I tear open all of the small, individually-wrapped packages the same way—pulling at each edge; gently, then harder; breaking the seal and not the waxy paper. And from the corners pop out small disks of chocolate, or sometimes, artificially-flavored neon disks of fruit; sour or sweet. Mouths pucker and move, turning the candies over and under the tongue, against the cheeks, impatient for tastes of sexiness and happiness and mayhem and sugar. We know there will be more to come, all day and late into the night.
Walking past the transvestites, ghosts, clowns, Playboy bunnies, popes, and rented-out Gumbysuits, I—we—roll our eyes. Or laugh, or cry, or both.
Tonight is the night we have been promised every year, and we are now bored with it; mining it for sugar and love and leaving the rest an empty orange carved-out shell of excuses. How fitting that every doorstep, bag of leaves, and festive department-store sweater reminds us of this fact.
Songs were sung; loudly and raucously in the open air of the dark streets, or into cell phones, or both.
A haywagon rumbles down the street; we chase after it. Running in his Village People costume; in her Penny Lane; in my flapper heels and pearls, holding on to the curly blonde mop on my hair that the drag queen lent me.
“Let us on!” we scream.
“Go to the church!” The Powers That Be call, “Rides every fifteen minutes. And let go of the back of the wagon!”
And the shirt that says “Pool Boy” reluctantly jumps off and screams, “But I don’t know where God is!”
Don’t we all.
And it’s a warm night made warmer by the bonfire, and we sit around telling stories.
“There once was a boy named Peter, and he opened the door to the green green pasture. And a bird was in a tree, and it said, ‘What a beautiful day it is to be in a green green pasture.’ And Peter said ‘Wow! A talking bird!’ and they all lived happily ever after.”
I liked this story and was proud of David until I was informed that he stole it from Weird Al. And then I told lies and breathed in the smoke in my hair left from the many gay bars the wig had most likely frequented. And peach body spray, to mask it.
We shot the sky with candy pellets from slingshots just because we could. The boys shot each other and I screamed and ran, content with merely shooting the starless sky.
And then we ran, together, down the empty hills not yet developed in the darkness with dirty socks and quick breaths. Somewhere along the way cell phones were lost in the tall grasses, and a frantic half hour was spent in search, or tears, or both—the melodrama of the evening.
Jokes were told and leftover pizza was burned in the fire, etc, etc.
And we laughed, or we laughed, or both.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 11:52 PM
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Better Late Than Never
I have lived in this house on the lake now for exactly one year and three months. Sitting on the welcome mat today was a “Welcome To The Neighborhood” gift bag.
-A free movie rental pass
-A fishing hook (“An original Timber Doodle—now, Weedless!”)
-Coupon for a veggie platter from local party store
-Two wooden tongue decompressers glued together with a wedge-thing in between. A sticker on the top proclaims “J AND R HOBBY SHOP” and then gives the address.
-Rules and regulations concerning neighborhood policies (“No mange-infested dogs.”)
It’s nice to know someone cares.
Also, I found that the paperboy delivers our paper via a shiny red moped. He is also a member of my biology class. I find this inherently interesting.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 7:50 PM
Sunday, October 26, 2003
And There Shall Be Weeping And Gnashing Of Teeth
Yeah, so I'm sorry I'm a little late on this topic. I've spent the day sobbing, ripping my clothes, and pouring ashes on my head.
The Yankees lost.
The Yankees lost.
I'm having trouble fathoming, much less accepting, this fact.
I come from a Major League Baseball family. My aunt is the Cubs, my uncle is the Braves, my dad is the Twins, my mother is the Orioles, and I am the Yankees.
I have a legitimate reason for loving the Yankees, besides the fact that they are the richest team in basball and kick ass to boot. They have all this, plus Derek Jeter.
Derek Jeter went to my high school. Derek Jeter is the number 2 shortstop in baseball (damn A-Rod). Derek Jeter is hot.
And so I am a Yankees fan, bravely wearing my trusty cap to every game I attend. This is actually very risky, seeing as the world hates the Yankees and therefore you get frequently mauled.
The first and only Yanks game I've actually attended in NYC was back before Daryl Strawberry got all coked up. He hit a home run that night, winning the game for the Yanks. I don't remember who they were playing.
I was with my cousin Martin. I thought he was cool because he attended a university somewhere in Younkers, which I thought was a funny name.
It was one in the morning by the time the game ended. We had to drive through a bad part of the Bronx to get home. Everything was boarded up, but it was far from a ghost town. Streetlights lit the entire place up like it was day, and unsavory characters were watching us from every sidewalk.
And then we got lost.
"I'm going to get out of the car and ask one of these people for directions," says the ever-confident and brilliant Martin.
My ten-year-old self was shaking to its core right then. I could imagine the early morning news proclaiming our deaths.
At that moment, I fell asleep. But I guess we made it home OK.
And I guess there's always next year.
Fresh squeezed by melly at 8:18 PM