Woodrow Wilson was a Racist!
So in case you're wondering why there wasn't an ISB update last night, here's your answer: I was out with a lady.
I do feel like I should clarify this for my nonexistant legion of female fans: we're Just Friends™. Still, it's a step in the right direction. Her name's Sarah, I've known her since high school, and she is goofy as hell.
In a fun way, I mean. We met up in high school drama, which is the place to meet flaky nerds if you don't happen to have a convenient comic book store, and started to hang out. That was around the time that she came to my birthday party and got lost in my hallway.
My hallway, for those of you who haven't had the pleasure of visiting the Invincible Super-Casa, is a small room with five doors that lead to the bedrooms, bathroom, and back to the living room. She got lost on her way back from the bathroom.
Goofy. As. Hell.
But still, a lot of fun to be around, which is why I ended up taking her to the Prom my senior year of high school.
I've been meaning to give her a call to catch up ever since I ran into her unexpectedly a couple months ago at one of Rob's Art Bar gigs, but didn't have a chance until last week. So we met up, with her sporting freshly dyed red hair, and went out to dinner.
It was not unlike going out with Scott, except the danger of being in a knife fight was significantly lower. As such, we ended up talking about Quantum Leap for an inordinate amount of time, and then she recounted an epic story that I will, in turn, relate to you.
She had been hanging out with a guy she liked, but ended up taking a walk around Five Points with the guy's best friend. This was the first time she'd ever met this dude. Anyway, while they're walking, a panhandler comes up and asks for some cash. The guy declines, but according to sarah, this is where a voice in her head (!) tells her to go ahead and give him some cash.
The smallest bill she has is a five, so she hands it over, and to compensate, the bum offers to sing her a song. The guy again declines, but Sarah decides she wants to hear it. So the bum, assuming that they're a couple, tells her to remember that while he's singing the song, he's doing it as the guy she's with, whom she has only just met. So the bum starts up what sounded to me like an especially emotional power ballad about, quote, "my thighs and stuff," end quote, while constantly stopping every few lines to remind her that he's singing in character as her presumed boyfriend.
So as the song ends, it builds to a crescendo of "I love you, I love you, I love you!" and the bum demands that the guy now profess his love for Sarah. So he does. Then he commands that they--Sarah and the guy, not Sarah and the Singing Panhandler--"embrace." So they do.
"Wow," I said as she finished the story. "Are you sure you should be out with me? I'm pretty sure that a bum serenade is legally binding in this state."
She'd later call up the guy she actually did have a crush on, while drunk, and say: "I'm going to say two things and then hang up. First: Woodrow Wilson was a racist. And second: I have a crush on you."
See what I mean?
We were supposed to go out again tonight and hit the Art Bar for WUSC's iPop night Star Wars party, but when I called her, there was no response. So I went over to the mall and ended up hanging out with Rob and buying ten dollars worth of chewing gum from WaldenBooks, which I think is a story in and of itself.
Four more calls later, I just went over to MG3's and told him I was throwing in the towell. I was being stood up, man! And after I paid for dinner last night and everything. It was, to quote MG3, "ruthless."
On the way home, I got a call from Sarah. She'd fallen asleep and missed my calls.
Redheads, man. They always break my heart.