In the Land of the Half-Hearted
[Performance piece from the Heartland Cafe 5/3/06, may lose something in translation to text]
It is Sam's birthday today, which is the extent that this piece is about her. According to my favorite social networking hub, Sam knows Arvo but I've never asked the connection.
Arvo is bald and wears suits that cover up the stupid tattoos he got when he was younger. I feel a certain kinship with Arvo. Born Robert, he chose his first name the way I chose my last. When you meet him, he is either disarmingly charming or creepy, and if you replace the word "creepy" withthe word "a complete asshole" then you've got nearly every first impression I've ever left.
Sam and Arvo and I are 23, seventeen years away from forty. If you ask him, he'll never make it to there, but if you asked me ten years back, I would've never made it to seventeen.
I've decided to find a new unit of measurement.
I am 6 apartments old. I am 3 long term relationships old, 4 auto accidents that almost killed me old. I am 500,000 sheets of jizz-caked facial tissues and far fewer sheets of paper caked with poetry old.
Am I 100 bottles of whiskey yet, and do I want to be, and is that a big number? Am I 1000 yet? I am forty three lines of cocaine old, at least half of them shared with the same bass player. I am ffive successfull handjobs old. I am ten hits of acid old, that I can remember, and one pound of mushrooms old, that I can remember, but most people would wager more.
But if I can tell you that I'm one pound of mushrooms and ten hits of acid old, why can't I tell you how old I am in trips to the beach? Why can't I count my age in the number of dogs I've met or cats I've pet or lizards I've held? How many times can I kiss a girl, or drive to the store for my grandmother on Shabbot, or kick someone's ass in a videogame, or fold the page of a book I'm reading, or ride down Lake Shore Drive in the middle of the night when it's snowing, or unclasp a bra, or have someone tell me that I'm not ugly and they love me over the course of twenty-three years before I stop counting?
It is Sam's birthday today, which is the extent that this piece is about her. According to my favorite social networking hub, Sam knows Arvo but I've never asked the connection.
Arvo is bald and wears suits that cover up the stupid tattoos he got when he was younger. I feel a certain kinship with Arvo. Born Robert, he chose his first name the way I chose my last. When you meet him, he is either disarmingly charming or creepy, and if you replace the word "creepy" withthe word "a complete asshole" then you've got nearly every first impression I've ever left.
Sam and Arvo and I are 23, seventeen years away from forty. If you ask him, he'll never make it to there, but if you asked me ten years back, I would've never made it to seventeen.
I've decided to find a new unit of measurement.
I am 6 apartments old. I am 3 long term relationships old, 4 auto accidents that almost killed me old. I am 500,000 sheets of jizz-caked facial tissues and far fewer sheets of paper caked with poetry old.
Am I 100 bottles of whiskey yet, and do I want to be, and is that a big number? Am I 1000 yet? I am forty three lines of cocaine old, at least half of them shared with the same bass player. I am ffive successfull handjobs old. I am ten hits of acid old, that I can remember, and one pound of mushrooms old, that I can remember, but most people would wager more.
But if I can tell you that I'm one pound of mushrooms and ten hits of acid old, why can't I tell you how old I am in trips to the beach? Why can't I count my age in the number of dogs I've met or cats I've pet or lizards I've held? How many times can I kiss a girl, or drive to the store for my grandmother on Shabbot, or kick someone's ass in a videogame, or fold the page of a book I'm reading, or ride down Lake Shore Drive in the middle of the night when it's snowing, or unclasp a bra, or have someone tell me that I'm not ugly and they love me over the course of twenty-three years before I stop counting?
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