Flooding The Groundwaves

I was standing outside of my building when these two girls walk by, holding hands. It wasn't one of those "we're giddy children playing with our outward social representation" hand-holding jobs, either.

Yep. Lesbians.


But there's another reason I've decided to make my sixth post this week. I've come to tell you about the newest craze you've never heard of : Skirt Night.

So basically the idea is, whenever I feel like making it Skirt Night, I just pull out this patchworky-looking skirt and put it on. Then I do whatever. Usually I drink a beer and watch TV, but if some other activity comes along I'm open to it.

Unless it involves me moving more than absolutely necessary. Or taking off the skirt. So basically, Skirt Night operates as a completely arbitrary obstacle to any other social obligation; Brody calls me up, "Hey man, I just walked up a flight of stairs without any help. I feel like I deserve some of your pot" and I say, "No, sorry man, it's skirt night."

He's all like "What's skirt night?" and then I'm like "Don't worry about it, dude. I'll talk to you this weekend."

Brody doesn't get to enjoy skirt night. Even though Alfonzo hasn't been around the suite lately--at least since his valuable appliances started getting chewed apart--I don't think Brody is allowed to come here. If my memory serves me, he never has.

So who does get to share in the magic of Skirt Night?

Chaz does, but it's not what you think. Really the only person who needs to wear a skirt is me. If you've tried wearing skirts and you didn't like it, then hey, bless you for trying dude. If you've never tried wearing a skirt, well, next time you ask me to hang out and I bail on you for skirt night, maybe you should think about coming along.

So Chaz and I just watch TV and drink beer, while I wear a skirt. I can think of no more normal thing in the world than this. Certainly more normal than ritually smoking marijuana, using that as an excuse to ditch on plans.


Gender is such a strange thing, isn't it? Until the invention of Skirt Night, it had been so long since I last cross-dressed, (Actually, scratch that. I wore a skirt and women's sweatshirt to mock fellate John Gerstenhaber for a newspaper photograph just the other week). But the fake head wasn't leisure time, it wasn't time for me to commune with my liberated thighs, my perineum free from the inseam.

This, my friends... tonight, is Skirt Night.

It's not about looking good. It's not even about looking or feeling like a woman. Skirt Night is not a means to any end, but rather, itself, the end.