“Alright, man,” my Pop-Pop sighs. “You good?” In the brown Matador, the constant can of beer between his legs, me squinting from the curb and feeling weird, like this was it, like here we go and I am about to become the sole witness to some kind of creepy American history: this last bizarrely fat hard-on of the old battleship radarman, popping up out of his crotch like a a mushroom cloud appearing on the distant horizon: wiping out an entire city: wiping out everyone in its horrible path: my grandfather, a World War II Navy veteran who has never really found his way in the world after the big dance, smiles at me warmly with all the rising love that two semi-warm cans on the drive over here could possibly muster.
This brings back memories. I was the girl who could skate like a bandit. But one the boys never wanted to skate with... Fuck 'em. I have a better record collection.
Whoa. Your stuff slays me every Friday but this one reverberated through every cell. I would have to be a writer as insanely ridiculously evocative and electric as you in order to express my appreciation properly so I'll just say holy fuck and thank you.
Shades of “In God We Trust… All Others Pay Cash” as shot through a suburb of Philly in 1984. Sweet. Aching. Cinematic. I could see it all through your eyes. I could see that kid in his parachute outfit, feel his ache; remember those adolescent/pubescent fantasy scenarios spun out by my own 12/13/14 year old self. Well done, my friend. Yet again.
You are Bizarre & Beautiful! An apt description if there ever was!
Thanks, Jeffrey. :)
This brings back memories. I was the girl who could skate like a bandit. But one the boys never wanted to skate with... Fuck 'em. I have a better record collection.
It’s utterly amazing how you capture life in words. Ditto for me, Kristen’s comment.
Thanks a lot, Sharon.
Whoa. Your stuff slays me every Friday but this one reverberated through every cell. I would have to be a writer as insanely ridiculously evocative and electric as you in order to express my appreciation properly so I'll just say holy fuck and thank you.
Thank you so much, Kristin. I really appreciate that.
Shades of “In God We Trust… All Others Pay Cash” as shot through a suburb of Philly in 1984. Sweet. Aching. Cinematic. I could see it all through your eyes. I could see that kid in his parachute outfit, feel his ache; remember those adolescent/pubescent fantasy scenarios spun out by my own 12/13/14 year old self. Well done, my friend. Yet again.
Thanks a lot, Tom.