Newington Day Recap

Sometimes, it takes a few days to gather your thoughts about an event into a series of well-timed blasts that will quickly bring down the wall between Then and Now, leaving the event to be seen as it happened or at least how it was perceived. But this is not always the case, especially for those who are as plugged into the Now as I am... the facts blur, events and timelines diminish - particularly in the company of drink. But this isn't a problem! Simply fill the gaps in time with putty and sand it down. Ho ho, this is how History books are written!

To the best of my knowledge, Newington Day started with the best of intentions; Jenny and I went to Leigh's to help set up. We erected some tents and I made wicks for the tiki torches in the heat. We put out food and set up the stereo outdoors. This kind of labor, as you can imagine, grinds it's boney cleats into your thirst, so I had a few beers. People started to show up - strangers, conversationalists. The Bacon Rap came up, and a crude early version of the recording of it was played, so I had a few beers.

As more people showed up, the event descended into weirdness. There were a lot of motorcycles, which is fine, and I should have been prepared for this, but I suppose I didn't expect them to be in such close proximity to the food... so I had a few beers.

As if from out of nowhere - it was time for the Fireworks. A group of us headed out on foot to the center of town - the center of the party - to watch. Streets lined with cars, people gathering in the streets and their back yards - this was America, this was Neighbor Country. 

I know a few things about this moment: at one point Jenny did, in fact, break away from the group with our dog Django, in a sprint, with one fist in the air yelling "Newington! Newington," the Fireworks display was surprisingly good for a small town, and I definitely had a verbal altercation with a soccer mom in an SUV full of children.

As I walked away from the Fireworks, as many others were at the time, I was drinking a bottle of beer. The last, in fact, of the three that I brought for the short walk to town. The neighborhoods of downtown Newington were swarming with pedestrians and crushing traffic as everyone left the Fireworks. Sometime after doing a poor job of secretly peeing on someone's lawn, and noticing a large gap between myself and the cars and people in front of me, I began waving the cars by. One car, though, would not pass, but instead the driver pulled up next to me and accosted me for my drinking of a bottle of beer in public. Me, with my delicate sensibilities!

This lead to a lengthy conversation about why she wouldn't just pass us, which Dave inevitably took offense to and reacted by walking slowly in front of her car, blocking the way. Her reaction was not favorable when I explained: "He's just being a douchebag,"  claiming she had three children in her car. In a moment, all hope was lost. The only thing left to do was tell her I didn't care if she had nine kids in the there, then lay down in the road in front of her car.

From there, things get a little hazy as we headed back to Leigh's place, but this is for certain; it was very dark out and I think someone attempted to have sex on the steps of the church next door.

Seven Vulgar Gods of the Wooded Plain

Good god, Friday again already? And, as always, this is good news, but this weekend is different. It's time to hose down the animals, hide wooden ducks around the house and bury a crisp five dollar bill in the yard - it's Newington Day's Eve! The Newington Day Extravaganza of Excesses of all Your Favorite Worldly Delights technically kicked off yesterday, but for our purposes, it will kick of tomorrow at around 3 PM.

A brief recap of last year: beer, grill assembled (unused), 1,000 lbs of spare ribs, kiddie pool, Siesta!, more beer, ladies in the kiddie pool, hose?, squirt guns, vegans, el chupacabra, water balloon?, giant feet, crowded party neighborhood, a lot more beer, fireworks, peeing in public, drag a shitting dog, more ladies in the kiddie pool, asleep with shoe'd feet in the kiddie pool and escape. I can't be certain that all of these things occurred as this was a year ago and what am I the Amazing Kreskin; but I assure you, at least most of it happened.

All of this will be happening again this weekend. Religious types may regard this as a small, self-contained apocalypse or perhaps a Sodom/Gomorrah situation, but they are too prudish to appreciate it for what it really is: the good people of Newington offering a sacrifice of twenty nubile young virgins to their Seven Vulgar Gods of the Wooded Plain.

So until then, I will be beating the body damage out of my car with a three pound drilling hammer and other various tools that should afford me a great deal of mechanical advantage over that rotten pile of sheet metal, and I'll grit my teeth, too. Tomorrow will be long and harrowing, and I will not rest until we Win Newington Day!

Everyone IS Taking Crazy Pills

I don't care if Anthony Weiner took a picture of his dong and photoshopped an angry headshot of Hillary Clinton in place of it's usual helmet, used it as the profile picture for a blog he ghostwrote about his angry short-haired penis' and it's attitudes toward offensive rap lyrics or Africa's ties with Moammar Gadhafi. Nor would I care if Steve Jobs did the same. Nor would I care if Newington Mayor Mike Lenares did it. Or the guy who works at the gas station. Because it doesn't effect they way they do their job until every national media outlet is bullying everyone into pretending they care about it, saying in an angry, doofy voice: "Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself."

But what can I say? Everyone is out of their goddamn minds; the only thing left to do is buckle up, close your eyes and wait for the crash. Hell, just this past weekend I showed up to a friends birthday party with a quart of serious heavy duty poison and raised no eyebrows. There's just no pleasing these people.

Fat and Happy

Last night Jenny and I investigated Fat and Happy, a new restaurant that has replaced the Ninety Nine on the Berlin Turnpike in Newington. This was an interesting proposition because in the few short weeks that the restaurant has been open, it seems to have sported the same clientele as the Ninety Nine, which is to say, there's no reason to subject myself to such tomfoolery. But curiosity got the better of us and we went anyway.

As we walked up I noticed that the people leaving the restaurant were fat and sad. Perhaps this place wouldn't live up to it's name; but would it be in a good way or a bad way?

Inside, their seating was overwhelmed so we were offered a table in the Lounge. I typically enjoy eating in the bar, but their crude attempt to up-sell the experience ruined it for me, taking away that relaxed, casual vibe and leaving me with the feeling that they were trying to pull a fast one.

The Lounge was classy enough on first glance, familiar even. But before long I realized what I recognized - it had the feeling of a darkened airport bar, filled with road weary travelers and chewed up salesmen. Miserable businessmen reeking of the kind of fetid desperation you might find in an warn out old shoe. This was not a good sign.

The food was unremarkable, over-priced, and served on inconvenient and difficult plates. Pass.

I Inadvertently Voted Unicorn

Flacid, weak, shamefull apathy vote...

So the scene was exactly as I had anticipated - bedlam, mayhem, violence. Sign holding party members wrestling on the ground in the grips of their own brutal ideals. Voters of every party shouting and biting each other. I used stealth to slip by the anarchy and entered Newington Town Hall, my poling place.

Upon entering, they made me remove my shoes and asked for my street name at gunpoint. I thought this a little extreme, but dared not point it out because the person on the other end of the barrel was a teenage girl, and you don't want to rile them up.

After asking for my papers, the girl referenced her list and found that I wasn't on it. I knew in my heart that I was a goner - I was sure I would be relegated to the pile of bodies in the back of the building. I could see the sense of betrayal in her eyes. She called her boss over; a large man with shotgun resting on his shoulder. I tried to explain; "I've since moved, maybe I shouldn't be here..." I barely escaped with my life.

I attempted again in New Britain, the only city where I've ever successfully cast a vote. It was a similar scene with a similar reaction, only in here there was a strange little man obsessively pushing a tiny button on the wall mumbling something about "...every two hours..."

So I fucked up. I failed to register to vote in my town - I foolishly assumed that this information was electronic and ethereal like every other little tidbit of information Big Brother gathers. But this all leaves me with an ethical dilemma... I put forth due diligence to no avail, so for the next two years have I earned the right to complain?