I keep finding tid-bits from years past. Here is the latest find.
Wednesday, February 25, 2004 9:31 PM
life fuckin sucks
My truck broke today and now I'm super fucking pissed
I feel like I should go crazy, like it will take some stress off me. I'm unemployed and I'm now in the hole for $700 for the fucking truck, I got no clean cloths and my face itches.
I feel like running the 7 miles to the park, ripping all my cloths off and jumping in the pond and quaking like a duck untill I get locked up. I feel like running down the street with a big sign that says, "run me down and I'll let you borrow my Fleetwood Mac collection," or "honk if you need an abortion." I feel like building a catapolt and launching monkeys at the next town over and calling it an act of war. I feel like taking a skinny dump on my front porch and naming it Harry Potter. I feel like hunting down the easter bunny and skinning it. I feel like yelling at children for no reason untill I'm horse and my throat is raw and my face is red. I feel like burning every scratch and sniff book ever published. I feel like dying my hair red, then blue, then green, then orange, then red again and telling people I got in a fight with the kool-aid guy. I feel like making fun of a cripple then confessing to a priest then making fun of the priest and confessing to a cripple. I feel like wresteling the next person I met on the street. I feel like I don't have any rules to live by and I'm super pissed. I feel like jamming the garbage disposal full of junk mail. I feel like banging my head into a wall untill the only thing I can remember is the "My Little Pony" theme song. I feel like blaming the worlds problems on the French. Fuck the French. I feel like riding a tricycle through a mine feild. I feel taking a phone questionair about my long distance provider. I feel like telling every student on the face of the planet the 10 commandments in Japanese. I feel like boiling three gallons of water untill there is no more water to boil, then wearing the pan as a hat for 76 hours. I feel like breaking every window on my street and blaming it on the old folks home around the corner. I feel like playing with matches. I feel like dressing up in a clown suit and hanging out at shooting ranges. I fell like I'm losing my mind.
I feel better
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
About Tony
This was originally pubished in a 2003 issue of The-Logos.com online magizine.
About Tony
By Gravy Train
I'm not a writer. I have really bad handwriting that even my parents, the old faithfuls of understanding and unconditional love, complain about. They call me when I write to them to help them translate my scribbles and scratches. I figure that it would be easier on my part just to call them rather than write and my letters have waned in length and frequency. People at my office complain all the time about the messages I leave them so I am required to e-mail all phone messages at this point. This thwarted any attempt at being a writer. So I am not a writer. There is my disclaimer, from here on you have been warned. Right now I am writing because I miss a very good friend of mine who I haven't seen in about 7 years, could be longer, actually. Recently I heard that he cut off his nose and has become a born again Christian, but I won't hold that against Tony.
I met Tony when I was a punk. I was a skinny, scrawny, obnoxious punk in eighth grade. I grew up in Montpelier, Vermont so I wasn't a threatening punk. I don't think we had those in Montpelier. I was just a kid who liked loud music and self induced whiplash. I hung out at a place called The Basement, which was a little room underneath the police station with a pool table and a Sega. It was designed to keep kids/punks like me off drugs. I went there by choice, to play pool and meet my friends. After a game of pool we would leave The Basement, run underneath the train bridge, smoke pot, drink beer, and then return to our "drug free" environment, stoned and drunk. I think The Basement staff knew that we were stoned and drunk but as long as we weren't stoned and drunk and harassing old ladies, we were as good as sober.
Tony was a big guy, a lot older than most of us. He was mean looking, shaved head, broken nose, Mexican, and there weren't many Mexicans where I grew up. He was really loud when he was pissed off, and he was pissed off most of the time. If he lost in pool he'd swear at the table, then at the TV, then at the kid who beat him, then at the window, then at the table again, then he'd take off and go under the train bridge. I never beat Tony at pool. He was a really good skater, and he looked good on a skateboard. Some skaters look gangly and awkward. Not Tony. He'd pull off pretty wild tricks like nollie kick-flips or something. I don't think he had his own skate, he would always use some other kid's board. He broke a lot of skateboards that weren't his. I never owned a skateboard back then. One time he was trying some trick for about an hour and he couldn't land it. His last try the landed wrong and the board smacked him in the nuts. That made him really pissed. A freight train of swears came out of him for the next five minutes or so. It was a run on sentence of strictly swear words. I think that I laughed and then he swore at me. He threw the skateboard at a parking meter then snapped it in half by jumping on it. Then he broke those pieces in half, swearing at them the whole time. Then he threw the pieces at the kid who owned the board and told the kid his skateboard was a piece of shit. Then he told the kid, who’s skateboard was a piece of shit, the he was a piece of shit, too, the kid that is, not Tony. I laughed again and Tony swore at me again.
But everyone liked Tony. He could burp really loud and really long. We recorded a one-minute burp of his one night. Someone had a handheld tape machine and was asking all of us about our opinion of the Montpelier police and the "rampant use of drugs in Montpelier." Just some punks having fun. Most of us said that we liked smoking pot and stealing stuff. Tony unleashed this monster belch right into the tape machine and we were all in awe. His face would have terrorized babies and grandmothers. His neck was pushed way out and the tendons were protruding. Veins on his forehead were bulging. This belch just kept going and going. I can't hold my breath for a minute, but there it was, on tape, one minute of belch. He was drunk and didn't remember burping into a tape machine the next morning, but when we played it for him he laughed and said something like, "holy fucking shit."
I got arrested with Tony once. We were playing hacky-sac on a one-way street when two police cruisers came flying at us from both directions. We were right behind a bank, so we thought there was some kind of bank robbery going on. A cop told us to get out of the road. We kept playing until one of the cops grabbed the hacky-sac away from us. I think Tony swore at him. That's when we got handcuffed. Then we all started swearing at the cops. We each got "disorderly conduct" charges for ‘Disruption of Motor Traffic’ (for playing in the street) and something they called "disrespect to an officer of the law," which was a misdemeanor. I think they just made up that last one. They handed us each $300 fines. I asked if I could do community service cause I was broke and wasn’t about to borrow $300 to pay the MPD, so they gave me a broom, a diesel weed wacker, some work gloves and about thirty hours to clean up the city of Montpelier. I cleaned up the spot under the train bridge where we smoked pot and drank beer. The cops never found that place. Tony didn't pay the fine or do community service. When he was arrested for assaulting an officer less than a year later, they tagged on the disorderly conduct charge and sent him to prison. I was sixteen then. A few days after I got my drivers license I asked my parents if I could borrow the car and of course they asked where I planned on going and I told them to pick up Tony from jail. I don't think they liked the answer but they let me take the car, so I loaded up a few friends and we went to get Tony. It's kind of weird picking up someone from prison, there is this big steel gate and when it opens, there's your buddy in a red Thrasher T-shirt. Nothing else, just a big steel gate and your buddy. He jumped in shotgun and said something like, "Well, that fucking sucked." That was the last we talked about it.
Tony flunked out of my high school. So did a lot of other people. I did pretty well in school, grades wise.
I was getting in a lot of fights at home with my folks. One night my pops almost smacked my mom until I got in the way. I punched him a good one, but he got me even better. I went upstairs to get my little baseball bat, the kind you pick up at a tourist novelty shop that say "I heart Vermontpelier." But I had made this one in shop class on a lathe so it didn't say any stupid crap like that on it. Anyway, I got my little bat so that I could smack my pops in the head with it. I swore at him, he yelled at me, I threatened him, he threatened me, blah blah blah. When my mom saw the little bat she dragged my dad out of the house. I was pissed so I went downtown. I met Tony there and he, for the first time, didn't swear. He took me to Dunkin' Donuts where we had a doughnut. I had my little bat with me. Tony told me I could crash at his place in Barre but he needed to call my mom to tell her I was OK. I didn't want him to but he did and my mom loved Tony ever since that day. We hitch hiked the ten or twelve miles to Barre, but when we got to his house, Tony's mom and stepfather were having a big fight. They kicked him out of the house right then and there. That's when Tony started swearing again. We crashed out on some park picnic tables in a playground nearby. Those things are not too comfortable and we didn't sleep too well. After about a week of hiding out at friend's houses, I returned home. Tony kept crashing at other people's places. I asked my mom if Tony could stay with us until his mom and stepfather let him move back in. That's how Tony and I lived together in the split attic of my folk's house.
He got a job doing tree preservation, stuff like landscaping and playing with cow shit and chain saws. He smelled bad when he came back from work. We decided to charge him rent because his stepfather was being an ass and didn't want Tony to live with us for free anymore. We charged him $35 a month. After a few months, Tony raised his own rent to $100. He got his GED and then bought a Saab. I graduated high school. Tony moved to Washington State to be a lumberjack. That's when he cut off his nose. I heard they fixed it up so it looks real but I don't remember who told me that. The last time I heard from Tony was two years ago on Thanksgiving. He sent my family a thank you card. Short and sweet, "Thanks for everything you have done for me. Tony." No cheesy turkeys or kittens in laundry baskets. Just a blank paper card. My folks talked to Tony's old boss at the tree place a few weeks ago. He said that Tony’s a born again Christian. That's okay with me I guess.
Fuck-shit-ass-damn-bitch-cunt-slut-mother-fucking-dumbass-shitbag-pussy-shiteater-bitchhole- ass-fucking-mother-bitch-ass-shithole-fucker: Tony, I miss you, man.
Written by Gravy Train on Feb 01, 2004
About Tony
By Gravy Train
I'm not a writer. I have really bad handwriting that even my parents, the old faithfuls of understanding and unconditional love, complain about. They call me when I write to them to help them translate my scribbles and scratches. I figure that it would be easier on my part just to call them rather than write and my letters have waned in length and frequency. People at my office complain all the time about the messages I leave them so I am required to e-mail all phone messages at this point. This thwarted any attempt at being a writer. So I am not a writer. There is my disclaimer, from here on you have been warned. Right now I am writing because I miss a very good friend of mine who I haven't seen in about 7 years, could be longer, actually. Recently I heard that he cut off his nose and has become a born again Christian, but I won't hold that against Tony.
I met Tony when I was a punk. I was a skinny, scrawny, obnoxious punk in eighth grade. I grew up in Montpelier, Vermont so I wasn't a threatening punk. I don't think we had those in Montpelier. I was just a kid who liked loud music and self induced whiplash. I hung out at a place called The Basement, which was a little room underneath the police station with a pool table and a Sega. It was designed to keep kids/punks like me off drugs. I went there by choice, to play pool and meet my friends. After a game of pool we would leave The Basement, run underneath the train bridge, smoke pot, drink beer, and then return to our "drug free" environment, stoned and drunk. I think The Basement staff knew that we were stoned and drunk but as long as we weren't stoned and drunk and harassing old ladies, we were as good as sober.
Tony was a big guy, a lot older than most of us. He was mean looking, shaved head, broken nose, Mexican, and there weren't many Mexicans where I grew up. He was really loud when he was pissed off, and he was pissed off most of the time. If he lost in pool he'd swear at the table, then at the TV, then at the kid who beat him, then at the window, then at the table again, then he'd take off and go under the train bridge. I never beat Tony at pool. He was a really good skater, and he looked good on a skateboard. Some skaters look gangly and awkward. Not Tony. He'd pull off pretty wild tricks like nollie kick-flips or something. I don't think he had his own skate, he would always use some other kid's board. He broke a lot of skateboards that weren't his. I never owned a skateboard back then. One time he was trying some trick for about an hour and he couldn't land it. His last try the landed wrong and the board smacked him in the nuts. That made him really pissed. A freight train of swears came out of him for the next five minutes or so. It was a run on sentence of strictly swear words. I think that I laughed and then he swore at me. He threw the skateboard at a parking meter then snapped it in half by jumping on it. Then he broke those pieces in half, swearing at them the whole time. Then he threw the pieces at the kid who owned the board and told the kid his skateboard was a piece of shit. Then he told the kid, who’s skateboard was a piece of shit, the he was a piece of shit, too, the kid that is, not Tony. I laughed again and Tony swore at me again.
But everyone liked Tony. He could burp really loud and really long. We recorded a one-minute burp of his one night. Someone had a handheld tape machine and was asking all of us about our opinion of the Montpelier police and the "rampant use of drugs in Montpelier." Just some punks having fun. Most of us said that we liked smoking pot and stealing stuff. Tony unleashed this monster belch right into the tape machine and we were all in awe. His face would have terrorized babies and grandmothers. His neck was pushed way out and the tendons were protruding. Veins on his forehead were bulging. This belch just kept going and going. I can't hold my breath for a minute, but there it was, on tape, one minute of belch. He was drunk and didn't remember burping into a tape machine the next morning, but when we played it for him he laughed and said something like, "holy fucking shit."
I got arrested with Tony once. We were playing hacky-sac on a one-way street when two police cruisers came flying at us from both directions. We were right behind a bank, so we thought there was some kind of bank robbery going on. A cop told us to get out of the road. We kept playing until one of the cops grabbed the hacky-sac away from us. I think Tony swore at him. That's when we got handcuffed. Then we all started swearing at the cops. We each got "disorderly conduct" charges for ‘Disruption of Motor Traffic’ (for playing in the street) and something they called "disrespect to an officer of the law," which was a misdemeanor. I think they just made up that last one. They handed us each $300 fines. I asked if I could do community service cause I was broke and wasn’t about to borrow $300 to pay the MPD, so they gave me a broom, a diesel weed wacker, some work gloves and about thirty hours to clean up the city of Montpelier. I cleaned up the spot under the train bridge where we smoked pot and drank beer. The cops never found that place. Tony didn't pay the fine or do community service. When he was arrested for assaulting an officer less than a year later, they tagged on the disorderly conduct charge and sent him to prison. I was sixteen then. A few days after I got my drivers license I asked my parents if I could borrow the car and of course they asked where I planned on going and I told them to pick up Tony from jail. I don't think they liked the answer but they let me take the car, so I loaded up a few friends and we went to get Tony. It's kind of weird picking up someone from prison, there is this big steel gate and when it opens, there's your buddy in a red Thrasher T-shirt. Nothing else, just a big steel gate and your buddy. He jumped in shotgun and said something like, "Well, that fucking sucked." That was the last we talked about it.
Tony flunked out of my high school. So did a lot of other people. I did pretty well in school, grades wise.
I was getting in a lot of fights at home with my folks. One night my pops almost smacked my mom until I got in the way. I punched him a good one, but he got me even better. I went upstairs to get my little baseball bat, the kind you pick up at a tourist novelty shop that say "I heart Vermontpelier." But I had made this one in shop class on a lathe so it didn't say any stupid crap like that on it. Anyway, I got my little bat so that I could smack my pops in the head with it. I swore at him, he yelled at me, I threatened him, he threatened me, blah blah blah. When my mom saw the little bat she dragged my dad out of the house. I was pissed so I went downtown. I met Tony there and he, for the first time, didn't swear. He took me to Dunkin' Donuts where we had a doughnut. I had my little bat with me. Tony told me I could crash at his place in Barre but he needed to call my mom to tell her I was OK. I didn't want him to but he did and my mom loved Tony ever since that day. We hitch hiked the ten or twelve miles to Barre, but when we got to his house, Tony's mom and stepfather were having a big fight. They kicked him out of the house right then and there. That's when Tony started swearing again. We crashed out on some park picnic tables in a playground nearby. Those things are not too comfortable and we didn't sleep too well. After about a week of hiding out at friend's houses, I returned home. Tony kept crashing at other people's places. I asked my mom if Tony could stay with us until his mom and stepfather let him move back in. That's how Tony and I lived together in the split attic of my folk's house.
He got a job doing tree preservation, stuff like landscaping and playing with cow shit and chain saws. He smelled bad when he came back from work. We decided to charge him rent because his stepfather was being an ass and didn't want Tony to live with us for free anymore. We charged him $35 a month. After a few months, Tony raised his own rent to $100. He got his GED and then bought a Saab. I graduated high school. Tony moved to Washington State to be a lumberjack. That's when he cut off his nose. I heard they fixed it up so it looks real but I don't remember who told me that. The last time I heard from Tony was two years ago on Thanksgiving. He sent my family a thank you card. Short and sweet, "Thanks for everything you have done for me. Tony." No cheesy turkeys or kittens in laundry baskets. Just a blank paper card. My folks talked to Tony's old boss at the tree place a few weeks ago. He said that Tony’s a born again Christian. That's okay with me I guess.
Fuck-shit-ass-damn-bitch-cunt-slut-mother-fucking-dumbass-shitbag-pussy-shiteater-bitchhole- ass-fucking-mother-bitch-ass-shithole-fucker: Tony, I miss you, man.
Written by Gravy Train on Feb 01, 2004
Wedding Bells Tolling In My Hang-Over
Right. I found out that someone reads this crap. Ok then, take this!
Saturday, September 16th, 2006. Wayland, Mass. A grassy field behind a tree nursery. Gareth Hughes marries Amy Santa-Maria creating the Hughes-a-Maria family. I grew a fuzzy navel.
I had been in session for about 14 hours a day the two weeks leading up to this wedding. I was feeling great, about to go on a trip to back to Boston, which I swore to God I would never do due to the fact that I despised Boston after living there unsuccessfully for 4 year after college. I was going to see all my Skidmore chums, and all my Logos Magazine buddies, drink all day and night at open bars and be an all around party animal for a few days before returning to my 14 hour a day job at Three Pear Studios, in Chicago. The flights had been purchased, the hotel accommodations were made, my bags and suits were packed and I just had 2 more sessions on Wed (Sept 13th) and Thurs (Sept 14th) with the most picky hippy jam band to ever grace the planet. Wednesday night's session was supposed to be noon to 8pm. We tracked, retracked, overdubbed, edited and re-retracked until 3am. At about 2am, my body tossed in the towel and decided that the best course of action to get me into bed would be to reverse the course of my bowels and fill my sinuses with half digested hotdog, lamb kabob, and Dr. Pepper. The room became surprisingly hot and stinky. I, with hotdog, lamb kabob and Dr. Pepper what’s-it jammed into my nostrils and ear canals, could not smell anything, nor could I hear anything so tracking and editing for the next hour became a battle against cow ass and undercooked lamb with cous cous invading the inner workings of my head. The session ended. I knew I was in trouble. In less than a day, I had to be looking, behaving, and dancing my best. On my way home, at 3:30am, I stopped by the 24-hour supermarket and dropped $65 on vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. I was going to crush this funk with ferocity unknown to the likes of the common cold since the invention of "letting blood" or "slip-n-slide".
I got sick. Really sick. Can't breathe sick.
So I took vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. By the bucket-full.
I became "whacked out," "hooped up," crazy on cold meds.
I got on a flight headed for Boston with some friends. They got very irritated with my shenanigans. I, of course, thought that I was acting totally within the boundaries of sanity. My friends, as well as Airport Security and Flight Attendants alike, did not agree. I blame the odorless garlic extract. What kind of process does garlic go through in order to become odorless? Obviously one that makes friends, Airport Security and Flight Attendants annoyed.
One the way to the rehearsal dinner I had to stop the caravan of cars traveling from Boston to Wayland so that I could pee due to all the chicken soup, elixirs and liquid placebos that were making my teeth float. I have never in my life taken such a long or satisfying pee that smelled nothing like garlic. The rehearsal dinner was lively. I was docile. I had mentally handcuffed myself to the radiator of 'being totally quiet as to not piss off the bride, groom, old friends, old people, or furry forest animals.' I never knew that such a radiator existed but that is what analogies are best at... inventing radiators... I guess. I drank beers with acasletzer cold tablets. Airborne in white wine was a chaser.
The next day, the day of the wedding, my symptoms were in full visual bloom and my head, though mucus free, fluttered like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. I was messed up, but happy to be alive. I donned my suit, jumped on the shuttle bus and said something stupid to the well dresses attendees already on aboard. Something to the likes of "OK TEAM! TONIGHT WE ARE GOING TO BEAT THEOSE BASTARDS FROM STATE!" I think what I actually said was "... from high school" but to me it seemed like a perfect joke about being on a bus with a bunch of people that were about to go to a rival school to challenge last years state champion football team on homecoming weekend. No one got it. People looked at me funny. I closed my eyes and mentally re-handcuffed myself while I popped 2 Sudafed liquid-gels.
The wedding was beautiful. Gareth, the groom, hadn't shaved above his Adam's Apple. His suit looked great. So did mine. I bought some $3 cheepy sunglasses to shield my puffy, light sensitive eyes from the public and the sun. Amy, the bride, showed up in an old London cab, the kind with back doors that open backwards.
They were so happy, I was high as a kite. I was asked to cue the DJ when Gareth and Amy kissed so that the recessional music would escort them from the alter. Someone else gave me some streamers to throw at them during the recessional. In had visions of myself failing, that when they kissed, I would shoot myself in the face with the spring loaded streamers and start singing the "Family Ties" theme song while disrobing at the end of the isle. Thankfully, I did not fail. They kissed. I waved to the DJ. The music started and I shot my load of silver streamers at the newlyweds as they passed. I was very proud of myself. I deserved a Margarita, and 2000 more milligrams of Vitamin C with Rosehips. I found my seat. I sat down and stayed quiet through out the dinner.
Later I danced like a monkey.
After the wedding, and after many misplaced "he-zah's!" during speeches, the plan was to continue to get plowed drunk at the hotel bar. I was one of the first to show up. Ian (yes, the same Ian from "Living in the bath tub." He is still my friend surprisingly) and I ordered Makers on the rocks from the bartender, Matt. I warned Matt about the ensuing legions of half-cocked wedding go-ers that were about to converge on his 8 seat bar. He seemed unimpressed and ill prepared. By the end, Matt did surprisingly well considering he was surrounded by 40 or more very thirsty, very drunk, well dressed wedding guests. He was seen cracking jokes and laughing amongst the sounds of his glasses breaking and future brides drunkenly babbling about how beautiful Amy looked. In the mean time, Ian and I had started an unfortunate habit of ordering drinks for each other. Like I said, we started with Makers Mark but had quickly moved to more "girly drunk drinks" for kicks. I ordered him a Fuzzy Navel. The recipe is as follows.
1 part peach schnapps
1 part vodka
1 part orange juice
1 part pink lemonade
Mix equal parts of each ingredient in a highball glass, top with ice, and serve.
Very girly.
Ian then ordered me one. Then I order him another and let the following words slip out of my mouth. "If anyone orders a Fuzzy Navel tonight, put it on my tab." I didn't think anyone heard me besides Matt. I went out for a cigarette. When I returned, all eight people at the bar, all six people at the large table in front of the fireplace, all three people on the couch and assorted mingliers, who I swear were not at the wedding, were sipping pinkish-orange cocktails and smiling at me. Word had gotten out. Forgetting that I was dangerously close to toxicity levels of cold pills, I joined the merriment by ordering 3 more Fuzzy Navels. One for me, one for Gareth, and one for me.
The next morning, the conversations buzzing around the huge brunch set up by Amy parents at the large Wayland home wasn't "Didn't Amy look beautiful?" or "Have you ever seen a happier couple?" The burning question that was on everyone's mind was "What do you think Roger's tab was for last night." When I arrived, there was a pool. Bets had been placed weither I had broken the $200 mark due to abundant Fuzzy-ness. Even Gareth was on the edge of his seat. Which is where I leave you, on the edge of you seat. In closing, I am still taking cold meds liberally and still feel like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. A sensation, my friend, which is all too similar to nothing you have ever felt before. It was the best wedding I've ever attended.
Saturday, September 16th, 2006. Wayland, Mass. A grassy field behind a tree nursery. Gareth Hughes marries Amy Santa-Maria creating the Hughes-a-Maria family. I grew a fuzzy navel.
I had been in session for about 14 hours a day the two weeks leading up to this wedding. I was feeling great, about to go on a trip to back to Boston, which I swore to God I would never do due to the fact that I despised Boston after living there unsuccessfully for 4 year after college. I was going to see all my Skidmore chums, and all my Logos Magazine buddies, drink all day and night at open bars and be an all around party animal for a few days before returning to my 14 hour a day job at Three Pear Studios, in Chicago. The flights had been purchased, the hotel accommodations were made, my bags and suits were packed and I just had 2 more sessions on Wed (Sept 13th) and Thurs (Sept 14th) with the most picky hippy jam band to ever grace the planet. Wednesday night's session was supposed to be noon to 8pm. We tracked, retracked, overdubbed, edited and re-retracked until 3am. At about 2am, my body tossed in the towel and decided that the best course of action to get me into bed would be to reverse the course of my bowels and fill my sinuses with half digested hotdog, lamb kabob, and Dr. Pepper. The room became surprisingly hot and stinky. I, with hotdog, lamb kabob and Dr. Pepper what’s-it jammed into my nostrils and ear canals, could not smell anything, nor could I hear anything so tracking and editing for the next hour became a battle against cow ass and undercooked lamb with cous cous invading the inner workings of my head. The session ended. I knew I was in trouble. In less than a day, I had to be looking, behaving, and dancing my best. On my way home, at 3:30am, I stopped by the 24-hour supermarket and dropped $65 on vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. I was going to crush this funk with ferocity unknown to the likes of the common cold since the invention of "letting blood" or "slip-n-slide".
I got sick. Really sick. Can't breathe sick.
So I took vitamins, cold pills, fizzy med tablets, cough syrup, decongestants, recongestants, odorless garlic extracts and chicken noodle soup. By the bucket-full.
I became "whacked out," "hooped up," crazy on cold meds.
I got on a flight headed for Boston with some friends. They got very irritated with my shenanigans. I, of course, thought that I was acting totally within the boundaries of sanity. My friends, as well as Airport Security and Flight Attendants alike, did not agree. I blame the odorless garlic extract. What kind of process does garlic go through in order to become odorless? Obviously one that makes friends, Airport Security and Flight Attendants annoyed.
One the way to the rehearsal dinner I had to stop the caravan of cars traveling from Boston to Wayland so that I could pee due to all the chicken soup, elixirs and liquid placebos that were making my teeth float. I have never in my life taken such a long or satisfying pee that smelled nothing like garlic. The rehearsal dinner was lively. I was docile. I had mentally handcuffed myself to the radiator of 'being totally quiet as to not piss off the bride, groom, old friends, old people, or furry forest animals.' I never knew that such a radiator existed but that is what analogies are best at... inventing radiators... I guess. I drank beers with acasletzer cold tablets. Airborne in white wine was a chaser.
The next day, the day of the wedding, my symptoms were in full visual bloom and my head, though mucus free, fluttered like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. I was messed up, but happy to be alive. I donned my suit, jumped on the shuttle bus and said something stupid to the well dresses attendees already on aboard. Something to the likes of "OK TEAM! TONIGHT WE ARE GOING TO BEAT THEOSE BASTARDS FROM STATE!" I think what I actually said was "... from high school" but to me it seemed like a perfect joke about being on a bus with a bunch of people that were about to go to a rival school to challenge last years state champion football team on homecoming weekend. No one got it. People looked at me funny. I closed my eyes and mentally re-handcuffed myself while I popped 2 Sudafed liquid-gels.
The wedding was beautiful. Gareth, the groom, hadn't shaved above his Adam's Apple. His suit looked great. So did mine. I bought some $3 cheepy sunglasses to shield my puffy, light sensitive eyes from the public and the sun. Amy, the bride, showed up in an old London cab, the kind with back doors that open backwards.
They were so happy, I was high as a kite. I was asked to cue the DJ when Gareth and Amy kissed so that the recessional music would escort them from the alter. Someone else gave me some streamers to throw at them during the recessional. In had visions of myself failing, that when they kissed, I would shoot myself in the face with the spring loaded streamers and start singing the "Family Ties" theme song while disrobing at the end of the isle. Thankfully, I did not fail. They kissed. I waved to the DJ. The music started and I shot my load of silver streamers at the newlyweds as they passed. I was very proud of myself. I deserved a Margarita, and 2000 more milligrams of Vitamin C with Rosehips. I found my seat. I sat down and stayed quiet through out the dinner.
Later I danced like a monkey.
After the wedding, and after many misplaced "he-zah's!" during speeches, the plan was to continue to get plowed drunk at the hotel bar. I was one of the first to show up. Ian (yes, the same Ian from "Living in the bath tub." He is still my friend surprisingly) and I ordered Makers on the rocks from the bartender, Matt. I warned Matt about the ensuing legions of half-cocked wedding go-ers that were about to converge on his 8 seat bar. He seemed unimpressed and ill prepared. By the end, Matt did surprisingly well considering he was surrounded by 40 or more very thirsty, very drunk, well dressed wedding guests. He was seen cracking jokes and laughing amongst the sounds of his glasses breaking and future brides drunkenly babbling about how beautiful Amy looked. In the mean time, Ian and I had started an unfortunate habit of ordering drinks for each other. Like I said, we started with Makers Mark but had quickly moved to more "girly drunk drinks" for kicks. I ordered him a Fuzzy Navel. The recipe is as follows.
1 part peach schnapps
1 part vodka
1 part orange juice
1 part pink lemonade
Mix equal parts of each ingredient in a highball glass, top with ice, and serve.
Very girly.
Ian then ordered me one. Then I order him another and let the following words slip out of my mouth. "If anyone orders a Fuzzy Navel tonight, put it on my tab." I didn't think anyone heard me besides Matt. I went out for a cigarette. When I returned, all eight people at the bar, all six people at the large table in front of the fireplace, all three people on the couch and assorted mingliers, who I swear were not at the wedding, were sipping pinkish-orange cocktails and smiling at me. Word had gotten out. Forgetting that I was dangerously close to toxicity levels of cold pills, I joined the merriment by ordering 3 more Fuzzy Navels. One for me, one for Gareth, and one for me.
The next morning, the conversations buzzing around the huge brunch set up by Amy parents at the large Wayland home wasn't "Didn't Amy look beautiful?" or "Have you ever seen a happier couple?" The burning question that was on everyone's mind was "What do you think Roger's tab was for last night." When I arrived, there was a pool. Bets had been placed weither I had broken the $200 mark due to abundant Fuzzy-ness. Even Gareth was on the edge of his seat. Which is where I leave you, on the edge of you seat. In closing, I am still taking cold meds liberally and still feel like an overmedicated bowling ball plummeting from a failed zero-gravity ping-pong tournament for geriatrics with pilot licenses. A sensation, my friend, which is all too similar to nothing you have ever felt before. It was the best wedding I've ever attended.
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