Lemurs behaving badly

Lemur_catta_-_George_Edwards

Look: you can see his naughty bits! NAUGHTY BITS. Watch your hoods, ladies. Also, where’s the body of the second one?

I’m not sure when my friends and I became the cliché of new Berkeley.  But we did.

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had breakfast with Sparrow and Miss DeLoop the other day.  Brunch, I guess, since they got eggs and I got carnitas.  It was noon.  We had planned on eleven, but then Benjamin Franklin et al. got all up in our shit and messed up our morning with some Daylight Savings bullshit.  And then we couldn’t reach Zorro Smitty. (Yes, these are my noms de guerre for my friends.)  He was off the grid.  This shit doesn’t happen in the Age of the Cell; it used to happen all the time when we first met.  Remember?  When your friend wasn’t home and wasn’t at the spot and for all you knew they were being probed by the Alien Head from 1995?  But these days it’s disconcerting.  Someone could be trapped under something heavy.  Someone could be having a stroke.

Anyways, it turned out that Zorro Smitty had a callback for an audition, so hooray for him–for us all, really!  He got the part, too, but we didn’t find that out until later.  Zorro Smitty is a star!  And I am a star fucker, so I’m keeping my wagon platonically hitched to that boy.  I would anyways, but star fucker is so fun to say.

Sparrow is the one with a real job, a real grown up job that had sent her to Europe recently.  She’d even gotten to go to a fancy tech party with bands and shit.  It turns out traveling to other continents on business isn’t glamorous–this is what everyone has told me–because the time difference fucks your shit up so badly you can’t get right in a day or so for meetings.  You don’t have fun.  You just try and get your sleep right and feel out of it.

I am the old ass obligatory graduate student of the bunch.  I’ve had three real, grown-up jobs in the past.  But now, I am the one who regales them with tales out of school.  I have two professors who I think might be sorceresses.  I wouldn’t be surprised if I saw a magic throwdown between them one day.  I think the one would have a raven as a familiar, the other an iguana.  No clear winners as far as I can tell.

(Also, students take note: red light + theremin + animal costume = bad performance art.  I’m just saying.  That’s right up there with yarn in a tree.   That’s art school 101.  What, are you going to write “whore” all over yourself with red lipstick and jump up and down in a cheerleader outfit next?  Step up your game, people.  Maybe then people will want to attend your “happenings” instead of walking by your forlorn sad little venue.)

I got to the restaurant first, then saw Miss DeLoop.  She was still covered in body glitter.  Her back is doing better, so she was able to do a show for the first time in a long time last night.  She’s a trapeze and aerial artist, not a stripper.  [Do folks ask you that, Miss DeLoop?]  The show was for a birthday party that must have cost as much as a really, really, really fancy wedding.  As much as a really, really nice car.  With options.  I still think spending that much money at one time is like a potlatch, but not the productive kind, the kind where all this shit is amassed and destroyed.  You could feed a bunch of little kids.  Find someone in anxiety over their cancer payments or something.  But I guess you gotta spend money to light money on fire or something.

And then Miss DeLoop dropped a bomb on us.

“And I got humped by a lemur!”

Pics or it didn’t happen.

–She showed me the motherfucking pics.  Of a lemur on her shoulders with his little gleaming demon eyes.  Sexual demon eyes.

“He crawled up my back, and he liked my fuzzy coat.  And his trainer was all, ‘Uh, no Taj.  Stop, Taj.  Taj.  Bad, Taj.  No.  Taj.”

She said it was scary.  I can’t stop laughing even now.

Miss DeLoop, please send me the pic.  I think we’d all like to see it.

I imagine it went a lot like this:

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