Don't ever write about writing. No one wants to hear about that. Even once you have become a successful writer, people don't want to hear about how you put words on paper. They just want the words.
Aunt Betty is turning 80. She would have been 38 when I was born. She'll live to be 105 because she doesn't have time to be bothered with dying. Aunt Betty sends birthday cards to me and my kids without fault. They might be late, but she admits it. I think I was 17 when she stopped slipping a $5 bill into those cards. That was probably the first inkling I had that I might becoming an adult.
Aunt Betty is great at Scrabble. She's very Catholic. She is probably disappointed in me, but would never let it show.
We moved away from New York when I was very young. Every summer we would travel back home. I remember Aunt Betty's back yard was full of mosquitoes if you ventured too close to the trees in the back of the yard. Her son had the most amazing Lord of the Rings poster in the basement. I think it was Lord of the Rings. It might have been a Led Zeppelin poster.
Her next door neighbor girl was at least four years older than me. She once pretended that I was her boyfriend to make another neighbor kid jealous. That five minutes is burned into my memory. Her slanted driveway. She was wearing yellow shorts. She put her arm around me and claimed we were boyfriend and girlfriend. There was a broken lawn chair on the curb waiting for the trash men. I played it cool. Or maybe I was scared shitless. Either way, she was off after the boy in five minutes. I might have waited an hour for her to come back. Years later I saw her again. She remembered me but only so. I don't think she remembered the "boyfriend" thing. I can't seem to forget.
In her most recent birthday card to me, Aunt Betty mentioned that she didn't really have a computer, but if she did, she'd look up my blog and give it a read. While I stand behind ever letter and word and phrase and paragraph and Jesus comic I've written, I think I would be embarrassed for her to read all of this nonsense. She would probably laugh. She does have a good sense of humor and, by Catholic Law, has to forgive me for my sins.
Aunt Betty is having a surprise birthday party thrown for her next weekend in New York. Sally suggested we go. 12 hours there. 12 hours back. It would be hellish. And totally worth it.
Happy Birthday, Aunt Betty!
And if between now and next Saturday you do get the internet and read this horrible web site, I'm sorry I ruined the surprise. Forgive me.
Neighborhood Sign Feud
This photo is from my buddy Chris who lives in the Tampa area. About six weeks ago, three blocks from his house, the sign on the right popped up in a yard that said "John Lebron at 3006 is a felon on probation". 3006 is the address of the house next door. About three days later, a crudely drawn sign appeared in the yard of 3006 that said "This is true. I was a drug addict, but have been saved by Jesus Christ, my Savior". That sign lasted only a few days and was eventually replaced by the sign you see here on the left which reads "Our neighbor is impotent and can't have children".
{Editor's Note: Chris called me to say the signs have been taken down. Too bad no one took photos and posted them on the internet so that they would live on forever!}
Different angle
The Bird Cage
The Bird Cage burnt down. It was a bar in Prescott, AZ in a place
called Whiskey Row. A total loss.
But this story begins at an ATM machine.
The Huntington Bank next to COSI had a high tech video
remote station. You could contact Huntington
Bank and open an account, dispute some drunken charges or secure a loan. Using my 1988 Honda Civic as collateral, I
bought Miss Sally an engagement ring.
I took the ring home, wrapped it in tissues, snuggled it
into a beer cap and then kept it in my 5th pocket of my jeans,
waiting for the right moment to propose.
The right moment took about three months.
Over Christmas, I bought Sally a camera. To her mom’s dismay, I didn’t propose over
Christmas. While I was out of her house
at the grocery, her mother set the camera on her left hand and claimed it was
an engagement camera. They told me about
it when I got back. I laughed, the ring
safe in its tissue lined bottle cap nest.
Then towards the end of January, we went out west to visit Sally’s
best friend Tanya. She lived in Phoenix
at the time. We spent one night in South
Mountain Park, the largest city park in the United States. We hiked up to an old helicopter pad. It was the perfect night. The sun was setting.
It was beautiful. But we were drunk as all get out and I didn’t want the moment
to be spoiled, even though I knew that Sally might have to be drunk to say “yes.”
Later on that week, we drove north to Prescott. We stayed in this hotel where all the rooms
are themed out. Ours was the Christmas
Room. Tanya's boyfriend and I decided to put on suit jackets
and we all hit an area of town called Whisky Row.
There were several “historic” bars in a row. Inside one of the bars called "The Bird Cage" were bikers. Bikers in leather. Bikers
in chaps. Bikers with cigarettes. Bikers
with hats.
We drank and laughed and watched the bikers.
Around midnight, I could take it no longer.
In this smokey bar, filled with drunks and bikers and drunken
bikers, I asked Miss Sally to sit down on a stool (which almost made her
taller.) I’m sure I said some really
dumb things and then I pulled out the ring and I proposed.
She was stunned. And she said yes.
Did I mention that I had a goatee at the time?
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