10:15 am | 28 April 2003 | burn, baby (chickens), burn

This weekend, in a violent Dionysian frenzy (that also smacked a little of Lord of the Flies or Heart of Darkness or whatever other the-cruelty-of-man reference you'd like to invoke), we barbecued Peeps. More on this later.

Okay, a full day later, i return.

There was a party at Bahareh's on Saturday, with the usual randomness, mayhem, biting, and strange mix of people (i love the fact that after a while the subcultures decide it's okay to just all hang out together, so we had a coupla mods, one goth-hesher dude, a stray hippie or two, the usual heaping helping of punks-n-Marxists, etc). On Sunday it was so gorgeous that we barbecued in her backyard, all sunshine and veggie burgers and corn-on-the-cob and strawberries and green grass and cold beers and too much charcoal aflame and hopping the spike-topped fence* to go after Charlie, the morbidly obese tabby who had escaped into the alley. We saved Charlie, so it was fine. And Todd chased Bahari with a bottle of French's mustard, who will not be changing their name. And when the sun went down, i thought of toasting marshmallows, and then i thought of delicious candies, and then we toasted Marshmallow Peeps with voluptuous abandon (me stripping branches from the apple tree and deleafing them, friend Chris (co-member of the as-yet unnamed** Belle & Sebastian tribute band) trying first to fashion a Cadbury's helmet for his chicks and then to insert the chicks into the egg, to sort of re-enact birth, or something, and everyone getting tremendously sticky and laughing and tired and then walking the quiet darkened streets home. clm.

* I am an extremely good fence-hopper.

** He wants to call it Wang Thong, an unhappy conjunct of nasal tones and an even less fortunate mental image. I was thinking something more along the lines of Malignant Tuber or perhaps something to do with knitted woolens, but NO.