2009-08-17 - On Our Next Episode . . .
2009-06-12 - RetroReflectionReaction
2009-04-13 - The Me Decade
2009-03-03 - Super Powered Sounds #3
2009-03-02 - Super Powered Sounds #2QUOTES! V.1QUOTES! V.2QUOTES! V.3QUOTES! V.4
The Lost Weekend, Part 1: Moose Manipulation
2004-10-05 - 9:15 a.m.
Two Words Just For Funsies: Trust Fund
Listening To: Talking Heads & The Pixies, hell - I need something to get me through all of this
Quote: "Friend, remember that time we got fired?" - Zach, to Aly, whilst being fired
Well. There's a fine how do you do. Indeed. To the say the weekend started fine would be an understatement. It started great! To say it ended tragically would be an understatement. It ended bone-crushingly, soul-suckingly, goat-rapingly bad. Yeah. Not so good. But, let's the good out of the way first, eh?
Friday saw me going to visit Nanny in the afternoon. If I hadn't already stated this fact, Nanny is back in LA. Because she acted like a stubborn 5 year old and demanded to be taken out of Hospice, a place where the people are always there to talk to her, cook her anything she wants, administer her drugs, and generally make sure she's comfortable. You can see why she just hated it. So now she's back at her house in LA. And complaining of being bored. And worrying/threatening to mix up her drugs. Sigh. So yes, things are going swell. It was a fine visit. Except for that small part about when I was on my way out to meet Rich in Meredith, she begged me to drive her down to CVS "real quick". I protested slightly and then gave in since she swore she just needed to get "a few things." Plus, CVS is only at the bottom of her hill. Unfortunately, Nanny doesn't exactly hop in to cars like the Duke Brothers. Well, she would if the Dukes used walkers, leg braces, and moved at a snail's pace. (But she does hop in through the window - so I guess there's some similarities). Look, I'm not making fun of my grandmother, merely stating that she takes a long time to get from Place A to Place B. She's sort of like Brooke in that way. Except Brooke can't blame it on cancer and being elderly. So I cart her down to CVS, park in handicap parking, and loll into Customer Value Services. And we proceed to walk up and down every. single. aisle. With the aforementioned speed of a doped-up sloth. Finally, as we make our way up the last aisle, with me mentally noting that Rich has been waiting for me at the town docks for 15 minutes, she says, "Well, I can't find anything I want, but I'll buy you some pretzels so this isn't a waste of a trip."
"I don't want any pretzels."
"You should have some. I know you've been eating salads, but pretzels are ok for you too."
"I. know. pretzels are 'ok' for me too, I just am all set with them right now."
"I'm buying you some for the road. You should always have something to crunch for the road." ( - the hell?!?!?!)
"Yes. I said fine. That's fine. Let's get the pretzels."
"You'll need water too. Pretzels are salty."
[The character of Zach now feels his eyes glazing over, his brain bleeding out his ears, and his tongue slowly growing large enough to block his throat]
So finally, we make our "real quick" trip to CVS to get "a few things", all, apparently, so I can have something to "crunch on the road." She starts crying on the way back to her house. I keep asking her what's wrong and she says that no one is around to visit her and she doesn't want to have to be driven somewhere just if she wants some stamps. And now any annoyance I had with her back at the store is vanished and I feel horrible for her again. So I help her out of my Frankenstein Jeep and bring her inside. She says her side hurts and she needs a pain pill. She has about 7 different pills she takes from Paxil, to Dilotid(sp.?) to Lazaropam(sp.?) and I don't know any of which is what. I desperately try to help her find them and she snaps at me that I need to call my Aunt Barbie and get her to come over there and help her. While my car is running. While Rich is waiting for me in Meredith. While it's now a half hour past the time I told her I'd have to leave. Wow. Don't I sound like a dick? A total prick? I want to leave my grandmother, who's in total pain, so I can meet Rich and follow him to Moultonboro for Brian's bachelor party. Except, see, I'm not. Let it never be said that the skill of master manipulation isn't genetic. Nanny is the master. She knew which pills were which. The important thing is she knew that I didn't. And she didn't want me to leave. Which, I know, is nice in a sort of "Aw, she loves her grandson and doesn't want him to go." sort of way, but she had no respect for my plans. Man, there's no way I can write this without all of you thinking I'm a horrible person. I guess you can only understand this particular situation if you're related to me. Well, if you're related to me and actually go and visit Nanny and don't let your own life get in the way. And I don't know if that's an admonishment of my cousins, or jealousy talking. Probably both. Alright. Apologies, I'll move along so we can all get to the part you want to read about. And no, I don't mean the bachelor party.
Even though that's what I'm going to talk about now. I met Rich, who thankfully waited for me, at the Town Docks in Meredith. I then followed him to Moultonboro to drink our weight in alcohol to celebrate Brian's bachelor party a mere 10 days before Brian would officially change Hannah's last name from Smith to Harrison. The party was being held at Brian's boss's house. His boss is Nat King. Who is stone mason. And who is the father of Hannah's friends Eliza and Caleb. I suppose he's also the father of this mysterious Molly character, but as I only have ever heard reference to "Eliza and Caleb" through Rich, Hannah, Brian, et al., then that is the only time she shall be mentioned in this entry. And apparently, the Kings are known by anyone and everyone. Except I didn't know them. Except they apparently knew me. More on that later.
Now see, this is where things get difficult. As we all know, thanks to them running the ads on tv ad naseum, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas." And to a degree, that is true. And sure, while I wrote a bit about my time in Vegas, only Tim and Ben know the details, and for that matter, only I know everything. But there's also a phrase about Moultonboro known as "Whatever happens in Moultonboro stays in the Online Journal. And also stays in the scarred retinas of the local moose population. Unless they're incriminating photos. Then those don't go anywhere except the shredder." I know. It's a pretty long phrase. Moultonboro is nothing if not verbose. So yes, I will have to be selective is the moral to the story. The party mostly consisted of Ben, Rich, Brian, Caleb, Austin, Nate, Hannah's dad Keith, & Nat. Someone came later who I believe to be named Scott. But that was "later" and my brain was "fuzzy" so I can't be held responsible for details. I do know there was lots of beer, an open liquor cabinet, and copious amounts of grilled chicken, pork, and vegetables. I know - barrels of mead, tons of grilled food, and three boys from Laconia - truly a recipe for disaster. But happily, nothing got broken, molested, or calcified. Proof:
We stayed up quite late, and at one point, I passed out briefly. By the fire. Ben, who several days later admitted this wasn't one of his smartest ideas, thought he try to wake me up. He, rightly so, knew that I freak the fuck out if someone tries to wake me up while I am passed out. Granted, Ben's style of "gently trying to wake me" usually consists of grabbing my nose, sticking a paper towel on my mouth, rubbing my head vigorously, or other assorted ways to torture my head-touching phobia. So he said, in retelling the story later, that he was trying to figure out a way to wake me up with out touching me. Apparently "yelling my name" was considered black magic and thusly, someone must have called out "No Black Magic", as this option was not used. Instead, the (white magic?) option was that Ben grabbed a piece of wood out of the fire. Out of the fire and on fire. And slowly. creep it. towards. my face. until the warmth. woke me up. Wait, maybe I shouldn't have broken it up. HE WANTED TO PUT SOME FLAMING DEBRIS NEXT TO MY FACE TO WAKE ME UP WHICH IN ITSELF WAS A PLAN TO WAKE ME SO I WOULDN'T GET MAD. Yeah. I don't even really remember it. But I guess one of the embers fell on my shoulder and I freaked out and got all stop, drop, and rolly and shit. I don't know. Woke me up though.
At some point in the evening, clearly I'm not shooting for any sort of chronology here, Nat's wife (a.k.a. - Caleb's mom) came home. I guess she had been told the names of people that were coming to the party. So it doesn't make the next bit as crazy as I thought it was at the time, but it was still pretty freaky. She walks in. And right off, she looks at me and says, "You must be Les Foote's kid." Ah. Wha-? How the? She says, "Yeah. Les and Sandy's kid. Nat and I took child birth classes with them when I was pregnant with Eliza." I was thinking, damn, she's good. The last time she saw me I was in the womb and she still was able to spot me now?! But apparently she's not THAT magical. I guess she saw me several times as a kid, and knew that I was coming, so knew to look for a freakishly tall kid that she didn't know, and when she had to pick between me and Waldy, well, I suppose I fit the bill. Still - it was weird.
The last to go to bed were Brian and me. I think it was 2-ish. I can't be sure. I shared an air mattress with Waldy. It was ever so cozy. Guess what wasn't so cozy? Getting up with the roosters. Ok, there were no roosters. But if there were, I probably would have been up before them. What I had regretted to remember was that I was partying the night before with a bunch of stone masons and civil engineers, people who make it their beeswax to be awake at 5 and off to work by 6. So the fact that it was only 7 and it was barely light out and everyone else was stamping around drinking coffee and I was sitting there with my head creeping out from under my pillow mewing into the dawn's first light? Well, it made me wish I hadn't stayed up so long. And my feet! Oh my god did they fucking hurt. Ben saw me staring at my feet. He asked if I was wondering why they were so black and hurt so much. I told him yes, that was on my mind. He said because I insisted, towards the end of the night, on not wearing on shoes around the fire, and just going barefoot. Yeah. That sounds like me.
So next thing I know, I'm in my frosted Jeep, it's not even 8 o'clock in the morning and my borderline drunk ass is driving back to LA, and then to Dover. Hell, I could have made my 9:30 shift after all. Then again, this would probably be the last time I worried about the ol' Wallakers.
End of Part One
It's been real,