Jenny was so delectably shy that she would vapor lock whenever I came to call on her. We sat on the sofa, I was grinning, and she was trembling, and fidgeting. Typically you just wait a shy girl out, and she’ll open up on her own, but the nuns really did a number on this chick, and Jenny was tough nut to crack. The last two weeks was an epic exercise in patience; we knew we liked each other, and at this rate it was only a matter of time before one of us was driven batshit insane from our situation.

Clearly, this called for the high-test Sean Connery-grade awesome.

“We need a change of scenery, c’mon, let’s go to the Circle,” I told her.

“Well, I don’t know what to say…”

“You should say: ‘Yes,’” I unhesitatingly replied.

“Well, okay…” said Jenny, with a grin. It was the contented grin of a girl desperately trying to keep us both from drowning in her vaginal moisture. At that moment, I had won.

Once there, Daryl poured me a Labatt’s, and Jenny and I found a table. Then, I took her hand, looked her straight in the eyes, and gave Oscar-quality monologue telling her how I felt about her, and the world, which resulted in me becoming the captain of her heart.

I was able to make a quiet and awkward evening into the beginning of the happiest relationship I’d ever been in, all thanks to the fact I have, at my command, a complete and encyclopedic knowledge of every James Bond movie. In this case, it was Terence Young’s 1962 classic Dr. No. Based off of the sixth novel, Dr. No was the first of the United Artists/EON era films, and the first time Sean Connery portrayed 007.

However, this can, and has, backfired, since you will also assimilate every other line in every one of these movies, and use them as responses as well.

We were on one of our Tuesday dates, walking back to our cars from Uptown when we stopped by the sundial to see the glorious panorama of the South Quad, highlighted by MacCracken Hall.

“Wow! What a view!” said Jenny.

“To a kill!” I unhesitatingly reply.

“What?” said Jenny. “That doesn’t even make sense! …is that from something?”

“Yeah a movie,”

“…was it a Bond movie again?” she said with a grin, knowing I have been trapped. (We had already watched Dr. No together at this point.)

“Yeah…” I sigh.

“Which one?” asks Jenny, as I sigh again.

“…A View to a Kill…”

“…aaaaand you honestly thought that would be smooth?” she asks.

“No, quoting Bond movies is just kind of a reflex…and… I …don’t want… to talk about it…right… now…”

I went out drinking the last two nights, because it’s been a rough four months for me, and I had no real need or desire to go drinking again, but I did. The friend I was going to watch movies with backed out because she had to work in the morning, which I understand. I had to leave. The walls were closing in, and when you live in a 13′ x 9′ box, that happens a lot.

So I embarked alone, to be with my brethren, the Creatures of the Night. This was Grand Prix, a Purdue tradition. Grand Prix Week has various campus organizations compete against each other in a go-kart race. Or so I’ve been told, all the locals use the race as an excuse for Breakfast Clubbing. I’ve never actually met anyone who has gone to the race.

The city rented Jersey barriers to block off two lanes of traffic, to keep inebriated persons from falling into the streets, forcing them to actually use the crosswalks. The closed-off lanes were littered with empty beer boxes and food wrappers. In the neon-lit night, with drunks hollering in all directions, it was very much like the alternate 1985 of Back to the Future II.

There was a street preacher screaming the entire text of the Bible, trying and failing to be heard over the jukeboxes, sorority screeches, honking horns, and ambulance sirens. He was a different street preacher, not the guy from Fiction-for-Fiction last year, or the usual Chick Tract distributors. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn he was David Yost, who played Billy the Blue Power Ranger back in the day. Yeah, I watched that show. I was like, fourteen when that show was in its prime, and the internet was still the “Electronic Information Superhighway,” back then and not the all-you-can-fap pornography buffet that we all know and love. Back then, if we wanted to see some leg, had to watch Power Rangers and hope for an upskirt shot as we watched Amy Jo Johnson do a flying kick. Before you ask, yes, life really was that bad before the internet.

Anyway, the line to get into Harry’s Chocolate Shop was no-joke a half block long. So I did the walk-on-by and went to Jake’s, and against all expectations, was served immediately. That was a reoccurring theme the entire night. Most non-Harry’s bars you can never get into. But even though there were thousands of people out that night, I could get in and be served immediately, as though I was in Topsy-Turvy Land or some shit.

After walking around Jake’s a few times, I decided to go to the Wabash Yacht Club. It had been a while since I’d gone, and I need to reiterate my hate for that place and everyone in it. It took me a while to get served, because it was packed as always. I never saw the allure of that place. While standing in line for the men’s room, the guy next to me shouts:

“Jesus Christ! Is that your actual chest hair?”

“Yeah, I’m an actual man,” I told him.

The frat boy hung his head in shame, because apparently he was a shamefully un-hairy non-man, and was clearly aware of this.

After peeing, I walked back out into the bar, and having no good place to hover or sit, leaned against a post. This was right about the time the alcohol hit me, and allowed me to transform from a bored grad student into a Gonzo Philosopher.

There’s this thing called the Dogma of Transubstantiation, it’s what makes a Catholic a Catholic. Rather than the bread and wine of communion being symbols of the last supper, Jesus’ words are taken literally. Catholic priests, through the magic superpowers they receive at ordination, transform the bread and wine into the actual skin and blood of Jesus. Then the Catholics all stand up, slowly shuffle, and consume their savior like a pack of Romero zombies.

The monk, when asked: “How does transubstantiation work?” replied: “it is a mystery of faith.” Well, fuck that. Mysteries are meant to be solved, not worshiped. I wanted answers, and the priests didn’t have them. So I ignored the dirges, and Paul imposing his will on the Corinthians, and just stared at the crucifix like a mandala, until I achieved enlightenment.

The zombie chow itself is irrelevant. The body of Christ is the congregation itself, and the Jesus jerky is just an excuse to get us all into the same room at once. The body of Christ is a shared sense of community and mutual concern. This applies to any group of people, in any size. I could see this in the eyes of the doe-eyed floozies, spending what is likely the last of their wild nights in familiar surroundings, before being tossed into the desolate world that the neocons had bequeathed them.

I was enchanted my interpretation of transubstantiation, and it was enough to keep me numb to the Christ-inspired horrors surrounding me. Eventually those horrors would prove too much, forcing me to leave the church, and ultimately campaign for its destruction.

My beer was empty now, and I had my fill of that place, and decided to move on to Brother’s. Took me a while to get served, but that was to be expected. When I went the men’s room a little later, this guy pats me on the shoulder, while I’m holding my penis and testicles in my two hands. As urine streams forth from my cock, we begin to chat.

“You’re in the Non-theists, I always see you there. What’s your major? Are you a philosopher? Psychologist?”

“Nuclear engineer,” I tell him

“I can’t have this conversation! We’re in the men’s room! You’re violating the Code!”

“He’s right,” said another Creature of the Night, relieving himself.

“Indeed, you need to check yourself, lest you wreck yourself,” I advised the friendly guy.

“Well, at least let me buy you a beer,” said the friendly guy.

“I can do that,” I told him.

I waited for him to get out of the men’s room, and then properly introduced myself. His name’s Nick, friendly guy. Nick leads me up the stairs, and picks up a pitcher of beer sitting on the ground next to the wall.

“I swear, I paid for this dude,” he tells me.

Makes sense. The safest place to keep your drink is on the floor, because no one is going to drink beer from a pitcher they find laying on the floor. So, he asked me a few questions about my personal religious views, and I began to teach him of the ways of Bertrand Russell. Unlike David Yost, I made a new friend that night, and cooked up a reading list for him at his request.

After we parted ways, the line at Harry’s was such that it was now get into-able, so I did. I had a fairly unremarkable time, but its home.

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