It was drinks with Mona and D. last night, an enjoyable evening by any measure. The conversation ranged from the role of class in the contemporary university to the puritanical impulse behind the American obsession with health to the terminology employed by Harlequin romance novels to describe the male sexual organ. God love them both.
As ever, D. had her tarot cards on hand, which became the basis for an impromptu drinking game: every time the Three of Cups appeared in one of our readings, we had to drink a toast to ourselves. As luck would have it, the Three of Cups came up in every single one of our spreads from that point on, which made for some unexpectedly heavy drinking. As a side-note, the Knight of Wands came up repeatedly in my readings, which D. insists is a harbinger of a sexually-charged affair with a fiery man. Yes, but has he read Habermas?
Mona and D. plan to return to the States in June, and I shall miss them when they do. I like their intelligence and their impermeability to ideology in any form, a rare condition in graduate school. I appreciate their wit, which is effortlessly acerbic, and the aura of close friendship that surrounds them even when they are doing their best to completely ignore each other. Most of all, I enjoy their relentless cynicism, which is always undergirded by an equally relentless optimism, even when it’s February and absolutely everything sucks.
D. has written a fine little parody of the romance genre, which can be found here. I am trying to encourage her to write a full-length novel in this style, or at the very least a novella, which will almost certainly become a bestseller. Then, we can drink expensive scotch instead of beer when we hang out.