2002-05-24 - 9:45 p.m.

So this is Friday. And what have we learned? My heels are bloody and I don't even have any of Kim White's tylenol to borrow. And I'm racing the clock against this rum that the Brothers Walden are plying me with. And I need to clean my room so the Dick & Sharon's, Nana & Bump's, Pete and Ghost of Olga's, and Auntie Jan's will think it pasts muster. . .

So my sandals are eating my feet and I don't very much appreciate it. Not very cres nor fresh. Here's a bit of local color (but not really): So my alarm clock (the infamous "Dream Machine") is in collusion with my posters. [Collusion: NOUN - A secret agreement between two or more parties for a fraudulent, illegal, or deceitful purpose.] Yup. DEFINITELY. When I didn't wake up this morning when the Dream Machine was yammering on about having a brand new pair of rollerskates and me having the brand new key I slammed on the snooze . . .three times. Soooo, clearly pissed off at me, he gave the signal to the David Byrne poster to take the big leap. Which it did. And it scared the living crap out of me (though it didn't even come close to comparing to when the giant margarita pinata would fall on me freshman year). It didn't help that I was in the middle of this crazy dream where I was stuck in the Laconia K-Mart overnight and these Army guys were trying to kill me (which is actually one of my more tame dreams). So I woke up. Took a shower with the sliver of soap we have left in this house. And then walked 2 miles in my soul-snacking Tevas to the bus stop on Central Ave in Dover. And it wasn't even 8 o'clock yet. . .

{Subliminal Message = Yankees Blow Goats}

So we (Andrea, Fred, Fred's roommate Mike, & Me) went to see Pete Yorn last night at the Hampton Casino Ballroom. We survived on a steady diet of plastic bottles of Miller Lite. I like the venue, but Pete Yorn acted like he had been killed weeks before, let his body deteriorate, be brought back to life by voodoo magic as a zombie Pete Yorn, and then let his body deteriorate some more. . .and THEN show up in Hampton. The highlights of the concert are the three following things and none of them have to do with Pete Yorn: #1 - Running into the magical, yet mysterious Patrick "PJ" Johnston at the Hampton McDonald's #2 - Seeing a guy who eerily looked like Tim Robbins trip out to the concert #3 - Having an unspoken contest with Fred about who could pee more during the show. I won. Zach - 6, Fred - 5. Also, people - if you are getting all tripped out and mindwhacked at a concert, Pete Yorn probably isn't the most hardcore concert to do it at. . .

So here we are. Ben is graduating tomorrow. I can hardly type this without crying. Except I can. I have to go work in the afternoon tomorrow and miss most of the big Walden & Co. BBBQ all because a certain someone at a certain place of my employment is about as useful as a sack of doorknobs. SO that should be fun. I am becoming a professional Graduation Attendee. I still recall Coty and I arriving to a graduation a bit late one time and few people know that truth about that to this day! But anyway. It is 2002. Ben is graduating (for those keeping track, I am aiming for 2013). He has been around for about 7 months longer than me (almost to the day). We have shared the same church, the same beach, the same schools, the same crappy houses, and the same semi-crappy apartments. In 1981, we were still getting babysat by that Mercurial Mistress of Mirth and Mayhem herself - Mrs. Trickey. We were still being paddled at that School St. School of Hard Knocks for such offenses as coloring in non-coloring books, saying words like "darn-tootin'" and "gosh-darnit", and fraternizin' with Fraziers or Peaslees. Anyway, the rock fight with Jess Drouin's cousins was still a few years away and Ben, (Kyle Davis in curls), and I were still relatively innocent in those first few years of Reaganomics. Ben was afflicted by his huge melon head and I by my parent's need to mold me into some Dorothy Hamill clone. Or at least your friendly neighborhood Dutch Boy. Anyway, in honor of Ben's big day . . . 21 years ago this last April, on the Trickey Estate:

[My own mother doesn't recognize me in this picture. Poor me.]

Wait, what's that? What movie should you go see other than Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Phoney Baronis? Perhaps. . .INSOMNIA?!?!?! Yes. Insomnia, Because of Al Pacino? Well yes there's that. Because of Robin Williams? Well, ok sure. Because of Nicky Katt's scary mustache? ABSOLUTELY NOT. Perhaps because of the androgony of Hilary S(h)wank? Not really. What's that? Is it because of the most beautiful person on the planet? It is. It is.

"I'm so perfect it hurts. Except for that pesky 'husband' thing."

I get a phone call from da Wallakers tonight. "Zach, I can't work another cotton-pickin' night under these conditions." - Marianne, about the constant rearranging and tomfoolery of Ventoian. I will give Marianne credit for making me (unintentionally) laugh by saying "cotton-pickin'", but I do not need this funny business. I am not a manager. I do not get paid the big bucks (like some people - who excel at being late, smelly, gross, smelly, late, and gross). Stupid Wallakers. And I had to do a Playmobil inventory all morning and then I had to put away all the new Playmobil and I started getting delusional like during my "talks wit' Skarloey". The Playmobil was definitely out to get me. I hate the Victorian House and I hate Construction. Construction is SO big and SO yellow. And I hate it.

[Pronounced: Play-mo-beel wantz 2 eet my so-wohl]

Yankees blow the most goats ever, and El Gaupo is close behind in the goat blowing contest. . .

It's been real,

V-tek

ps - Hey Kobe, I had food poisoning once and I puked 28 times and you didn't see ME blowing an NBA play-off game! Loser. . .

pps - The Yankees and their goat-blowing ways just lost to the glorious Red Sox tonight in the 11th inning, 9-8. Bill Walden and I just did a "Yankees Suck" Dance and now Ben is crying his crocodile tears into his rum & coke. Stupid Ben. Stupid Yankees fans are so stupid. And I can think of two other Yankees fans that I hope are crying in their goulash as well . . .

ppps - This entry just took me almost 2 hours to write. Stupid booze. Aunt Linda is sooo right. She is so wise. Wise Wise Wise. Not dumb at ALL.

pppps - Carlos Baerga is my multi-lingual knight in shining armor. . .

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