Ultimate Travels in the Garden State: Demeaning Performances and Great Food in the Land of Strat

I started this because Dave Williams whined about sectionals. If he whines again, I'll finish it...but in the meantime, it's still under construction.

An overview of the Novel, Or

I'm too busy now to actually write the bugger so I'll just give you the outline.

I'm working on a novel about Dave "Strat" Williams and me travelling to Mid-Atlantic tournaments. It's written in the style of Hunter S. Thompson...The working title is "Ultimate Travels in the Garden State: Demeaning Performances and Great Food in the Land of Strat". Grad school can make your brain boil sometimes, and even give you lesions if you're not careful. Committing random, senseless acts is sometimes the only way to remain human. This piece of garbage is one attempt to stay sane. Hopefully it will make you laugh. (If you're Dave, hopefully it will make you cry.)

The following is a work of fiction, a fragment of the author's imagination. The resemblance of any character to any actual person, living, dead, or on TV, is purely coincidental, and should be construed as flattery instead of libel.

In the first chapter, which takes place in the late 60's, a school janitor is found bludgeoned to death in the middle of the school's brand spanking new asphalt parking lot. Witnesses say he'd last been seen chasing a crowd of frisbee freaks off the lot, and the police find shards of plastic embedded in his skull. And you wonder why we have a throw called the 'hammer'...

In the second chapter, we move forward to the mid-90's. It opens with Dave and I, Strat-man and Nobody, riding in a 1968 Ford Fairlane, blue, two-door, black vinyl top, three speed on the tree, and an FM radio in it. We pass a restaurant which I remember being top-notch, and pull in. The aroma of bacon greets us as we open the door. Our waitress is the widow of the school janitor, and she still has the scars from where he made her dance with his inflatable Lolita...

At the opening of the third chapter, I'm waiting in the Stratmobile outside a seedy bar & grill in northern New Jersey. Dave is inside buying beer and nachos to have on the sidelines during our next game. Suddenly, the door of the bar swings open and Dave runs out. He gets into the Stratmobile, throws it into drive, and we screech out of the parking lot. "What the hell was that all about?" I ask. Dave smiles. "I Yukked their jukebox. I put it right over some country tune called 'Mama Get The Hammer--There's A Fly On Papa's Head.' The bartender saw me screwing with the jukebox and yelled, then one of the locals saw the Yuk sticker and that was it. I ran. What the hell kinda name is that for a song, anyway?" Dave's smile fades. "I forgot the beer and nachos. Dammit, those guys chased me out and I forgot the beer and nachos." He makes a U-turn and we're headed back to the bar. "Okay," he says, "here's the plan: I'll pull up behind the place, and you go in. Order a beer or something, and then while the bartender's getting it, grab the beer and nachos. They're in a brown paper bag on the bar, right by the door. I'll pull up by the door while you're inside, and then we'll drive like hell." "What if they catch me?" "What are you worried about? They won't catch you. And even if they do, I've got the team medical bag in the trunk. We'll just dose you up on Ibuprofen. Remember, I'm Stratego--my plans work." When we get there, I walk in, but stop short of the bar when I notice the bartender eyeing my shirt and frowning. I wonder if I have a spot on it, but then realize I'm wearing my green Mr. Yuk shirt...

I can't to tell you any more. I think the National Enquirer is searching my files, because they'd like to publish the story first. But I'll show those bastards. I still owe them for the front page photo of me with Connie Chung and Hillary Clinton at the WWF tag-team wrestling championships...Bill wouldn't speak to me for weeks, and Maurie, well, Maurie still hasn't recovered from it. He broke down in the middle of his show on fat men who dance for skinny women who're in love with the fat men's mothers. His agent said it was fatigue. But really it because the fat men reminded him of wrestlers, and wrestlers reminded him of how he'd caught Connie kissing the Enquirer photograph in the bathroom one morning...Que sera, sera, Maurie. Que sera, sera.


Back to my home page.

Last updated April 11, 1995.