Postcard to A Lost Weekend IV. 05.13.03

I was not alone in the late-recovery. Silver had a little Rhinegold-slow on him. Nascar-Anna and Eben woke up at 2. Joined by Linner’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, a couple more friends, a cooler of beer, meat, there we all were, in the backyard.

Thinking of how to move from our trash-talking free-cussing selves to our highly pleasant parental approved selves. Remembering how to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, how to be civil, and how to tell stories that do not involve “so I’m f*cking this girl.” For the uninitiated, yes, there is a joke and Silver will be happy to tell you.

Linner, thanks for having us over; your roommate was wherever little demons go on the weekends, and your boyfriend, Big Guy, is always a blast, and he makes sure we are fed. That’s cool. So was your tree-shrouded brick-floored backyard, your design portfolio (hope your interview went well), and your parents.

What was not cool, of course, was the fire coming out of the bottom of the fuel line of the grill’s propane tank. That could have ended poorly. The votive candle that caught afire was also kind of strange. Were you perhaps in a Firestarter-type of government program? Are you a mutant? Are we mean to you? Linner, don’t set your friends alight. Our hair smells funny in flames.

I know we didn’t talk enough on Saturday. I promise to go shopping with you and we will have an opportunity to chat—okay… I’m lying. But we will hang out and I will buy you a beer.

Torchingly Yours.