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The Sweet Smell Of Spring Spree

2008-05-06 - 9:22 p.m.

Pride Color: Celtic Green

Listening To: The Specials, Siouxsie & The Banshees, Sifl & Olly, Shankar Jaikishan

Quote:"Buddy, I think I Cinco'd my de Mayo last night." - Rick, to Zach, on his overindulgence

     Can you smell the spree? Because - ladies and gentlepeople - I most certainly can. I don't know what's happening outside my bedroom window but it is most certainly spree related. All I can smell morning and night is spree!! (I don't smell it at noon since I'm toiling away in the Diamond Mines at noon.) You're familiar with spree, no? Well, if you're not, you should be. It's a candy. And it smells like spree. (As one would imagine it would.)

     You might say it's some sort of a flower a-bloomin', but I could stick my botany knowledge in a small sack. The extent of my botany knowledge is basically the fact that I know the study of flowers is botany. Mostly because, "Flowerpowerology" is too unwieldy. At least I think it is. If they hadn't gone with "botany" they could have gone with "Svetlana Monsoon". Now that just trips off the tongue in a fantastical fashion! But either way, I don't think it's forsythia or jack-in-the-pulpit that be the culprit. Nope. I think it's best to apply Occam's Razor to this here phenomenon. Which states that the simplest conclusion is usually the correct one. So in this case, I'm quite sure the Indian in the Cupboard is camping out on my sill and blowing mini pixie stix full of ground up spree powder into my room all day in some sort of machiavellian maneuver to abscond with my new best friend. I know, I know - obviously. But he's had his eyes on Ghosty ever since I got back from the Comic Convention. He covets his magic, solar powered, glow-in-the-dark neon blue head. And honestly, can you blame him? Can you blame that Indian in (and out) of his Cupboard?

     Photobucket -- "Yes. I can blame him."

     Two significant events happened this weekend. Keith passed into the 30 threshold and Jeff packed up his circus gear and took his act to another land. First one first: Jen threw Keith a surprise party at this cosmic bowling alley that also has pool/air hockey/and "dahts". It was in Meredith. And despite the fact that it's apparently been there for years and years, I had never been there or heard of it. But it was fun. As usual, I almost released my bowels as soon as things went cosmic. I don't ned to tell you how much I love me some Cosmic Bowling! There was some old skool characters, to be sure. Thankfully Steph & Keith W. were there to anchor us for most of the evening - and even tease us with the threat/promise of croquet later this summer! Oh croquet, how I've missed you. But it was a fun time - even if Monique had to smoke candy cigarettes to get through her first full week as a non-smoker. (Which, I'll take this opportunity to congratulate her on Day 9!) [Side Note: Monique didn't REALLY smoke candy cigarettes. I feel I need to make that disclaimer because I didn't make a disclaimer to Nanny when I told her that Monique, as a side effect to quitting smoking, now grew a thick moustache and had to shave it every morning. Silly me thought that it was obvious that I was kidding. I guess there's no such thing as "obvious" in Nannytopia. And now back to your regularly scheduled program] Before the party Monique and I had stopped at Giuseppe's for a drink and we saw Keith across the bar. Did I mention we were about to arrive at his SURRRRPRISE party?? We chugged our drinks and bolted - sure that he saw us. I prayed to the party Gods that we didn't totally Ben the surprise. Inexplicably, he never saw us and the surprise remained intact. Second thing second: And Portsmouth? Portsmouth is a sadder, quieter, less interesting place to be now. Because Jeff and Amy pulled up their very last stake and moved to Bedford. Pizza parlor employees and Daniel Street bouncers may have all breathed sighs of relief, but I think they'll find their Seacoast lives will be more boring for it. I know mine will. Jeff, I'll be pouring a bottle of Zima out on the corner for you this weekend. (You pick the flavor!)

     I need to make two belated announcements. #1. A Happy very belated Birthday message to Mackenzie. Poor Mack wept herself to sleep for a week when I missed her birthday when I was rattling off April birthday tomfoolery! (Mack, try some whiskey each night before bed - that should stop the crying!) and #2. Congratulations to Molly on her new baby boy, Jeffrey, that was born AGES ago (ok, about seven weeks) and I didn't mention when I mentioned the Wave O' Babies for one simple reason. I didn't know she had had the baby. Simple excuse. But she fixed my baby mentioning wagon. Anyway, moving on, spring is most definitely here. Whether we want it or not. Well I certainly want it! I want to go swimming and grilling and put the windows down and feel the grass between my webbed toes! I think most of us are already ready to jump ahead to soumaire. It didn't feel like spring when we rang it in up in Montreal in 15 degrees whilst hip deep in Labatt Blue 10.1's, but I'm sure it shall feel like summer when the end of June rolls around and we're celebrating twin baby showers, 80th birthdays, and Roy weddings. There can't be that many weddings left can there??? Not after '07! I feel like '08 is merely the aftershocks that was the Wedding Earthquake of last year. Who knows when I'll get married - ever since Monique made it clear that she doesn't like spelunking, I've been having a devil of a time getting my deposit back from Ruggles Mine! (She also isn't fond of double-crossing, adulterous, performance-enhancing, bloated assbags - so I guess there goes my shot of having Roger Clemens officiate.)

     Whoever said, "You can't go home again," is a fool. [Ed. Note: Thomas Wolfe is not a fool] Of COURSE you can go home again. (Those hailing from Roanoke Colony, um, sorry - you don't count.) Anyone who wants to go home again can. Just hop on Rt 93, or 95, or 66, or 1, or get a fake passport that says Dean Moriarty and hop to and fro around space/time. Whatever you need to go home again, I assure you, it can be done. The dilemma lies in whether home actually wants you back again. And chances? Are not good. There's a reason home isn't home anymore, you know? Paint started to peel long before you left but it wasn't until you were back that you realized it wasn't the peeling that was the problem but the color choice, the border, the window frame, and hold on? Is this even your house? Maybe it's your house but a new family has been Flight of the Navigator'd into it and you're a stranger in what's supposed to be the most familiar place you've ever known. "Home", wherever - whatever it is, plays nice for reminiscing. But reliving? Not so nice. There's a reason your baby teeth fall out. They're not supposed to be there anymore. They have to leave to make room for bigger, more mature teeth. No one tries to put their baby teeth back in. And if they do? They probably still hang out in dingy back corners of neighborhood bars, nursing their 20 oz. Mich Light, viciously staring into a bitter future and blaming everyone else for their past failings. Well, they can go melt back into the night - case that ain't me. That ain't me they're lookin' for.

     We're having a huge 60th Anniversary Open House at the Diamond Mines this weekend and as much as it's going to kick everyone's ass, there'll be free hot dogs being dispensed from a giant hot dog steamer. And? I can't say I'm too upset about that. Let me tell it to you in Star Wars: R2D2 & C3PO are free stickers, Boba Fett is free balloons, but Han Solo is free hot dogs. Got it? (Incidentally, Jar Jar is free chlamydia). If you enjoy things being explained in Star Wars terms, please watch the short clip (less than a minute!) below, which is what inspired me to do so in the first place. The way Tracy says "They're nice!" kills me every time.

     Ok, kids. It's almost Hump Day. Which means it's almost time to go see Iron Man with the cronies. Which means we're one day closer to Lost, then BSG, then 4th of July, then the rest of my life.

        It's been real,

          Mr. Samuel Pickwick

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