Queen Dopplepopulous

My roomate's been acting strangely lately. When I originally proposed that we should do a DVD double-feature of New York Minute and The Passion of the Christ, it was Emory who insisted it should be a full-fledged party, with decorations and booze and lots of people and other things Emory is famous for not having much time for. The last time we had a party at our apartment, Emory agreed only grudgingly, with the stipulations that he would get to choose the music for the entire evening (sorry, Trumbo) and that I would need to single-handedly clean the apartment the next day. This time, however, not only was the party his idea, but he lept into planning it with a tremendous amount of zeal. He decided on the theme of Blasphemy and single-handedly composed a Wall of Heretics, printing pictures from the internet of everyone from The Dixie Chicks to E.T. Leslie and Lauren were drafted to create artistic masterpieces for the walls, and when their productivity slipped Emory was right there to egg them on. (Leslie might insist that "egg them on" should be replaced with "whip them repeatedly," if you asked her. I didn't. So.) Emory also sent us out for booze, insisting that we bring back a bottle of Jaggermeister for everyone to partake of. Of course, Emory wasn't going to be drinking, but he was pretty set on cramming Jagger down every poor partygoer's throat. In the end, though, the Jagger proved too expensive for the party's budge, to every boozehound's immense releif.

I suppose Emory really got into the swing of things because the theme of Blasphemy was something he could really passionately get behind, and that the centerpiece of the party was to watch movies, rather than, say, socializing. But Emory organizing an event and insisting everyone get drunk for it is something I've never witnessed. I would cite it as an odd anamoly were it not for what happened this past Sunday.

I informed Emory that Matt and Frank were coming over around one so we could watch the last few episodes of Deadwood that we had missed a few weeks ago. (Deadwood = Fucking. Awesome.) Emory said that was great, but we would need to be finished by 5:30 because that's when the game started. "What game is that?" I inquired. "The Chiefs game," he replied. "We're all going to watch the Chiefs game on ESPN."

Whaaaaaat?

I mean, I don't really have anything against football. And neither does Emory, really. But it's not like either of us would actually set aside four hours of our precious weekend to watch a game on TV. But apparently Emory was interested in seeing our old hometown team take on the Broncos, so Leslie, Matt, Daisy, Andrea, and I all watched the Chiefs game. The whole thing. Leslie didn't even know the basic rules of football, so Emory, Matt and I gave her a crash course as we watched. It was a good time, too, even though we lost. But still... the hell? Where did that come from.

I mean, both of these things were really fun and I'm not complaining or anything. It just seems like Emory's branching out, which is a good thing, but also puts me ill at ease. If the day comes where he starts keeping the apartment above his usual arctic-seeming 70 degrees, I'll just assume he's been replaced with a Lizard Man doppleganger and I'll have to shiv him in his sleep. So when you see me on the news being led away by the authorities, covered in Emory's blood and screaming "I did it for the whole human race!", you'll know why.