You now know everything I know

First things, Zach Braff's new video post, and it's intriguing that despite the personability of his blog, he needs to playact like a Making-the-Tour wookie (and one commenter had the nerve to ask, "Was that staged?", OMG, first stages of fan). Also, he doesn't seem to realise that readers like me link not because I actually care when new Scrubs season comes out or that there are Sam dolls (which saddens me, really), but because of his sporadic ability to write like the world isn't pricking up its ears at every word. Well, he used to.
Now I sound like an IMDBboardbitch, but am not going to defend myself. I am not even being very serious.
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I meant to tell this story a long time ago. I went to a frat party. At a club, not a frat house, so you may ask what makes it so different from Zouk/MS etc. Well, emerging from the Satellite Ballroom every twenty minutes or so to escape the smell and sweat for a blast of cold in the pose-lined alley, whooping Koreans in Greek-letter jackets, and dudes who slide in and unhesitatingly grind against your ass when you're letting the music pull you in. The first one was class act because he stuck out his hand and introduced himself, before proceeding to pull a hand/waist at least three times until I carefully danced away.
I will not pretend that it wasn't part of the fun, if the grossly tragic gap between physical intimacy and emotional connection had never been clearer to me in the darkness, so I had to go back and listen to Lonelily. There was something very carnal about those surging bodies, but perhaps examination from each move and angle with one intent gaze in blinding sunlight is scarier.
Unceremoniously, it shut down half-an-hour early because of "excessive underage drinking" (you get a wristband on entrance if you're 21 and over, markered 'X's on your hands otherwise), and we were bumped out by frat members, spilling into the street and over the Corner, roaring, "GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE" with relish, and the ethnically-American (controversial!) passersby made a comment that floated back - "What's with all the FOBs?"
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I remember lying with Annie and Bernice on a hammock outside in a 4-degree night and when I closed my eyes I could see the old tree growing out of concrete in the centre of a quiet street in Richmond, and an angry iguana eating zucchini in an aquarium two sizes too small for it, a mother singing to it in Spanish in her apartment in hot, sweet California weather.
I managed to go to the gym last week and I need to go again because we used it all up.
We talk and talk about how aware of race we are in Virginia and drawing lines and what's offensive. I said something about how who cares if you're offended, no one does, the most important thing is considering why said ignorant person made ignorant comment to you. Which only further displays how consciously naive I am. I mean, can you imagine sidling quietly to FOB-comment guy with "Excuse me, sir, but what made you say that?" instead of "Fuck you"?