/ MMVII

True love, like Christmas in Australia, is just like you imagined, only hotter.

This house is like an atmosphere-less moon too close to the Kuiper Belt, and if you listen closely, you can hear the pelting of tiny objects, like nosy, drunken neighbors back in that esoteric time when everyone seemed to run out of sugar, and, of course, pretenses. My, aren't you sweet! Oh, little velveteen bird crashing into my window, I know you're real! Much as Christmas in Australia or true love is real, just not in the way you imagined, and only now, too late have you inspired me to listen to O Holy Night and What Child is This, absent of faith, if not sentiment. Days late.

The second smallest bird in North America is dubbed Kinglet, as if somehow I am running on a borrowed soul, because I see what you did there. Sometimes I look in the mirror and because New Year's is as much about reflection as resolution, I say, 'Like a fine wine, my friend. A fine wine.'

I am getting more expensive with age. I am my own sense of inflation. Good lord, show me the way. (Skips in other direction).

Oh, occasionally you fill in more details, you add snow to the sky when the little bird flies away, you imagine the tiny fingers petting her head gentler, warmer, their eyes gleaming and wonder great, you add an extra night to the holiday because no one can give you a failing grade at your own final exam, and when those witnesses say, 'That never happened!' you can just as easily answer, 'Like you ever lived in my head.' At this very moment I am smoking a clove and skipping tonka beans across the river and hailing a taxi and bringing 1,000 young people to tears and laughter alike. I am at the door promising never again while imagining one more time. It is over, completely over, and it is full of promise and it is new. It is the beg in the beginning and the ugh when it is through.

I see what you did there, little bird. Fly away, if you must. I took your picture.

/ Beckoning

Some days he would see her after an extended absence and beckon with the calluses on his elbows, scratch a nonexistent itch in the hollow behind his earlobe, and regret that most of the world's treasure has long been claimed by the time you are old enough to appreciate it, leaving you to fall in with the beggars and the thieves. Or the ascetics who look away, the artists who make their own, or the mad who see it where it's not. The compassionate who care for what's been discarded, good hearted until years of ugliness have left them with such sweet regret. Or the vandals and their if-not-me-then-no-one cans of spray paint. The very patient, who wait until it has nearly passed, though it doesn't really, not when your eyes are closed to everything but remembrance.

He would think that maybe she is even more, or that he is perhaps a little less, knowing that the blinds on the window of this day were rapidly drawing shut, that whereas he would bend at the waist, she still bends at the knees, a little to the left, some elegant bow to the books on the bottom row, her favorite authors, she had said. Oh, I wish he would just read. Anything, really. The goddamned toothpaste label.

She liked them because they were overlooked, and it made the reading feel more intimate, more exclusive. She had given him one she had read, and he did so without ever speaking to her of it, not wanting to seem the treasure too eager to be found, but he thought of it, nonetheless, whenever he would see her after an extended absence, beckon her by reciting the names of the characters and the names of their fates, in his head, in the hollow behind his earlobe.

He had some friends in those days, but he would rarely talk of her, and the times he did were indecipherable, like poorly drawn maps, hastily written directions with wrong turns and inaccurate legends. He would say, "This tractor reminds me of a book someone gave me. They had overworked the field with a moldboard plough, like that one there. In the very beginning, they had more than they could have ever imagined. The soil soon gave way to hardpan, and they nearly starved." They would puff on their cigars a moment, and he'd rub the calluses on his elbows, "But that's not really so much a problem with this newer equipment, I suppose."

"We're really just gonna use it for our flower garden. I don't imagine we're in any immediate danger, but we'll stock the freezer if you're worried." They laughed, and he did, too, and they were all back to talking about the same thing once more. But he felt like a book on the bottom shelf.

The next time he saw her, he would call out, 'Principessa!' to let her know, he swore on it. But not this time, because she had already paid for her items, had already manipulated the keys until the one for the car was at her fingertips, had not looked around even once, though he had beckoned. Still, he went home smiling on these sorts of days, having thrown his lot in with the thieves.

/ Lakeside

"It is not victory," said Mr. Emerson. "It is defeat.
You have parted two people who were happy."

I cannot help but think I am not yet old enough to understand what it truly means to charge full speed at an immovable object for the sake of a young lady's honor, or to think yourself insane because everyone around you seems so normal, only to stand back and see you have no indistinguishable characteristics other than a tendency to walk around with your fingers crossed. One day, she will look at me after years of patience done run out, say, I don't know why we're still struggling. You were so talented, and still, here we are, and I don't know why. I don't know why. I always believed that any day we would make it, and ever day happened, and still, here we are, and I don't know what went wrong, and now our lives have passed. Oh, god. I waited and hoped and believed and waited and waited and waited. And waited. Oh, god, oh god.

I know this is the kind of fool thing your grandmother warns you against saying 'cause it'll stick if someone hits you just right, but I just know that when I come back in my next life my one goal is to get my heart broke more. Put little cracks in the places untouched by heartache, make it look like that cracked glass what was all the rage in the 70s, cracked glass tumblers, cracked glass mirrors, cracked glass jewelry, thousands upon thousands of facets.

Or maybe even to come back, in order to prove my insanity, my uniqueness, exactly the same, to live every day the same and never lift a hand before each mistake, but internally roll my eyes and think, Remember this? That was crazy. Just wait til tomorrow.

It would seem perfectly sane, though, on just a few occasions, enough to disregard the flaming wreck of your life, because mile post 151 was exhilarating beyond the ability of time to contain, confusing and maddening and far too hot for any actual enjoyment, and here is why I never paid attention in physics, because by natural law it should be impossible for a few hours holding hands along a lakeside path to count for years and years of daily commutes and weekly reports and personal grooming and unsatisfying entertainment, but it does. Collapsed stars apparently weigh as much as the real thing, with the benefit of not causing blindness when you look back for too long.

I've been looking back so much lately, so intent on the immovable object that if not by sheer will then by sheer determination cause it to at least crack at the foundation, a smile of a crack, and then set upon it, because I am incapable of resisting this urge to make milestones out of moments.

Would I ever forgive myself if I lived a life unworthy of reliving? I don't intend on finding out.

/ Nicotine Flavored Gum and Other Million Euro Ideas

A couple weeks ago, I was eating god knows what when my back tooth went KERPOW MOTHERFUCKER, registering 2.8 on the Richter Scale and separating me forever from a filling I got that is probably the closest thing I ever had to an heirloom, but it didn't phase me, bro, because I keep a hidden bottle of gatorade underneath my desk at all times.

My dentist: "Well, the good news is that there has been no tooth decay."
Me: "I am positive that vodka prevents tartar buildup."
My dentist: "It may have a little more to do with regular brushing and flossing."
Me: "Hey, you know what would be a good additive to toothpaste? Nicotine! I mean, imagine how many of my co-workers would take ten 15-minute breaks a day to brush their teeth? I might not cringe when they smile."
My dentist: "That's funny."
Me: "Oh, can you maybe not replace the filling? It has sort of become my comfort blanket whenever I am nervous."
My dentist: "Tongue magnet! That's what I call it, whenever you have something new in your mouth you tend to want to put your tongue on it."

I have the most awesome dentist in the entire world. And she hires the most awesome dental assistants in the whole world.

Dental Assistant: "We'll schedule that filling, but it looks like everything else is okay."
Me: "I am positive that vodka prevents tartar buildup."
Dental Assistant: "I think you mean tequila."
Me: SWOON
Dental Assistant: "OH MY GOD my friend made me the strongest lemon drop last night."
Me: "I LOVE LEMON DROPS. But they're kind of girly so I pour them into Budweiser cans."
Dental Assistant: "BUDWEISER'S NOT GIRLY?"
Me: "TOUCHE."
Dental Assistant: "I hide mine in a Gatorade bottle."
Me:FTW
Dental Assistant: "My husband thinks it's not very parental to drink in front of our daughter, though, but I told him that maybe sheltering her too much will backfire."
Me: "PREACHER'S KID SYNDROME. My wife is the same way. She and your husband would make a good couple."
Dental Assistant: "I bet that sounded better in your head."
Me: "So did the nicotine toothpaste idea. Damn."

By the way, you know what's probably NOT the best thing to watch on the TV monitor while you're getting your teeth cleaned? A CNN DEMONSTRATION OF WATERBOARDING TECHNIQUES. When I started screaming my name, social security number and date of birth, that was a clue.

/ my

oh, oh, once, years ago, when email was a hesitant, unsure form of connecting, i tied the string tight and thrust my ear in the tin can, damn, waited, and wouldn't you know, found a voice. for some reason, i kept that string taut all these years, and like water drops on cold, spring spiderwebs, the tiny vibrations drew me. if it hadn't been a secret address, i wouldn't have believed it, but, oh, wow.

if people don't forget you, then what is it exactly that they do with your memory? do they store it away with lettermen's jackets and childhood toys, and stumble upon you when they move? how far back in a past can you drop without being forgotten entirely, and more importantly, how much courage does it take to whistle that old tune, especially if you are sure that no one will come running? i don't know if i have it in me.

what is the farthest distance that someone ever spanned for you? is it a representation of your worth, or hers? damn, if so, then you wonder how come you didn't have the strength, and what else can you say, even if it's something you have waited for, years and years and years.

i think we do wear these charms around our necks, like the crosses or amulets that embarrass us, hidden beneath our shirts, in some kind of silent, faithless faith, we touch them through the cloth, we slow our breathing, we remember lying down on the grass, but damn, we recall promises and dares and, what is the word? concessions. eventually you move on, even from what you thought was your center. further from yourself, in fact.

but i am learning that if i have anything, i have years, and the longer, the longer the time, the easier it is to come back 'round, and those old feelings still feel as new. damn.

/ Herpum Complex

I realize this is the equivalent of finding a genie and WISHING FOR A MILLION WISHES, but still, if there's one change I could make to the Tequilacon Charter, it's that there would have to be a minimum of 11 planning sessions before each event, and why not? The most recent meeting of the minds may have saved our lives, because Jenny was surely looking for a NORTH SIDE venue, while I was pulling for WEST SIDE, until Dustin's friend Gabby said, BUT YOU'LL DIE.

The worst part about the Jupiter Hotel is that every room comes with a condom, and the pressure to open it up and tear it in half and leave it on the bed for the cleaning lady or at least call the front desk and ask for an upgrade is too overwhelming because what if they think you are unlovable? What if they see COUG MEAT tattooed on your knuckles, subscript A below your wedding ring, and call you out? Will it be too late to swap out for HUG LIFE?

Benson drinks are like a box of chocolates. You never know what you gonna get. My drink came with a Gordian knot. Jenny's came with a pre-smoked cigarette. Vahid and Asia were obviously too embarrassed to tell us what they found in their drinks, so you know it was something good. It would have to be, because Sibyl informed us that we could order anything we wanted and they would go all the way to China to get it, satisfaction guaranteed. Their managers would rather commit hari kari than see you leave without a smile. When I returned from the restroom, a traveling tennis ball mogul was making indecent proposals to Jenny (apparently, he is fond of Pi). When I finally found my car 12 hours later it was time for lunch the next day. I dropped in on some old co-worker friends and we went out for coffee.

Dustin's wife admitted that she was initially attracted to him for his tableside manners, but we later learned it's because she's just really into masculine alpha types who are able to hold their Lynchburg Lemonades and Hard Ciders while lesser men tumble. He'll come in handy when we get lost in Philly, maybe flash a few gangsta tats or break out some Boyz2Men. He'll have to turn off his internal bleeper, though, before he causes the entire Atlantic population of Humpback whales to overwhelm the Delaware Port Authority.

Oh, Shari! You should have called me in advance if you needed an excuse not to come down! And thank your lucky stars, because you would have been pinky-sworn to ride the STP next year! And really, who likes mac'n'cheese? Besides everybody. But everybody is stupid.

The number and quality of PICTURES TAKEN is inversely proportional to the amount of GOOD TIME HAD. So is the headache. Damn.



Still, AAAA+ EXCELLENT TRANSACTION WOULD DO BUSINESS W/AGAIN SPEEDY SERVICE

/ Sidecars and Such

I always learn about animals with Jenny! She taught me all about rabbits and goatses and last night she and Asia and Sibyl taught me and Vahid all about cougars!

Plus, I was the last man standing in a fierce game of Old Maid!

I could only be happier if Jesus had two birthdays a year!

/ Stoli Time

THIS ISN'T HAPPENING, THIS ISN'T HAPPENING, THIS ISN'T HAPPENING, and so goes the latest in long-distance technology, better than sports gels or blood doping or even Newton Running Shoes, and am I ever grateful because dissociation is my speciality. What I lack in proper form and wicking fibers and motivation, I more than make up for in denial and substance abuse. That's my stoli and i'm sticking to it.

It's just that I can no longer stand the common sense advice so easily available, like DRESS IN LAYERS, WEAR REFLECTIVE CLOTHING, JUST SAY NO, because, well, I'm accommodating by nature. To help me improve physically, you have to mess with my mind. If you want me to run faster, you have to recommend three sets of daydreaming, 12 reps each of talking to myself out loud, Mondays, Wednesdays and alternating non-governmental holiday Fridays.

I started writing again, in earnest, in the spare bedroom, even, and suddenly it feels like, well, it feels like, hmm, how would I describe it? Have you ever pulled off the highway at one of those obscure historical markers, not one on the atlas, like Little Bighorn or Craters of the Moon, but something you've never heard of, like Mother Neff State Park or Fort Bradstreet, and while you were walking along the Civilian Conservation Corps-built trail, thought, 'Something isn't quite right'?

The paving stones along the path are sometimes too far apart, sometimes too close, sometimes set too low, sometimes too high. As you are walking, you cannot find any sort of rhythm and even though the walk is free of charge, you return to your car hoping you have kept the receipt, you imagine the fresh, young face of a National Park Service Employee and take no small measure of pleasure in seeing that joy melt into anguish as she reads your STRONGLY WORDED LETTER. Have you ever walked a path and felt that something wasn't quite right?

Imagine that you are not even running, but lying down when the only goal in front of you is not a dozen miles but someone who hangs on your every word, is impressed by your every thought, and cannot help but reward your cleverness at every turn, and laughs and tells you that you are so pretty and seems intimidated and stunned and, and, well, sleepy.

That is the advice I need when running, to tell me not to run, to tell me I'm not running, to tell me I'm 20 years removed from a past I have some hope of altering, and each step is nothing more than quiet footfalls in a dream where flying is optional but largely preferred, in spite of the low fuel economy, in spite of the unpopularity on the west coast, in spite of the secret thrill you experience in destroying the environment that you love, love, love. Tell me that when I'm running, not to think about running, and substitute running for any one of my other vices, and I can imagine myself going the distance and hardly breaking a sweat, much less a leg or a vow.

/ But They Don't Fall Down

Remember when your grandmother let you lick the bottom of the bowl, lick the blender beaters, eat the batter off the spoon? Can you harbor a secret hatred for her 30 years later now that none of your insides work a-proper? Hmm? Or is my recent belly-aching psychosomatic? Did she, in fact, mithridate me against the ills of salmonella? And why can't you get it from fish? /groan Once I got citronella but it wore off after 4 hours.

We had these glasses made of cracked glass, and I thought, good god, HOW POOR ARE WE? We were soooo poor that the dealers always gave us the first TWO for free. Come to think of it, I think I was 12 years old before I realized that cake referred to an actual, baked product. Not that I was unhappy, but I keep reading about all these psychological experiments 'bout the time I was coming of age and we were in need of money and lived awfully close to a university research center. Damn these twitches! And what these studies say is that you can successfully implant in a child's memory something that never even happened! And at some point, the child will even fabricate details that fill in the gaps, making the memory much more than a memory, but an actual event in human history. This is better than revisionism. It's flat out previsionism.

But why did these scientists fill our heads with unhappy DID HE TOUCH YOU THERE kinds of memories? What an opportunity to create happy childhoods out of nothing more than ceaseless suggestion and ketamine and a small room where the door knob didn't work but they gave you plenty of crayons. If it were me, and I'm no scientist, I would have found out about these kids' lives and I would have fucking supercharged them.

'Remember last Christmas, when you got SO MANY TOYS THAT THE PRESIDENT GAVE YOU A SPECIAL STUDENT OF THE YEAR MEDAL AND THE DALLAS COWBOYS WON THE SUPERBOWL AN ENTIRE MONTH EARLY IN YOUR HONOR? Hmm? Remember THAT? YOU DO, DON'T YOU?'

'Um, no. I don't think...'

'NO BUT DO YOU REMEMBER LAST CHRISTMAS WHEN YOU DID GET SO MANY TOYS THAT THE PRESIDENT GAVE YOU A SPECIAL STUDENT OF THE YEAR MEDAL AND THE DALLAS COWBOYS WON THE SUPERBOWL AN ENTIRE MONTH EARLY IN YOUR HONOR? HMM? YOU REMEMBER THAT! YOU DO, DON'T YOU?'

'I, um, I...'

'YOU DO REMEMBER LAST CHRISTMAS WHEN YOU GOT SO MANY TOYS THAT THE PRESIDENT GAVE YOU A SPECIAL STUDENT OF THE YEAR MEDAL AND THE DALLAS COWBOYS WON THE SUPERBOWL AN ENTIRE MONTH EARLY IN YOUR HONOR RIGHT AFTER YOU GOT THE STUDENT OF THE YEAR MEDAL FOR GETTING SO MANY TOYS? HMM? YOU REMEMBER THAT! YOU DO, DON'T YOU? WHO WON THE SUPERBOWL?'

'The Cowboys?'

'SEE? YOU REMEMBER! AND WHY DID YOU GET THE MEDAL?'

'Because of all the toys I got! There was a Big Wheel and an Inchworm and an Etch-a-Sketch and Weeble Wobbles and Lincoln Logs and a Simon, only the red light didn't work, and the spare was busted and we had regular batteries, but we didn't have one of those funny shaped batteries, you know the one you can lick the top and it gives you a little shock...'

'Yes. That's right. And...'

'...but I still didn't get an Atari, because Santa said Colecovision was better since it could PLAY Atari games, but really, Atari is still cooler...'

'Um. We're out of time here.'

'...and I got Hungry Hippos and Shogun Warriors and Monchichis and I don't think it's bad for me to play with Monchichis because I'm a boy...'

'Please leave now.'

Oh. So THAT'S why they stick to unhappy memories. It's cheaper.

/ Natural Born

Tristan told us we BOTH needed to sign his homework, his mom AND his dad. Since I am lazy I said, "TRISTAN, I'M NOT YOUR FATHER."

Alex, in surprising and seamless relief, added, "We've been meaning to tell you."

Tristan, stunned, said, "What? Really? Where's my real father?"

Alex said, "I don't know. Somewhere in South Carolina."

"Delivering the mail," I clarified.

"What? That's not true!"

I then listed all the obvious physical differences between us and it was really quite funny UNTIL HE STARTED BAWLING.

"BUT THEN I WON'T LOVE YOU AS MUCH!"

Damn these jokes spoiled by unspeakable truths.

Versus Artificial \

The mountain alder lying in the lake connects me at last to the otters by hiding my approach until I am upon them, until we are eye to eye, and ready to fight over the fish she has caught, on a plate with steamed vegetables, my hands around a wine glass stem and bleeding inappropriate jokes like an old carburetor burning leaded gas. This is how fast the next christmas party is upon us, so much that I forget the restaurant owner is coming by my office a day later to work on a proposal we developed, and I could have at least asked for a coupon, or better yet, have him come to our table and feign marvel, maybe ask me to sign his copy of my book and offer grandiloquently in front of the guests, THIS NEXT BOTTLE'S ON THE HOUSE, FRANK! WHAT ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

The holidays blend so well that I never really know what is happening until I am out the door with my briefcase on a Saturday and on Monday I am unwrapping presents before the tree's even gone up. Our poor tree. God, our poor tree.

I am superstitious in every part of me that used to be fervent, and we have committed to doing something I fear will doom me to a path made entirely of mother-breaking cracks. When we moved into this house, the first thing I built was a fence and the second, a garden. I carefully plotted every detail, like what would grow where, and even how the flowers would make me feel, how many slices I would cut out of that first cucumber, how soon after the first frost I would do a book report on ancient harvest rites. Three funny looking sprouts grew between the garlic and the kale and the parsley.

One was a cottonwood tree. And it quickly outgrew my expectations, adding a knock on the door from the FAA to my usual dreams of losing my teeth or showing up to work in my underwear. The next year, it added an additional 5 hat sizes, and over the winter I cut it back, and cut and cut, hoping to create the impression of a 200 year old bonsai. It produced a single leaf the next spring and died.

The second was a big leaf maple, and I tied her down to the swing set, and to this day she grows along the curvature of the earth, saving my garden sun for a time when we might actually need it to feed us. She attracts thatch ants, who bite me at every instance, but I won't cut her, because she is larger than life and only tiptoes within the garden, and her leaves have blocked out our view of the neighbors, at least for 8 months of the year. Good fences make good neighbors. Good trees make fences better.

The third, a Douglas Fir. It has grown slowly these past 6 years, and as we deal with the realization that this will be our last Christmas in this house, where we added a daughter and a dog to our kohlrabi and nasturtium collections, so we deal with the prospect of cutting down this evergreen, adorning it with lights and ornaments, setting one last set of presents underneath it. Bringing it into our house, out of the cold, not abandoning it to the new owners, who will surely cut it down, how out of place and awkward it sits in the yard. Mercy, mercy me.

It is tall enough and full enough to make a fine christmas tree, though the trunk is small enough to get your hand around, so that killing it will remind me of a time I went deer hunting as a teenager, seeing another hunter emerge from the forest with a freshly shot fawn draped over his shoulders. One red spot among the white.

I still cannot believe the mountain alder is gone. I have run this trail around the lake so many times that I know when to sidestep the bare roots of individual trees, unconsciously stretch out my fingertips to brush the bare trunk whenever I pass a madrona, jump just before mile 1.7 where an overhanging cedar branch is at the ideal height to lift myself away from a rabid dog or protective bear.

It seems like such an effort to simply accept that which I cannot change regardless. People rarely forgive you from trying, even when your defense is the inevitability of it all.

One of our volunteers lost her husband over the summer, and they were married for over 40 years. His voice still graces the answering machine, sober now what once was cheerful. "If we are not here, we are there. Please leave a message," the old voice says. She said she probably won't change the greeting.

I'm curious to know if she'll have an artificial tree.

/ Interrelated Somehow

It snowed, then it rained, then all hell broke loose, and goddamnit I missed the rainbow.

Alex dragged me to a party with her sister and her friends, and it reinforced the notion that I will gladly set fire to my belief system as long as it's a pretty girl handing me the gasoline. The weather report called for nuclear winter and the online map called for a shortcut and the cabin in the middle of nowhere called for pre-drinks.

Salma Hayek was not there, but many of the other Ramtha students were, and the more brandies I put away, the closer I came to making the awkward OKAY EVERYONE SHOW ME YOUR GREEN CARD joke, which is just slightly less funny than the MAKE OUT WITH THE HOSTESS joke that always seems to bomb, regardless of context. Some people can't take a joke.

Some bombastic Aussie kept going on about how hot my wife was, how he kept wondering why she was always alone at these parties and how hot she was, and I can't remember EXACTLY, but I think what I said was, "WELL, HIT IT ALREADY, I'M IN THE MIDDLE OF A CONVERSATION HERE," and there was a lot of laughter, so obviously HIT IT has some different connotation down under. Or maybe people just laugh more about these things on the other side of that great big fence we're planning to build.

The toasts to the hosts started shortly thereafter, and everyone stood in the center of the gorgeous cabin, and the hosts, Polish immigrants, were indeed lovely and smart. An older, raunchy couple, pretty much all I can stand at these things. One girl praised Ramtha, and everyone, including me, lifted a glass to the Teutonic Knight, and why not? People can believe whatever they like as far as I'm concerned, just so long as it doesn't involve animal sacrifice, a prohibition against masturbation, and rules, commandments, dress codes or weekly services. I'd also prefer not to reincarnate as a tree. And don't ask me for any money, goddamnit. If your god is so powerful, then ask him for your fucking rent. Otherwise, though, I am cool with your beliefs, sucker.

Sadly, part of the reason I could actually be in this magical place was because my parents were babysitting, but being as how this was Saturday, that could only mean that my kids would have to sit through church on Sunday morning, and I distinctly remember thinking that I would have volunteered to get hit a whole lot more as a kid if ONLY IT WOULD HAVE EXCUSED ME FROM CHURCH. I guiltily admit to shouting CHURCH IS STUPID before dropping my kids off, and then making them promise that they wouldn't repeat this blasphemy in front of their grandparents but that they were FREE TO THINK IT ALL THEY WANTED.

Apparently, they DIDN'T hate it though, because it was mostly just singing and eating coffee cake, and I was all like, "THAT'S HOW THEY GET YOU! THE FIRST ONE'S ALWAYS FREE!"

And then the heavens opened up and flooded the entire state and dreams were dashed and fights were fought and wine flowed, and I don't care what anyone says, I don't believe for a minute that any of it was related at all.

Ese \

I think I did okay on the math, but I'm not sure about the essays.

The GRE has essays?

Yeah. It asks you for two essays.

What did you write?

Jorge and Rafael.

Man, that is awesome.

/ Happy Headed No

Children are big, fat worthless losers, and until we stop telling them otherwise, they are doomed to a big, fat life of loserdom, so say the researchers at Scientific American, and I am reluctant to agree because it is true and I don't want all those other rotten parents who get their science from the internet in on my family's age-old secret. That is why I urge on the administrators at outside school board meetings to implement summer immersion programs that are designed to build up a kid's self-worth, BECAUSE THERE IS NO MOTIVATION LIKE CONVINCING A CHILD THAT HE IS ENTITLED TO HAPPINESS. And by NO MOTIVATION, I am serious.

This doesn't mean that I throw rocks at my kids, although I will occasionally threaten to cut them if they look at me the wrong way, and when they ask "WHAT'S THE WRONG WAY?" I say, "I AIN'T TELLING 'CAUSE YOU'LL DO IT WHEN I'M NOT LOOKING!" And that works like science, because the key isn't to tell your kids all nice things about themselves all the time and the key isn't to tell your kids all bad things about themselves all the time, the key is to keep them on their toes.

Sometimes what really works is to tell them, "You can't."

And inside, they think, "TELL ME I CAN'T, BITCH."

And then when you are really pissed because they do something so utterly senseless like leave your brand new Final Fantasy DS cartridge on the floor right after eating a bacon cookie so that the dog has no choice but to chew all the juice out of the circuitry, you don't scream (not out loud anyway), but hold all that anger up deep inside and sit next to the child and say softly (while holding all that building anger up inside you), "Don't worry about it. I'll love you no matter what mistakes you might make. We all make mistakes. In fact, I made a mistake when I had you." And because you're not screaming, they won't even notice the subtle sarcasm.

And inside, they think, "CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER."

Most importantly, children should not be treated like Pavlovian dogs, meaning you should never, ever reward them every single time they do something good, because this will only set them up for a life of drinking and disappointment, because seriously, all those kids who got a trip to Chuck E. Cheese every time they brought home a report card with ALL As? BITTEREST CO-WORKERS IN HISTORY.

Incorrect- (25 years ago)
Brandon: I got all As! What do I get?
Brandon's Cruel Parents: Yay! You get a bicycle! And you can stay out playing with your friends til 10!
Brandon: Yay!

(25 years later)
Brandon: I got the grant! $2 million! What do I get?
Brandon's Employers: You get to keep your job.
Brandon: Damn.

Correct- (MY WAY)
Tristan: I got all As! What do I get?
Brandon: Free housing.
Tristan: Damn.

(10 years into the future)
Tristan: I just figured out how to generate biofuel from algae at under $2 a gallon!
Tristan's employer: Outstanding! What do you want?
Tristan: I want to figure out how to brew liquor from algae at under $2 a bottle.
Tristan's employer: Damn.

Damn straight.

Basket Tune \

Regret is my secret to a long life because I can spend hours looking back thinking my god will it ever end, and trying to imagine a time when all will be forgotten and wonder christ will that day ever come. There are great, flat stretches of forgiveness full of forget-me-nots, unending fields in my head like the miles between Lincoln and Saskatoon on a trip I took some 15 years ago. Long life is like driving over northern prairies, expecting at any moment to see mountains spring from the ground and instead fall into a pattern of tapping the window with your fingernail and swerving over the median, because who cares. If I had been driving alone, I likely would have screamed at the wheat, hit this memory right in the breadbasket.

Today the snow falls in uneven clumps, sometimes a mixture of sleet and light hail, as though the skies don't know what they are attempting. I'm embarrassed for the inexperience of our local weather, every year the same hesitations when the clouds can't drop rain. People cannot hibernate in a place like this, slow down their daily rhythms to conserve our energy for when the grass grows green again. It takes every ounce of strength to chop up firewood for the stove when you can't forecast the difference between rain and snow. These drops like regret land upon the back of your neck, then stream down your back, and you can do nothing but stand still and bear the cold as it makes its painful way.

I remember once traveling through a small town called Porambacu de Jos, and winter was coming on fast, and the family had this extravagant home at the base of the mountain, but no one answered the knock. They were all in a much smaller apartment, across the yard, really nothing more than a kitchen and a bedroom, and inside the furnace was ablaze, and everyone was slowing down getting ready for hibernation. In Sapintsa, I drank Turkish coffee in a similar house while three generations of women were slowly knitting from great piles of wool, and the man was telling me about a famous prison at Sighet, and I thought, 'And what's this then?' I am rude and insensitive, if only in my head. But living in my head, the offenses are no less real. I add it to the list of miles.

The distance sets you on edge when you settle down to sleep, and you get carried away and rough, and between the scratches and the bites, she strokes your cheek and says, 'my pretty baby,' right at the moment where you thought you had come upon the city limits, and damn, you're right back in the car, never having ever heard of Regina, which would have been nice before you had tried to pronounce it in front of the lovely young girl at the post office. Now there's a pointless embarrassment to remember, you think, and then there is a deluge of regretting the regretless regrets, the inexperienced words uttered, and awkward gestures, and mismatched clothes and countless trivialities only adding to your suddenly endless lifespan. At this rate, it will take twice the speed of light to get back, even if I decide to pull over right now and turn around and promise to concentrate on the horizon without beating myself all up about how far away it seems. Funny thing about the horizon, how you can watch plenty of others reach it, even while you never can. And the only way to keep someone from reaching it is to never leave her side.

But today, it's snowing, or trying, in need of some encouragement, so I will tell myself that self pity is to love what torture is to truth, a chorus of amens each time you hit harder. If I am going to create all of this, then I will work one day and rest the other six. I can't figure out why the hurry.