ME: [hock/phlegm/hork] grm.... huh--hello?
MR. Z: Hello? Dad?
ME: Mr. Z?! Wh--what's going on?!
MR. Z: Yeah... um, I'm ready to come home now.
ME: What time is it? 1:45? Mr. Z, where are you?
MR. Z: In the barn.
ME: Where's everyone else?
MR. Z: Back in the pine forest. Can you please come get me?
And so went my wee-hours-of-the-morning conversation with the boy from his first overnight adventure. Just about an hour earlier, I had said to the Old Lady, "I can't believe Mr. Z! We haven't heard anything from him since 9 this morning -- I'm so proud of that boy!"
Of course, I'm still proud of him, especially since I was able to talk him down and get him to stumble back to his tent to finish out the night. I'm sure he fell asleep and then woke up a few hours later -- disoriented, outside, in a fucking pine forest, and he flipped his lid. Who wouldn't?
Part of me was ready to hop in the car and drive out there to get the poor kid, but the other, more responsible part of me, figured he'd be really stoked if he could actually make it through the whole night, and then be able to tell his friends and his grandparents about the night he spent "outside." So, against every still-damaged-from-my-childhood-exile-to-overnight-camp bone in my body, I calmed him down, and he went back to sleep.
Eh, he can bitch about it 34 years from now in his space-blog, while wearing a jet-pack and eating pills for food.
Oh, and as many of you saw last night, "Intervention" did a follow-up on Gabe, the insane-child-prodigy-screechy-voiced-bio-rapper-gambler. You know what? You can have your limo-riding-millionaire-cat-ladies, you can have your feral-homegirl-sans-eyebrows -- give me a good coddled-Vegas-man-child any day of the fucking week. I could watch that train-wreck for days!
And apparently, so could you -- last night I had nine different people hit my blog after doing a search for "gabe gambler intervention." (To be fair, one person found it by searching for "clitoris what rhymes?" and one for "fart sounds.")
I can only hope that Gabe himself found his way here last night, after googling himself. If you're reading this, Gabe, all I have to say is, hang in there, lil' buckaroo. No one understands you -- not your ungrateful, heavy-eyebrowed, overacting "friend," not Jeff VanVinderVonderVindaloo, and certainly not your selfish, selfish parents. Sure, they mortgaged their house to feed your addiction, but yeah? So? I saw your Mom wearing a pretty expensive looking watch?! Hello?! And have they been selling their blood plasma for you? Probably not! Thoughtless pricks. And they're only covering 75% of your living expenses?! Are you kidding me?! How are you expected to cover the other 25% when you're so busy with your mouthwash research and your songwriting?!
How much did you love that song, by the way? I don't know if that was a Gabe original, or what, but that was some quality televiZHUN! I was so ready for a horrendous screechy ear-fucking, but his voice was pretty good and the song, while dripping in melted cheesiness, wasn't awful. If nothing else, he should just sing to people from now on, and get rid of that mynah-bird--after-gargling-with-cinnamon-flavored-lye speaking voice of his.
That kid needs his own show -- maybe a variety show kinda format. A little rapping, a little dance, some mouthwash-testing skits, and he can end it with that song. And we can all call in and pledge money for him, so he can continue his valuable research.
Hmm... I wonder if Gabe's parents forced him to stay at overnight camp?