back-ass, socially perverse institution in its own right. But it's only spring, so I'll wait on this.

You get the whole bland scene though, the (scented) candles burning smartly in the corners. So it was surprising that R & S had the kind of weed that knocks your damn socks off. At least mine. Yeesh.

But prior to that, the party had this feeling of a familiar, loathed sensation that gathered force the longer I was there (prior to the bedroom camaraderie). Small talk must die! It's it or me. Groups forming sporadically to check-in as to how everyone knew each other. One of these convened and came to an awesomely annoying conclusion wherein one young woman stood, pointed at everyone and proclaimed their �degree of separation.� Unfotunately I was involved. I said, �It sounds like we�re in a burn ward.� I think I was third degree. Yes, folks, it was the dreaded return of gradskool syndrome. Nauseating, nearly impossible to rise above, at least when you�re alone without any likeminded cronies. Striped sweaters, those stupid flip-flops, ill-fitting jeans on a few girls-a promising nod to anti-fashionism and suggestive of the science disciplines. (Remember the Double E's? Bah! That was rich.) But the soccer lesbians were a worthwhile distraction. Sometimes they reminded me of boys circa 8th grade. Too cute.

Then D. and friend entered, D. nattily sporting a fedora. Original rainwear. A couple of good conversations; G&T�s; disposal of R. and Boston girl. Did I really do that? How? Could things ever be simpler than when you are blithely unconcerned? But soon after, the evening ran through my fingers like spare change�wasted.