Friday Night Sights
by Melanie M. Tierney


5:00 p.m., Friday, October 16, 1998, and the New Jersey Wrevolt was set to begin.

Melanie, hostess of the insanity, arrived home from Monmouth University, four younguns in tow, to find one Candy Sherwin drooped on the doorstep after a straight-through drive from Indianopolis. Candy decided within the hour that hot showers are a gift from the gods themselves.
Candy crashes after a hard day's night

By 7:30 p.m. the Wasband had arrived to make the little children disappear for the weekend and others began to arrive. First, David McGarva, the mad Scot, returned to home base from a day of exploring Manhattan island on foot (I believe he thinks he's the next Christopher Columbus, yes, I do). Then, the young thangs, Alex Jay Berman and Eric Bycer arrived, bearing gifts of clothing and chocolate, and of course, themselves. But, more on the Virgin Sacrifice later. (Sorry, Eric, I just couldn't pass on that one.)
Wooliam, meet Kitkat!

The Friday crowd was nearly complete with the arrival of Wooliam, who was lucky enough to be traveling with our own Carol Thomas, who'd practically been around the world after flying in from Toronto. The Wrevelry began.

Much of it is, unfortunately, not printable, but there was "The Thing With The Feet" that Alex performed on all the women. By the time Saturday night rolled around, Alex had fully demonstrated his adoration of the female foot. It was indeed a delight and a pleasure and it was better than ... nah, not that. But, still ... it was pretty damned okay!
Melanie gets "That thing with the feet" from Alex. Oh, yeah!

Soon, above the music and laughter and popping open of beer cans, the hostess heard plaintiff cries of "Feed Me" coming from Eric, with Alex harmonizing in the background, "Don't you have any food in this house?" Crackers, cheese, and other junky stuff was placed in front of the snarling and snapping young males, who later demonstrated their grateful and giving natures.

Speaking of grateful and giving ... then there was Pastorio. HA! The guy never goes to a Wrevel before and I get'im to my house! Daughter, Robin Pastorio-Newman, had called earlier in the evening to warn us of the Daddy's mood after a long drive. This drive, having been especially tedious (car problems galore), gave us a Pastorio to beat all Pastorios, and he entered with the refrain that was predicted: "FUCK! I'm here, everybody. Jeezus! Hi, I'm Pastorio. Who? David? Where're you from...Scotland? Can I buy a fuckin' vowel, buster? FUCK! Anybody got a drink? My, my, Melanie, such a caucasian dwelling you have here." And so forth. It took copious quantities of laughter, a few raunchy jokes and giving him something to stroke to finally calm him down.
Bob Pastorio is given something to stroke

And so it went, and went, and went. And went. I finally crushed my last Budweiser can against my forehead at 4:30 a.m. and crawled to bed feeling afraid, very afraid. After all, the Wrevolt did not officially begin until Saturday.

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