RockHell is Coming to Town

A momentous event has occured here in Ow-steen Tay-haas: two bloggers that have linked to each other and commented on each other's blogs from afar for months have finally joined forces in the same city. Rachel (aka Gavagirl) got here Tuesday night, and it's been a barrel of monkeys ever since. We began by hauling all of her stuff out of her Protege at midnight since this isn't the kind of neighborhood in which you should leave valuables in you car. This was a bit painful for both of us, since I live on the third floor; Raquel had to carry heavy computer equipment and I am still recovering from the foot surgery. We made it, though, and since then, she's set up camp on my very comfy couch and works all day on her computer at my dining room table. It's only a one-bedroom apartment, but we don't seem to get in each other's way too much, mostly because Gavagirl is a slender slip of a girl and I can slide past her with a fair amount of ease. Wednesday we made an ecstatic trip to Central Market, where Rachel remembered what it's like to see produce that isn't rotting in some Oklahoma grocery store.

Rachel's visit has reminded me of a lesson I learned back in January when I first started hanging out with Andrew and the Spiderhouse crowd. That lesson is, in short: I am not cool. It took me a long time in life to accept the fact that not only I am not cool, but also that I will never be cool. When I would sit around discussing modern philosophy and watching documentaries at the Spiderhouse with Drew and the boys, I had a great time, but I always had the vague sense of being an intruder. I could spend time in hip coffee shops, but I was not a coffee shop hipster, as much as I wanted to be. I took up smoking in an effort to fit in (alright, and I also just love to smoke), but my clothes and general demeanor still set me apart from the others.

Now what I mean by "cool" is quite different from what you might think of the classical definition. The Spiderhouse folks weren't the popular kids in high school; they were the goths, the smokers, the drama freaks, the potheads, the art students, the queers, the kids reading Ayn Rand and Sartre on their lunch breaks, clothed in Nine Inch Nails shirts and big black boots; some of them were even Star Trek nerds or role-playing gamers. They are alternative cool, and as many of their kind as I knew and loved back in high school, I was not quite one of them even then. I remember one lovely Goth, Ashley Green, took me under her wing as her pet normal girl and delighted in shocking me every chance she got. I tried to imitate her creepy Goth handwriting and her Wiccan jewelry, but I couldn't quite pull it off. I was not cool.

Rachel, on the other hand, is cool. She possesses a sardonic wit and a withering disdain for the widespread stupidity in the world around her; she is not easily ruffled and in general gives the impression that she doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks about her. This is sharp contrast to her dear friend Muskrat, who can't seem to break out of her pathetic "Love me! Love me!" mode. She is beautiful in a mournfully sexy way; at best I could be described as tomboyishly cute. She smokes in an unthinking, careless way, just like all the other coffee shop dwellers, whereas I often still have trouble simply lighting my cigarette in one attempt. Living with her is sure to emphasize my un-coolness even more, but I'll try my best to learn from her how to be hip, and also how to drive a standard transmission.

Thanks to new commenters Wayne and Becca (sister of Gavagirl) for joining the Muskrat Love family. I appreciate your taking the time to read my ramblings.