death and my feet still on the carpet.

1.

Two weeks late the phone rings and I think I hear

tears or mine just start to fill that spot in sound

where you know there should be sound but something involved just cannot hold their end

of the bargin that is grief

and news

and condolences

and a map to someplace where it makes sense.

I fall back on the shit couch made to a bed and let me feet hang from the end and they didn't quite touch.

2.

Me.

Bill.

Smirnoff.

Tonic.

This is what you drank.

This is what you had me make you.

When I couldn't have a voice.

When I couldn't have a space.

When I had to wrap my own presents.

Those fucking overalls never fit and it wasn't your fault and that was how it had to be.

That wasn't your fault.

This wasn't your fault.

But I sat there with my best friend and toasted and drank to a man fifteen years gone.

I let my feet hang from the end of the barstool and they didn't quite touch.

3.

Random bathroom before a set of songs I felt I had to rip my skin open to get out, I'm pissing and breaking pills in half for time and chasing with beer and I get in front of a mic and sing about how all of this won't ever fucking work and you smile from wherever you are. You always smiled from that chair that you needed help out of and you fell from and yelled and screamed and cried and lost something that you could never get back. I could map that room. All I wanted was that fireplace to burn. Something. It never happened. I walked out on the deck and looked into yards of families that were what television said families were and I hated them and now I know my family was it. My family was life. Me wedged in one of those chairs, feet hanging from the edge, not quite touching.

4.

Fuck

your

middle

name

if all you ever need is

pussy

pills

and booze.

5.

You were the ultimate Booth.

Your son and grandson rolled into some sort of superhuman with shaky steps and strong opinions.

I admire your taste

I admire your swing

I admire your contentment.

But that was after the clubs, the cigarettes, the pussy, the booze, the service, the wives, the crazy secret foreign country marriages, the surveys, the second (first) family, the lies, the damage and then finally the three times I saw you a year.

What I really admire was the way you pointed, while holding your vodka drink, at whatever was wrong.

You always meant those points.

And I always mean to keep my feet where they reach.

D is for Don't...

Don't is the only advice I get lately, from family, friends and from myself. Don't drink too much. Don't go to that party. Don't invest in foreign currency. Don't call him. Don't send her that text. Don't forget that birthday. Don't sleep with someone just so your bed isn't empty. Don't wear your heart on your sleeve. Don't show any emotion. Don't cry. Don't fight. Don't hate. Don't scream. Don't sing out of key. Don't believe everything you hear. Don't skip work today. Don't take a nap. Don't borrow money from lovers. Don't collect keys. Don't keep doing the same things and expect a different reaction. Don't seek sympathy. Don't over-react. Don't talk to any Asian women. Don't save slow dances for anyone. Don't smoke. Don't try to match. Don't put food and drinks on the same tray. Don't make that person cry. Don't give up. Don't sell out. Don't get married. Don't start a family. Don't plan for the future. Don't paint. Don't waste any talent. Don't listen to that band. Don't blindly recite quotations that you can't put your heart into. Don't dance. Don't forget postage. Don't sleep on your arm. Don't waste your time. Don't waste your life. Don't talk to strangers. Don't tell anyone how you feel. Don't be so honest. Don't like her. Don't let him in. Don't invite them over. Don't take those drugs. Don't eat those pills. Don't settle. Don't fucking settle. Ever.

4/26

A Tale of Two Cities

in which the two cities are actually people

I am sitting at my desk in the early evening. It's MY early evening; it is one in the morning. The champagne bottle that was started yesterday is almost finished. I just put on XO by Elliot Smith. It has been a while, a long while, since the last time I listened to this record. But I am trying to figure something out about it, him and some people I know.

Now let's begin.

And don't forget: it is WAY more fun when you are vague.

I know a woman with soft features and a young face. I also know a man with hardened edges and years carved onto his skin. I have just recently found out that she loves Elliot Smith as much as he does.

Now Mr. Smith is not central to this thought I'm tumbling towards the ground with.

No. But I am VERY interested in how one person could attract two different people.

Funny thing, I just got it.

There are things I know about this woman and this man that don't surprise me. And there are things I keep learning that astonish me. And that is what this is all about. We decide what shoes everyone will fit into, and what we know about them. We are wrong all the time.

Funny. I didn't see this here.

I'm trying to think of the next line, the next thought, and I am suddenly walking into a bathroom at a McDonalds in Oakland.

I can't put names to all of the faces in the restaurant with me, or faces to the names I hear. But I know its me. And an ex. And a step dad. And maybe a cop. But he might not be there. But I'm pretty sure he is. We're going to a hospital to pick up my mom. But first I/someone else had to piss. This bathroom keeps jumping to the front of my mind.

I don't care about why the man and women I know both love Elliot Smith. And I'm not worried why the Oakland bathroom keeps coming up.

I just know that in a few swigs, when all the champagne is gone, I will get out of this chair and slide into my bed all alone.

And I am OK with it.

Tonight I have Mr. Smith to keep me company. Maybe I'll figure this out yet.

Her name was Jessica

I met her sometime during my junior year. She was a transfer to our little private school community. I remember having a science class with her. And I remember one of my good friends was trying to pick up on her. I was making out with a different girl named Jessica who I had a crush on the previous year but now decided to return the favor. I got invited to a birthday party by a girl who was a couple of years younger than me who I was kind of friends with. I wanted to buy her a present, so I asked if this new girl Jessica wanted to go to the mall with me. At this point my friend wasn't trying to pick her up anymore. After we went shopping there was a couple of hours until I had to take her home and go to this party. I half jokingly asked her if she wanted to go make out. She said sure. I took her to my mother's boss house, who was in England. We took a pad off of a pool lounge chair and put it on the ground and started making out. I got to second base as fast as I could but got stopped there. I spent the next 45 minutes or so with my hand up a shirt, sloppy kisses on my mouth and grinding my crotch into hers, jean on jean. I still remember how uncomfortable that felt. I took her home, we laughed and joked the whole way to her place. We hung out a few more times, hooked up and enjoyed each others company. Then she started dating someone, and I think I started dating someone and we just stayed friends.

About 9 months later I was keeping myself occupied with random girls and thoughts of college and everything that happens the last months of your senior year. My parents were in the process of splitting up. They still lived at the same house but spent a lot of time with the people who would become my steps. One particularly lonely afternoon I called Jessica. I invited her over. We hadn't hooked up since Christmas the year previous probably, or maybe later, or sooner, I don't remember. When she showed up at my door the first thing she said was that she wasn't going to kiss me. I hugged her and said no problem. We walked through my empty house to my bedroom. I think she had been over before, probably for a party. I put on some cd that was killing me at the time and we sat on the bed. Soon we were laying together, sort of spooning, sort of anxious, sort of distant. I think she said she had changed, that she didn't do that sort of stuff anymore. I told her again that it was ok. I told her I wasn't looking for that. She asked what I was looking for. I told here I just wanted someone there, someone to help fill the empty house, but life back into the coffin that had become my bed, my room, my house, my life. She looked shocked, a little. She hadn't signed up for this. I didn't know what she expected. Probably to repeatedly push away my advances. Maybe to give in. Maybe early afternoon sex. Maybe a bible reading. But she didn't get any of that. She just laid there next to me with a hand in my hair until she had to go home. And she left.

We didn't mention that afternoon. We rarely talked, except for school stuff and mild gossip at lunch. I think she is married now with a kid. And on that one day she did more than she will ever know for me.

nothing feels as old

As I did last night. I sat on my bedroom floor drinking wine, eating fake buffalo wings and then drinking beer. When you meet someone who hasn't heard all of your stories, who wasn't there for all the heartbreak and happiness, who doesn't have all of the same friends, and spent their formative years in different parks/garages/clubs/driveways/backseats you get to learn more about yourself. Recounting losing your virginity is different when it is almost 10 years removed. Replaying soundtracks to your evenings leaves you with songs that don't carry the weight they used to. Trying to explain inside jokes, or why you can't get high, or name sections of deserts that are now empty shopping centers, or which girl it was that you last referred to as a girl, before you started dealing with women, really add the pages to the calender that had snuck on unnoticed up to this point. But being so far removed from these things and realizing that you don't have to defend those decisions anymore, that makes the transitions easy to take. It was a great night on my bedroom floor, like one I hadn't spent in almost a decade.

In Between Days - mix

This post is late. By more than a week. At least its not my period. ;)

On March 19th, 2000 a war ended. It was a Sunday. I had spent St. Patrick's Day weekend in Ventura at a Holiday Inn. I was celebrating a friend's birthday with a future ex-best friend, a future ex-girlfriend, a future bride and her mother. I don't remember anything else about that trip. What we did, where we ate, or if I slept good. When I got home on Sunday I got the phone call. My mom wasn't home, and she was never coming back. There were tears, and I understood and I didn't want to.

On March 19th, 2003 (give or take some hours) a war started. It was a Wednesday. I had spent St. Patrick's Day in my converted boat house room drinking Black and Tans. I was celebrating drinking on a Monday with a future ex-coworker, a future ex-girlfriend, a future ex-friend, and his broken chair. I don't remember anything else about that night. While I was at work I on Wednesday I saw the news on the TV. I put it on the radio in my department at Best Buy. I heard the sounds of rockets and explosions and talking heads while I sorted car stereos. When I got home I tossed and turned all night with the sound of analysts and missiles and the green hue of night vision on my television. This time there were no tears, and I understood, but I didn't want to.

So to celebrate, no remember, the intersecting of my personal and non-personal lives on the same day 3 years apart I made this mix. It's about love and hate, war and peace, me and myself.


Inbetween - http://drunkbike.com/inbetween.zip - mix
When It Rains - Paramore
Ashtray Monument - Jawbreaker
Lullaby For The Taken - Kimya Dawson
The Weight of Guilt - Lucero
Good Fucking Bye - Matt Skiba
This Year - The Mountain Goats
Black Masks & Gasoline - Rise Against
By The Throat - Dead To Me
To Lanterns, Denver, and One Last Lament - Defiance, Ohio
Playing Dumb - The Good Life



Editors Note - I had thought that the phone call came on St Patrick's Day, but in going over calenders I see that it actually happened on the 19th. That is why the mix is called in between days, because the post was supposed to be on the 18th. I hope that helps any confusion.

well there's poor then there's poor

That's the opening line from a song my friend Dan wrote today. He recorded it and sent it to me. It is very good. When there is a proper version of it I'll pass it along.

Yesterday I learned something about my friends when I was trying to be told something else about them. Another person, my dad, was trying to get me to join the military. And he was saying I've wasted the past 8 or so years of my life. And that my friends don't care about me. I threw rocks across the street at a real estate sign that I couldn't hit. I drank box wine from a red solo cup and tried not to cry when trying to defend my actions/feelings/loves up to that exact moment. But I didn't do any actual defending. I sort of caved, and agreed that maybe things could be better, or at least different.

Bill came home. Crystal came home. Juliana and Bobb came home. Bert came over. Stephanie came over. We shared drinks and stories of the disconnect between us and our parents. How I am spoiled that my mother shows general interest in the things I do, the songs I sing, the pictures I take, and the things I write, and that none of our other parents understand what we are doing. They were all married, with kids, and careers by this point in their lives. Some were on their second marriage already. They don't see the point in working jobs we hate to have enough money for rent in a house with our best friends and buy 24 packs of beer on a sunday night. They don't see the point in anything we do. And that is ok. They still all love us, and they still wants nothing but the best for us, but their best and our best are different. I can tell you that we all care about each other, and we all include each other in most of our plans and decision making.

And I learned something about myself.

I can find something to be passionate about. I think I found it. And I learned that I can tell someone something and not need their approval, or a response. I can say something so that I know it has been said, and that is all that matters.

I'm learning to apply my diy/punk rock ethics to other areas of my life. It makes me smile.

the recurring joke that is probably much more serious

I like to say that I am really seven years old. Actually, I think it is funny. That even though I can hold down a job or have a girlfriend or a checking account or drive a car or drink beer or stay out late, I am actually only developmentally seven years old. Pee and Poop jokes are still the best. I like running around whatever house/apartment I am occupying naked. Completely inconsequential things. Except for this feeling I experienced this morning.

I'm really selfish. I'm going to take my ball home and then no one can play selfish. I get upset when people move on with their lives without me. I think I should be massively more important to people than I am or deserve to be. Even the people who I am very important to, its not enough. I can completely abandon friends that I have had for 1,5,10,15, even 20 years, and they should still hang on my every word, thought and emotion.

I am an asshole. A son-of-a-bitch. A piece of shit even. I have very little consideration for other peoples feelings. I showed that by the way I handled moving out to Chicago, and the way I have handled myself since I got here.

I am thankful everyday that my friends and family put up with me. I don't know if I could, or even want to.

I really don't know why I expect people to wait around for me. I always thought, hell, I was sort of raised, that if you wait around you'll get left behind. More and more these days I wouldn't mind getting left behind.

...

I am existential crisis. I sit in a leather chair at a bookstore and talk with my mother. I want to make sure she is sober. I want to make sure she is ok. I just talk about myself instead. I tell her what I'm thinking, almost. SO i say goodbye and I walk down the street. The sun is down. It is cold. Cars drive past and their headlights bloom. It might be tears. It might be my eyes quiting on me. Strangers and their children look at me. They know. They can see it. I got rid of most of my stuff. I left some of it in the care of others. I took plains and buses to get 2,011 miles away, the long way. And what do I do? I still ask if you would like a PRESIDENTE margarita. I don't play guitar. I play it less, which I didn't think was possible. I don't write. I barely even think. Except for tonight. This light won't change. I don't change either. I have to cross the street. I have to make money. I have to pay rent. I have to be an adult. I am existential crisis. I can't change my mind. I can't give up. I cant retreat. I can't deem the whole experiment a failure. I can't try a different trajectory. I can't try a different location. I can second guess. And I do. And I will, no matter what happens. I'm standing on a corner waiting for a light to change, but I'm also riding in a car in the dark of the desert with a song playing, and I'm sitting in the back of a van on a nameless highway, and I'm looking out the window of an suv at some homes I'll never own and wondering why people kill and thinking I could never feel that way. Till I do. I am existential crisis. It shows on my face. My tables and coworkers think I'm tired. They ask if I'm sad. They ask if I'm drunk. They ask if I'm hungover. And I am. But not the way they get hung over. I forget to ask people how they want there meat cooked. Instead I standing on a balcony in the hills or lying naked in a car or screaming with all my heart or being screamed at. 365 days ago. I am a year older, a year of difference. But it feels like I just read a book about it. I get an extra day this year. I'll fuck it up like the rest. Not the rest of the world, but the rest of my days. I am existential crisis.

rinse. repeat.

I have a really good memory. I store lots of knowledge, some useful and some not. I remember a lot of things that happened when I was pretty young. I am glad I still remember this story.

I went to preschool at the same school that I went to for elementary, junior high, and high school. From being around 4 till 17 I spent most of my days at a private christian school. The original building was two stories and had a bunch of classrooms. In the middle was the playground for the kids in preschool, me.

In our classrooms we each had our own nap mats with our names on them. And we had coat hooks with our names on them. And we had clear boxes stacked high up out of reach with our names on them. Those held our emergency change of clothes.

My class had one set of teachers. The other classes had their own. There was this one teacher, man she was HOT! Tall, skinny, blond, gorgeous. (Funny how at 4 I already knew what was supposed to be considered attractive.) Knowing know about the hiring practices of the school, she was about 18-20 years old.

When I had recess and and her class hat nap time or some other activity I would stand outside and look into the window at her. Creepy. Then I would go run around and swing and slide and whatever, then go back and stare at her.

One day I was standing outside of her window and the urge to pee hit me. Like a ton of bricks. But I stood there. I crossed my legs and watched. I did what some have referred to as the pee-pee dance and watched. I pinched myself and watched. Then I gave in.

I pissed my pants.

And I stood there, watching. After a minute or so I went up to my teacher, feigning embarrassment, and told her I had an accident.

It was no accident. I knew I was going to, but I would rather stand there at the window and watch this teacher.

So I got to use my change of clothes. My pants had velcro instead of a zipper. I was awesome.

And a creepy bastard.

Now that essentially went on to repeat itself in very differing situations, no more piss, but definitely social awkwardness or discomfort, for the rest of my life. It still happens. And when I realize it, it makes me laugh.

the loosing of ties that bind

You remember people moving away. There were kids who would move in the middle of the school year. One day you are teasing some poor kid with them, the next they are telling you about Kansas City. The ones who moved in the middle of the year always moved to a "City" of some kind. Then it was the kids who you had shared a couple of years of school with, and this would be the last June you saw them. They would say goodbye to third grade, the Antelope Valley, and you. Then the family would move. Grandparents, retiring from work and constant showering of you with affection, would hit the road. Aunts and Uncles would soon follow. The cousins of course would have to go, even if their parents hit them with belts, even if they promised to come back. Neighbors would come and go, a better job, a better house, a better neighborhood. Teachers you had hoped to have the next year would be gone before Independence Day. Soccer teammates would leave just as soon as you started to remember their older sister's name.

And that was life. Person after person, family after family, crush after crush, best friend after best friend would leave the Antelope Valley. And you? You stayed.

You got the keys to your house so you could come and go as you pleased while your parents did anything BUT parent. You would sneak drinks, or pills, or porn. You made plans to join the masses, to get out! You were never coming back once your feet or tires hit the asphalt. You categorized the things that made you happy, the things that made you sad, and the things that did nothing at all. You knew what was going in you backpack/trunk/cardboard box that would help you keep living. And you planned. You put maps on your walls. You put push pins in possible destinations for your wandering heart. You ranked all of your friends in order of likelihood to join you in a cross country bus trip to a strange town. Every girl you met, you would picture them standing with you next to some lake you had only heard about on television or read about in books, hoping the picture looked right. It would consume your every thought. And one day you did it. You got out.

You left at the end of one season, and were home before the next season was finished. You walked out of your front door for the last time and the leaves on the trees were still a magnificent green, and you were back before they left the branches.

Some of your friends had moved on. Some had stuck around. You would tell stories of the things you saw and the things you did, and no one knew if you were lying, but you didn't have to. You had been ALIVE for 3 months, and these poor suckers didn't change at all. The reasons you came back? Not important. You would tell anyone what they wanted to hear. It was a girl. It wasn't what you were looking for. Your roommate was a bastard. Your band was more important than whatever you were doing there. You didn't fit in.

But really you were scared. It wasn't as easy as all of these people had made it out to be. But, really, you weren't in their heads. You didn't know anything of the sleepless nights, the empty kisses, the warm drinks. You just knew they were gone and you would never see them again.

So you tried again. Or you tried to make plans to try again, but you didn't go anywhere. You told your girlfriend you were moving, and broke up with her, only to have to admit a month later that you weren't going anywhere and you still loved her. And that was life.

Till you tried to make plans again. And they fell through. And again. And again. And again.

You still lived here, but your address changed faster than you could, or wanted to, forward the mail. You made new friends, and you lost old ones. And then one day you made it happen. You left again, but this time not for good, just for a while. And you missed everyone you left behind, until it was time to come back. And you don't know if you wanted to. Not because this new place was anything special, but because where you were heading was nowhere special either.

But you showed up that afternoon. And nothing had changed. Hair was longer, or shorter. Friends missed you, or didn't. Your bed was warm, or it wasn't. But you lied in it. Your old routines became new routines. Your old fights became new fights. Your old life became your new life.

Until it wasn't your life anymore.

So you jump from a couch to a guest bed to a borrowed bed to your own bed. And you make new friends. And you meet new women. And every morning you wake up alone. And sometimes there is coffee. Sometimes there is breakfast. Sometimes there is nothing.

And here you are. Your almost 25. And your friends are hearing the same rumblings they have heard a thousand times before. Some new city. Some new plan. Some new life. And you understand if they don't believe you. And you understand if they think you are crazy. And you understand if they think you will fail. Because you have all those same thoughts every time you tell anyone what you want to do. You look into eyes of lovers and friends and strangers and hope to see some sort of encouragement, some sort of support. But it's not there, and you don't blame them. You won't hold it against them, because you'll probably need their couch in a few months anyways.

movie rain is just water in a pipe

My understanding of how rain is obtained in movies is this: person pulls up a truck filled with water, hose attached, turned on, "it rains".

My understanding of how decisions are made in my life are this: person pulls up a truck filled with ideas, I become attached, turned on, "it rains". (it's not as sexual as it sounds, I promise.)

I've touched on this before, but I am going to try to expand the thought process this time.

When looking back on the things I did when I encountered the fork in the road I see a pattern, a way of thinking. I never pulled over. I never asked for directions. I just put on a blinker and went. Deciding on which colleges to apply to? Yup. Deciding to move? Yup. Falling in love? Yup. Falling out of love? That one too.

This has led to many days in unfamiliar places. Sometimes I wished to go back, and I tried, and I just ended up leaving again. Somethings I don't miss at all. I can fill a column of accounting homework paper with homes and jobs and friends and lovers that I have not and will have no problem never seeing again. (double negative? probably.) Then I also have a column that I miss tremendously, some weeks more than ever. I want to go back to those things. Some I have tried. And some of the time it didn't work out. And other times it did. And other times I haven't even been back, because the opportunity presented itself and I couldn't take it, or it never showed up.

I exchange other people's happiness for my own. I am a selfish person who requires a lot of attention and a constant update on what the people around me are feeling and thinking. Something may work for a while in keeping me happy/together/in one place, but once it stops I am done. I don't try to fix things. I don't try to figure out why that thing no longer works for me. And I don't try to figure out if I am the cause of the problem.

This all comes from my dealing with some feelings the last few days I have woke up. I feel I have been pushed into dissatisfaction with life, but really I have just been waiting for an excuse to drive that car into a lake like I'm a Kennedy.

Tomorrow: WHIT!

the more things stop the more they must go on

That is Tim Barry, he is good.

It's 3:15ish on a saturday night. I am alone in my bed for the first time in probably about a week. The days seem to be bleeding together. That happens when you do the same sort of things everyday. I wake up about 11. I eat some lunch. Some music gets played, either live or on speakers. I go to work. I almost break down. I drink. I spend my nights with a lady. Everyday. That is what I do. No ties, but it might as well be a nine to five. No wife, but it might as well be a nine to five. Sometimes it feels like no life, but it is still better than a nine to five.

I am in life reimagination mode right now. I put in my notice at work. I shaved off my beard, which I've had pretty non-stop for about 4 years. I am putting mental price tags on all of my possessions, in case of a fire sale. I am assessing my personal value, in terms of how much my time is worth, and if I can turn my time into a place to live and food and time with friends. I am making decisions with little to no thought. I am wondering if this is it, or if there is someother path, or door, or window, for me to take.

Dan said the other night that women were prone to trying to fix their lives by running away, by moving to a new town, finding new friends, new thoughts, new loves, but not doing anything different.

My X-chromosome must be acting up.

where do my sundays go...

I spent the evening working. I spent the later evening with bill and gabe talking about the things that brought us to where we are: parents, women, alcohol, hatred, love, and bands we will never see again. Some things got brought up that almost had me at the verge of tears. It was nice to see that I am not the only one. It was nice to see that things are different for all of us.

Sorry it's not sunday, but monday. If you were here, you would understand.

I hear that sometimes you fall into old habits, I am just one old habit after another

I spent approximately two hours fighting for something I should not fight for at all.

Two weeks ago this saturday I met a girl. I'm not being vague. She is a girl.

We have spent some evenings together. We have spent some mornings together. We have spent some afternoons.

I like her. I enjoy her company, I enjoy her personality, I enjoy the time we spend together.

We have had two fights. Actually, I was found out about spending time with another girl while things were still being figured out between the two of us, and tonight we fought.

I fought. She said the same thing over and over again.

Honestly, we hung out and I wasn't sure if we were ever going to see eachother again, so I hung out with another girl. Once we hung out again and I thought we would hang out more I stopped hanging out with the other girl.

Apparently people who barely know me are telling this girl to look out. Granted, I have done shit things in the past, and I will do them again. But I don't know what is being said about me, and I don't know who is saying it.

The point of this is I fought for 2 hours. For a relationship that doesn't even exist. It's a "hey, I like you enough to not try to fuck other girls right now" sort of thing. Is that a relationship? Maybe, probably not though. Is it worth going through you most recent relationship/love/sex information and hitting levels of honesty not expected from a man at most times? I doubt it.

I argued like my life depended on it. (That's a Booth trait, if your keeping track.) I argued like a marriage was ending. I argued like I haven't in a long time. I argued like I cared. And I did. But if your going to believe things said about me said by acquaintances and not give me the opportunity to say those things are true or false by not telling me what is said, well, I'm just going to put another Booth trait into action and drink Jack Daniels. That will solve as much as me making my point 15 times and you not getting it.

I fucking said it, I fucking mean it, I fucking meant it. (that's for you gabe)

I am going to bed. I am pissed.

Tomorrow is friday. It can only get better, unless it gets worse. I won't stand in front of any buses.

I hate you for making me fight so hard. I hope you see it.

on holidays, at best

Last night some of my favorite people with dicks (see: dudes) sat around a table in my backyard. We talked about our girlfriends, our conquests, our livers, our jobs, our music, our lives. We drank Old Fashioneds and PBR. We smoked cigarettes. (Even me, just one, for the first time in a couple of years.) It was a perfect ending to the holiday that was father's day. None of us are fathers, yet. But when it happens I hope we still have evenings like this.

I have a fairly large fear of ending up like my parents, socially. They had a large group of friends, did all sorts of fun things together, had parties, all of it. Most them had kids too. But as the years went on everyone went away. There were no more parties at our house, no more nights staying up with the adults, and, eventually, no more marriage. I hope we don't end up like them.

goodbye...

This is Big Dog. I met him 7 years ago. He was my step-dad's dog, but he soon became mine. I wasn't a dog person growing up. We had cats. Big Dog helped me to see how awesome dogs can be. I have great memories from living with him in both Lancaster and Sacramento. Big Dog passed away yesterday. They think he ate some wild mushrooms (which happen to be poisonous) that had popped up around Oregon. I will miss you Big Dog. I already do.

...In this pond, some rise, some sink.

I realized I'm becoming something I am not. I mean, yes, I am a little whiny (i.e. uno, dos), but that's from living with Atticus, that's not my fault.

I'm getting back to my roots, the thing passed on through the generations of Booth's that have come before me and carried the name with such passion.

I am drinking a forty in the middle of the afternoon, shirtless.

Happy Blackout Tuesday!