A Good God-Damned Weekend

When someone yells "There's a bear outside!" it's better you don't have a bottle of beer in your white knuckled grip. It's best if that one beer hadn't been preceded by seven or so of its kin. Either way, be sure to watch your footing as you make your way down a steeply-graded flight of wooden stairs - because when you miss the last two steps and collapse in a confused heap on the unsuspecting kitchen floor - someone will laugh at you.

But you must get up off that floor. You must see that bear. You also must be a polite house guest and mop up the beer you spilled flopping around like an up-ended turtle. The front of your black T-shirt will do the trick nicely; no need to waste papal towers. Now get up to see that god-damned bear.

As you make your way to the deck, you notice you've spilled the majority of your beer. You slug down the rest and weave a path to the refrigerator for another brew. Pick the one with all the hops. Yeah, you know you want it. Now try to impress your friends by opening it with your teeth. Shit - you cut your lip on the cap. These things happen. Your friends are somewhat impressed... that you are bleeding so profusely. You pour table salt on the open-lip wound thereby solidifying your pedestal in the Pantheon of testosterone fueled, moronic behavior. But at least the bleeding has stopped and you can fire up a cigarette. Swill your beer first to clean out that salt. Now light it because you got it. Good. On to the bear.

You throw open the sliding glass door, trip out on to the deck and bellow "We're out of cheese and an ornery cat just bit my shin!" You stop. You're silenced by the scene unfolding in front of you. There it is. A giant black bear sits only 50 yards away. It must weigh at least 400 lbs. The bear paws at the ground, scooping up sunflower seeds, and makes a soft huffing sound as he chews. In your head, you name him: Thaddeus McFoppenhump. Majestic and surrounded by the natural glory of the pine forest, Thaddeus looks up and -

Suddenly you're hit in the face by a hot, hard and sticky object. Laughter erupts to your left. You look at the ground and see a steaming chicken wing and the god-damned cigarette you just lit, still smoking but covered in a garlic-olive oil mess. You look to your left for the culprit only to see your two friends take flight around the corner. You do not take chase. Instead, you sit down to watch the bear, light another cigarette, swallow more beer and wait for a peace offering. You do not wait long. From around the corner come you friends - meek and blessed with a joint made from a powerful combination of weeds. They offer the stupid-stick forward, along with a light.

Four hours later you find yourself and your friends in a hot tub wearing nothing but boxers. You're all laughing like a group of drunk yet oddly dexterous hyenas, while sipping from giant bottles of $10 Belgian ale. The water is almost too warm and you wonder why you float so readily. Perhaps the carbonation from the beer has floated to the front of your stomach in a daring attempt at escape. You maneuver back to your seat, suck your chin in to your neck and belch out the theme song to Three's Company. You no longer float so readily. Come and knock on our door, indeed. You start to fade. Time to jam. Your friends share the sentiment.

You cross the pebble driveway in your bare feet, jeans and a black T-shirt that smells vaguely of chlorine and Miller High Life. Your friends enter the makeshift studio behind you. One of them starts up the keyboard. The other plugs in the electric guitar. You pour scotch's all around, pick up your acoustic and turn on the microphone. You all launch in to an extended and solo-filled rendition of T.B. Sheets. You close your eyes and let go with the first verse: "Now listen Julie baby, it ain't natural for you to cry in the midnight..." Off in the dark, beneath a pine veil, you imagine Thaddeus thumping along with the downbeat - his big bear paw pounding the peat.

The walls hum with the dim, purple light of a lone neon cat. The ceiling echoes with the tune. The checkerboard floor floats in rhythm beneath our feet and as we swing the neighborhood sleeps.

An egg and cheese is necessary to make the mind work.

I awoke this morning to find myself on my couch, rather than my bed. I was not frightened, for this phenomenon had occurred before - several times. It was not the sleeping on the couch that bothered me. It was the waking mid-morning with shoes on, but no pants. Socks, shoes - yes. Pants - no.

Rolling to a sitting position, I took inventory of the surrounding room. A half eaten half of some roast beef and bread type monster rested on the table in front of me. From the taste in my mouth, I reckoned I was the intrepid hero to take on and slay the beast. From the look of a torn bag and corn-puffed entrails, cheese doodles lost the battle as well. My fingers had the powder-orange blood stains to prove my victory over the vicious mob of crispy deliciousness. An empty bottle of scotch lay on the floor next to the table. Something in my head told me that very scotch was the loyal side kick that assisted me in conquering the previous night and all the enemies I encountered on my adventures.

Adventures? - I thought... not now. I must find my pants.

I stood up and marveled, for a moment, at the polar bears on my boxers. There were more than twenty bears on the front side alone. It was a fair bet approximately the same amount made their dens on the rear. Each bear was wearing a Santa Claus hat. Apparently nobody had told these bears it was spring in New York City. That type of apparel is not only out of style and season, it might also attract the attention of a suspicious and detail oriented police man. The bears seemed to have already considered this hypothetical; they were on sleds for a quick get-away.

I'm staring at my crotch, aren't I? Yes. Yes, I've been staring at my crotch for at least three minutes now... neck hurts.

A quick survey of the floor provided no hint as to the location of the missing pants. I noted, with some interest and dismay, a trail of beer cans leading from the living room, around the dog-leg left in the hallway, to the bedroom. Hansel and Gretel were now of age, and seemed to have a drinking problem. The first step to follow the be-canned trail of liquid hops and barley landed my be-shoed left foot on top of an electronic neck massager covered in grape jelly. Whether the jelly was lubrication or sustenance, someone brilliant had handled that shimmy stick. I continued following the conga line of beer, leaving a grape trail of my own.

I stopped in awe upon entering the bedroom. On the previously clean, white wall to the back of the room now resided a giant, grape smiley face at least five feet in diameter. A talk bubble skewing out from the gleeful smile stated bluntly "Raspberries are for hobos and shoe salesmen!"

I followed the beer to a closed bathroom door and knocked. No answer. Opening the door I spotted a magnificent site. Harold lay fully clothed on the floor, grape jelly surrounding his mouth forming a sort of twisted Welch's smile. His two hands, covered in the muck as well, gripped the toilet. Inside the toilet was a melange of partially digested food, resembling a liquid painter's pallet. Is that a gyro? When did we get gyros? ... hungry now.

"Harold!"

No response. I picked up an empty beer can and threw it. The can struck him square on the side of the face. He grumbled.

"Harold! Get off the floor. You'll catch a cold, for god's sake!"

"... Smells like gyros."

"That's an interesting observation we'll discuss at a later point. For now, I need my pants. Have you seen my pants?"

"I want an egg and cheese."

"Good point. We need to think on this. An egg and cheese is necessary to make the mind work."

To Be Continued...