Project MERCATOR
I need friends who aren't lame. I kept that sentence simple to heighten its effect, but there are important caveats both because what I mean is simple, but not straightforward, & because I long ago grew comfortable with my own garrulousness. I'm long-winded, bombastic, grandiloquent, what have you. You know this and for your own reasons have not let it deter you from reading The Secret Base, a decision on your part which I find most gratifying. But I digress.

By "friends" I don't mean my friends, I mean my local friends. My friends are the finest people I've had the pleasure to know, clever, challenging, supportive, funny, patient, & generous; the only black mark I can make against many of them is their irrational fondness for a tempestuous scoundrel like your humble narrator. But they should rest assured that I am grateful for that flaw in each and every one of them. Friendship is a category of intercourse in which the English language, for which I harbor an unashamed passion, fails us. From my most boon companion of long standing to the newest acquaintance met by a chance encounter, the word I am expected to use for each is "friend." As a society we recognize the inadequate specificity of that label, which is my we invented from phrase, "best friend." But that hardly solved the problem, as evidenced by a great many people claiming to have more than one "best friend," entirely disregarding the definition of the word "best." The word "acquaintance" could be of great usefulness, except that most people take grave offense at being described as an acquaintance by their acquaintances, resulting in ever more frequent & inaccurate use of the title of "friend." I have yet to devise a comprehensive scheme to counter these linguistic shenanigans, though I am drawn to the phrase "kith & kin," and may well decide to use "kith" to describe solely my truest & most far-flung friends. But again I digress.

(Yes, I am aware of my penchant for, in newspaper terms, "burying the lead.")

I need friends, in the greater Flint metropolitan area, who aren't lame. I am tremendously glad to have met "the gang," the stars of most of the past year's Project MERCATOR posts, and for the subsequent revelation of how lonely I'd been prior to that meeting. Mainstays of the gang include the sisters, The Most Dangerous Game & The Impossible Ingenue; their cousin-sum-sister the Drama Queen; erstwhile paramours The Cowgirl & Ska Army; the Action Hero; Frankenstein's Monster (with whom I wish not to associate, but with whom I shall have to as a byproduct of interacting with other members of the gang); and new members Vitamin H. (Colette) & The Blonde (Jenny). These are people I like, people with whom I enjoy spending my time, but my instinct tells me that none of them are candidates to join the ranks of my long-term kith. A minor but illustrative example of this, and the precipitating event to this post, is that none of them will accept my repeated invitations to join me at a Flint City Derby Girls (F.C.D.G.) bout. Roller derby is a grand old time, but I recognize that lots of people have both terrible taste & no appreciation for fun; so, I know that roller derby isn't for everyone. I wouldn't expect everyone—or even anyone—who attended a game to be instantly mesmerized as I was last fall. But what I find distressing is that not a one will even sample roller derby.

I've never said that I'd try anything once, but that's only because my mind instantly leaps to the most extreme examples, like sampling cocaine just to experience being high as a kite or shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die. But I'll try anything within reason once; how else could I conclude whether I liked it? From Sunday's bout (F.C.D.G. v. Jacktown Rollers, "Jacktown" presumably being Jackson)—which I attended alone, such is my love of roller derby—I sent a whiny text about my local friends' refusal to give derby a try; the response, with which I agreed entirely, was, "They're lame?" My friends are lame. Lame friends are better than no friends, but better still are aggressively not lame friends, such as my widely dispersed kith. Though Mrs. Skeeter, Esq. would say it's impossible, as she may well be right, I must endeavour to locate locals who aren't lame, & then befriend them.

* * * * *

This morning, The Impossible Ingenue rang me up to invite me to a working lunch, to help her study for an upcoming mathematics exam (yes, I know, I'd be even my own last choice to help someone study for a math test). Also to attend were Frankenstein's Monster (admittedly, a better math tutor than me) and some girl with whom I'm acquainted. When The Ingenue showed up a half hour late with Vitamin H. & The Blonde in tow, I was halfway through the sushi I'd ordered when she was twenty minutes late. No coherent explanation was given, and instead of her math exam she asked for my help on a biology pre-lab assignment. I owe it to myself to make finding friends who aren't lame a priority.

Project PANDORA
I owe you the whole pointless, eye-rolling tale of the nothing that ever happened with Love/Hate, and I do mean to publish it sooner rather than later, but until then chew on this: on Monday, after debate practice, Love/Hate invited the whole team back to her place to watch episodes of the unintentionally hilarious television show Ghost Adventures on D.V.D. Accepting the invitation were Too Sly, some guy who's new to the team, and your humble narrator. I had confirmed my suspicion that whatever interest I'd ever had in Love/Hate had been extinguished by her relentless mediocrity when I realized that at no point did I hope Too Sly & some guy would leave before me so that I might be alone with Love/Hate. I can do better, & I dare not allow myself to accept less than my very best effort. Project PANDORA continues.