July 28, 2007


I went home to surprise my mama for her birthday. She wasn't home when I arrived. She didn't blv me when I called her and told her I was at the house. I read her the To Do list on the counter and then she blvd me.
Since my sister and I moved out, we've been replaced by a menagerie of small animals.
I also rode out to Coon Rapids to participate in pre-bar-exam ritual. It was just like eleventh grade again: stop at SA for Diet Dr. Pepper and smokes, traffic and maje shit talking, weird conversation with Britt's parents, and a creamy dinner at a strip mall restaurant that has TVs and a smoking section.
Back home too soon and guess whose riding shotgun? It's Morgo! Or as I am now calling her "Chico and Alphonse".
Walked past the old house, which is next door to the old-old house. The yards look just like when we lived there, except the house is missing and there are not busted-ass bikes locked to the fence and mail strewn in the bushes. JR and I looked around for some remnants of what was, but all we found was chips of bathroom tiles and empty Polaroid boxes. Back when we had those yards, we partied. Oh, cold blooded old times--ennui and misery, big plans and vegan BBQs. Al hosted his exes wedding reception there, to the right, and the bride yanked down her white jumpsuit and peed in my garden. Maybe you read about it in the last Burn Collector. Well, however you imagined it, this is what it really was. Trashed jungle.

Yardless and wistful, we are forced out to the park for Matt's going-away picnic. He ran 18 miles this morning and still found time to pick up the drinks. Tomorrow, he heads to St. Louis and when he comes back in a few years, he'll be a lawyer. But let's not talk about that part.
Who has time for sad feelings when my tight bro, Baby Max, is the picnic centerpiece? He can smile now.
The only time I see JR with this beatific look on his face at Chava's Tacos or when we're hanging with Max.
Morgan brought cucumber sammies. I made a white beet and yellow carrot salad that looked like shaved puke.
Doug and Kiki came too.
Al modeling his shirt. We were worried when he rolled up on his bike, it looked like it read "Destroy Babys", but he's not that punk.

Posted by Jessica at July 28, 2007 07:30 PM | TrackBack