MY BROTHER THROWS A PRETENTIOUS PARTY

    Let's see, gang.  When we last saw my brother he was cooking up
a couple of omelettes.  Let's check in on him and see what's up:

     "Heat the plates first," I said.
     "I know," he called out.  "I'm not an idiot."
     "Yeah, all right."
     "Hey Rich, I'm having a party here next Friday."
     "Thanks for letting me know.  What kind of party?"
     "Just some friends from one of my classes."
     I perked up, remembering that he was taking two theater
classes.  "Which class?"
     "English 405--"
     My heart sank.
     "Between Hermeneutics and Deconstruction:  The Politics of
Contemporary Literary Criticism"
     It hit the floor.
     "Can you DJ?"
     "What, you think I'd let a roomful of postmodernists anywhere
near my 12 grand Nakamichi?!  Yeah, I'll be here."
     "Cool.  All the ubiquitous people'll be there."
     "Oh joyous day."  The ubiquitous people were what I
affectionately called all those people on campus that we seemed to
see everywhere.  I suppose, to be fair, that I was one of them,
simply because I was no longer a student but still hung around
campus a lot.  But I didn't wear nearly as much black as a true
ubiquitous person, nor was my skin quite that pale.