2003-12-21 - 1:55 p.m.

Huh. What a week. You freaks are good . . . but you're not better than me. Um . . . I think it's gotten to the point that 73% of what I say is quotes. I'd hate to be another human being anywhere near me at anytime whatsoever. I know I say this a lot, but it's true: I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THE HELL I'M TALKING ABOUT MORE THAN HALF OF THE TIME. I especially feel bad for the people who first meet me. I try to limit my insanity a bit in front of new people, but it's only a matter of time before someone asks to borrow a cup of sugar and I belt back, "GOOD ONE, BETH!" or "A + for comedy!" Well, then again, if it was sugar we were talking about, I'm sure I'd mention something about how God portions them into those little tiny packets and lives on a plantation in Hawaii. And then this new acquaintance would accidentally brush against me when fleeing for their lives and far away from my insanity and I'd respond to their slight touch with a gruff pitch-perfect Ms. White-esque, "GET OFF ME!" Sigh. Turn back now. This be no haven for the damned . . .

Did I say it had been quite a week? I did? Cause it has. Where were we? We were on the cusp of last weekend and getting ready for Simon and Garfunkel and all sorts of funny fun that is funny. Well. Fun was had. Surely it was. That Friday was mostly spent getting our big plan machines in well oiled working order. And the first step in that plan machine meant picking up Monique at the bus stop at Market Square. Unfortunately, Monique's bus stop wasn't at Market Square. So after some cell phone mish-mashery and parking garage hi-jinxery, I met her at the Portsmouth Bus Terminal (I know, right? How in fuck was I supposed to know that's where the buses end up?). She smelled of New York City. And by that I mean raw sewage and stale smoke. I'm just kidding. She didn't smell like raw sewage. Anyway. I think her first word to me was, "Frond!" (her variation on that old chesnut, "Friend") and the second thing she said to me was, "I'm hungry! When is somebody gonna feed me?" These two phrases would dominate the rest of the weekend and set the mark very quickly as, even after being told that we would be meeting Ben, Brooke, and Lesley for dinner in a few hours, Monique still insisted we stop at a "nearby grocery store" and get something to "tide us over". People. I've known this girl practically my whole life, and you can even ask Rick to verify the following sentiment, Nothing, and I mean NOTHING has ever lead to this girl being "tide over". {"Sentiment verified." - Rick} Anyway, a Hot Pocket or two later, and we were whooping it up in beautiful downtown Rollinsford, playing CTR (one guess who Monique was. I'll give you a hint: "Not cool!"), and torturing Kenichi. Ok. Well, I was torturing Kenichi. Monique was starting a letter writing campaign to her local congressman to try to get Kenichi taken from Rollinsford due to "gross neglect and abuse" and sent directly to Brooklyn. Understand that "gross neglect and abuse", according to Monique is faliure to dress your felines up as little humans and making them perform little one-act plays for the neighbors while a techno version of "Time Warp" from Rocky Horror plays in the background. You know . . . that old chesnut.

That part about the cats and Time Warp really cracked my shit up. Just thought I'd share that. So yeah. Ben finally came home from Attar, we had a few drinks (something, looking back later, I probably could have gone without) and we left to pick up Brooke and Lesley at the illustrious Cricket Brook. Monique was given the grand tour, Lesley graciously bequeathed many a Powderfinger CD to Ben and me, and we were on our way. [if your initials are TPC or FWR, then take a break from the action and read this little aside, otherwise, just skip over this next part - so yeah, several years later and I'm willing to say that I think Powderfinger is a really good band. Actually, I've been willing to say that for a long time now. Now I know there's lots of teeth-gnashing and blood-letting when the subject of Powderfinger is brought up, but I must tell you FWR, it is worth a listen and I will burn you a copy or two. That said, I can see why you were perhaps a bit hesitant to indulge in God's Gift to Australia since TPC was pushing them as the next Radiohead/Beatles/Col. Bruce Hampton. So, in the end, I say . . . I still think I did vote for you . . .] Yeah, so we couldn't decide where to eat, and after actually going to Redhook and putting our names in and going so far as to walking over to the bar, opening our mouths and fashioning our lips in a shape as to begin speaking our order to the barkeep . . . we decided it was too crowded and that we'd leave. So we did. And what posh posh lofty loft did we decide to frequent? Pizza Hut. Not La Pizza Hat. Or The Friendly Pizza Hut. Nope. Just regular ol' Pizza "Everyone Who Works Here Is Part Of A Cult Or At Least That's The Tired Old Theory Zach Keeps Shoving Down Everyone's Throats" Hut. But, I had to agree with everyone's reasoning. It was cheaper. And they serve beer. Of course, there was Monique's reason, which was, "there'll be pizza there!" Sigh.

We had some Mich Lite, which I know must make Nanny proud, ate us some pizza - while Monique and Ben braved the toxic looking salad bar, and then it was off to downtown Portsmouth. But where to? We thought we'd go somewhere that we'd never been: The Brewery. That's a little joke folks. A very little joke. We ran afoul some Singing Santas on our way in, but once we got in and made our way downstairs things were much better. [Don�t get comfortable people! Those Singing Santas rear their ugly collective heads in exactly *8* sentences.] The first thing I got to drink was BlueBeery. BlueBEERy. Hmmmm . . . this certainly can't be a portent for stormy seas . . . right? Lesley kept watch for vacancy on the comfy couches. God how I�ve pined for those comfy couches. No joke, I think the last time I had actually got to sit on those couches, I was sitting in between Keough and Cirillo, so that, gentle reader, should give you a good idea how long it had been. Lesley and I picked a bunch of songs on the juke box, including some classic Til Tuesday (as if there�s more than one Til Tuesday song). Around this time, the door was blown open by a cold burst of wind and clatter and when Brooke and Ben looked up to see what was the matter, with Monique in her kerchief and I in my cap, we were greeted by the ghostly, bionic, war-machines known as . . . the Singing Santas!! We fought them to the brutal death and then went back to drinking. Ok, it was a bunch of Kiwanis Members who were collecting money for charity - toys for some sort of tots - we gave them $ and they gave us chocolate in return. But I like my description better. Go on Jim Fortier�s website if you want to read his version. Anyway, a small window eventually opened up, Lesley shot off the flare gun, and we jumped to the couches. They were so soft! Soft! Oh, you don�t know the softness extremes! Well . . . they were ok I guess. Nothing special. And it made it difficult to talk since everyone was spread so far apart. But it did have one big consequence for Monique. It put her within a long arm�s reach of another party who were celebrating a friend�s birthday and had a sizable chocolate cake with which to eat. Can�t we all see where this is going? Except this time, Monique doesn�t end up wearing a sailor suit, stuck in a ventilation shaft, sporting a black eye and chocolate cake all over her face and saying, �I�m a bad widdle boy!� What does happen is Monique wiggles her way into their sights, sings the birthday boy Happy Birthday and then, after they offer her some cake, demurs, "Well . . . if I must!" Right. Tide her over I bet. Did you hear that noise? It sounds like a little bird saying, "New Paragraph!"

It was probably around this time that Brooke's coworker Kyle and his roommate Tim showed up. I felt bad for them in a way. Firstly, here were a bunch of Sachems, drinking and eating cake (well, one of us) and probably joking about such Laconia-centric things like, "What do a short-sighted Native American and a drunken tourist have in common? They both go around saying, 'Where's the Weirs?!' " (Man. I should get paid for this shit.) Secondly, this is me we're talking about. Me + new people. See the first paragraph of this entry if you don't understand my reservations. Two things happened right after Tim and Kyle got there. And I feel like reporting both of them with certainty. Why? Well, because much after this I start to get quite fuzzy. Shocker, huh? First, Tim ordered two rum and cokes and sipped them both through two straws. At the same time. And finished them in 20 seconds. We were from Laconia. So we had to admire his attempted drinking pseduo-ingenuity . . . no matter how insane. Second, Kyle come from the bar with a tray of 9 shots. 9, I say. SoCo and lime. Sadly, or at least it is in my father's eyes, I'm not a whiskey man. But I am a free shots man. It was tasted and it made my spleen hum warm with excitement. Later, I bought 4 more shots (Tim, Kyle, Me . . . and either Brooke or Monique . . . or maybe it was Lesley . . . I can't remember. It just definitely wasn't Ben. Since he was DD.) There were toasts for each round of shots. But it's not really important what they were. If you were there, then you know, and isn't that enough? It was nice to finally meet some New Friends though. Then I don't really know what happened after. I know Ben and I got majorly screwed out of that shuffleyboard game that I do so love. And I know I kept drinking more BlueBeery. And then it was last call I guess. And then we were in the parking garage. And then we were pulling over. And then I remember getting out of the car, throwing my hands on some warehouse wall, and puking all over my shoes. That's impossible, you say? It is possible. And I did it. All over my shoes.

The next morning I was feeling pretty rough. And Monique was looking even rougher. Ben left to go to the Dump and then thumb through all the paint samples at Home Depot while cooing to them, "Soon my pretties, soon." Ben's weird. While Ben was out Monique and I watched tv and she kept forcing me to watch specials on TLC about "helper dogs". You know, like the kind that help blind people? the kind that befriend worthless lumps of flesh like Bill Palmer? (Oh yes I did just put Bill on shout! Google that bitch!) Anyway, Monique forced my eyes to bleed by making me watch this horid special about a Shi Tzu named China Bear who went to helper dog school and big wish was to be a helper dog that helped people by being a helper dog. And helper dog. Yeah. I'll give away the ending. China Bear graduated. Hooray. I'm tearing up just writing about it. Monique and I called the only other two people on the planet that would have wanted breakfast as badly as we did. Brooke and Lesley. After almost accidentally ditching Ben, we met them at the now buffet-less Robyn's. Argh. Hulk no like no buffet at Robyn's! So we sat there and waited for our table while Brooke sweat it out that a student might be watching. This would have been a great time for Lesley to break out the story that Brooke had fallen into the shower when they Ben dropped them off the night before and Lesley found her stuck in there with her boots on. But she didn't share the story with us (despite the fact that Lesley must have a gigantic want for bathtub-themed story revenge on her sister). Instead, I just found out about it myself from Brooke last night. It doesn't make it any less funny though. Ben and Monique, because they are freak-asses, ordered the Crab Scramble. I know? I mean, seriously? Where do I find these people to be friends with? I'm writing Elm Street School a letter of complaint. We parted ways after breakfast and Ben, Monique and I went home and got ready for Boston.

As we all learned in our last episode, Coty was in Hawaii with Liz with his marathon fast approaching. I spoke to them again that Saturday and wished Coty good luck on his marathon the next day and generally everyone was pleasant to each other. Isn't that nice? Isn't that how nice good buddies and friends treat each other? Yeah, well, unbeknownst to moi, those two cruel, kitten hating, soul-less, baboon heart sporting finks were at the same time defiling my comment section. Bastards!

Ben drove, Monique got shotgun, and I was told that I had to, "take a nap on the way down" since I was, "too hopped up" and that I, "would be cranky all night" if i didn't. Monique knows me too well. We met my mom and Don at the hotel around 2:30 and started having cocktails about 7 minutes after we got there. Go us. Nanny called while we were having some drinks and said that while she can't drink right now, she'd bring her own with her even if she could. You can always count on Nanny for an unsolicited opinion on absolutely EVERYTHING. And that's why I love her. She whispered to me, over the phone, "Is Monique still smoking?" Yes, I told her. "Tell her she needs to get out of the way of that." Seriously? Have you ever heard a better constructed sentence? Nanny has a way of speaking, and I don't know if it's just bits of phrases that she's patchworked over the last 80 years to make her own language, but I LOVE IT. Who needs Ebonics when you have Nannybonics. Or is it Nannyish? Nannyeese?

So yeah. We went out and shopped a bit, ate some more (Ben got crab soup - no joke), and then made our way to the Fleet Center. Don didn't even know what show we were going to. His ticket was from me for Christmas and it wasn't until we got to the Fleet Center that he figured it out. What can I say about the show? Oh man was it ever good. So good in fact that I'm gonna finish talking about it later. I need to go finish Christmas shopping. So I'll finish this entry tonight . . .

It's been real (for now),

Lew Zealand

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