further adventures of rocket bride: may 19, 2001.

may 19, 2001.

III.
We woke late the next morning with heavy heads but light hearts. First on the agenda was a whole lot of lying around, so we did that as well as we could. We were getting a nice lazy groove on, or so it appeared to me, when everything suddenly became purposeful and we were walking quickly to the car, intent on getting to Denny's. Sometimes you'll be watching a tree and suddenly a flock of birds will take flight. It was like that. Or, as Hunter Thompson said, "the decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not. Maybe it had been there all along." (sound memory courtesy of Q's "Fear & Loathing" desktop theme.)
I had a bit of trouble getting out the door quickly, as all the boys were at least partially dressed when the decision to flee came down and I was still comfortably wrapped in my Winnie-the-Pooh pj's. Then I started having trouble with my boots. I have needed a new boot lace for 2 months, since it snapped in two uneven lengths - this is, of course, something I only remember when I'm heading out the door & I can't thread my fraying lace through the boot eyelets. This is also something that drags on forever although it would take about 3 seconds to fix. Palaver drifted over to give me a hand, as did Tym:J. I only needed help with one boot, but I am not the kind of girl that turns down slavish attentions.
The next bit of dialogue requires some backtracking. The night before, the Boy had presented Preacher with a porn flick starring Stacey Valentine (star of the documentary "Girl Next Door," which the two of them saw together last year). In the documentary, there is one scene when a friend of Stacey recounts what it was like when Stacey wanted to be congratulated on her first 'dp' (double penetration).
Flash forward to Saturday afternoon, as two boys lace up my doc's. Preacher looked vaguely disturbed by the whole scene, especially when I laughed that this was my first double booting, my first 'db.' Preacher looked away and used his best Todd Flanders voice: "DP's make baby Jesus cry."
So we laughed, took pictures & went to Denny's.
After various breakfasts (but no grits - stupid misleading American menu), we climbed aboard The Indefatigable and took off for the coolest street in Edmonton, Whyte Ave. It really has no competitors, though. We saw: Candyland t-shirts, humidors, swirly stationary, used books, a bat bra & panties set, expensive home furnishings and Scottish accessories. In the last two establishments, we found the 2 things we sought on Whyte: a sporran and a CD rack. The sporran was to distinguish the Boy's nuptial kilt from the more common (and far sexier) Catholic School Girl outfit; the CD rack was a gift for Sally to thank her for letting 4 boys and a girl crash in her lovely downtown pad. It was a bit expensive (we're two people on one budget, and these communal affairs always count heads rather than budgets), but we ended up with a terrific piece of furniture that both matched her décor and is terribly useful to boot.
Then, our specialty shopping accomplished, we headed for the great altar of Alberta consumerism - the dread West Edmonton Mall. (I have no idea why they didn't just call it the Edmonton Mall - it's not like there's another massive mega-mall on the East side of town to confuse anyone.) Preacher likes to call it New Babylon, which of course made me think of Blake's "Jerusalem." ("And we will build new Babylon, among these dark Satanic malls.") Okay, I'm a lit geek, but I'm funny. At least to other lit geeks.
One of the things I like about Palaver & Tym:J is their complete lack of self-consciousness about taking pictures. When we saw the giant bronze whale, we knew what we had to do. First, Preacher, emerging. ("from the depths I cry out to you, o lord.") Then the rest of us, having a good time in the belly of Leviathan. How could you not?

Fig. 5: "I cried by reason of mine affliction unto the LORD, and he heard me; out of the belly of the mall cried I, and thou heardest my voice."
We wandered around for a good long while, making sure that when someone at home asks the inevitable question ("didja go to the mall?") we can respond in the affirmative. Truth be told, I don't find it that big of a deal. The specialty shops are kinda neat, but the chains are no big whoop. Why would I want to show off jeans that I've bought in the Edmonton Levi's store? I mean, what's the point? Oooh. Exotic. Nevertheless, the boys kept getting distracted by the peewee hockey and water slides and the like, and I had to use a "mom" voice to keep everyone from wandering in different directions like newly-hatched baby ducks. I'm pleased that the whip of command in my voice is progressing nicely.
By the way, you really can get everything in that mall. Such as genital piercing. I have to confess that the sign took me aback. I proposed genital piercings all round, but no one took me up on my idea - they decided collectively that when it was time to speak up during the wedding the next day, they didn't want to simply moan and clutch their privates.
It's not like forgoing genital piercing would prohibit that, though...

lesson III: afternoon on white ave.
tym:j convinced us
since her cd's were messy
we should buy a rack
to thank sally for
her great hospitality
in letting us stay
a pricey one bought,
we then chose to write a sign
"hey sally, nice rack"

IV. & V.

Fig. 6: We ride the boot that makes the whole world sing...and crushes Tymothi:J.
After we ate dinner in a grunge-tastic mall restaurant, we went home - stopping, of course, for a set of photos at a giant promotional cowboy boot. (We're in Alberta, ok?) Although Poet had expressed a fervent interest in hanging out with us, we couldn't seem to find him (to be honest, we weren't looking very hard). We did, however, find Nich, who promised to come over shortly. Our social responsibilities thus discharged, we set about playing...
THE NASTIEST NAME GAME IN HISTORY
Ohhhh, the name game. This is one of Palaver's things; whenever we get together in sufficiently large numbers, we play the name game. We played it the night that Cranly dumped Tiger Lily (the first time). We played it the night of Preacher's father's funeral. And we played it the night before Poet got married.
There's a brief run-down of the rules in the July 97 entry, but I'll save you some time:
get a bunch of friends together
break off into teams of 2 (odd numbers can be managed with just a bit of imagination)
make up ridiculous team names
make sure everyone has 8 slips of paper
write down 8 names of fictional or non-fictional people, one on each slip
fold the slips and put them in a communal hat/bucket/bowl/whatever
play. insult each other. drink heavily. laugh like crazy.

Each team gets one minute per turn. During the turn, one person will draw a slip of paper and he or she must make their partner say that name. All manner of clues are permitted, including spelling clues (as long as you only hint at the actual letters). You cannot say any part of the name to your partner - this is cheating. When your partner has said the name, you pick a new slip out of the pile and keep going until your minute runs out. You get one point per correct name.
That's it. Sounds stupid, right? Do me a favour, try playing it with your friends. If nothing else, it's a fascinating illustration of brain wiring and memory.
You may have guessed that, depending on your partner, you can 'fix' the game without doing anything illegal. For instance, when I was Preacher's partner, I put in an entire slate of girl's names from Ferguson House 1995-97, names we got right away but which seriously fucked with the Boy and Nich. Once the Boy & Nich (a.k.a. team geek) figured out that they had a lot of D&D/scifi knowledge in common, they used that to fiendish advantage. The classic Preacher-and-Palaver tactic is the SS High Command Slate. They can both identify Nazi generals in 10 words or less; everyone else has to sound it out syllable by syllable. We got Admiral Dönitz twice (not to be confused with Rommel: "ahh, the Desert Fox"). Fuckers.
This kind of thing, when it occurs for hours among people who are drinking a whole lot of rum, can get really ugly. When Preacher failed to get 'Edmund Burke' (after studying the man for a whole semester in his undergrad), he got nasty. I, of course, get nasty with far less provocation, and I had to sit out the second game to cool down. By the end of the night, even Tym:J - the sweetest guy in 6 counties - was trying to fuck us up with a slate of Finnish personalities (you can't even sound that out, yo). When Poet showed up & joined the melee, he submitted the full title of Queen Elizabeth the Second, which runs over 20 words. My own bit of fuckery was the famous Poppy Z. Brite character, Nothing. People would get it and scream, "this isn't even a name!!"
And all of this completely overlooks random drunken silliness. Such as Palaver, saying and submitting the phrase, "anal bum music" over and over, because, well, after 4 hours of rum, nothing is funnier. At least to him. I was sitting next to him, and at one point I remarked that sometimes I wished he came with a fast forward button and volume knob.
Yes, I was getting pretty nasty.
I have no idea what time we went to bed. When I finally collapsed in the pull-out bed, I started crying. It was all too much: too much emotion, too much activity, too much alcohol, too little sleep. I was able to sleep after about 20 minutes of quiet wailing. Unfortunately, this was not the last time that I was unable to stop crying during the weekend.

lesson IV: saturday night
preacher can be mean
when he finds he can't think of
edmund burke while drunk.
lesson V: saturday night part 2
palaver was drunk
unwilling to stop saying
'anal bum music.'
next: wedding day follies!

	may 19, 2001. III. We woke late the next morning with heavy heads but light hearts. First on the agenda was a whole lot of lying around, so we did that as well as we could. We were getting a nice lazy groove on, or so it appeared to me, when everything suddenly became purposeful and we were walking quickly to the car, intent on getting to Denny's. Sometimes you'll be watching a tree and suddenly a flock of birds will take flight. It was like that. Or, as Hunter Thompson said, "the decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not. Maybe it had been there all along." (sound memory courtesy of Q's "Fear & Loathing" desktop theme.) I had a bit of trouble getting out the door quickly, as all the boys were at least partially dressed when the decision to flee came down and I was still comfortably wrapped in my Winnie-the-Pooh pj's. Then I started having trouble with my boots. I have needed a new boot lace for 2 months, since it snapped in two uneven lengths - this is, of course, something I only remember when I'm heading out the door & I can't thread my fraying lace through the boot eyelets. This is also something that drags on forever although it would take about 3 seconds to fix. Palaver drifted over to give me a hand, as did Tym:J. I only needed help with one boot, but I am not the kind of girl that turns down slavish attentions. The next bit of dialogue requires some backtracking. The night before, the Boy had presented Preacher with a porn flick starring Stacey Valentine (star of the documentary "Girl Next Door," which the two of them saw together last year). In the documentary, there is one scene when a friend of Stacey recounts what it was like when Stacey wanted to be congratulated on her first 'dp' (double penetration). Flash forward to Saturday afternoon, as two boys lace up my doc's. Preacher looked vaguely disturbed by the whole scene, especially when I laughed that this was my first double booting, my first 'db.' Preacher looked away and used his best Todd Flanders voice: "DP's make baby Jesus cry." So we laughed, took pictures & went to Denny's. After various breakfasts (but no grits - stupid misleading American menu), we climbed aboard The Indefatigable and took off for the coolest street in Edmonton, Whyte Ave. It really has no competitors, though. We saw: Candyland t-shirts, humidors, swirly stationary, used books, a bat bra & panties set, expensive home furnishings and Scottish accessories. In the last two establishments, we found the 2 things we sought on Whyte: a sporran and a CD rack. The sporran was to distinguish the Boy's nuptial kilt from the more common (and far sexier) Catholic School Girl outfit; the CD rack was a gift for Sally to thank her for letting 4 boys and a girl crash in her lovely downtown pad. It was a bit expensive (we're two people on one budget, and these communal affairs always count heads rather than budgets), but we ended up with a terrific piece of furniture that both matched her décor and is terribly useful to boot. Then, our specialty shopping accomplished, we headed for the great altar of Alberta consumerism - the dread West Edmonton Mall. (I have no idea why they didn't just call it the Edmonton Mall - it's not like there's another massive mega-mall on the East side of town to confuse anyone.) Preacher likes to call it New Babylon, which of course made me think of Blake's "Jerusalem." ("And we will build new Babylon, among these dark Satanic malls.") Okay, I'm a lit geek, but I'm funny. At least to other lit geeks. One of the things I like about Palaver & Tym:J is their complete lack of self-consciousness about taking pictures. When we saw the giant bronze whale, we knew what we had to do. First, Preacher, emerging. ("from the depths I cry out to you, o lord.") Then the rest of us, having a good time in the belly of Leviathan. How could you not? Fig. 5: "I cried by reason of mine affliction unto the LORD, and he heard me; out of the belly of the mall cried I, and thou heardest my voice." We wandered around for a good long while, making sure that when someone at home asks the inevitable question ("didja go to the mall?") we can respond in the affirmative. Truth be told, I don't find it that big of a deal. The specialty shops are kinda neat, but the chains are no big whoop. Why would I want to show off jeans that I've bought in the Edmonton Levi's store? I mean, what's the point? Oooh. Exotic. Nevertheless, the boys kept getting distracted by the peewee hockey and water slides and the like, and I had to use a "mom" voice to keep everyone from wandering in different directions like newly-hatched baby ducks. I'm pleased that the whip of command in my voice is progressing nicely. By the way, you really can get everything in that mall. Such as genital piercing. I have to confess that the sign took me aback. I proposed genital piercings all round, but no one took me up on my idea - they decided collectively that when it was time to speak up during the wedding the next day, they didn't want to simply moan and clutch their privates. It's not like forgoing genital piercing would prohibit that, though... lesson III: afternoon on white ave. tym:j convinced us since her cd's were messy we should buy a rack to thank sally for her great hospitality in letting us stay a pricey one bought, we then chose to write a sign "hey sally, nice rack"

	IV. & V. Fig. 6: We ride the boot that makes the whole world sing...and crushes Tymothi:J. After we ate dinner in a grunge-tastic mall restaurant, we went home - stopping, of course, for a set of photos at a giant promotional cowboy boot. (We're in Alberta, ok?) Although Poet had expressed a fervent interest in hanging out with us, we couldn't seem to find him (to be honest, we weren't looking very hard). We did, however, find Nich, who promised to come over shortly. Our social responsibilities thus discharged, we set about playing... THE NASTIEST NAME GAME IN HISTORY Ohhhh, the name game. This is one of Palaver's things; whenever we get together in sufficiently large numbers, we play the name game. We played it the night that Cranly dumped Tiger Lily (the first time). We played it the night of Preacher's father's funeral. And we played it the night before Poet got married. There's a brief run-down of the rules in the July 97 entry, but I'll save you some time: get a bunch of friends together break off into teams of 2 (odd numbers can be managed with just a bit of imagination) make up ridiculous team names make sure everyone has 8 slips of paper write down 8 names of fictional or non-fictional people, one on each slip fold the slips and put them in a communal hat/bucket/bowl/whatever play. insult each other. drink heavily. laugh like crazy. Each team gets one minute per turn. During the turn, one person will draw a slip of paper and he or she must make their partner say that name. All manner of clues are permitted, including spelling clues (as long as you only hint at the actual letters). You cannot say any part of the name to your partner - this is cheating. When your partner has said the name, you pick a new slip out of the pile and keep going until your minute runs out. You get one point per correct name. That's it. Sounds stupid, right? Do me a favour, try playing it with your friends. If nothing else, it's a fascinating illustration of brain wiring and memory. You may have guessed that, depending on your partner, you can 'fix' the game without doing anything illegal. For instance, when I was Preacher's partner, I put in an entire slate of girl's names from Ferguson House 1995-97, names we got right away but which seriously fucked with the Boy and Nich. Once the Boy & Nich (a.k.a. team geek) figured out that they had a lot of D&D/scifi knowledge in common, they used that to fiendish advantage. The classic Preacher-and-Palaver tactic is the SS High Command Slate. They can both identify Nazi generals in 10 words or less; everyone else has to sound it out syllable by syllable. We got Admiral Dönitz twice (not to be confused with Rommel: "ahh, the Desert Fox"). Fuckers. This kind of thing, when it occurs for hours among people who are drinking a whole lot of rum, can get really ugly. When Preacher failed to get 'Edmund Burke' (after studying the man for a whole semester in his undergrad), he got nasty. I, of course, get nasty with far less provocation, and I had to sit out the second game to cool down. By the end of the night, even Tym:J - the sweetest guy in 6 counties - was trying to fuck us up with a slate of Finnish personalities (you can't even sound that out, yo). When Poet showed up & joined the melee, he submitted the full title of Queen Elizabeth the Second, which runs over 20 words. My own bit of fuckery was the famous Poppy Z. Brite character, Nothing. People would get it and scream, "this isn't even a name!!" And all of this completely overlooks random drunken silliness. Such as Palaver, saying and submitting the phrase, "anal bum music" over and over, because, well, after 4 hours of rum, nothing is funnier. At least to him. I was sitting next to him, and at one point I remarked that sometimes I wished he came with a fast forward button and volume knob. Yes, I was getting pretty nasty. I have no idea what time we went to bed. When I finally collapsed in the pull-out bed, I started crying. It was all too much: too much emotion, too much activity, too much alcohol, too little sleep. I was able to sleep after about 20 minutes of quiet wailing. Unfortunately, this was not the last time that I was unable to stop crying during the weekend. lesson IV: saturday night preacher can be mean when he finds he can't think of edmund burke while drunk. lesson V: saturday night part 2 palaver was drunk unwilling to stop saying 'anal bum music.' next: wedding day follies!