v18: not knowing how to drive

The title of this post was taken froma poem by Gregory Corso entitled "Last Night I Drove a Car." I found it appropriate, because I had a dream last night that I stole my mother's car and drove with a friend to the mountains, then the car broke down.

And while I'm constantly raving about Kerouac and will often think about Ginsberg (particlarly "Howl," but he has many other wonderful poems,) Corso is not to be sneezed at. Unlike Gins or Kerouac, I think I could write like him. An attainable level of quality.

It's been a strangely chaotic weekend; the kind I relish to return to my computer and summarize. Part of the reason I've enjoyed this blog is that it's helped me immensely to practise my storytelling skills in times when I am otherwise creatively devoid. And boy have I got a lot to say; so go get a snack or a nice cold beverage. This is gonna be a long effin' post.

The events of the weekend were to center on a gathering at Casa de Lauren Wing. Her parents, unfortunately, had to abandon her at home for Florida, given that she had no up-to-date passport. Her misfortune became an opportunity as Mr. Scott Conorton would be returning this weekend to visit, and a get-together was demanded.

Thus, the call went out to many of the usual gang. On Friday night prior, then, I got the request that "come on, Scott, is the movie ready yet?" Perhaps it was, or could be, as all I needed to do was to get Kyle to burn the DVD. However I carried no small amount of reluctance for this weekend to be the premiere of the "film" (as it was never actually shot or transfered to film, I can only use "film" as a synonym for "movie.") The problem being that there are some who would not be attending; some castmembers, some longtime hangers-on, whom I'd promised would see the movie whenever I finally got to showing it, but would not be there last night. But pressure mounted. I knew it was far too convenient to pass up. It was my best option, and there was no way I was going to get through the night alive if I said "No," flat out. So I acquiesced, saying, "Yes. I'll talk to Kyle and if he can burn it for tomorrow, it will be shown." Indeed, I lost sleep over this, my nerves were wracked.

BY the way, the computer just froze on me, BUT I managed to successfully utilize Blogspot's "Recover Post" function, which has taken me back in the story a little. So if it appears as though I gloss over a few upcoming details, I'm sorry, but it feels to me like I've already discussed them, when in fact I haven't. It might help me be brief.

It is also at this point that I will continue this post in Microsoft Word: although I generally prefer not to take this precaution because I don’t feel the same writing vibe in Word as the BlogSpot field, (hence I’ve never been too active with other blog formats I’ve used, except to post things I’ve written not-yet-ready for Interneta.) However, this is necessary. The story is long and I need to get through it, and Word is better at recovery that Blogspot. Moving ahead…

I was unsurprised and even amused yesterday morning when I got back from bowling and was told to call Kyle, and he related to me the Poltergeist-like tale of the challenges he'd encountered in trying to burn it, ultimately being unsuccessful. I laughed. As I had only reluctantly agrred to show the movie, I was perfectly fine. Serendipity, sometimes, laughs with you, rather than at. The events of the night would hardly lend themselves to theatrical exhibition anyway: other events would take precedence.

Saturday night began when I got home from my dad’s for dinner. I had procured a spot in Chrisbrown’s van, as usual, but had neglected to mention I wouldn’t be available before 7:30ish, instead merely advising him, “gimme a call.” This he did, and there was no reply. Shame on me for lacking foresight. I returned home and was given an MSN message via Chris Ferguson to “come over here.”

“Well I can’t,” I say, “I’m waiting for Chris Brown.”

“He’s here.”

“…oh. I’ll be right over.”

And so I was, but our departure was delayed by hamburgers, as Chris and Cary F., Doug, Patrick and Nate (a friend of Cary’s I only knew vaguely from his being at Cary’s even more than me,) all enjoyed a barbeque dinner prepared by Cary’s dad. Having already eaten at dad’s I declined. Chris was irked at the fact that we were officially an hour late by the time we hit the road. Funnily enough, the “guest of honour,” so to speak, wouldn’t arrive until much later than our group did.

Well, Conorton finally arrived, with Neabel and three New York friends in tow: Tyler and James, the latter of whose first order of business to was to hand out nicknames – mine being “St. Patrick’s Day,” Chris Ferguson’s being “Skeeter” and Sonya Lafleur’s being, most perplexingly, “Amy.”

My mooching was not in full effect. Most people who have partied with me – ie, mostly the people at the party and several others scattered who could not be with us – have probably noticed by now that I just don’t pay for drinks. I have elevated cheapness to a lifestyle. I thought for a while that I had actually bought into the Keg at Conorton’s New Year’s bash, but then I remembered that it was actually Kyle who chipped in for me, and I am unsure if I was ever called upon to pay him back. The point is, I usually don’t make a big deal about drinks: I take whatever I can be given. However, increasingly throughout the year, I have developed a dislike of hard liquor, in particular rum, which was the dominant drink of the night. So my only imbibing was of a vodka and Coke, which I even couldn’t enjoy, despite a previous appreciation for that drink. I spent the rest of the night with Coca-Cola, even making a run with Kyle to Mac’s to make sure we were well-stocked; after all, there was much mixing to be done, and CB and I were just “enjoying” Coca-Cola. (In case you don’t get why that’s a joke, it’s because that’s a frequent slogan of theirs, merely putting “Enjoy” in front of their product name. Screw you, it works.)

It was amusing, actually, to keep my wits about me amidst the drunkenness. I can usually keep pretty sharp, but I wouldn’t be able to appreciate the antics of other drunks: for instance, Patrick’s insistence on explaining the (apparently very complex) metaphor behind “set sail with Captain Morgan / and never leave dry land.” In addition, he was quoting Boss Nass (“yousa be tinkin’ yousa betta den da Gungans?”) and insisting (and having it rudely disproved that) alcohol made him impervious to pain. I think he saw something, though, that sobered him up in a hurry. Also he learned a valuable lesson – at a party, make sure to knock.

The sobriety began to pay off however, around 11 (*rough estimate,) when I was given an unusual task. As I was chatting with the inebriated Chris Ferguson, Nate (whom I’d previously mentioned I only knew casually,) came and sat between us. Sensing that I was the more together of the two of us, he entrusted me with an important duty.

It seemed that James, upon realizing that he was not the only black guy at the party, had warmed up to Nate (who, I have neglected to mention to those who don’t know him, is black,) said warming up happened to include a very personal request that they “chill,” and a very definite hand-brush against the derriere.

“If you see any cornering going on, I need you to bail me out.”

“I can do that,” I agreed, thinking it would liven up my night and be an interesting challenge. I was right.

Not long after, I was sitting with Nate and some others in the living room when James appeared and took Nate aside. I hung around. It was very clearly requested that Nate “show James the basement.” I pounced – “no, actually, Nate’s gotta help me out.” “The website!” interjected Nate (I knew, somewhat, that Nate’s business was websites, but didn’t, myself, put it together.) We began to talk shop and improvised a deception. At a very drastic moment, I took Nate out of the house to “clear his head” and work this out. We went around the block and discussed strategy.

Fiddling with his phone, Nate said, “I’m going to very suddenly get a call from my girlfriend – which I don’t have,” intoning a very crafty deception. I’d have been for it, too, had I not seen the fatal flaw.

“You know he’s going to ask someone about that,” I reminded him. Most people wouldn’t know, but if he asked Chris Brown or Cary, who weren’t in on the rescue mission, he’d be toast. So the solution was clear: get Chris Brown and Cary in on it.

When we returned to the party, there was a calamity. The smoke alarm was going off and I had try and pull Mr. B and Cary aside to let them know, while everyone was trying to deal with the smoke alarm. As soon as it died down, we got them outside and let them in on what was going down. They agreed to take the job, thus relieving me somewhat. However: in the chaos of settling the smoke alarm and getting people in and out of the house, Lauren’s dog, Odie rushed right out the door. Already having my shoes on, I jogged after him (or her?) to the parklike area across the road. He ran further. I began to creep softly so my presence would be detected as non-threatening. He went on his way, occasionally stopping to sniff a post or “take care of business.” Once or twice I came close, but the canine continued on its way. At last, I was within chasing distance well into the park. I hooked around in front of it attempting to shepherd it back in the direction of the house. Instead, it stopped at a tree to sniff and I was able to grab its collar decisively, thus effectively rescuing Odie.

Chrisbrown and Cary were right behind me to safeguard the dog (which was bad, since it left Nate in peril: “here, let’s find our shoes,” says James, “we’ll look for the dog together.”) At last, Odie was returned – Lauren was in tears, at it had already been an emotional night for her, for reasons I’ll not go into (as I don’t quite get them, and have enough respect not to pry.)

James was now deflated on the couch, but still called Nate to his side. I kept my distance, both to keep from arousing suspicion, and hoping one of the others would act. They didn’t, and so I intervened – “Nate, you’ve gotta come to Mac’s with me to get a coke.”

As I walked with Nate – who was unjacketed in the cold – he explained to me more of the things James had recently said to him, including further requests he “show him the basement,” and that they should “chill, just the two of us.” Most disturbing was James’ inquiry as to why I was “so protective” (?!) of Nate. Shudder. Upon arrival at the convenience store, we even contemplated purchasing a porno mag just to give a visual aid to get the cue across to James, while avoiding a seemingly inevitable confrontation between the two (the propositioning of a straight man by another dude is one of the most uncomfortable and dreadful conversations imaginable.)

The fates intervened on Nate’s behalf after a few more saves by the others. Some of the grade 11 girls, particularly Lauren McAllister, had arrived by this point, and Nate was able to spend much of the rest of the party with his arm around her, and thus the crisis was averted. My job done, I spent much of the night in a rather self-congratulatory mood. Little of note happened for the rest of the night.

However, all in all, it was as high on drama as any party has ever been. There was every type of romantic and intra-friendship chaos imaginable, apparently. None of it spectacularly earth-shattering, but the sheer volume is staggering. Though I enjoyed myself (especially for the anecdotes it has provided me with, long though they may be,) its potential for destruction means that those not in attendance (and don’t think you weren’t in my mind at some points, because after the aforementioned business was settled I had a lot of time just to be thinking,) weren’t missing much. Just chaos was all.

At the close of the night, and all the goodbyes, we loaded up the Brownman’s van, and after dropping off Patrick and Chris, the rest of us (Cary, Doug, Nate, myself, and the aforementioned Brown,) drove to Milton to drop Neabel off. God bless Mr. Brown. The man deserves credit, because he scarcely ever complains about being a designated driver. Whether it’s restraint on his part or a true lack of desire to complain, it’s still commendable. He’s noble. The guy has been doing us all many favours over the past year or so, and deserves recognition. We tease him to hell, but the truth is that he’s more a stand-up guy than even some of my other closest friends.

After Milton, I simply got home, wrote someone a quick letter, and passed out around 3:45ish. I was awakened this morning by mom, who insisted upon grocery shopping. I had been invited to the “Bowler of the Month Tournament” at Classic Bowl (as I was awarded “Bowler of the Month” for February,) but declined, knowing that Saturday night would be a late one, and the last thing I’d want would be to get up at 8 to go bowling. Plus I had a suspicion – not more than a hunch really – that mom’d put off the groceries until Sunday. How right I was.

And thus, that covers my weekend. It’s funny. I didn’t post on Friday or Saturday because my mind was a torrential mess. I was so focussed on schoolwork and other angst that I felt that any post I’d write would be uninspired and ultimately a disservice to myself and my readers. It’s good to take a day or two off once in a while and let things refresh themselves. This post has been more than four full pages in Word. And I didn’t really go that deep into “how does that make me feel?” or “blahh life sucks.”

Though I’ve spent most of today writing this, the rest of the day will be devoted to some serious home-workage. It’s gonna be a hellstorm of assignments being taken care of this week. Prepare for plenty of bitching.

But as of right now, I feel pretty energized.

Keep on rockin’
Scotto Williams