August 21
12:43 pm
Things are looking up since I was pulled into a time warp. Allow me to explain.
I have a bookshelf full of old journals. When feeling low or detached, I have a tendency to grab one and thumb through it. There is something notably dubious about looking at written snapshots of a life scarcely lived, and extracting comfort from prior pain. Recently, I picked up the 9th grade English journal I transformed into a coming of age in neon ink. My Grandfather died on Father's Day, 1999. I flirted with insomnia and began smoking blunts to help me sleep. I dreamed about Kurt Cobain, Hannibal Lechter, and bullets. Something motivated to write a story about hanging out with my brother and his friends from alternative schools, and the havoc they wreaked on my innocent character. Or not.
This was all engrossing, and I was ready to make a night of editing the thing, perhaps cutting it down from eight. As I was in the process of doing this, the phone rang. I was omitting run-on sentences and egregious punctuation. Did I want to open the door of the hotbox I conjured, letting all the smoke follow me out? Not especially, but I did.
To my surprise, it was Jenna inviting me to a SHIT posse reunion, sans Dulan. I had been slapped upside the head by the resurgence of the Super Happy Insane Terrific posse. I changed out of my disheveled wannabe-a-writer garb, and ran out the door. Mark, Jenna and Andrew picked me up. My time jumped ahead a year, to 2000. The outbursts and antics were all there, from Jenna's endearingly obnoxious ear lobe flicking to Mark's capricious driving. Small talk was eschewed for profanity screamed at the boy in the dog collar. To make it complete, we played a good old fashioned game of Target tag. It is New Jersey's best kept secret. Tell anyone and I will send my muppet Gestapo to disembowel you goldfish.
Nobody won at tag, because no one ever does. Andrew however, won the prize for the lamest hat, although I ended up wearing it for half the night. The Target employees must surmise us to be the world's worst shoplifters. There might be an inkling of suspicion toward those who circle the store's perimeter fifty times in an hour, do not appear to be shopping, look paranoid checking all directions before absconding through the aisles to duck behind a clothing rack. I did however, buy twenty-five blank CDs and twenty-five jewel cases for a mere twenty dollars and twelve cents. Maybe one day I can compare to my Dad and his triple coupons.
After we left, we were reminded of the fact we live in Jersey, and a large portion of any night out is spent driving aimlessly, polluting our pristine environment, and eventually realizing there are few places to go. At Nomahegan Park, Mark discovered four bags of flour in his trunk. Any visit from the flour fairy is to be taken as a call to arms. Or something. Andrew tore open a bag of flour, and a flour fight ensued. All over town. The details must remain confidential, to protect those covered in flour. It may be August, but we made it snow. Unfortunately for the interior of Mark's Corolla, it is slow to melt.
After one pound of flour had been adequately dispersed where flour may or may not belong, we head to Dunkin' Donuts. There was no need to go inside; the party was clearly happening in the parking lot. Apparently, the parking lot is still the venue for lively nightlife. Take that, Westfield! You may have double supremo amaretto lattes with nonfat milk, but Cranford slackers frequent the parking lots and empty benches around town. Which is why you will rarely find me there. It was almost fun while it lasted.
After we got out of the flour-mobile, it was clear I lost the fight. My black pants had become gray, there were dusty streaks on my shirt, and was on my face and feet. Thankfully, Andrew's dumb hat protected my hair. To defend myself, I would have to say Mark's car got the worst of the flour fight.
I am more easily defloured than upholstery. Oh yes I am.
Just when I thought my summer died, it was resuscitated by some relics and baking materials. Score.
