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Can I Borrow A Feeling?

2002-06-28 - 6:37 p.m.

~ BEGINNING OF PROLOGUE ~ I think it's time to clear up a popular mistruth by that fabulous, fractious (and in this case, fibbing) fivesome, Fleetwood Mac. Thunder, in fact, *does not* ONLY happen when it's raining. It has thundered and ligtheneneneinged so many fucking times this last week that frogs and locusts would not surprise me at this point (let alone blood and fish). While it has rained SEVERAL of the times it has thundered - and gerbil-sized rain at that - the two are NOT, as that harlot Stevie Nicks would have you believe, exclusive. But, as Floridians do each afternoon around 3, I have been looking forward to each time that it rains. Because it lowers the temperature in this hot box. And by lower I mean it goes from a sticky 94 degrees to a frigid 89 degrees. Fun. I love being all sweaty BEFORE I get to work. I love being all sweaty AFTER I get out of the shower. I love being all sweaty WHILE I am making out with the 60-Year-Old Irving Mainway attendent. Waitaminute. Oh crap, I probably shouldn't have said "make out". Oh crap, I probably shouldn't have said "60-Year-Old". Anyway - I will give the "Mac" credit for one thing. It's true: Players only love you when they're playing. [NOTES ON PROLOGUE: I am upset that I wasn't somehow able to work in jokes that included "This is for you Daddy . . ." (a favorite of Marshall's and Fred's) as well as "Fleetwood Zach", a nickname that Fred *claims* people called me, except for the fact that. they. never. did.] ~ END OF PROLOGUE ~

Ok. Hi. So where were we? A week?! A WEEK?! You good people have been forced to stare at the title "Summer Solstice Was My Best Food" for a week?! How inhumane of me. Please accept my most humble of apologies. We have got a cornicopia of opossum pratfalls to cover too! There's supermodels, visits to the hospital, semi-nudity, and a kidnapping! So let's get a move on. . .

And what happens when I can't write for a week? "Death On Parade!", that's what! I hardly think that I am the only one that sees it as mere *coincidence* that less than 24 hours after I debut my last journal entry, in the style of a syndicated advice column, Ann Landers up and dies! While Landers was always a bit more of a spit-fire than her necrophiliac sister Dear Abby, she lived fast, drank hard, and died young. And by young I mean 83. Here is an excerpt from what Landers says was one of her hardest questions to give advice to: "One writer listed a fraction of the problems she addressed as follows: 'infidelity, incest, domestic violence, adult bed-wetting, panic attacks, obnoxious children, animals in the toilet.'". It's the animals in the toilet that get me. And so Ann Landers, you magnificent bastard, we bid you a good night.

Ned Flanders: "Ann Landers is an old biddy!"

So Saturday was the big Cool Kids Cook-Out at Chad's. And, what with me not being a cool kid and having to motherfucking work, I could not attend. It did rain off and on though so I took a secret pleasure that their cheeseburgers were soggy whilst I wrapped more Feltkids than any human should have to. But April Showers bring May Flowers, and Presher BBQ's bring Hannah, Rich, and Jimbo to Lilac Lane. Or something like that. But before I finally ambled on home to Dover, Andrea - the culinary Mata Hari that she is - fattened me all up on a Taipei & Tokyo Pu Pu Platter. I was expecting a relaxing night of price points and rolling stock, NOT going to "visit Qwan at Jade Island for dinner tonight". Anyway, that Pu Pu Platter just ended up sitting there, LAUGHING at me. It acted as if it told the Ross's that I didn't have a house in the Hamptons. Anyway, by the time I finally DID get home, the dinner was more than living up to its name, which meant it took some time before I could get my Beirut boots on. Hannah "The Big Banana" Smith made sure to try to pull out her old tried and true strategy of "trick the big ox into being my partner, get him to win for me while I get him loaded and he falls on the floor with his eyes going *tilt* *tilt*, and then I pick a new partner" routine. And since Tim Curtis wasn't around I was prepared to be said Ox. But I was rescued and was partners with Rich instead. It was a fun night of hi-jinxery and jackanapery. And to top it off we dusted off one of Pedro's old favorites, "Psychiatrist"! We were popstars, muppets, sidekicks, and siblings. Even if Ben and Rich had to keep being reminded of who they were playing, it was still fun. (And Grammi Gummi didn't rear her haggard face once!)

Waitaminute? What happened to Death On Parade?! Hmmmmm, well let's see. I know somewhere around here Darryl Kile died. I can say this much about Cardinals pitcher Kile. Before he died, at the tender age of 33 . . . I had never heard of him. Nope. Not once. I'm sure Peter "Stats" Farmer must have posters of Darryl Kile, but me? Never heard of him. But I saw his wife at the rememberance they had for him at Busch Field, and she is HOT. Hmmmmm . . . that was probably really inappropriate for me to write huh? Oh well . . .

Sunday saw Jimbo and Ben spend the day at Bull Moose and spend a combined $575.00 on musicy music. Or some such figure like that. Jimbo always swings into town with a feather in his cap and lays down his phat fresh beats for Ben and I to groove to. And then we need them like a drug when he is gone. So we have to buy music we would have never bought if not for Jimbo's evil influence. Evil Jimbo. But while Plus and Minus were at Teddy Roosevelt's favorite record store, I was at home, dreamily gazing into the black and white eyes of the woman Entertainment Weekly (playfully) dubbed "Sponge Bath Hot Pants", Maura "Nurse Abby" [But Will Always Be "Lisa Miller" In My Heart] Tierney. Even regular readers of this baboon heart journal may not know *this* little factoid: I am fond of Maura Tierney. Oh well, I guess the cat's out of the bag now! But seriously, I have made a drunken fool out of myself at many a party in my attempts to justify my obsession to various party guests. Sometimes I merely just get sidetracked and go off on one of my patented "Why Satan is sleeping with Brooke Shields and Kirstie Alley" deals, but sadly, sometimes my "friends" try to goad me on for their purile enjoyment in seeing me look like more of a horse's ass than usual. A certain incident at Tim and Coty's last year springs to mind. Where a certain Jimbo and Jon Miller made me crack in front of Rachel and her boyfriend Matt. Hey - I had just found out I had a not-so-infinitesimal link to Ms. Tierney (through Matt). What was I to do? All I know is I woke up the next morning on the dining room floor hopelessly entangled in an uninflated blue river raft of some sort. ("Tsk, tsk, tsk." - Aunt Linda)

"Now don't you listen to scolding aunts, you go and drunkenly rave about me any time you want!"

Waitaminute. Damn it. Where'd that pesky Death on Parade go *this* time? Let's see. Oh yeah! R. Kelly's career! Ok, here is the deal, R. (as I like to call him) just released a song (in order to tell his side of the story) entitled "Heaven, I Need A Hug". No. Seriously. HEAVEN. I NEED A HUG. Seriously. Here is a sample lyric: "Heaven, I need a hug/ Is there anybody out there willing to embrace a thug?" Riiiiiiiiiight. Am I the only one that thinks this ranks musically BELOW Kirk Van Houten's "Can I Borrow Feeling?"

[Can I borrow a feeling? / Can you lend me a jar of love? / Hurtin' hearts need some healin' / Take my hand with your glove of love]

And then came Maude. I mean Monday. I had the day off on Monday. I could have updated my journal. I could have tended to my prize winning begonias. I could made mashed potatoes out of mole hills. I did none of these things. I ate a Milky Way Ice Cream Bar. Fell asleep on the couch for a while. Attempted to start cleaning my room. Kicked some things. Ate some chicken fingers. And then Ben came home and left shortly thereafter to go play basketball. I kept eating my chicken fingers. Sitting there, with my mouth full of poultry and smugly thinking to myself "Gee, I bet I'll never have to go to Wentworth-Douglass Hospital *ever* again." Man, do I know how to tempt fate or what? So Ben comes home from basketball and sits down. I keep watching the boob tube (which is a misnomer if I ever heard one). I ask Ben how basketball was. He says "OK." "Yup," I answer back, paying more attention to the flashing lights of the TV then to Ben. "Hey," Ben asks. "Feel like goin' to the hospital?" I chew slower as I think this one over "Hmmmm," I think. "Who do we know in the hospital . . .hmmmm . . .hmmmm." And I came up with nothing. "Nah, not really." I answered. "Well, I want you to come with me so I'm not bored." Ben tells me. "Why do you need to go to the . . ." I trail off as I look at Ben for the first time since he came in the door. If I made a practice of taking the Lord's name in vain, I would have done so riiiiiight . . . here. Ben had blood coming out of the outside of his upper lip and his whole mouth looked like he had been stung by a bee - in the teeth. "What the fuck happened to you? Oh my God, we have to go to the hospital now! What are you waiting for, let's go let's go let's go." "Naw," Ben answers calmly. "I'm gonna take a shower first and clean up." Um. Ok. So he looks like Rich did on his 21st birthday (except Ben was still wearing the clothes he left in) and he just wanted to go take a shower first. Freak. So while Ben is in the shower I give some more thought about my plans to go to Brooklyn on Saturday to visit Monique and Brett for Brett's birthday party that same night. I hadn't seriously considered the trip at first, but, then I figured, "why the fuck not?". I never get to do anything fun like that, I've never been to NYC for any significant amount of time. (Meaning: Outside JFK or Laguardia) I could take Saturday off early, or at best entirely, and leave in the morning out of Portsmouth, connect to a NYC-bound train in Boston, and voila! But it's not exactly THAT simple. I was rousted from my Big Appley thoughts by Ben yelling "Sweet Jesus that stings!" We were about to leave for the hospital when the phone rang. I answered it and it was MONIQUE (of MONIQUE'S HOUSE OF HAM HOCKS, and of MONIQUE'S GENTLE PERSUASION LINGERIE SHOP, and of MONIQUE'S ALL-YOU-CAN-EAT-FRIED-CHEESE-AND-BUTTER-BUFFET [formerly Shanghai, formerly Weeks, formerly Favorites, formerly Weeks.]). She wanted to talk NYC plans. I told her Ben and I had to go to the hospital. She was gracious enough to let us go. Ben explained to me that some "tall, lanky motherfucker" accidentally elbowed him in the mouth playing ball and his tooth, or possibly, teeth went through the skin above his upper lip. Plus, he siad he has been "playing around with" his tooth in the shower and it was starting to wiggle. I should see if I can get frequent roommate/friend rates at Wentworth-Douglass. Rich, Jimbo, Ben . . . So anyway. They stitched Ben up good. They numbed him up and stiched both the outside of his mouth and the inside. Ewwww x 5. He looks like Frankenstein got Ebola. It is super gross. His Matinee Idol days are over. He was, however, kind enough to let me show a picture of his new look to the public. Here you go folks! You ain't gonna see this *exclusive* pic in Cat Fancy that's for damn sure!

"Papa Smurf!"

[Kids, this is what too much tofu, bamboo shoots, kalamata olives and salsa will do to you. Don't do what Benny Don't did.]

Yeah. So. That was pretty gross huh? I think so. I guess we can add Ben's face to the Death on Parade train. So who do we have so far? Landers, Kile, R., & Ben's Face. Man, we are cooking with evil gas now! I hope this is the kind of parade where they throw candy! But not evil candy. Evil candy always has earwigs. Evil earwigs. I fucking hate earwigs. So Becca has become the new Megan (who herself had become the new Kate). It's the Becca and Zach show at work now. Except now that show is almost over and it will then become the Carey/Hannah & Zach show. Not that Carey and Hannah are conjoined twins (as the "/" would suggest), I'll just be splitting my time up between the two of them (and of course, let us not forget my sweet Saturday morning Sugar Magnolia - Allison.) Becca and I get in nothing but trouble when we work. I eat all the cheese and she steals all my french fries. We're a good team. She eats more than Megan, she eats less than Kate (well - *obviously*), and she can definitely dunk on me. I am such a jarkiton. I measure girls on how much they eat and whether they can dunk on me. And whether they were on Newsradio. Also, Becca tries to be as witty and cool as Kate and I by coming up with side-splittingly funny nicknames. This is what she had to offer when I kept pacing around the store the other night because I was in a bad mood: "Why do you keep pacing so much Pacey Paceyness?" Oh well, at least she tries. So Tuesday, in a series of events that are far too hard to describe in this already soggy journal entry, an incident occured that involved the Playmobil Inventory, a pen falling out of my mouth, and my watch getting caught on my shorts button. The result: My button popped off (unbeknownst to me), and I continued to be Inventory McAdventureSet. Wellity, wellity, wellity, it seems my britches were suddenly too big for me, and whoop - there they went. I caught them by the time they hit my knees, but that didn't stop me from giving a quick show to the various sexualities at yonder carts (as well as a risque peek at my "multicultural stick figure" boxers) . I felt like a Lakes Region girl stuck in a Pac Sun. Anyway, I had to go out back and try to sew the button back on using G. Wallakers Fun Time Sewing Kit. Considering I haven't utilized my phat sewing skillz since 6th grade (when I made a bang-up Mikey Mouse pillow if I do say so myself) I think I did a pretty good job. And while I was distressed that this was now my 2nd time in the back room at work with no pants on in less than a month [see entry "Waterlogged Au Natural"], I was even more distressed when my reputation as an expert seamstress suffered a hit when the button fell off in the parking lot on the way home.

SUBLIMINAL MESSAGE: *&^%@#$GODHATESFRED*&$#%&$

Ben bought Ocean's 11. I like it. I like Carl Reiner. He is old. But he is still funny. Some parts were very suspenseful and some parts were very funny and some parts were very action. I like it.

Wait, did I already tell the part about how my cousin is a model now? Are you sure? Well, it's true! B-Slop has hit the big time! (Not *that* B-Slop, the *other* B-Slop! Yeah, the tall one that makes his own breakfast!) He went to a Model search at The Margate (classy I know - hey, it's not like it was at The Crow or Time Out). Anyway, he got called back from a group of close to 400. He got called back again after than and bing, bang, boom they signed him to a contract. Apparently this agency represents a lot of the GQ, Men's Health, and Abercrombie models. Of course, Nanny got the news all mixed up (which is not surprising as it was filtered through her brain after it was filtered through Sabby's and my mother's respective brains) and was saying that Brad, ahem, I mean B-Slop was on the cover of the new A&F magazine. I asked her if she was gonna talk about him now more than me and she paused for a second and then simply said, "When you get on a magazine cover I'll talk more about you again." Sigh. Perhaps I shan't have burned my bridges with Cat Fancy.

Oh yes, did I mention? You can add the death of Coty and My Imaginary Cold War to the parade schedule as well. Apparently, he thought I was mad at him and I thought he was mad at me. And there was an e-mail mix-up of epic proportions in the center of it all. Then again, I could have gotten the impression that he was being a fucktard because of his repeated displays of running up and down Parsons Street in the middle of the night screaming, "Fuck Laconia, I hate Laconia, Laconia sucks, and Laconia is the town that I am hating." But then again, I could have been misinformed to the exact quotes here. But Coty and I are buddies again and that's what counts. Besides, it's difficult to ever entirely sever a friendship with someone you've seen platonically naked as many times as I have seen Coty.

Wow. So then there's this. I haven't picked or bit my nails in TWO WEEKS EXACTLY. My mother wants me to keep it that way until Tuesday but oh my god I don't know if I can do it. This is EASILY, without a doubt, the LONGEST my nails have EVER been. And the stupid cows at work STILL think they are too short. But seriously, girls - how do you dial phones? how do you type? My little freak nails, (that are not really that long at all, just seem like it in comparison to the normal raw bloody stumps), keep getting in the way when I dial the phone, ring in shit on the register, and ESPECIALLY typing. Man, Lee Press On Nails must have been IMPOSSIBLE. {Warning: That's your third joke using Lee Press On Nails within the week. You are barred from using that as a punchline until next month} Suckers! July is almost here! {Consider your punishment until August.} Fuck.

So as the parade enters its last turn, famous music journalist/critic Timothy White died of a heart attack Thursday, as did John Entwistle, the bassist for The Who. Poor John, or "The Ox" as he was known to Roger and Peter. John, you will be sitting in the corner of heaven with your thumb in more pies than you could ever dream of. Hmmm, that sounded WAY dirtier than I intended it to be. (And I didn't intend it to sound dirty at all).

It's so fucking hot out. And now, to add to the G.I. Joe and Transformers comics that are currently riding the 80's nostalgia craze, comes He-Man. Sweet God did I love He-Man. I mean, I definitely watched Transformers and G.I. Joe more, but man did I think the cartoon rocked. It was weird. Ben was really into G.I. Joe, Keith and McLaughlin were more Transformers guys, but Tim Laurent had so many He-Man figures (second only to Michael Shapiro). And the He-Man figures were cool because they all *did* stuff. Like sprayed water, or were part hologram, or had changing battle armor, and the Skunk guy actually smelled like a skunk! Hmmm, that actually wasn't so cool. But I'll tell you. When I opened up Orko on my 8th birthday I thought it would never get better than that. You put this little rip-cord through the bottom of him and pulled it really fast and Orko would spin all around like crazy. Man that was cool shit. I should see how much they're going for on eBay. I wish I knew where Tim Laurent was now, I would so send him a copy of the new He-Man comic when it came out.

He-Man: I just saran wrapped Man-At-Arms' toilet.

Orko: That shit is tight yo!

Oh my sweet god, am I done yet? I must be. Oh wait. I did forget something. Obviously, I'm not leaving for Brooklyn in the morning. You know why I'm not?! Can you guess?! Well, I'll tell ya - the Wallakers fucked me up the Goat Ass - AGAIN. Yup, tomorrow, while everyone goes to Red Sox games, Strawberry Festivals, and Porno Kitty Expos, I will be living it up Sanrio style in Newington, NH. Not Brooklyn. The closest I'll be to New York is at 8 AM tomorrow morning when I scalp the Groovy Girls, which are made by Manhattan Toy. Stupid Toys. Stupid Work. Oh well, have a fun party Brett & Monique. It will be less fun without my freakishly long nails there. But try anyway. I pray to the MoonDragon that you have super happy fun time.

It's been real,

Boris The Spider

ps - I mentioned Cat Fancy twice in this entry. That's so funny it's sad. No wait, I mean that's so sad it's funny. Oh just forget it . . .

pps - I lied. There was no kidnapping.

ppps - After rereading the above section about Ben's injury I realized that I give the impression that I was eating chicken fingers before Ben came home from work, while he was home, the entire time he played basketball, and after he got home. This is not the case. But the image makes me laugh, so I'm keeping it.

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