Friday night has come once more. The burdens of the school week have been forgotten, and I've mentally been transported to this carefree place where I look not towards the future, but instead look deep into blue eyes of the seductive present and ask her, "Your place or mine?" Yes, the weekend has come and I am fully intent on having as much fun as possible. The week has not been good to me, and I am in desperate need of a me morable evening. This particular Friday night, the Drexel Players are performing "I Hate Hamlet." Though I act and possess an indefinable endless love for the stage, I am not a part of this particular production. Instead, I am the pre-show entertainment.

        Last term, some of us not fortunate enough to be cast in the main stage show were brought together to perform "Brief Shakespeare." Essentially, the Bard's masterworks are condensed into five-page scripts and each of the five players takes on multiple, varied pa rts to achieve full comic effect. The goal is to go as fast as possible while still conveying the poetry and dramatic intensities that have kept Shakespeare's plays alive for so long. This theatrical silliness was so successful last term that we elected to do it again. We're reprising our critically acclaimed five-minute "Hamlet," in which I tackle both the role of Ophelia and Laertes. We also perform "Macbeth" (The Scottish Play, to those of you who believe in that silly curse). I have fun with "Hamlet," b ut in "Macbeth" I take center stage as the title character. With a plaid shirt tied around my waist as a makeshift kilt I give the part my all, and even go so far as to employ a terribly cartoonish Scottish accent. Clocking in at exactly twelve minutes, we're a hit with the slightly confused "I Hate Hamlet" ticket holders congregating in the lobby. They applaud and cheer us, and for perhaps a second or two, we are heroes, nay, we are GODS to them.

        Ten minutes later, I have made that painful transition from performer to audience member. I sit with my good friend Pol, and we enjoy an evening of theater. One of the main components of our enjoyment is the performance of Brian Browne. Most days of the week, Brian is just a guy we sit with in playwriting and physics. Tonight, he plays the ghost of John Barrymore and damn if he isn't the most charming swashbuckler since Captain Jack Sparrow. Due to my cunning, I was treated to an excellent free night of theater, and now I anxiously await Brian in the lobby, to congratulate him on rocking my world.

        We're standing outside Kelly Hall in the cold. Brian is happily drinking his Diet Coke, and we're waiting for Ellie to call. Once we have her, we'll head over to the cast party. Even though I'm amongst friends, I'm not so sure I want to go the party. My own dorm, Myers Hall, beckons me to enter its warm gates and spend another night glued to my computer screen. Strangely, the feeling passes and before I realize it, we're heading towards the party. Daroff guards the door, co llecting five dollars from each person who intends to drink. He doesn't even ask me for the money, because I've made it quite clear in the past that I'm no drinker. Why would tonight be any different?

        Inside, the atmosphere rings instantly of the few college parties I've gone to before. I feel as I do at most social gatherings these days; I'm lost and not sure how to act or who to talk to. I'm put slightly at ease by the music, which is the Clash's London Calling . As it is one of my five favorite albums of all time, I am put at ease. Eventually, I find myself in the kitchen where all the alcohol is being housed. Brian and I, in an effort to parody those mixing complicated alcoholic beverages, mix Pepsi with Mountain Dew. The results are pleasing. We raise our cups for a toast. "Take what you can!" I say. "Give nothing back," he cheerily replies. I make small talk with the constant stream of people wandering through the tiny darkened kitchen. They seek alcohol; I seek conversation. Part of me wants to leave; I'm not exactly enjoying myself, and I don't see the evening producing anything of merit. Besides, I have to get up early the next morning. Watching a parade of partiers make their way about the kitchen is not my idea of a Friday well spent.

        I innocently continue to converse with Brian and Olivia, but then this other girl introduces herself to me. I respond happily, not thinking much of it. Something's different this time though. Unlike most conversations I've had in the recent weeks, this one doesn't trai l off after the initial pleasantries are exchanged. I suppose there's no way of saying this without sounding clichéd, so I'll just say it: I did not notice the passage of time. Before I knew it, an hour had passed in her company. Eventually, the conversati on drifts towards drinking. I reveal my rather solid stance (more aptly described as fear) against drinking or doing drugs. She suggests we do shots, and promises she'll take care of me if I get too far gone. She pours a clear liquid into skull and cross b ones shot glasses, and as we raise them the thought briefly crosses my mind: what would Davey Havok do? Like she suggests, I down the shot in one violent gulp. It tastes like iodine. How I know what iodine tastes like is not important. I no longer care what some androgynous goth rock star thinks. I no longer take pride in once proclaiming myself as part of the straight edge movement. Davey's not here tonight and will never be a part of my life. I am trapped on this island of insecurity and doubt. Is this a shot glass which I see before me?

        She looks straight into my eyes and tells me I'm amazing. I'm no fool; I know it's probably the alcohol doing most of the talking, but damnit, it's good to hear. I've been a little lonely lately, and to receive this unexpec ted validation of both my physicality and personality is better than getting every thing on my Christmas list. I wish we weren't in a skeevy crowded kitchen in West Philadelphia , and I wish I didn't need five shots of Baccardi to get up the courage to kiss this girl, but I can't say I'm sad this is happening. Fuck it, I'm positively thrilled. My ex-girlfriend wasted little time in hooking up with someone else after we broke up. She's been on dates. She makes no secret of the various guys she's interested in (side note: I know most of them, which I have decided makes it more painful). Fuck guilt. Fuck hanging threads of a devotion I once shared with someone. I made conversation with an incredibly attractive girl for an hour. She's the kind of sexy free spirit I've always desired, and she's sitting on my lap. Other guys hit on her, but her attention never strays from me. I don't know how I did it, but I've made this remarkable ascendance into a desirable being. She saw something in me that she wanted, and I'm go ing to let her have it. Oh yes, and did I mention she has a tongue stud?

        Just so you don't think I'm a total asshole, I do know her name. Earlier in the evening, we both took extreme care in learning to say each other's difficult to pronounce names. Tashin a and Eamon. It has sort of a ring to it, I suppose. From my perspective at least, it sounds like the names of two renegade space explorers from the 23 rd Century. Eamon is a disgraced space pilot who lost his eye to the Creature from the Forbidden Nebula, and Tashina wears sexy revealing jumpsuits while trying to assist her home world in overthrowing the mutant tyrant who has overrun their cities with his robot army. I digress; my evening was not about space pilots and robots for once. It was about finally drinking from the chalice of teenage debauchery and waking up in a room not my own.

        We've done our fair share of shots by this point, and miraculously I've maintained my composure. Like the gentleman I am, I offer to get her a drink. Two Mike's Hard Lemona des are procured, and surprisingly it actually tastes like lemonade. It tastes good; but she tastes better. Sorry; I don't mean to sound so crass but at this point my whole brain is screaming with pleasure. I've rebelled against myself; scaled the walls of my insecurities and inhibitions and brought them crumbling down. I'm feeling passion, I'm feeling a connection, I'm feeling this little piece of metal moving around my mouth, and I'm totally stimulated. The small voice in my head is telling me I'm making an unnecessary spectacle of myself, and suddenly I realize that small voice is my total consciousness locked up inside my head. Angles are distorted, and it's as if I've entered a dream but this time I need not worry about waking up. Mr. Baccardi is making his presence known all over my brain.

        We're inseparable by this point. As my other friends have told me about their first drinking experience, I myself began to wonder what kind of drunk I would be. Would I be the life of the party, employing a lampshade as some sort of hat? Would I suddenly become more dark and pensive than I usually am? As it turns out, I'm a passionate drunk. I do not want to take my hands off this precious little person who nudged her way into my life. As unpredictable as this night ha s been so far, I was not expecting the next development. Howard, resident of the house and master of the party, is politely telling us we have to leave. Apparently, our actions in the kitchen have made another resident of the house quite uncomfortable. Hell, we have no problem with leaving. My roommate's away for the weekend, and she doesn't even have one. As proof of what a competent drunk I am, I even remember to take my coat. It's fortunate that I did, for I don't think the sober Eamon would have ever ha d enough courage to go back to that house.

        As we step out into the night, I am instantly jealous of sober people's ability to walk straight. I would describe the experience of stumbling home in an intoxicated state as walking on stilts while navigating the surface of the moon. As we haphazardly find our way back to her dorm, she asks me about a thousand times if I have my ID. There are some sloppy kisses exchanged on street corners, and it pains me to admit that the sober Eamon of a week ago would have thought himself above such a scene as this. An incident wherein Tashina loses her flip-flop results in both of us falling on our respective asses. Peculiarly, the journey seems to take only mere seconds. We arrive at Calhoun Hall. I watch her scribble something in no way resembling my name into the guest log. The doors of the elevator open, and I ask her for her room number. "720," she says. It's not until the next day my mind connects her that number with my ex-girlfriend's birthday. The universe has a really c lever yet fucked-up way of connecting together all the various misadventures that comprise my life. Again, I act the part of the gentleman and help her open her door as she fumbles with the key. We fall onto her bed and she pulls my shirt off. As we kiss and I run my hand over her belly piercing, I think for perhaps the first time that night, "Oh god, what have I gotten myself into?" Though my vision is greatly distorted and I'm in a position I never thought I would find myself in tonight, I do maintain som e element of good judgment. I keep my hands firmly planted on her bed knowing that however tempting certain acts might seem at the moment, the light of day will reveal different truths. She falls off the bed, and regurgitates some of the Bacardi. I concede that the window for passionate exchange has closed, at least for tonight.

        The next eight hours are some of the longest of my life. It's not as if I'm deep in thought or anything, it's that I'm in a strange environment and cannot get to sleep. Sleep has b een my greatest enemy as of late. He always visits me when I don't want his company, and offers no relief in the moments when I want to escape the waking world. The hours between two and six are a blur of catching odd moments of sleep, and stumbling through the hallways of the seventh floor attempting to locate a bathroom. I also have vague recollections of staring intently into her mirror, willing myself to regain my sobriety. I will confess to wandering around her room, looking over some of her possessions. Monty Python's The Meaning of Life ? It's my favorite, too.

        Though I maintain my exterior composure, I am breaking down on the inside. The morning sun is so bright I can barely stand it, and to makes matters worse it has engulfed the room. The heater has also taken a tight grip on the small space, and at times it seems all the warmth and brightness will suffocate me. Every time she stirs or makes the smallest of movements, I pray she will soon wake. I've already missed my call to PA on a senior project by a few hours, and my isolated time spent in this sun-bathed room is nearing torment. The hour reaches 10. I have been up since six, and finally she joins me in my wakened state. I suddenly consider the scene from her perspective. She wakes up to see a large man in a black t-shirt sitting on the bed opposite her. It must not be the most comforting of images. Luckily for me, she does not scream or deliver the ego-deflating phrase, "Hi, who are you?" Instead she snuggles up next up to me. Praise Jesus. "I forgo t I signed you in, " she says, "which is good because we probably would have lost touch if I didn't." Okay it's not, "Last night was a hallmark of interaction with the male gender. If only the rest of them could possess your skill of simultaneously deliveri ng gentle passion and wild satisfaction, " but I accept it anyway.

        Her memory of the night before is not as sharp as it could be. I fill her in on the details exactly as they happened, but soon after realize I've passed up a golden opportunity to create a m ore fantastical version of the night's events. Nothing naughty; I'd merely add in a heroic rescue or two, astound her by telling her of my bravery when I fought off two frat boys who dared offend her honor. Throw in a daring early morning bank robbery, and cap it off by climbing to the top of City Hall and it's a pretty impressive story. However, I stick to the facts as any good gentleman would. (Though this is not the first time that damnable statue of William Penn has beckoned to me) Light is shed on why we were kicked out of the party. During the night, I noticed flowers on the windowsill. They're apparently from a guy (let's call him Nick Neptune for the purposes of this story) who went into a drunken rage upon seeing us together at the party last night. Though neither of us remember it, we're later told that he even went so far as to pull us apart. Nick Neptune then focused his rage into ripping his bedroom door off its hinges. I can somewhat sympathize with the position he was put into. I've been passed over by women before, only to see them in a passionate embrace with someone else moments later. I've never gone so far as to rip a door from its hinges, and the fact that someone would go to such an extreme over an act I committed greatly amuses me.

        Bathed in early afternoon light, we rest on her bed getting to know each other. I feel so small compared to her. She tells me about all the places she's visited, all the places she's lived, all the ways she's lived and nothing I've experienced in my life can ev en compare to the story she's telling me. I visited Ireland when I was two; she's seen nearly every part of the continent. Back home, she lives on an island; I teetered on the edge of suburbia my whole life, in the same house. She shows me pictures from he r time at a hippie camp called "Power of Hope," pictures of the time she climbed a mountain with her friends, and pictures of all the interesting people she's met throughout her life. Now I'm not a total loser. I've met people throughout my life worth ment ioning, but as the tells me about all those she's known and the adventures she's had, I find myself replying with repetitive and increasingly redundant statements like "That's so cool," and "Wow, that's really interesting." I want to open myself up and sho w her that my life has been exciting and meaningful as hers, but I cannot find the words. It then occurs to me: why she was even attracted to me in the first place? She's lived such a path less traveled existence, and I'm Joe Catholic School . Yeah, I liste n to some punk bands, have a background in theater, and was brave enough to attend an art school for my higher education, but is there really anything about that makes me an individual or special? Or did my I spend my adolescence hiding behind a veil of TV shows and movies, tricking myself into thinking I was an individual?

        The happiest and most distressing moments come at almost the same time. Our conversation has drifted towards television and I discover her love for British comedy and brilliant-but-cancelled Fox shows like Futurama and Family Guy. This is almost too good to be true. Highly attractive and sophisticated enough to appreciate the comic genius of John Cleese? I've heard of the existence of such women, but rarely have I enjoyed their company. L ight is shed on why she was so strongly drawn to me. She has a thing for accents, and my five minutes as Macbeth were enough to get her all hot and bothered for me (the phrase "hot and bothered" is used with artistic license). Finally, I think. I got into theater to meet chicks. A whole nine years later it has paid off. Nine years. The Good Lord Jesus shall never question my patience. She lays back on her bed and I waste no time in lying on top of her. Our lips meet repeatedly in a few of those long complicated kisses. I try to soak up every detail, for she's the first woman I've kissed after the end of a relationship that lasted nearly two years. As I look down into her eyes, I suddenly have the urge to say "I love you," but I know it's only a reflex. She n otices I'm shaking. I want to relax. I want to be suave. A part of me does hate myself for doing this. No matter how many thousands of pretty words I dress it up in, this was an escape. I'm mad at my ex-girlfriend for not needing my love anymore. I'm mad I had to come to college and leave behind a world I was comfortable with. I'm mad I had to compromise myself in order to have a memorable evening. I'm mad this is making me so happy.

        Around two in the afternoon, we decide to call it a day. We both like to pretend we don't have hangovers, but we both need a nap and shower even if we don't admit it outright. Once I'm back in my room, approximately twenty hours after I left I'm pleased to report, I cannot contain myself from sharing the details of my experience with everyone I know. I spread the news on one of mankind's greatest inventions, AOL Instant Messenger. I even drag my pal Devin over to my room so I can tell the story to a live, appreciative audience. Every one I suck into a conversation gets to hear of how the typically reserved Eamon told his values to fuck-off one night, got drunk in about fifteen minutes, hooked up with a gypsy named Tashina whom he went home with after getting kicked out a party. I have no pretensions of what I'm doing. I am braggin g, because I am proud of this strange little adventure I had. Sure it's an adventure that includes vomiting and ends in confusion, but an adventure nevertheless. Writing all this down is just a more sophisticated, literate way of bragging, and also attempt ing to put it in some sort of thematic context. Am I there yet?

        Now as you might be able to infer, I'm not the sort of fellow who likes to have empty meaningless encounters. In fact, this is the first such encounter I had with the potential to become empty and meaningless. I almost did not want to leave her dorm, fearing our connection would totally dissolve once the desk person handed me back my ID. Though I hate to ask the question, I wonder how many visitors like me she's had before. I know I'm probably not her first hook-up at Drexel (though she has the distinction of being mine). My mind refuses to dwell further on the question. The experience has been had, is cherished, and in the days following it we do keep in touch and make plans to see each other again. Whatever comes of this, whether it be friendship or a whirlwind romance I am going to take it moment by moment. We're both typically poor college students, but I want to take her out to dinner anyway. It's not often I get to dress up and enjoy a good meal, so I take these opportunities when they come to me. Did I mention she's moving back to the west coast at the end of March?

*Postscript. The date was a huge disaster. After awkward dinner conversation over chicken and spaghetti, she went back to her dorm to work on a paper. A paper! I even wore a nice shirt, and she couldn't even indulge me for an hour at my room, which I cleaned!!! I mean, I was going to show her my short films an d then awkwardly make passes at her. Hmm . she was probably wise to work on her paper. Postdate, I watched Cops, got a headache, and fell asleep at about 9. It was one of the last times I felt suicidal. The next day, Devo and I went out for a day on the tow n, and saw "The Passion of the Christ" (Hack movie, by the by). That day, the seeds for "Boys Don't Cry" were planted in my head. So, my association with Tashina marked the turnaround in my life. She did indeed move back to the West Coast at the end of spr ing term. There was no whirlwind romance, but we've kept in touch via IM. She offered to have sex with me, at which point I began planning a ridiculous costly trip to visit her this summer. But as it turns out, she was that transitional girl between relati onships my brain latched onto in order to fill the loneliness. I'm in one of those "actual" relationships now, and while she doesn't own "Monty Python's The Meaning of Life" she can quote "Wonder Boys" like it's her job, and has Elvis Costello's "When I Wa s Cruel. " Don't cry for me, Philadelphia . My sorrow has left me.

*Postpostscript. What kind of a loser flies across the country to have sex?

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