I got downtown too late for the main event on the Diag today, the Hash Bash, but I did have brunch with P. and a stroll around the Madison Street Fair portion of the Bash. There P. wanted to sign a petition to legalize marijuana, but couldn’t because you had to be a registered MI voter to sign, and I picked up a little card from the libertarians entitled “World’s Smallest Political Quiz,” which confirms my position on the spectrum as a liberal (and a shade closer to the center than to the sharp, pointy corner of the left).
As we wandered vaguely in the general direction of my car, I filled him on the events of 28 March. At one point, we stepped aside to let a visibly upset woman and an inscrutable man trailing behind her pass by.
“Schizoaffective!” she spat at him. She started to walk faster. “My doctor told me about people like you!”
The man didn’t answer. No way to tell what was going on behind the sunglasses.
P. and I fell silent for a few strides. The students ahead of us laughed.
“There’s a mark against relationships,” he said.
“Maybe I won’t date for a while,” I said, at almost the same time.
“My cats never yell at me like that.”
“Schizoaffective?”
“At least the insults are good in this town.” He waved his hands dramatically. “You’re a Chagall on a Matisse canvas!”
A moment later, he said, “I’m not sure I know what that would mean,” in a confessional tone.
“Still, I like it,” I nodded.
Then he volunteered, if C. should come over to get his toothbrush, to answer my door stark naked.
“Think about it!” he called out from the crosswalk as we parted ways.
I am thinking about it. But maybe not quite the way he meant.
