No, really… it was the Michigan vs. Wisconsin game. And by “13 minutes” I mean “approximately for fucking ever” since football transpires in some parallel universe where time has no meaning and the network’s idea of entertaining me is a bunch of shots of people pacing around looking pissed. I would get bored and look away, only to have my attention drawn back suddenly by shouts or wails—when I did this, I would see perhaps several consecutive seconds of activity on the field, chased by more pacing. Truly a riveting game, that.
This was the prelude to Ali’s party he was throwing at his new apartment. I’m in Ann Arbor visiting, partly in celebration of being a post-prelim individual, partly because the tickets were dirt cheap. The party was fun—in poor yet excellent taste someone brought the parts for making hurricanes, which I tried. Rum… such a strange thing, foul by itself but laid low by a splash of pineapple juice. I proceeded to get Not Very Drunk while many people around me got Quite Drunk Indeed, and I discovered that in Ann Arbor, if the party is not entertaining enough, the guests will not leave. Instead, they will seek out and ingest ever increasing amounts of alchohol until the party becomes fun. You have to admire the determination, or desperation, or whatever it is.
It’s not actually cold here at all. In fact, it’s detectably warmer than in Berkeley—I constantly delight that places like Michigan exist where it is both too hot and too cold. Suckers.