Though old news at this point, Hunter’s note to his wife.
My brother said recently, just as isolated and complete as I’m writing it, “I think that all unicorns should have mandatory wings, by design.”
I asked him how fair that was, to judge the unicorns without wings, and asked him how he’d like it if someone told him that he required something more to be himself. Brifely, I tried to find comparisons to see if I was actually drawing from intellect. Then I started to wonder the advantages and disadvantages the unicorn would have as a target, if it took to the skies vs. being plundered on land. Then I realized that I really needed something to do.
I decided to invite Julie from the past, over to my house. Her visit went well – we were both humbled and well behaved – and we went through the politics of high school before playing basic catch-up until both of us felt somewhere familiar.
“Let me buy you a pizza. It’s the least I can do for ruining your life,” I offered.
I don’t know if the jokes were very funny or if it was wise to forgive me, but I sided with what seemed honest and natural. Reality amuses me.
“If I hurt like this in the morning, I’m definitely seeing a doctor,” Brad groaned, having stayed behind me the entire length of the Green Day concert, giving elbows to anyone who tried to get in front of us. I don’t think I would have lasted twenty minutes in the crush down front, had he not absorbed most of the shock. As if that wasn’t a tough enough weekend for him, he’d also taken his turn at several Mai Tais to the toilet, the night before.
There were a few times, searching deep inside for the air required to stand, when I considered asking if we should move out the sides and back, but then Billie would run up the catwalk and I’d get too lost in black eyeliner to call it quits.
“I hope you don’t get anyone sick with your strep!” one short girl said to her ugly friend, shortly before having to be lifted out of the merciless crowd.
Big Nose replied, “Oh, it’s not contagious unless they have, like, a weak immune system.”
As my shirt began collecting several pounds of communal sweat, I knew I’d be in the doctor’s office a few days later.
Detroit’s 9/11 show was incredible; the band fooled around with a few covers while Billie used Chuck Berry’s duckwalk, sported a cape like James Brown and demonstrated Townshed’s windmill. Being up front, I felt the heat from the fire explosions, got a face full of water from their hose gun and was covered in encore confetti. Well worth the fight for life and thick, yellow drainage in my nose and chest.
I’ve been watching the Girls Next Door, an unscripted program on what life is like for Hugh Hefner’s three live-in girlfriends. The psychology wracks my brain, because it’s so unorthodox – so new age – such a twisted concept of my ideal playground. I could never pick out enough kitties and puppies to make up for the void from having to dress like a bunny for an 80 year old man. Three girls’ heaven is another girls’ heaven with a side of unbearable hell. When the show isn’t reminding me of the precious things in my life, it’s parading quirky little tarts in front of me – what’s not to like?
Reality amuses me.