Natalie’s Totally Truthful Tale…

I awoke in a hospital bed, head and sides covered in bruises. "Where.... am I?" I feebly croaked to the nurse, who explained that I was in the University of Michigan Hospital, Metempsychosis Unit, having been unconscious since Sunday afternoon. Apparently, throughout my coma, I had been babbling in an Australian accent, claiming to be someone named "Day-lang." "Can you tell me what happened?" the nurse asked. I furrowed my brow as I tried to reconstruct the events... Saturday afternoon, and I reclined in my super-keen hyperspace private plane, sipping some neutral milk and preparing for take-off. Suddenly, my ibis-headed pilot thrust his head into the main cabin and explained in his twittering avian voice that departure would be delayed while the ground crew hunted down some Grateful Dead albums to help fuel the Eb-engine, which had run out of things to fume about. Since we were, after all, mere miles from Ann Arbor (Deadhead capital of the Midwest), I expected only a short delay, but the ground crew forgot that I-94 was under construction and it was nearly an hour before we could get underway. Milliseconds later, we burst into the air over Harrisburg, a glittering metropolis on the banks of the sunny Susquehanna. As the plane dipped low over the glowing hulk of Three Mile Island, Captain Thoth announced over the PA, "Attention: we are now entering Quailspace." "Deflector shields up," I replied... I stepped into the Harrisburg Airport with a deep sense of apprehension. I could see neither hide nor feather of the Quail. I hardly knew what the Quail looked like - maybe I was overlooking him? Maybe he had gone to the wrong gate? Then I saw the cone being enthusiastically waggled over the heads of the crowd, and I knew I was in the right place. "I can't believe you're actually here!" the Quail screeched with glee as the car hurtled along the highway and LJ detailed the exact effects of the cone being driven through her chest in the case of an accident. ("I'll be able to smoke cigarettes through it!") I too could hardly believe that I was in the presence of people I had only known as semi-mythical beings hovering in the pixelated void - The Great Quail! LJ! Chris Gross, squid pornographer! It was almost too much to bear. We reached the Quail's domain, a modest-looking three-story house that nevertheless seemed overlaid with a curious taint, as if transplanted from gloomy Innsmouth. I followed the others inside and started introducing myself and passing out Thoths. (These later started turning up in very odd places - poking out of a sock, hanging from the chandelier, etc. – and seemed to multiply overnight. But I digress.) Nobody looked the way I expected them to look, but I was expecting that. Eventually everyone gathered on the back porch to eat, drink, and schmooze. It was here that Woj heard Neutral Milk Hotel for the first time. (Tom Clark later gave him a copy of the album, lovingly inscribed "Woj – this sucks. - TC") It was here, too, that I was forced at camcorder-point to create images of Elder Gods and Victorian playwrights out of tinfoil. I wanted to try Brewer Tom's beer, but was warned away by LJ who claimed that Liam had had his head blown off by tampering with the keg. (He was sleeping off his decapitation upstairs.) A blunder while creating the tinfoil Oscar Wilde resulted in a perfect portrait of the headless Liam. Around nightfall, the Fegs trickled, slithered, and staggered downstairs for the serious party action to begin. Mike and I massacred some Neutral Milk Hotel songs (well, I massacred them, anyway), we had a cheery singalong of "Ye Sleeping Knights of Jesus" and other Robynsongs, and then it was time to bust out the party favors. Scary Mary brought an incredible array of small plastic reptiles and amphibians, tiny British flags, and inflatable plastic eyes. Nick Winkworth sent some frets. I can't remember what Eddie sent, because the envelope was so hilarious (Quail, could you scan it, maybe?). Steve Schiavo sent all sorts of things, including a box of genuine Cheesy Poofs (tm); he also sent me some XTC paraphernalia (Thank you, Steve! BTW, where did you get that sticker? Did you raid Mark Strijbos's stash?). Jon Fetter sent Lonely God (tm) potato twists and some dried cuttlefish, of which we all partook in a sort of Feg communion - although I don't think Catholics generally run to the sink after communion to wash the taste of the Eucharist out of their mouths... or do they? Then it was time for James' Feg Game. The gameboard was a beer-soaked piece of computer printout, and our gamepieces were Scary Mary's cold-blooded creatures. Unfortunately, the instructions and cards were written in Kiwi, which we were unable to translate, and so the game had to be abandoned. Sorry, James... :) More drinking and schmoozing followed. From the porch, the charming sounds of "Metal Machine Music" could be heard echoing down the street. (Quail, which of your neighbors is a Lou fan?) At the suggestion of the Quail, we decided to head down to Ye Olde Swimmin' Hole (though it was too cold for swimming), so we all trooped off to stroll by the banks of the muddy Conna-whosis. It turned out that some ex-students of the Quail had already built a fire in the Quail's favorite spot, so we hunkered down and stared hypnotized at the flames while Brewer Tom showed amazing facility in keeping the blaze going, and a sozzled Quail told us the spleen-chilling tale of "Polkadot, the Indian Hand." By the time we got back to the Quail's house, it was three in the morning and even the ghost of coherent conversation had fled. I curled up in a corner of the couch and tried to sleep, but was kept awake first by Woj snoring, then by Brewer Tom snoring, then by the two together, then by the Quail's hungry cats, who apparently didn't find Liam enough of a feast for them. Somehow, I did manage to get some sleep, and woke to a sunny morning and the threat of pancakes. After breakfast, I went around taking photos to use up the rest of my film (the photos will appear on my website as soon as I get them developed and scanned - probably in a week or so). Then I went up to the porch where Mike was strumming away, and joined him for a few songs. After a rendition of "She Doesn't Exist" (with Stipean "la la la's" from the assembled Fegs), it was time for me to go, before I turned back into a pumpkin. I gathered up my things and prepared to depart. It was at this point that the unfortunate incident with the statue of Cthulhu occurred. As I slumped to the floor, bleeding profusely, I felt another terrific blow to the ribs and a familiar, Woj-like voice shouting, "That one's for Tori!" And that's all I remember, Nurse... n., who really did have a great time, despite the stitches