May. 28th, 2004

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Robin came down with whatever it was I had. Besides low-grade temps, its chief diagnostic symptom seems to be passing a lot of gas from both ends. Thus we dubbed it belching fartisosis and staged a mini-telethon last night complete with plastic action figures begging the household pets to open their wallets and their hearts. Aragorn raised some serious cash, closely followed by Harry Potter.

I think belching fartiosis affects adults worse than kids, and adults beyond their reproductive prime – that would be me – worst of all. Nature’s way of culling the herd, I suppose. Thus we straggle further and further behind in larger and larger clouds of foul-smelling air.

It turns out that Celeste knew the boys were drinking although she was adamant that she never let them drive drunk. How would she know what they did an hour after they left her house, I wonder? I’m of two minds here. On the one hand, she may have thought they’re gonna do it regardless and at least this way they do it in a safe environment. On the other hand, I have to question her judgement. Was she buying them beer or was Fletcher smuggling it in from the family restaurant? If the former, that’s a misdemeanor that has been prosecuted – in some instances, resulting in serious jail time. And I feel as though I’m faced with a difficult ethical dilemma: Nathan’s father is a friend of mine and SLOW Burn's legal counsel, I actually like him a lot more than Celeste, and he would hit the ceiling if he found out that his ex-wife was enabling this kind of behavior. But I don’t feel right telling him about it.

I’m also remembering several Saturday mornings after Max came home after poker party sleep-overs where he was wasted and his room had that very stale ketone smell of a serious drunk. At the time I wrote it off as some aberration of jock sweat. My Golden Boy! He wouldn’t do anything like that. Ha ha ha.

I kinda remember adults like Celeste from when I was a teen. They were mostly single dads, wanting to party and smoke dope with their kid’s pals so they could ogle the hippie girls’ braless tits. Gotta say I find the whole phenomenon rather creepy. Very Dennis Hopper in Rivers Edge.

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