iDay, byDay, Long Nights, SPG boycotts, Loneliness, the End of Days, Loki with the keys, Sick of the Games, The Hunt for Matthewson, Reconciliation at the Cable Car, MIT

There is more to tell in this blog than a mortal writer could ever attempt. The MacBook has been acting up recently, and I was already 56/ths down with the greatest post of my life when the floor fell out from under me and the computer crashed.

It was a betrayal I could not bear. Everyone else, it seems, as already betrayed me. Friends in Boston, Friends in New York, Friends at the Hockey Game, the Cast Party, or making out with French Boys while swearing they love you.

I get tired of the hypocrisy. I skipped SexPowerGod and regretted it even while I was deciding to not go. Why didn't I go? It was my kind of party. It was sex, techno, and near nudity- God himself may have designed the event to get me out of the funk I am so deeply sunk into. I skipped SPG and editted film in the MCM until the wee hours. Godfrey showed up, himself deep in a paper about Mill and looked over my soldier at a project I am calling GuerillaJournalism.

We got bored, and booked it back to Keeney with the briefest of stopovers at Jo's for Chips and Hummus. While there, a friend showed up trashed out of her mind, and wished us sailors luck racing our "little yachts" in the morning.

I tried to sleep, Alone, Back in my room, with no Faust to bounce ideas off of or to fight with. It was 2:00- the fiends got back from SexPowerGod and began copulating upstairs to a palpable squeak-squeak that kept me awake until 3:30. I thought about going upstairs and having my way with the pair. No, I decided. Better not. My Karma is bad enough already, I need not make it worse.

Saturday November 4.

8:22 caught me with my pants down and a knock at the door. Preston was pissed. I was supposed to be a Loui's 20 minutes earlier. If the alarm had gone off at all, my anger and spontaneity had promptly shut it off.

We hauled ass to Boston. We had a regatta at MIT on the Charles and little time to fuck around. We listened to lame hip hop as we switch lanes on 95 at 90 mph. We got to MIT's sailing pavilion with half a minute to spare until registration ended. We signed in, got dressed, and crashed on the dock to sleep off early morning lethargy.

The racing was wild. Fucked up conditions dropped the breeze anywhere between 0 - 9 knots. If there was a puff anywhere on the course, you had to get to it. Missing any extra breeze was the difference between top 5 and dead last.

Our starts were good. Only once did I seriously blow a start and that race we sat in last until I managed to cut off two boats on the beat to the finish and retain my cred.

It was the first college regatta that I skippered. In all fairness, it had been at least two years since I had competively skippered a regatta. The Techs were fun, and the Sailing Pavilion was classic- the only problem with the entire situation was that there didn't seem to be a consisten breeze all day.

We dropped a fourth on the first race then mid-fleeted through most of the afternoon. At times, inexplicably the breeze would die out right around the windward mark and create a clusterfuck of drifting boats. This was the hell I could not endure. For two straight races I was third off the line and fourth to the windward mark, but died in the dodgy breeze and had to fight for redemption.

On the last race of the day, with Preston and me cold, tired, and pissed, I got a good start off the pin side and shot out above the fleet alone with a Harvard boat. We kicked it out left looking back at the fleet by the boat who were CLEARLY not moving. Voting on a cross together, we port-tacked the fleet by a mile and went solo into the 1-2 about 15 boatlengths from our nearest competitor.

My boatspeed was good. I kept the quirky Tech bow down from the wind and sail eased to the corner of the boat. We banged corners out left and crushed around the mark in first, already distancing ourselves from the Harvard B - Boat.

We opened up the race on the down wind then struggled to make our way back upwind to a finish line we could not find. Finally, we found the balls delinating the finish, worked our boat though the tepid river waves and sliced on home.

We were first by 7 boatlengths. We could retire for the day and the winter on a silver bullet.

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Later that night I played a drunk in a sort clip of Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. I was moonshine, in a dress, and I took pulls from a large glass jug while making off-hand comments about moons, thorn-bushes and hoes.

I finished up, still reeking from a day on the water and kicked home. I was a real drunkard by 12:00 but with no cause and no direction in my life. I retired by 2:00.