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Maine Moxie . . . I Hate Moxie.

2002-08-07 - 2:58 p.m.

I'm not talking Suddenly Susan bad. I'm not talking Veronica's Closet bad. Hell, I'm not even talking Blank Check bad! (Hey, Duffy was in Blank Check, and she was HOT). Real World: Vancouver, The Lost Season gives steaming piles of dog shit a bad name. I could go on and on how bad it was. I could mention how it made Ben so angry that we had to put a Simpsons DVD in to calm him down. I can rant about how it had a "twist" ending so lame that I'd rather watch SOUL MAN 8 times in a row than watch it again. But I won't. The whole thing was just earwiggingly stupid. And that's coming from a Real World Whore such as myself. Oh my how Becca will be disappointed when she catches the repeat. And the worst part of it all? It made me co-opt a COTY idea by watching a mind-numbingly stupid movie EIGHT TIMES IN A ROW. See what this stupid Lost Season has done? It is a virus that infects everyone who views it with glowing stupidity. . . Recap: I didn't like it.

So I might as well just come out and say it. We gots mice. I'm not quite sure how many. But we got 'em. We have at LEAST 2 mice. But I hope more - cause it's just not as fun with only 2. It's hard to call it an infestation with only 2. So let's say 3. Make no mistake - I hate them. They run around and bump into things. And they are ungrateful. And they are rude. And they are black. Which makes them look more like rats. Which I don't like. At all. All these mice made me think I was at a Giguere party. I went to our landlord Dick - who is like an older, fatter, more competent, less gay Paul E. Burton - and he gave me some advice on dealing with the mice. "Get A Cat." Get a cat. That is what he told me. Right. So now Ben is stopping by the Rat Poison store on his way home. I would rather they be dalmation mice. At least then I'd smile before I cry. I hate them. Though, I could film them and they'd be better than Real World: Suckcouver.

Pixie: "That Mr. Jinx has us trapped in this house with 132 cameras!"

Dixie: "Fuck, dawg."

So we went to Boothbay Harbor this last weekend. We did. We did. I left directly from a particularly stand-out sucky day at work (as most Saturdays are) and we drove up. Yes, Ben was missing when I woke up that morning, and yes I thought he was roaming the woods or the highways with amnesia, but that's neither here nor there. So Jon, Marco, Coty, Liz, and Abby had left earlier than day, and after a quick 6 hour drive, were already at Boothbay Harbor (which, from here on out I will refer to as B.H.) They were anxiously licking their lips waiting for us so they could dive into their lobsters. Well, they had to keep waiting, since Ben had to stop on the side of the road FOUR times between York and B.H. to pee. Also, we almost killed a man in Wiscasset because - well, because Wiscasset sucks and, from what I hear, they don't allow jake brakes. So after passing our 17th mini-golf attraction, and 29th Hidden Drive sign, we drove over the swing bridge (for the last time without incident), deposited slow-driving Clyde and Ida at Ocean Gate hotel, and found our way to Canada Drive. It was all I thought it would be and more. The walkways were made out of refined green glass from Canada Dry bottles of yester-year, and the wallpaper was a series of pressed 2-liter (or should I say litre?) bottle wrappings matted together in a delightful patchwork that covered every square inch of wall in the house. And it didn't even clash with the nightmare-inducing "Lobsters playing bagpipes, made out of real lobsters" sculpture-type-thing! Of course, it was nice to see other colors of the beverage rainbow represented, as they were with the Orange of Crush, the red, white, and blue or Pepsi, and that scamp, the red dot from the Un-Cola itself: 7-Up! But more importantly, with Ben and my arrival, we got to eat the lobster. Well, everyone but Coty, who chewed on his fingers while reading the 1st of about 16 People Magazines. He was not alone - by the end of the weekend, we would ALL know about the Spicy Romance between J-Lo and Ben Affleck. Apparently, People is to B.H. as Mad is to Bridgton. People may hear I am a messy lobster eater. People may hear I was eaten alive by mosquitos due to my legs being uncomfortably lathered in butter. People may hear that it's not safe to eat near Liz without wearing a raincoat. All rumors. And I won't stand for commenting on baseless rumors. Except to say it was all true. . .

I stupidly began drinking (the ostentatious Mich Lite) as soon as I arrived. And I didn't stop until sleep forced me too - not a great plan (for those of you taking notes at home). After eating, and the thrilling, chilling, built-up-beyond-belief-so-in-reality-it-could-only-crash-and-burn activity of throwing the lobster shells on the rocks for the seagulls, we all decided that the best plan of action would be to go inside and play cards. Of course, our entertainment was provided by the world's most sensitive boombox known to man. Sensitive to the degree that due to me writing about it I believe it will start skipping . . . now. So we played Asshole. For a long time. And of course – we ran into the regular mish-mash of “I play doubles on singles”, “You guys play with 3’s wild?”, “We don’t do questions.”, “Why would you ever END on a 2?!”, and so on and so forth.

I am happy to say that I was spectacularly mediocre! Was never President, was never Asshole. Yup, I just shifted between under VP and right above Asshole. So between Coty holding out waaaay tooo long on the waterfall, and him making me drink ALL 13 during 8's I soon found than I needed to go make a quick visit outside. I propelled the lobstery insides all over the outside. Meanwhile, Coty, who I quietly asked to cover for me, loudly exclaimed that he didn't know where I was and everyone started yelling for me. I hate him. I tried the rally portion of the infamous "puke & rally" but after a quick sip of beer I failed miserably. I got up and went to one of the many bedrooms that seemed to crop up at every corner. There was even a rumor that there was a downstairs and that it had a bedroom too! Far be it for me to assume that the night would end with me now out of commission. And, with the help of a Mag Light, it didn't, and they all went night swimming down at the beach.

I woke up Sunday morning with absolutely no friggin idea where I was. But I did know this. There was a fly the size of a fucking apple zooming around the room and it sounded like he had chainsaws for wings. Coty was in the next bed over and it soon became evident that we were both in agony over the fly but both equally lazy about doing anything about it. Until I finally lost it, threw my glasses on, and shot-put my Badtz-Maru CD Case at it. And then I smooshed him - He goes smoosh now. That was the end of him. So we finally all convened in the living room, melted into new People magazines, and pretty much lazed on the deck. Until we got hungry . . .

So Liz, Ben, and I went to go get subs. When they saw Liz coming they replaced the Schwepps with Moxie, and rolled out the red carpet. Folksy yokels like Ben and I felt very out of place with all the trumpet blaring and what not. And Ben got yelled at for leaning on the counter. We went back to Canada Drive and ate some more and read some more. Mmmmm, eating and reading - I was in heaven. But then we got restless, and we decided to go down to the lake (for a change from the ocean) at the camp that Liz used to work at. The camp was quite reminiscent of the camp that Ben and I had gone to years ago. Just like Camp Sentinel there were God's Eyes hanging about the Hobby House, archery bullseyes, snack shacks, and best of all - the buddy board next to the dock at the lake. It's where you hang your tag, along with your buddies, so that when they do a "buddy check" during swimming they can match you up fast. Ben had no qualms about screaming "BUDDY CHECK" every 15 minutes. It wasn't that populated, due to there being no camp on Sunday, but I did almost get a hook in the eye from this fat kid fishing, and I almost got submerged by this orca woman that climbed up on the end of the dock I was sitting on. It was frightening to all. But nothing compared to watching two strangers in another part of the lake consummate their love. But they wouldn't remain strangers for long . . . Liz gave us a tour of the camp ramps and we left.

After we got back, Marco had to drive back to Boston and so our number dropped to 6. It was right after Marco left, and people were starting to get ready for the Reggae/Booze Cruise that Liz informed me that the people at the boat were super insanely strict about multiple forms of I.D. This didn't stress me out at all. Except it did. So after a brief session of ridicule over Laconia and their belief in pocket diplomas, we decided that I should have a back-up plan for the I.D. situation. Liz backed the "tell them you have epilepsy, so you don't have a proper I.D." plan, whereas Abby was a strong advocate for the "tell them you got DUI and because of insurance rates, don't have the proper I.D." plan. So we decided (whilst our long wait at the swing bridge for umpteen sailboats to go through, and taking bets on the cars on the other side) that I'd go with DUI. Oh - I definitely forgot something. I don't know how I could have. When we were getting in the car to leave for the cruise, it was Liz and I in the front and Coty, Abby, Ben, and Jon in the back. So needless to say, it was a little snug. Well, when Ben went in to sit down he came crashing down on the seatbelt plug thing. And oh my fuck did he howl. Howl Howl Howl. And we laughed and we laughed and we laughed. Which we felt (slightly) bad about due to the fact that he was in serious pain, evidenced by the fact that he sat elevated 2 feet off the seat the entire ride to the cruise. Plus, it created about 20 subsequent occasions where Ben would just exclaim "Oh my God I can't believe how badly my ass hurts . . ." - although sadly, he'd almost always be near me when he said it.

So we get there and all these people are waiting in line, and I'm stressing out about the I.D. thing, but since Liz knows about 85% of the people there, we are hoping her clout will get me through. Well, it must have, since he looked at Liz's I.D. and said "Well, here's an I.D. I've seen before," and then looked at mine for about 4 seconds and said, "Yup, go ahead." Meanwhile, crazy bikers had been accosting Jon and Coty (with his gloriously Les Foote inspired blue sweater draped over his chest) and telling them where to find good bars. Freaks. So it was on to the Harbor Princess!

~~Home of the Jamaican Smash~~

So the cruise was fun. Very fun. We soon met many people that were friends of Liz's, including, but not limited to Chris, (who in Ben, Coty, and my opinion - but not Jon's - looked just like the kid from Dazed and Confused whose parents come home early and he has to cancel the party) who just happened to be the little casanova down at the camp lake earlier that day! We also met Big Al, or Allan as Ben insisted on calling him. He makes subs. It's true. There was a baby on the cruise. A very happy baby, whose hippie parents were dancing with him right in front of the reggae band the ENTIRE cruise. We marveled at the happy baby. Also, despite Liz's assurance that the boys would all fall for the charm of the "Crazy Freak Girl with Knit Wool Jacket and Hat" we all decided she was far too freakish. As it got later, and darker, the crowd got wilder, and I'm still in the dark about Ben, some stranger, and getting chastised about a nipple pinching incident. I recall the band playing the song "Keep your Kielbasa in your Pants" and the crowd going wild. Very strange. And then the Arkansas kid crept on the mic. Man, this is much stranger than I thought it was when I was there. Although, despite the magic of having what seemed like 10 drinks and hardly feeling it, the two highlights had to be convincing Coty that dogs go wild for french fries in the water and being a rare witness to the making of the Jamaican Smash source mix. It was a wonder to behold that I couldn't even begin to describe. Liz even registered shock in that she had only seen it once before and other staunch B.H.'s had yet to even see it! As we cam back into B.H. it was around 9:15 and we decided we'd just hang out at the bars in town. But before we did something very strange happened. Ben, possibly through the new-found powers of his seat-belt-plug punctured ass, managed to not only get ashore before the ship docked, but he managed to get across from the deck it docked at and up several stories so he was parallel to the boat to welcome us back as we moored.

[This belongs on Ripley's Believe It Or Not!!]

So we got off the boat, met back up with freak Ben, and went to the bar. We had to climb like three flights of stairs - spiral, regular, etc. - and ramps of all shapes and sizes (unlike the camp ramps I hope). So the bar was fun, and there was this crazy guy whose name escapes me that was their D-level Billy Joel on the keyboard. The bartender, Zach (one of the 25% of people & dogs in B.H. named Ben or Zach), knew Liz and we got set up on the bill. Very sweet. And Ben was freaked out by the scary green woman in the mirror in the bathroom. Not as sweet. After drinking beer upon beer (and yet STILL not feeling wasted) we rescued Abby from this 60 year old guy, played a quick round of pool downstairs and then we climbed back up to Canada Drive - but not before stopping at a Gas Station where it was overly green and we got to sample some of Big Al's subby wares. "This chicken salad sub is heaven in my mouth" - Liz

We got back to the house and I finished off Coty's meatball sub, at about the same time Coty and Jon came clean about the contraband Crisp N Tasty's in the freezer. Bastards. And they got them at 99 cents! Double Bastards. Then, in an effort to demolish any sort of buzz we could have had, we played Taboo. If ever there was a Kristen Prescott-inspired idea it was this. A Game of Unspeakable EVIL. A game where the other team gets words like "cat", "dog", "tree" and MY team gets "Ibuprofen", "Dimoxinal", and "Obsequious". Stupid fucking game. I hate it. Stupid. We finally all went to bed, and I was the 2nd last to go this time, so I made good on my early dive the night before. (Although that didn't stop everyone from gawking at my redder than it should-have-been vomit on the lawn all day from the night before. I understand lobster = red, but I didn't eat the damn CLAWS and SHELL. Anyway. . .) I still was hearing rumors about there being a downstairs.

We got up the next morning. A Monday that felt like a Sunday. We got ready. We cleaned up. We read more People magazines. We gripped the silver handle in the bathroom. We took group pictures due to the graciousness of Liz's parents manning the cameras. Coty filled all of B.H. with the sickening odor of baking old lobster pizza (don't ask). We went out to eat at Fisherman's Wharf, the very same place Ben was rousting about on the deck when the ship came in. And our waiter was apparently Dr. Luka Kovac on vacation from Chicago County General. It was fun. Fun weekend.

Then we went home. And had to go through stupid Wiscasset again. Stupid no jake brake rules. And Ben dropped me off at G. Willikers where all of this started. I just wanted to go home. And I couldn't.

God - I feel like I've been writing this god damn entry for-fucking-ever. The handy man, I'll call him Schnieder, came over and fixed the stove. Then caused a minor gas leak in the process. I was talking to Rachel, Kelly, Brad, Andrea, Liz, and Abby on IM throughout the day, e-mailing with Tim and Monique, and lining out paths of cheese to the outside in a pathetic attempt to lure the mice out of the apartment. Stupid mice. I'm like a fucking monkey in the apartment now. Trying to acrobat from piece of furniture to piece of furniture so my feet don't touch the ground.

And I finally, Finally, FINALLY got my cell phone up and running again. After four exhaustively long customer service calls to Sprint and having to hear Claire: My Automated Virtual Customer Service Representative chide me over and over about a MADE UP BILL that was a glitch on their part, that they ADMITTED to, but apparently couldn't convince Claire. I fucking hate Claire. And mice. And taboo. Fuck.

"Welcome to Sprint PCS. I fucking suck."

People - I need more addresses! If you want cross-country funosity delivered to your door than you need to e-mail me your address (and not my fake magic e-mail address either . . .KATE) at zqf8@yahoo.com I have some of them, but not many. Don't make me send them all to Dottie and Billie! We are leaving soon, and if the 7 sheaves of Triple A maps on the coffee table are any indication, we are in for one long ass haul . . .

It's been real,

Captain Murphy

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