Tete de rat dans big mac

Notify me when this APAR changes. Notify me when an APAR for this component changes. More support for: WebSphere Application Server General. Site availability. Site assistance. United States English English. IBM Support. APAR status Closed as program error. The rest of us were forced to admit we were still lousy with virginity. I was surprised to learn Doug had tried out for, and been cut from, his junior high football team. Dub upped the ante a bit with her next probe.

None of the girls drank; they just stared wide-eyed, lips pursed in tight little prunes of giddy anticipation. Bill and I followed a bit more reluctantly. You best start drinking. He was rewarded with polite, if sarcastic, golf tournament applause from the women. Instead, he blindsided me. No one was drinking. This was embarrassing. I turned to look out the barn door and tried to sneak a shot, but it was hopeless. I was snagged.

From this day forward, your Indian warrior name is No Lips. I tried to stand but managed only an degree angle before crumpling back into an all-fours stance. My only experience with alcohol had been with beer. A case of Schaeffer Light did you the courtesy of providing a glutted, anesthetized, and somnolent sensation to warn you of oncoming drunkenness. My lurching induced a fresh cannonade of laughter. On my second attempt, I succeeded in standing.

I grabbed the remaining bottle and chugged the dregs. Pausing to wipe champagne spittle off my chin, I announced I was leaving. Give me your keys. Don Henley was fervently warning me about life in the fast lane as we pulled into the circular, red-brick drive, but his advice went for naught. Rhonda put the El Camino in park, turned off the engine, grabbed me by the back of my neck, and began probing my larynx with her tongue. I tried wiggling my own stamp licker—a chore given the incommodious chamber it was suddenly sharing. I wanted to be able to say I kissed back this time.

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My eyes, I realized, were wide open. She tossed the keys in my lap and loped back to the idling vehicle. I bumped into Allison Kimble in the hallway on my way to English this afternoon. I told her no. She was entering her classroom. It was rare for the astronaut and me to be home simultaneously, especially on a Sunday morning, but he was in the kitchen nuking Lean Cuisine when I staggered downstairs the following day. Bed gnomes had replaced my blood with battery acid and I was expecting solitude. This was as funny as the astronaut got. He fussily pulled the plastic film off his low-cal chicken fettuccine and tossed it in the garbage can.

After one in the afternoon, the meal we have is called lunch. I appreciate your concern. He bought the instructional videotapes. He took lessons, subscribed to Golf Digest, hit balls at the all-night driving range. Maybe take up cliff diving—something that could really get him hurt. I stepped around the astronaut, who was eating over the sink—the place where most of our meals were consumed at home—and opened the refrigerator door. I pulled out three tortillas, rolled them up, and devoured them sans toppings.

Doug had explained to me once that tortillas, like life rafts on luxury liners, expand exponentially. Once in your stomach they search out loitering alcohol and sop it up into harmless starch mush. I said nothing and plodded back toward the stairway leading to the sanctuary of my room. I returned and took the envelope from his hand but waited until I made it to my room before opening it. We let her read e.

Were she ever to end a sentence with a period, time, as we know it, would freeze—her semicolons, in fact, throw off the atomic clock a smidgen. I snapped open the cover and withdrew the three-inch pipe and sealed Baggie of marijuana stashed in the compartments that once housed aircraft carriers and destroyers. Stuffing the contraband in the front pocket of my cutoffs and throwing on a Dr. I wandered a half mile down the beach, listening to the Afghan Whigs on my Discman, before plopping down on the sand. I stuffed the bowl of the pipe with what little pot I had on hand.

Using a trusty Bic disposable, I lit the pipe and took the first hit. Twenty minutes later I was a kite. Midnight found me torpid, searching the Southern California night sky for a star, any star. Dub and I used to lie naked on the floor of her bedroom and study stars through the glass of her French doors.

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I stood and wiped my eyes with the sand-free portion of my palm. I began walking home, soon I was jogging. I vaulted upstairs, flipped on the Macintosh power switch, and wrote. All I can tell you is that I had never felt this way about a girl before and I doubt I ever will again. The fifty-five-minute span I sat behind her every day in geometry was my primary motivation for breathing.

The list only gets longer and increasingly pathetic. I drove by her house. I stopped just short of carving our names in an oak tree on the village green. His phone call awakened me. I looked at my clock and discovered it was four in the afternoon. I had hardly ever considered Rhonda, let alone considered her my girlfriend. I was suddenly grateful I had to be at work in an hour. Fresh pain in my temples and eye sockets knocked me back down to my pillow. She asked me. I surveyed the knobbed and valleyed drywall on the starboard side of my room.

The smaller I pictured myself, the easier I disappeared and the more at peace I felt. Immobility, on one hand, was symptomatic of a killer hangover, and on the other, my wrestling match with a virgin emotion. The only sensation akin to what I was feeling now had occurred when I was twelve. Mom took Sarah and me to see Phantom of the Opera on Broadway. During intermission, Sarah and I waited with the absently milling throng in the chandelier-lit red velvet and marble lobby while our mother went to score Cokes for us and white wine for herself. She returned incensed. The pleasure is mine.

I visualized strangling the unknown mother fondler, relishing each nanosecond it took to drain his life force. My fantasy came stocked with policemen trying vainly to pry me off the body. My two-dimensional physique aided the body dodging required to catch up. She flashed her pupils into the top right corner of her eye sockets to indicate the perpetrator was over her shoulder.

A group of four tuxedoed prep schoolers had set up camp in the middle of the aisle. Without asking, I knew the guilty party. He was the one holding court; the other three were merely orbiting their leering sun. I told myself I would be the black hole that swallowed his galaxy or the supernova that vaporized him instantly. My personal gravity prevented me. However, Sarah, keeper of the family testosterone, acted in my stead. Smiling up at him, she interrupted his lewdly conjectural discourse on the rich, mellowed savoriness of older women, seized and extended the waistline of his slacks, and slowly poured her Coke into the gap.

I had experienced a branch of jealous rage before. It felt only remotely like what I was suffering now, splayed out in bed considering spying on Doug and Dub from the projection booth at the movie that night. Narrowing the possibilities was simple. I eliminated both buddy cop flicks, the teen slasher sequel, the Disney rere-leased animated classic, the Saturday Night Live spin-off Doug and I had seen it twice already , and the latest Sharon Stone effort management was particularly diligent in enforcing the R rating for this one.

With his blond hair and baseball cap he has a beaconlike quality even without his inherent hamminess. I spied him walking backward down the aisle of the foreign film auditorium, gazing up at the windowettes. When he identified my form behind the glass, he made a cavalier bow, bending low on his left leg while extending his right leg behind him. He held his John Deere cap in his right fist which crossed his body and extended his unbent left arm parallel to the ground. He then morphed quickly from musketeer to Klingon, standing and pounding his chest twice with his fist and saluting the projection booth with his entire hand.

I scanned the area behind him for Dub. My heart felt like a transplanted organ trying desperately to appease the surrounding white blood cells. Maybe Doug is the bearer of glad tidings. Maybe… Nope. There she was. Dub was already seated, and on either side of her were Rhonda and Missy. The three of them turned in their seats to give me mock parade waves with stiff hands and rotating wrists.

Feeling a bit like Lucky, the Lucky Charms spokes-leprechaun, I jigged from projector to projector clicking my heels together. My concerns, my petty jealousies, my hangover—all vanished. It was Rhonda. I had forgotten one little problem. Rhonda slunk all the way into the dimly lit booth and closed the door behind her. Doug said you sounded terrible. You had a lot to drink last night. I turned away and fumbled with a reel, trying desperately to look involved in a crisis centering on this renegade cog.

We continued that way silently for a rugged minute.

I felt myself spinning to face her. Damn these rotating stools! With her mouth millimeters away, I turned away. A lusty, yet quickly aborted, cheek kiss followed.

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My orchestrated waves and nods were met blankly in the halls. My attempts at playing the fortune-teller game were snuffed with shushes and head shaking. On Wednesday I wore a tie to school—a hideous, five-inch-wide expanse of liver-colored quilted polyester emblazoned with images of soulful-eyed Great Danes. I heightened the effect with a Masonic tie tack and chain. This attracted guffaws, stares, whistles, looks of contempt from Skate or Diers. She was trying to keep from laughing.

With the permission of his guru, Mr. Harley, he spent the available three-and-a-half-hour stretch in the Whiteside barn, putting finishing touches on Get Hammered. Most of that time was spent gluing Life Savers on the overhanging cardboard eaves we had tacked along the bed part of the flatbed truck. Those of us with no artistic training were put in charge of organizing the candies by color. Late on Thursday night Trey reached an executive decision, and, relying on the menu from his Chinese takeout, completed the slogan with the Chinese symbol for pork.

Beverly as truck owner and Trey as chief designer earned the coveted Get Hammered driver and navigator positions. The rest of us would watch the parade together. On homecoming day, Doug moved through the lines of floats with all the arrogance of a jockey set to ride Secretariat. The sponsor of the student council used a bullhorn to tell the drivers to start their engines. Those who could separate me from Dub had successfully done so.

I sat on the aisle in row two; she took the innermost seat of row one. Doug, sitting beside me, chin in hand, grunted. Though I was confident Doug harbored no regrets about the direction GOD had taken, part of him longed for the abject loathing Skate or Die inspired. He knew the satire we intended with Get Hammered would pass harmlessly over the heads of most of his peers.

As organizers of the parade, the student council was automatically given lead position, and I admit I was impressed, from a strictly aesthetic point of view, with their float. Given the demographics of the community who gravitated to student government, it was hardly surprising that they found it within their quasi-pontifical reach to obtain a genuine yacht. They had affixed a Styrofoam shell to the outside and painted it a mottled greenish brown, approximating the scabby, barnacled look of a pirate ship.

A skull-and-crossbones-emblazoned sail hung from the mast, and a legion of blond, Soloflex-buffed pirates with eyepatches, bandannas, and stuffed parrots wired to their shoulders manned battle stations. The boat was skirted by a patch of ocean blue-painted plywood. A horse head which, for me at least, evoked The Godfather more readily than our gridiron rivals stuck out of the ersatz sea. Bucs Fight! Yay, Bucs Fight! The deities-in-waiting feigned aplomb, succeeding only in looking as bored as the Skate or Diers whose asses they were silently vowing to kick Monday at school.

Doug had drawn number 16 in the parade order lottery, which meant Get Hammered represented the midpoint of the parade. In my euphoria, I failed, momentarily, to monitor the reaction of the homecoming crowd. But I quickly realized that the stunned reception Get Hammered was reaping justified every sweltering, Life-Saver-gluing minute spent in the Whiteside barn. The band, section by section, simply quit playing.

Dancing cheerleaders, puzzled by the silence, turned to face Get Hammered. Several dropped their pom-poms. Skate or Diers lowered their newspapers. Administrators stood transfixed by the motorized contraption before them. Waves of students and teachers turned to stare at our bantam cheering section, effectively cowing us into silence. After what seemed like an hour, the hush was unexpectedly broken by a lone bass drum, which began to boom in time with the downward stroke of our hammer. Then, one of the football players began clapping with the beat. He was joined by the rest of the team, and soon the entire grandstand had fallen in line, giving the pep rally the aura of a Celtic funeral march.

I got my third letter from Doug today. That might not be a bad thing. But all my information is old. Lip Monster! Cheap, tawdry, meaningless, fleeting, dirty, anonymous sex. You ought to come here for college. Austin has to be the coolest city in Texas. Even the frat boys recycle. I answered an ad that was tacked up in the student union building. Hang in there, buddy. Remember, the thighs of Texas are upon you. When Principal B. We hugged; we pumped our fists in Jimmy-Connors-march-to-the-U.

We studied each other for a pregnant few seconds. I would have stood there with a Gomer Pyle expression on my face for days, but she spread her arms, inviting me within. I stepped forward and wrapped my arms farther around her than celebratory etiquette allows, gaining the opposite side of her back with each hand. Dub felt something for me, maybe a fraction of what I felt for her, but in some form, we had connected.

Suddenly I felt a Viking slap on my back. I withdrew from the hug and turned to find Doug ripe for manly celebrating. This put me in the awkward position of trying to decide whether or not to take my hands out of my pockets to put my arms around my neighbors, as convention dictated for the rendering of the song. Doug was similarly perplexed for dissimilar reasons: Meekly joining in this maudlin tribute to an institution for which he acknowledged no fealty whatever was just too hypocritical to contemplate.

Toby had served as sort of the stoner Welcome Wagon when I first arrived in town. I shook my head no. I took the second shot he offered out of guilt for not seeing much of Toby lately. I thought DeMouy could probably punch it in on Halloween. Besides, it only cost me a buck. Allison Kimble, however, occupied my all-but-branded chair. I scanned it from the doorway. Every day appeared to have four or five entries. DeMouy was sifting through files, gathering materials Allison must have requested. Allison swiveled.

Rats Saw God

Without thinking of an appropriate exit line, I closed the door, walked out to my car, and drove to the beach. I had enough school for the day. Stan Jr. It took him only three 7-Elevens to find a convenience store lackey willing to sell him a case of Busch.

Most of the members showed up with smuggled bottles stuck in baggy jeans pockets, hidden in purses, tucked in boots. Matt started up the hammer and all of us climbed aboard the float. Handing the camera back to Veg, he ran across the barn to the shelf where we had stored our leftover tempera paint. He grabbed a bottle of the red we used on the handle, unscrewed the top, and poured it across the cab of the truck, letting it spill down the back in rivulets. Then he positioned Veg in his original taping spot. When I say action, you start recording. He pulled his sweatshirt up so his head was covered, then instructed us to grab him by the arms.

He positioned himself so that his back blocked the still-runny red paint from the camera. As the hammer began its descent, Doug shouted action. When the hammer struck, Doug flailed his headless body backward revealing the faux blood stain where, through the magic of video, there had once been a skull. We left the retained heat of the barn for the woven-rubber-tubing lawn chairs scattered randomly outside the huge swinging doors.

A cool, but clammy, Gulf breeze rewarded us for the completion of our project. If she were stalking Matt in hopes of provoking me, she was succeeding only in easing whatever residual guilt I felt over… well, over letting her kiss me, I guess. Bill was stretched out on a deck chair with Holly curled across his lap. Her arm was around his neck and his hand rested on her hip. Lynnette, skittish as usual, was interrogating the couple about the event, which was, by then, only twenty hours away.

Does the gym really look like a tropical paradise? Holly did her best to respond patiently before Lynnette interrupted with her next question. I was glad Doug had passed out. Varner swiveled toward Samantha, who was speaking. And it sucks to realize I probably never will. Samantha, sitting perpendicular to me, was signaling me by kicking my foot. All I saw was silhouette. I swear, you are the only person I know who makes decisions based on what will provide the best material for a diary. I asked them for a ride, as both Doug and I were carless, but Dub volunteered to take us home.

Missy, though, was the driver and I accepted the offer despite the prospect of occupying close quarters with the doubly spurned Rhonda. We pulled out of the private road leading up to the Whiteside ranch and onto Farm Road Missy cracked her window open electronically and punched in her cigarette lighter. I need to get ahold of Stan Jr.

He could take care of him. His inflection rose at the end of his greeting, so I was pretty sure he meant it as a question. Can you meet me at your front door in about ten minutes? Doug is pretty messed up. His robe was untied, revealing a pair of Mickey Mouse—adorned boxers. A pubic hair exhibition was visible through the open fly of his shorts.

Stan struggled to stand up. Stan scratched his blond stomach hair and grinned. Mom was happy that he showed so much dedication. As they disappeared inside, I realized I was alone with Dub. Dub was still looking in the direction of the open front door. I took the liberty of staring at her profile. Her face had a cartoon puggishness to it, like an animated character smacked with a frying pan—the eyes huge and splayed at dolphin width.

Separately her features would have seemed comical; together they gave her a funkiness that caught your attention like a log cabin in Genericwood Estates. Though I could see only one eyebrow from my angle, I had often noted how they harmonized her stray features. All of her clothes seemed purchased with an all-star wrestler in mind. Dub shunned more feminine garments neither out of a need to hide weight nor latent lesbian masculinity.

Spiral perm her and dress her at the Limited and she would have evaporated in the halls of Grace. Belatedly and poetically, I realized why Samantha had been kicking me earlier. She had seen Dub and me hugging. She knew Dub wanted to go to the homecoming dance. Steve, thy name is rube. My best move would have been to drink my share of the beer at the Whiteside barn, but that was an option no longer open to me. My inhibitions were still cruelly intact, and my tongue felt like a two-dollar hunk of salted beef jerky.

Instead, with each frittered second, I confirmed my wusshood. My palms were swamps and my heart that of a speed freak. When at last I had chosen words, I found I was unable to speak. I had to relinquish control of my motor skills to my spinal column. My brain became merely a terrified observer. Dub heard, though, and turned around to face me. I could only listen in horror as my fearless reflexive system assumed control. Missy was bounding out of the house, but she hesitated when she sensed the contention. Tell me what you meant. I mean, I already confessed to wanting to go. I stood there with my head bowed.

This should have been easy. I contemplated the likely postrejection results of this encounter. I would abandon all hope of a life colored by passion or meaning. I would melt into the blue-and-gold-painted halls of Grace, trade up to an invisible Accord, join the Future Teachers. No one would ever see me again.

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But now I would face my destiny like a man. I raised my head and spoke evenly. For one of the two times I would ever witness, Dub seemed unsure of herself. She glanced snappishly about.

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It occurred to me: She had expected me to back out. In fact, I think she tried to push me to it. Relief hit me even before she responded. The balance had shifted in my favor. I had made Dub nervous.

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Guess what. Mom and Chuck cooked together. This was one of their less gross joint pursuits. Believe me, in my book, it ranked way above jogging together in matching sweat suits or French-kissing in public. This night they prepared a barbecued salmon and corn on the cob.

After three years of microwaving my own meals, I tried not to miss much home cooking. Anyway, we sat down to eat at the picnic table on the deck, and as with most discussions at home, Sarah and Mom did most, if not all, of the talking. Sarah had a new boyfriend and Mom was curious. He wants to get into radio after he graduates. Sarah continued. He got free tickets through work. At the Forum. And nobody wants to try to drive home afterward. The plan is to get a hotel room and crash, then drive back in the morning.

There are eight of us going. Do parents today normally let their children go to concerts in the big city and stay in hotel rooms afterward? Would you rather we drive back sleepy? Some people in the group might be drinking. She touched his forearm. He wearily faced his stepdaughter. We listened to her Subaru squeal out onto Shoreline Drive.

Dub never did tell me yes. She just said to pick her up at nine. Neither of us spoke on the drive to my house. The silence forced me to consider what I had done. In doing so, I committed myself to attend a semiformal high school dance, one that, four hours ago, I had no desire to attend… and for good reason.

Outside of a couple feeble Club MTV imitations in front of the sliding mirror doors of my closet, I was lacking practical boogie experience. More important, to my employer, I was supposed to work homecoming night at the Cineplex. I had already alienated the other two projectionists by requesting so many nights off to work on Get Hammered. Third, I had not worn my suit since eighth grade. Sarah and I had been roughly the same size back then; I towered over her now.

Fourth, the astronaut was home most Saturday nights, a six-hour gap each week he had, so far, been unable to fill. His married friends were locked into bridge leagues, family nights, and whatnot. Last, the El Camino was sufficient for tooling around, getting my books and me to school, and transporting me to work, but not for taking a girl, presumably in a dress, to a semiformal dance. As we turned left on Briar Cove, Missy broke the silence. Still, neither of us spoke. She continued a bit more sympathetically. They show up. They get their pictures taken.

That way they can prove to their parents that they made it and that all the money they had demanded was necessary. Then they go to parties where everyone does the cocaine and X they bought with embezzled mum and limo money. I reached for the door handle, prepared to depart without further notice, but Dub turned in her seat and told me her phone number. Do you want me to write it down? I found a postcard worthy of a missive to Doug at a trashy beachfront souvenir shop. A hybrid, I suppose. I see no one from school there. More of us get high, or make plans to get high, at that time than any other.

School just provides a convenient meeting ground. DeMouy must have made a mistake in assigning me all this writing. Or was this his intention? I have to start being honest with myself. I have no friends in San Diego. I made the mistake of coming in one night after ten. I was run out by college sophomores smoking clove cigarettes, strumming out-of-tune acoustic guitars, and reading free verse poetry heavy with metaphorical digressions.

I swallow three or four gulps of it, straight and black, barely hiding my grimace. Then I douse it with cream and thicken it with sugar. I do this when I believe no one is looking. The bottom of my mug becomes a tan sludge. Caffeine gives me such a different buzz than dope.

Anyway, back to the postcard I bought for Doug. More support for: Site availability. Site assistance. United States English English. IBM Support. APAR status Closed as program error. Error description After update Edge uLB from 8. NullPointerException at com.