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Archive for October, 2005

|| October 26, 2005 || 7:00 pm || Comments (3) ||

So much for so little.

Okay, so T-shirt Hell is obnoxious and disgusting and gross, but so was my Uncle Marty (related by marriage) and I found him hilarious, as well.

T-Shirt Hell’s newest promotion-thingy.

|| October 25, 2005 || 10:19 pm || Comments (3) ||

Living the life of another.

Dear Mike,

There are things I’d like to know about you. About your life. Who are you now?

I thought for sure you’d make a career of the Marine Corps — I see that you did not. Can I ask why?

I’ve been looking for you passively since last year. Heather –you remember Heather, don’t you?– died of cancer then and ever since I’ve been wildly compelled to root up people that shared even a moment with us. I am manic in certain areas in my life, it seems.

I remember that last awkward conversation with you. I felt like I’d been slapped, even though I didn’t let you know that. I know you didn’t mean it that way, but it stung Despite The Fact. I just remember feeling really, really bad for you and the difficult spot you were in.

I remember other things, too. The offense you took at what a shit my husband was being so early into the marriage. The look of lovesick that draped you even as you bravely and stoicly played the role of jolly comrade.

I saw you, Michael. I always saw you. Politeness kept me from telling you so.

I told my website readers (I see by my stats that you’ve found it now) a story about you once, and they gobbled it up. It wasn’t even one of our best moments, really….all that tension. It didn’t capture the you and me as I recall us. Hell, the popsicle truck story would mow them under. Any tale about thumbing a ride from a popsicle truck on I-40 in Memphis, Tennessee on a fine, fine hunnert-and-five degree day is a story with mass appeal and is hard to fuck up, no matter the way you tell it.

See? I just told it, albeit in fine and short fashion, and it sounded amazing and wonderful in less than a breath. Okay, maybe two. I was pausing at the good parts. Which is to say, all of them.

Hot damn, I find myself wanting to type very stickily-sweet things like: Life Is Fine Poetry and Holy God Do I Miss That Popsicle Truck Sometimes and just maybe I Occasionally Am Very Sorry For Those Things That Never Were.

You know, just the fact that we are both sitting here (albeit at different times) is reason enough to go rummaging through our veins. There’s no call for all that, though. Leastways, not tonight. Tonight is better for lying tired limbs and head across down and cotton and dreaming on old tomorrows. And laughing when the jaunty little phrase, “HOLY COW! CUBS WIIIIN!” chimes pure like fine crystal while echoing up from Backwhen.

You sounding like a grownup just won’t stop astounding me, so there.

pee ess….I worried about you during the whole fucking war. I’m glad you’re okay; you’re damn near my favorite Yankee and my pitiful memory would never do you justice.

::: :: ::: :: ::: :: :::

When I’m weak and my head is sore / And I feel like I can’t go on no more / I come in here where normal rules do not apply

Can’t tell the bottle from the mountain top / No we’re not right

// David Gray, ‘We’re Not Right’

|| October 6, 2005 || 7:35 am || Comments (9) ||

Proof that I exist.

Barely awake.