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2001-06-10 - 9:24 p.m.

Scenes from a weekend

This is entry No. 245
To go until the Dano 250th Entry Celebration: 4

I managed to center myself in the hammock without spilling my open beer and lounged back beneath the trees, my parents and sister talking a few feet away, Sheryl Crow coming from the stereo. I listed in the breeze, sipping from my bottle now and again, contributing to the conversation when I felt like it. My sister walked by, grabbing the hammock and asking deviously, "Wanna swing Dan?" and pulled the hammock toward her. I knew immediatly it was too high, too hard, and the base of the stand tilted toward her, and � WHUMP! � I was flat on my back on the ground, having felt surprisingly nothing (barely the impact) and spilling not a drop of beer. My sister rolled on the ground in hysterical laughter, and I reached beneath me to see what lay under my back. It was her sandal, and I tossed it in mock anger � still laughing myself � into the bushes.

And as the guests arrived for the party, we hugged and kissed and helloed and talked and laughed and drank and teased and smiled and nodded and frowned and felt thankful for close family and dear friends and graduations and sublime June afternoons.

At 7 p.m., just as the light began slanting and the shadows began stretching, Bryan and I drove over to the train station, parking in the lot on the New York-bound side of the tracks as the Shore-bound train from the City came in on the opposite side. I stood next to the car so that Mia could see me, since we'd been too late to make it to the other side before the barrier blocked the road. And as her train pulled in, I heard the horn from a northbound train approaching, and knew that once her train pulled away, she'd still not see us on the other side. But I looked toward the back of the waiting train as the arriving passengers crossed the tracks, and she came around the last car and saw me and waved. And I still get a great warm feeling when New York friends come to visit, riding the rails down to the Shore in the summer to escape the hectic honking and heat of high-rise hysteria on the island of Manhattan.

���

I sat in a chair just off a corner of a table off the bar, squeezed in at an angle between Bryan and Dave, looking across at my sister and Bryan's brother, Pat, and across Bryan at Mia. I wobbled my bottle of Sierra Nevada on the table and reached through the maze of arms and bottles to grab another nacho, oozing in cheese and salsa and sour cream. We talked and laughed and joked of hypochondriatic roommates ("I think I have HIV." "Why?!?" "Because I get night sweats.") ... of airport security ("Turn your cell phone on please." LAUNCH? YES. NO."OK, thank you. Have a nice flight.") ... of Stanley Cup hockey ... of campus dorms ... of April Fool's jokes ... of weddings. Mia drove my car home, having had only one beer to my three. "You guys are in luck," she said, "I've driven as recently as ... April" and Bryan groaned. Back home, we sat on the couch, talking more and watching what we deemed to be the pilot of The Dukes of Hazzard, based on the introductions of the characters by Waylon Jennings ("And that there's Daisy. She works down at the Boar's Nest ...") We laughed at the simplicity of the show � how we'd once found it fun and entertaining � and how Uncle Jesse became a lawyer representing the Duke Boys simply by placing a black fedora on his head while still wearing his work shirt and overalls. Kinda like Snoopy. But the Duke Boys needed defendin', for they done coulda gone to jail for breakin' they parole. I didn't even know they were on parole.

���

I shifted in the soft cushion of the patio chair, trying to adjust my legs to bring them out of the warm sun. I could feel the rays on my thighs, the warmth of a calm June Sunday morning, my family and Bryan's around the patio table eating bagels and fruit and drinking orange juice and coffee in the warm sun and cool breeze.

���

I dove, headfirst, into the water, gliding down eight feet to retrieve my uncle's pool thermometer, the one that lied and said the water was 80 degrees. Everyone's nerves � and later, Kathleen's and Shauna's nipples � proved otherwise. But it felt good to swim again, to escape the sun (though now already hidden behind a cloud) and find relief in the cool chlorified water of Uncle Chic's backyard oasis. The 50s' classics and Louis Armstrong coming from the stereo, the cotton seeds floating through the air, the clank of beer bottles around the pool and by the bar, the laughter of cousins and friends all made for a comfortably relaxing Sunday afternoon.

���

I drove off to work, windows down, sunroof open, the sun � now back out � warm again on my skin, on my black shirt. It was in the 80s, potential for hot, but instead a perfect warmth. No humidity, a welcome breeze, I could handle the entire summer like that.

���

Eeeew. Just looked at recent Google searches that have brought people here, and one was for "Sexy Kathie Lee Gifford Pictures." I don't even want to know. But, to explain, it came up because of how I described Kathie Lee as "trying to look all sexy" on an album cover in an entry from last November.

���

My name is Dr. Worm.
Good morning. How are you? I'm Dr. Worm.
I'm interested in things.
I'm not a real doctor,
But I am a real worm;
I am an actual worm.

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