Oh, so many things, so many things.
Where shall I even begin?
Let’s turn a spotlight on the many events that have taken place during the long span of time since we last held hands and jumped excitedly in the air together shall we?
My unrivalled ability to plan a concert going trip during the full moon, when my kids will be at their wildest, is legendary. Unfortunately for Chuck, while I was having my face melted off by the Pixies in Asbury Park, NJ, he was rocking in a corner crying because of the outrageous exploits of our offspring. But because I’ve not yet finished talking about myself and it really is ALL about me we’ll push that nugget off to the sidelines for discussion at a later date.
The Pale Ale goes down and the Anger comes up and long ago somebody left with my cup.
Yes, go ahead and make a superior mental note to yourself that this borrows generously from Cake’s Going the Distance.
Do you feel smug now?
Anyway,after the Pixies concert I suffered an entire evening of post traumatic stress disorder from the angry bartender at a local Asbury Park haunt who kept screaming for me to “show her my stamp” in order to procure a pale ale. Surly is not a character trait I appreciate in my daily life and I like it even less when I’m at the mercy of some power hungry mean and small woman with shredded jeans who stands defiantly between me and my drink. I suffered the indignity of using my arthritic fingers to dig my ancient drivers license out of my wallet to prove I was “of age” and then bit my tongue when a sniveling hipster branded me with black ink across the back of my left hand only to be forced to DISPLAY this mark of mature wisdom to quench my thirst.
Thank goodness these wounds to my psyche healed so well.
Superior driving trumps poor road conditions
Somehow after this whirlwind night of loud music and revelry I awoke and was catapulted directly into the most dismal and terrifying return trip home as I was forced to brave Snowtober, or whatever the fuck you people were calling it. I called it sure-fire way to die in a whiteout nightmare.
All Hallows eve for the misguided
Halloween fell soon afterward with my older son becoming apathetic enough to don a Cookie Monster hat and a blue parka daring to call it a costume. The twelve-year-old helped set my jaw in permanent “disapprove” position when she skipped down the lane dressed as Nicki Minaj. Thankfully, the baby went as Ironman and I now have a years supply of Snickers and Twix to ward off the strangling hands of depression.
A succession of near misses.
Hey did you hear?
An asteroid the size of an aircraft carrier is making its way straight for the earth and in a strange turn of events I spent three hours of my day watching Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia on pay per view.
Nevermind that this hasn’t even been released in theatres yet so I kept wondering if I’d traveled unknowingly to the future to see Kirsten Dunst look really depressed at the longest wedding ever committed to film. I defy you to sit through the nuptials and reception without taking a bathroom break.
I’ve been quoted as saying that any movie that Charlotte Gainsbourg is in is worth watching for her alone and this one was no exception. That woman is poetry in motion pictures.
And so there you have it. A disjointed rambling onslaught about a slice of time that I’ve no idea how it got away from me….
And now it’s here, preserved in words so that when it all leaves my memory banks and is washed down the river for good you can refer to this and know exactly what I did with these 31 days.