I’ll just get right to Thanksgiving. If I’d had my druthers, I’d’ve gone to Laredo and had two proper Mexican Thanksgivings with both sides of my extended family, but my car is what it is, and I just don’t trust it on a 256-mile stretch. Sooo, I stuffed my mouthhole at my sister’s fiancé’s house. It was nice. Much fancier than the Thanksgivings I’m used to, but my father was kind enough to generate a little bubble of familiarity by doing child-like impressions of my crying over the wild animals I had captured and accidently killed while trying to care for them. It’s truly difficult to describe a 61-year-old man pretending to be a baby grackle, choking on a wadded piece of bread. He also told of my old turtle, Mr. Turtle, who was eaten alive by fire ants, “eyes and all.” I didn’t know about the eyes part. It was like 1988 all over again. His facts were all wrong. The bird choked to death on a minnow I had squished with maternal concern, and Mr. Turtle was killed by my mother. She had caged him in the backyard for exercise, and the ants got him. I buried him in a ceremonious shallow grave and later exhumed his body for the sake of science. My dad’s impression of my tears was pretty good though, but I couldn’t discredit his historical dramatization over all the guests’ laughter, so I just sagged in my chair, chewed my fried turkey, and remembered the short, sad life of Mr. Turtle.
I met Sonya, or pachuca dolce to you, at Spiderhouse on Friday because I had flaked on her birthday outing on Monday, and I hadn’t seen her in months. She had on one of those Gatsby golf hats the kids are wearing these days, and she petted her long ponytail while we talked about our mutual character flaws. Her DJ friend was “spinning” there, and he had on an interesting hat too except he wore it like Boy George. I think I’ll get a cool hat, but I’ll wear it like a man, maybe put a “press pass” card in the band so I can start saying things like “What’s the rumpus?” I went to Roger’s apartment after Spiderhouse and watched Family Guy episodes and youtube videos. Roger showed me how to tune my guitar to open A, and he let me borrow a slide so that I can sound like Robert Johnson, God rest his poisoned soul (Johnson, not Roger). I can’t do it yet, and I popped the G string on my guitar because Roger wouldn’t answer his phone on Saturday when I repeatedly called him for further tuning instructions. Bastard.
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