Here's me in McCabe again, having finished my French homework again (this time a crossword puzzle that we had to print out and a "self-grading" quiz with lots of words we haven't even learned yet. Jennifer and I gave our dialogue this morning in drill, after I did my homework for today (I guess it's a bad habit, doing the work right before class, but it seems to work well enough since I have an hour gap between classes), after I met with Michael Watt "Fascinating" Cothren (he says he used to live in the garage apartment at the barn) and after Murder, where we were all given cotton balls as tactile aids (Ester suggested that he should have gagged us with them.) Once again, I find most of my classes are dominated by women (murder, victorian, african, syntax to some extent). Not that I'm complaining, but it makes me wonder a bit. My lunch was an excellent slapdash open-face sandwich of scraps of tomato, tuna, and three different cheese, topped with some leftover peanut-soy pasta sauce, and melted in the nuker. There was plenty of time to savor this and make it to Victorian on time, although Joel and I were actually a few minutes late, walking in in the middle of a Loreena McKennit setting of "The Lady of Shalott." I was fairly hyped for a good three hour discussion on Tennyson, but we actually only got to a handful of the poems, and the shorter ones too; those we read aloud in class, and discussed the narrative structure before delving into further analysis, which certainly felt like a waste of class time and belittlement of the expectation that we read the poems in advance. Nat Anderson reads slowly and laughs nervously, and finds sexual interpretations wherever she can, and reminds equally of Sue Salzman (especially in her chalkboard hand) and a more sprightly version of Ruth Peck (whom I shamefully neglected to visit all summer.) I like her though, her half-lens glasses perched on her nose and her stylish little tousled pepper hair, and she said she was delighted that I asked to audit the class. Me too, although hopefully the discussions will become more focused and productive as we go.

Joel and I had a chat with Corey Mark after class about the music scene at swat; Inflight Announcement should be the next big up-and-coming, but we haven't even met to discuss rehearsing yet. Rubin is still in New York to see Michael Jackson at MSG, as we found out when we stopped by his lodging. I managed to read a bit more of Moby (all of last night for me consisted of reading Moby, documents for Murder, and Tennyson, with breaks for reheated pasta, fruit and cheese, and cake and ice cream) before Afrique, but mostly to quibble about shopping lists, devour craisins and wasabi peas (bad idea before dance class) and look at Esters new roll of film. I have to remember to get my first week photos developed. Maybe I'll even find a way to put some up here. African was kick-ass, as it has always been (it will presumably at some point be temporarily less so) although I haven't spent much time here talking about it. The class is large, mostly bright-eyed girls in their "lapas" (batiked skirts) and a few bemused boys (men never seem to look at home in dance classes, as comfortable as they may be.) The best part of class is probably across-the-floor, when the ass-shaking grows more and more vigorous and the Rate of Pelvic Thrusts (RPT) begins to climb.) The men always have to go in the last two or three rows, which is frustrating at times, but has the distinct advantage that we have a captive audience (the steely, intense google-eyes of Kate Conover; the ever-imminent giggle of Claudia Sell; the bashful grin of Betsy Jenkins) that isn't afraid to cat-call and cheer as we swivel our rumps around in their general direction, and that, as we approach the end of the room, we pass in between two files of glistening women dense with the jungly musk of female sweat and snatches of fruited body-washes and perfumes, heightened today by the thick humidity which created a series of gentle rainshowers. The drummers fluctuate between funk and disharmony, but we pay our respects nonetheless, and everyone leaves the class with a smile.

What could be better than that primordial workout session followed by a brief jaunt in "the world's greatest shower" and a delicious meal of stir-fry and rice prepared by chef Joel, and enjoyed with the company of our guest Stefanie Fox? There was an oddly tense moment when I was helping Joel in the kitchen; he seemed on edge and then swore a few times. He laughed it off ("I swear casually,") and explained that he didn't want to fuck up the meal, but this has happened before; his directions to me when I help him cook always feel a little brusque and condescending; maybe something about cooking puts him ill at ease.

After that a ridiculously long, but enjoyable (always, with Goofball Gabe and Dizzy Dave) SAC meeting, and the last half of swing (remember never to go for the lessons, just the free dance sessions) where I danced with some more uneasy freshman, and then here. I'm sitting next to Renee Witlen, who affirms that she does not think we're dorks (as Ester contends), and apologizes for not being more neighborly. It's all right; she's working hard on a scholarship application. Becca wants to go, so I shall.

I took her out. It was a Friday night. I wore cologne to get the feeling right