Heh, so yeah– I know I said I would pick up the recount of my Turkey Day adventures in Titusville in the sunlit hours of Wednesday. I didn’t, however, specify which Wednesday it would be. The past two weeks have been very busy. Among exams, Christmas parties, procuring lodgings for next semester, and generally loafing about, I have not had time to conclude my holiday narrative. And so, I figured I would seize this creative urge I have had percolating inside me and finish the saga. What am I doing up at 6:30 in the morning you ask? I have been adventuring in Middle Earth vicariously by viewing Peter Jackson’s Tolkien trilogy. Yes, trilogy. Kim’s LOTR party culminated with the midnight showing of Return of the King. It’s now three hours after the movie has ended, and I am still awake. I don’t know how I’m still awake, but nevertheless, here I am. It was funny– I got home from Kim’s at 5:30, just in time to see Stuart pulling out of the driveway on his way to work. I am so happy my job does not require me to wake before the sun does; I don’t think I could do it. Anyway, TURKEY DAY RECAP, pt. 2:
After we left the house of Grammy (I love the monikers families coin for their elders), Bo and I went with my cousins on the TITUSVILLE BAR CRAWL. Three hours, two bars, a Corona and a Cape Cod later, I came to the realization that Titusville is a terrible place in which to go bar crawling. Our first stop was a bar whose name I can no longer remember, but the music was a mix of modern and classic rock staples. For example, the Rolling Stones’ hackneyed “Satisfaction” was wedged neatly between “Come Out and Play” by the Offspring and some crap ballad courtesy of Staind. At this nameless bar, the people with whom I was with talked about the various places my cousins’ classmates ended up after high school. Our second and final stop on the TITUSVILLE BAR CRAWL was the Riverdeck Lounge, which adjoins one of the several aged hotels in the city. When we entered the Riverdeck, our caravan literally tripled the patronage of the bar. After standing next to the river for half an hour or so, the TITUSVILLE BAR CRAWL came to a close.
My thoughts about the whole experience? I hate drunk people. I think it’s ironic exactly how mindless the drivel such people spout when they are convinced what they are saying is worthy of being included in the next Bartlett’s compedium. For instance, Alfred (one of my cousin Lara’s friends) offered this pearl of wisdom: “I like my women like fire and ice, not warm water.” If you can unmask the meaning shrouded somewhere in that nebulous statement, please email me. I’ve had many sleepless nights trying to decipher it. Al said this like he thought someone from the newspaper was eavesdropping on his Bud Light-fueled conversation, so I just know there’s something to it.
Anyway, after the bar crawl concluded (or fizzled, more accurately), Bo and I went back to the hotel. Still hard-up for a good buzz, he and I went to the lounge at the hotel for a few more cocktails. After a couple of Heinekens, I had reached my limit– so much so in fact that I spilled my third Heineken not once, but twice– once on the bar and once on the pool table. Also, while lounging in the … lounge, we chatted with the “Real British DJ” who was spinning discs in the all but abandoned establishment. I always find it interesting how people end up in their permenant stations in life, and so Bo and I joined our inquisitive forces together and put this guy through the ringer. Below are a few of the questions we gave Geoff:
“Where are you from?”
“Why Titusville? Why not Miami?”
“Pilot’s license, eh? How’s that working out for ya?”
“Is your wife American or British?”
“DJ, huh? Got any Blur?”
“No Blur, eh? Any Radiohead?”
“No Radiohead? And you call yourself a DJ?”
As I fell asleep early Thursday morning, I remained focused on Saturday. Not only was it helping me get through the trip, but it was also assisting me in keeping the room from spinning too terribly. Later that morning, I awoke with a headache and beer breath.
PSA: Kids- make sure you down at least a glass of water and take out your contacts before retiring for the night following an evening of prolonged imbibing of spirituous beverages. Furthermore, always, always, ALWAYS remember to brush your teeth. To wake up with last night still in your mouth is no picnic.
Following some Excedrin and a shower, I accompanied my family to the Denny’s which is attached to the Ramada Inn where we were staying. [I’m not sure which establishment is riding the coattails of which. Both are merely marginal at best in their respective industries, so neither one is exactly classing up the other.] At breakfast, I came to the realization that I so rarely have a sound breakfast that my taste for one has all but disappeared. While Paul was ordering pancakes and eggs, and while Bo was requesting the Meat-Lovers’ breakfast (and subbing bacon for both the country ham and sausage, netting him a heart-stopping 10 strips of the salted pork), I was ordering fruit salad and cereal. As breakfast was winding down, I dared Paul to drink one of the Land O’ Lakes creamers that was sitting atop the table which was presumably for someone’s coffee (I take my coffee black, which, in my opinion, is the only way to drink it).
“No. There’s no way I’m drinking those.” (I had given him three to drink).
“Come on! I’ve done it before. Hell, I’ll even give you five dollars if you do it.”
“No way.”
“Alright, fine– Noah, do you want five dollars?”
“Okay, okay. For five dollars, I’ll do it.”
“Glad to hear you’re working with me. I’ll even allow you a chaser between each one.”
He drank them. He chased them. He gagged on them. But he didn’t get his fiver.
Moral of this anecdote? Never, ever trust me to give you five dollars for a stupid dare. In fact, if anything you’ll be the one paying me. The pleasure I derive from watching someone drink something as disagreeable as half-n-half is worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox. Viewing one’s voluntary idiocy at my prodding is truly intoxicating.
Following breakfast, we went to the beach. I had a great time, despite the fact that we were there during high tide and to venture into the sea was truly a workout in aquarobics. After frolicking in the sand and sea for an hour, we went back to the hotel to freshen ourselves up for the Thanksgiving festivities that were being held at the Penney Ranch in Mims, FL.
My uncle Mike’s house and property are beautiful. His house sits atop a five-acre plot of oaks and palms. Family and friends were all over. Food and drink were plentiful. All were good. Delving into specifics would make this narrative even longer than it already is, so I will spare you the details. It was a great feast and an even better time. While I was lazing in one of the hammocks, digesting and dozing from the tryptophan, I was studying the stony, beaten orb that is our moon and thinking. I thought about many things, but my mind kept meandering back to the same thing– Saturday.
After several rolls of film had been used to take pictures of various groups of people (cousins, aunts, uncles, in-laws, cousins and in-laws, uncles and dogs, aunts and the turkey), I was able to pack it up and head back to the hotel. Once there, Bo and I returned to the lounge to have a few cocktails and chat with the local flavor. While there, I heard a few lurid bar jokes, and I watched some guy who appeared to be a veteran of some war carry on a conversation with himself. I can only speculate what it was like behind his eyes. The world can be such a devastating place, and to see someone who has lost his grip on its partner-in-crime, reality, really saddened me. After the drinks, I went to the room and spent a few hours re-reading and laughing at old AIM logs (I’m such a loser) until I fell asleep.
Friday, I went to Cocoa Beach. It was so strange playing in the ocean the day after Thanksgiving while people elsewhere were braving icy winds and preparing for winter’s imminent arrival. The beach was fun; I had a good time body surfing and trying to spook my brother and cousin by randomly stating “something touched my leg” while we were swimming about in the shallows of the sea. The water was great, but the beach itself was not. With the day prior being Thanksgiving, the coast was littered with the relics of previous evening beach parties: beer bottles, chunks of Styrofoam coolers, condom wrappers, et cetera. It made me sad to think that some people are so into their own things that they cannot take the time to clean up after themselves.
After the beach, Mom took Paul, Noah, and me to Ron Jon’s Surf Shop. Much like every other retail store on the day after Thanksgiving, the place was a flurry of Christmas shoppers and so-called bargains. Despite the crowds, the three of us each managed to hit Mom up for something. I got a hat; Paul got a new skateboard deck; and Noah got a new necklace. When we got back to the hotel after first stopping by the liquor store for Cape Cod “fixin’s,” I showered and took a nap. Meanwhile, Mom took Paul and Noah to the local skate park so the boys could work off some of that pent-up energy.
When I awoke, night had fallen, and my family had yet to fetch me. Dinner was being served at Grammy’s, and I was stuck at the hotel. But not for long. Before I could get off the phone with Mom, my aunt Kippy was already on her way over with the three kids to get me. Following dinner (a repeat of Thursday), we returned to the hotel, and Mom and I played our token game of Scrabble.
Naturally, I left the table victorious, and Mom was left ruing her defeat by uttering long sobs of exasperation and embarassment. She has even challenged me to a rematch when I see her on Christmas Eve. I don’t understand why- she has already suffered enough; I guess she’s trying to pander to the masochist in her by inviting another sound thrashing at my hand. Very well, Mother! On Christmas Eve, heads will roll yet again.
[In all honesty, it was a close match; 283 to 267. It was my big 42-point play that gave me the cushion I needed to procure a victory.]
After Scrabble came bed. After bed came sleep. After sleep came Saturday. And with Saturday came the trip home.
All in all, I had a great time in Florida with my family. I was unsure I would be able to tolerate my brothers’ dogs during the car rides to and fro Florida. Ironically, the dogs presented no problems during those times. They were only an issue when they just had to be brought to the beach. Public beaches have banned pets because of the irresponsibility of many owners. My brother and his wife are very attentive to their pets, so this law wasn’t made because of them. In fact, Bo and Leslie are almost dangerously into their dogs. I’m sorry, but referring to your dog as “son” is just sickening to me. Even more gut-wrenching is claiming that your dog not only knows that it’s Christmastime, but that he also believes in God.
I know Bo and Leslie will read this. I don’t care. In fact, I’ll say it again, just to drive my point home. THOSE TWO THINGS YOU TWO CONSIDER YOUR CHILDREN ARE DOGS. THEY ARE NOT KIDS; THEY ARE DOGS, AND THEY ARE NOT MUCH OF DOGS AT THAT. YOU DIDN’T COPULATE TO CREATE THEM; TWO DOGS DID. PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE STOP CALLING THEM YOUR CHILDREN. IT’S DISTURBING TO ME. YOU ARE NOT THE PARENTS OF MARLEY AND MAGGIE; YOU ARE MERELY THEIR OWNERS. ALSO, NEVER REFER TO ME AS THE DOGS’ UNCLE UNLESS YOU NEVER WANT TO SEE THEM AGAIN. I AM COMPLETELY PREPARED TO TAKE A COUPLE CANINES HOSTAGE TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW I’M SERIOUS.
I was also concerned that I would not be able to tolerate my younger brothers, but they were well-behaved for the most part, excepting a few moments of obstinacy. It is so strange to think that these two boys are my brothers, and despite my objections, I continue to love them. We have had some difficult times with one another, but they are still both great kids. Even stranger is the rate at which they are aging. Paul is already 14, and Noah is 7! Before I know it, Paul will be graduating and on his way into this wasteland that we call adulthood. Try and fight it, my brother! Stay with Mom as long as you can!
Well, I think that about wraps this edition of the Redux up. Look for updates soon, although I am not exactly sure when. I’m really busy with this thing called Life.
–Post over, Mikey out.