When I was a kid, and I mean a teeny-tiny kid, my family was fairly well off. Upper middle class in the early 'Eighties. I'd place us somewhere in the upper lower class now. I have a roof over my head, but it's slowly falling apart (every time it rains, I get nervous because my ceiling has a bunch of soft spots which I have covered with duct tape). My electrical system is breaking down. I can't afford to repair the broken garage door. I can't even fix the plumbing. But back then times were different. Back then we could actually have those awesome Christmas parties like you see only in movies these days. We would not have looked out of place at Kevin McCallister's house.
One of our traditions was for my grandfather to break out the projector and play films of Christmases past, when it was just him, Grandma, my mom and my aunt. Some of these 8 mm films were shot in Arizona, where they all lived for a while, but quite a few were shot around Chicago and then in Elmhurst, at the home we inhabited at the time. It was a grand place. Two stories, an attic, a basement and a backyard big enough to play baseball in. It was weird seeing my mom as a kid and teenager. Parents never grew up. They were born fully grown, and they had full dominion over their kids. The very idea that my grandfather wanted to keep track of these memories was kind of odd, too. He only ever kept track of Christmas. Never any other moments. That was left up to Grandma and a Kodiak camera. Or sometimes a Polaroid. Back then she smoked Golden Lights. She had a leather pouch for her cigarettes and her lighter. She hasn't smoked in decades, which makes this fact even crazier.
Christmas belonged to Gramps, though. He relished recording every moment with his video camera. This tradition continued with my arrival on the scene, as well as my cousin's birth. When Gramps showed those on this roll-down screen, it always fascinated us. That's footage of us when we didn't even know who we were! There was a kind of magic to that.
After that, Gramps, wearing his rainbow colored shirt that said, over and over, WORLD'S GREATEST GRANDPA, would screen a few other short films. We had PUSS-N-BOOTS and a couple of Three Stooges shorts. It was great. I remember laughing at each reel as if it was the first time I'd ever seen it.
About a decade or so ago, I was scrounging around in the basement when I uncovered not just the old reels of film, but also the projector. The screen was nowhere to be found, unfortunately, but we had a white wall and plenty of space to watch. First the ones of my mom and aunt in their childhood, whether under the hot Arizona sun or in the frosty wasteland of Chicago. Then out to the suburbs. To them growing up. To me and my cousin as children. Building snowmen. Unwrapping presents. It was a window in time.
And then the projector melted down the film, rendering the machine unusable. It was nice to get that one last look into a past that will be forgotten when I'm no longer here. When my cousin is no longer here.
I spent Christmas today with the few remaining. My cousin lives off in Colorado now, so it was Gramps, Grandma, my aunt and another cousin. No one recorded anything. But I remember talking with my grandfather, and I have a sneaking suspicion this is his last Christmas. He can't walk anymore. He's confined to the living room, where he spends his time watching TV and doing not much else. He no longer shaves or cuts his hair. And he's been like that so long that he no longer knows the layout of his own home. He's forgotten quite a lot. He still knows my name, but he's uncertain about a lot of other stuff.
Maybe someday I can figure out a way to clean out that burnt film, maybe replace the bulb, if they make 'em anymore. Maybe just put the old reels on DVD, or something. In my youth I was convinced that I was going to die at the age of 40. That's an article for another day. I've recently decided that I hope I can squeeze out at least another decade. Maybe two. But no more than that. Getting old sucks. I've seen it first hand. My grandfather will be 90 in a few weeks. I don't ever want to reach that age.
But I keep thinking back to the time of those 8 mm reels, and I miss it. That was before I had any brothers, meaning that was before my mom met the creature who--eh, forget it. I've gone on about that before. Suffice it to say, the John Bruni in those films was someone who had yet to get the shit kicked out of him by the world, and everyone around him was young and alive and full of hope.
To quote a great series of books, "O, Discordia!"
Showing posts with label grandfather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grandfather. Show all posts
Sunday, December 25, 2016
Friday, September 16, 2016
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #203: GOODBYE TO THE PAST
As a result my first taste of booze as a discerning adult was Jim Beam. I stuck to what I liked at first, but when I saw the variety available I jumped in. I quickly discovered Wild Turkey 101 within the first year it was released, and I fell in love. It's been my favorite ever since. I think Booker's is even better, but it's too expensive for me to drink more than maybe once every two years.
But Jim Beam will always have a place in my heart. Imagine my joy when a friend of mine inherited a bunch of booze from the 'Seventies a while back. One of them was the bottle of Jim Beam you see above.
He shared, for which I am eternally grateful. My fellow drunkards know that Jim Beam documents their family on the side of their bottle. Currently Jim Beam has seven faces on their label. The one my friend shared with me?
Five. How cool is that? Also I noticed something I'd never seen as a child because I didn't have enough booze knowledge. The original Jim Beam had a proof of 86. Today it has a proof of 80, which is the industry standard. When the fuck did this happen? I have a history of protesting Jack Daniel's because they quietly lowered their proof from 90 to 80, and when MODERN DRUNKARD called them out on it, they acted in a very snobby way. They were of the opinion that MDM didn't know what the fuck they were talking about because they weren't distillers. Well . . . the writers at MDM were your customers. I was, too. Not anymore.
Jim Beam quietly lowered their proof from 86 to 80. No one ever called them out on it, so they had no opportunity to respond in a snobby fashion. I searched the internet far and wide, but I've never been able to find an explanation. It's almost like it never happened. But I had the, uh, well. Proof. Sorry. I tried to avoid a pun, and there was no pun intended. There wasn't a way around it.
My friend gave me the bottle, and I had about an inch left at the bottom. Vintage Jim Beam. I intended to save it for a special occasion. Earlier this week, however, I decided to down it. I'm going on a road trip tomorrow that could be a great help to my writing career, and I decided to celebrate.
The thing is, no one is likely to drink vintage Jim Beam from here on out. It's all been drunk, right? It was the end of an era. Whenever I do something I know is going to be the passing of a way of life I like to listen to my favorite song in the world. I don't listen to it often because I don't want it to wear out. As your physician I recommend you follow suit.
How was it? It fucking burned so hard I had to flinch. I'm used to high proof booze, but this had nothing to do with potency. They used to make booze with a tougher bite. It reminded me of something else. It tasted a lot like Jim Beam Black. Surprise! JBB is 86 proof. Hm . . . The only difference is that what I drank had a sting that the Black doesn't have. The closest you can get to the classic is JBB, though. I highly recommend it.
Remember when booze had a sticker as a seal instead of a plastic ring?
Oh yeah. Those were the days. It's making a comeback, but no one is confident enough to abandon the plastic ring in such situations.
Goddam. That one inch of vintage Jim Beam was fucking awesome. Sorry folks. I was the last to have it. I'm tempted to mention a story of mine from a while back about a similar thing. Ah hell, the magazine is out of print, so it's not really a plug. It was in THE BRACELET CHARM Winter 2010. "From the Vineyard of Eden." A private investigator is hired by a snob to procure a bottle of wine on auction. This wine was made thousands of years ago from the grapes of the literal Eden. This guy had a hard-on for the oldest alcoholic beverage known to humanity. Spoiler alert: when he finally got it, it tasted like shit, but he'd lied to himself enough so that he believed it was the best ever.
But this Jim Beam I'm talking about? It really was good. It's better than I can explain here. I wish you could all taste it.
But it was only one inch, and unlike my friend, I'm pretty stingy when it comes to once-in-a-lifetime experiences. Sorry. But take my word for it, it was fucking awesome.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #150: THE POST-CON DEPRESSION
This is a bit late in posting, but mostly it's because I've been super fucking busy. I just wanted to take a quick second to talk about something that I don't usually see writers discuss: the post-con depression.
There is something magical about a convention. It's exhausting because you have to perform for hours on end, doing your absolute best to sell your books (or, if you're fortunate enough, your table partner's books). Writing is an introverted thing; to suddenly be a book-slinging extrovert is hard to pull off for that kind of personality.
But a writer has to be both. When creating, a writer must be isolated and alone. Yet when selling, a writer must be outgoing and fun and adventurous. When you think about it, it's the perfect combination. It's the yin-yang personality all in one. It's actually a lot of fun because you get to talk with a bunch of strangers that are into the same shit you're into. Most times you don't even have to talk about your own work. You get to talk about cool shit you like, and if you sell a book, cool. That's the best part: talking about cool shit. That even extends to the fortunate few who have a table partner. At Flashback Weekend, I was lucky enough to have MP Johnson by my side. I could talk shop with him for hours on end because we've been at this for the same amount of time, and we have a lot of similar stories. Plus it helps that he's got a deep punk background and has some supercool stories. If you get the chance to work with him and you don't, you're a fool.
I'm wandering a bit from what I meant to talk about, but it's worth noting that hanging out and selling books with MP Johnson is fucking awesome, and it makes the post-con depression a little harder to take because even now, as I go to bed early to make it in time for my square job, I miss it. I miss it a lot.
By the end of Sunday, I was fucking exhausted. Yet I knew it was a rewarding experience, and not just because I sold a bunch of books. I took Monday off to recover, but when I woke up and realized that I couldn't go to Flashback and sell and talk and have fun because it was over, I felt a darkness wash over me. I didn't even want to get out of bed.
(Something else happened, and it hurts me waaaaaaay too much to talk about right now. Maybe someday, but it certainly added to my overwhelming depression that day.)
I don't want to write. I NEED to write, and I've been doing this for a long time. It's great to have the modicum of success I've had, and it's a harbinger of what's to come. But when I clocked into my square job on Tuesday, the finality crept in. I couldn't do the awesome shit I really had fun with because I had to work at a 9-5 (except in my case it's more like 5:45 am to 2:15 pm). I honestly believe I was meant to do these shows and sell books and talk to awesome people all day, every day. To be stuck dealing with a square job? It nearly killed me.
To be fair, my square job is pretty nice. Plus I recently got a promotion. More money, better hours. Not bad, right? But I would much prefer to be doing cons and meeting people and selling shit and--you know. The best is when you have an awesome fellow author to sit at a table with. I've done it with MP Johnson and Kevin Strange, two awesome dudes who never run out of awesome things to say, whether it be about past experience or the industry. I wish I had those guys attached to each hip, just to remind me of how cool the cons are when I'm not stuck with my square job.
I guess the whole point of this rambling piece is to say that I would much rather hang out at cons with awesome people than be stuck at my square job. I'd really like to make that happen before I die. Until then, I guess I'm going to stick it out through the dark times of my mundane life.
PS: For those interested, my grandfather is doing much better. They moved him to hospice, but he's been getting better. I think he might actually be able to come home. Better news: the VA shaved his head. For as long as I've known him (ie. my entire life), he's been trying to pull off the worst comb-over in history. My grandmother noted that he looks like Bryan Cranston on BREAKING BAD, and I couldn't believe her. Not until I saw him. Holy shit, he looks younger and tougher than he's been in a while. I think he might actually pull through this. I'm an atheist, but I thank you all for your prayers. Your thoughts. All the friends who offered to help me. Everything and everyone. I wanted #150 to be a blockbuster, but it doesn't seem like much. Yet at the same time, it does. I think all of the anniversaries have something to do with Gramps.
Thank you, and goodnight.
There is something magical about a convention. It's exhausting because you have to perform for hours on end, doing your absolute best to sell your books (or, if you're fortunate enough, your table partner's books). Writing is an introverted thing; to suddenly be a book-slinging extrovert is hard to pull off for that kind of personality.
But a writer has to be both. When creating, a writer must be isolated and alone. Yet when selling, a writer must be outgoing and fun and adventurous. When you think about it, it's the perfect combination. It's the yin-yang personality all in one. It's actually a lot of fun because you get to talk with a bunch of strangers that are into the same shit you're into. Most times you don't even have to talk about your own work. You get to talk about cool shit you like, and if you sell a book, cool. That's the best part: talking about cool shit. That even extends to the fortunate few who have a table partner. At Flashback Weekend, I was lucky enough to have MP Johnson by my side. I could talk shop with him for hours on end because we've been at this for the same amount of time, and we have a lot of similar stories. Plus it helps that he's got a deep punk background and has some supercool stories. If you get the chance to work with him and you don't, you're a fool.
I'm wandering a bit from what I meant to talk about, but it's worth noting that hanging out and selling books with MP Johnson is fucking awesome, and it makes the post-con depression a little harder to take because even now, as I go to bed early to make it in time for my square job, I miss it. I miss it a lot.
By the end of Sunday, I was fucking exhausted. Yet I knew it was a rewarding experience, and not just because I sold a bunch of books. I took Monday off to recover, but when I woke up and realized that I couldn't go to Flashback and sell and talk and have fun because it was over, I felt a darkness wash over me. I didn't even want to get out of bed.
(Something else happened, and it hurts me waaaaaaay too much to talk about right now. Maybe someday, but it certainly added to my overwhelming depression that day.)
I don't want to write. I NEED to write, and I've been doing this for a long time. It's great to have the modicum of success I've had, and it's a harbinger of what's to come. But when I clocked into my square job on Tuesday, the finality crept in. I couldn't do the awesome shit I really had fun with because I had to work at a 9-5 (except in my case it's more like 5:45 am to 2:15 pm). I honestly believe I was meant to do these shows and sell books and talk to awesome people all day, every day. To be stuck dealing with a square job? It nearly killed me.
To be fair, my square job is pretty nice. Plus I recently got a promotion. More money, better hours. Not bad, right? But I would much prefer to be doing cons and meeting people and selling shit and--you know. The best is when you have an awesome fellow author to sit at a table with. I've done it with MP Johnson and Kevin Strange, two awesome dudes who never run out of awesome things to say, whether it be about past experience or the industry. I wish I had those guys attached to each hip, just to remind me of how cool the cons are when I'm not stuck with my square job.
I guess the whole point of this rambling piece is to say that I would much rather hang out at cons with awesome people than be stuck at my square job. I'd really like to make that happen before I die. Until then, I guess I'm going to stick it out through the dark times of my mundane life.
PS: For those interested, my grandfather is doing much better. They moved him to hospice, but he's been getting better. I think he might actually be able to come home. Better news: the VA shaved his head. For as long as I've known him (ie. my entire life), he's been trying to pull off the worst comb-over in history. My grandmother noted that he looks like Bryan Cranston on BREAKING BAD, and I couldn't believe her. Not until I saw him. Holy shit, he looks younger and tougher than he's been in a while. I think he might actually pull through this. I'm an atheist, but I thank you all for your prayers. Your thoughts. All the friends who offered to help me. Everything and everyone. I wanted #150 to be a blockbuster, but it doesn't seem like much. Yet at the same time, it does. I think all of the anniversaries have something to do with Gramps.
Thank you, and goodnight.
Friday, June 19, 2015
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #145: I THINK I'M FINALLY IN THE RIGHT MENTAL FRAME TO WRITE ABOUT THIS
Long time readers of GF know how much I idolize my grandfather. Whether I'm talking about his life as a mad man, or the stories he's told me of his youth, or even when he used to take me to Tank Park, you all probably know a surprising amount about him, even though he probably doesn't know it. He doesn't understand the internet, much less blogs, etc.
We hit a rough patch recently. For a while, he's been getting cataracts, but he doesn't want to remove them because he figures he'll be dead soon. Why waste the money? He feels the same way about his hearing loss, refusing to get an aid. It irritated me because he was still strong. I knew he had quite some time left, and I was annoyed that I had to yell at him just so he could hear what I was saying. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I sometimes took out my anger on him. I shouted at him, telling him that he should have some consideration for those around him. For all he knew, he'd still be around for another 10-15 years. 88 isn't the end of the world.
God, I'm such an asshole. I hate myself for doing that.
A few months ago, my grandfather started doing weird things. At first I thought it was because he couldn't hear or see us very well, but before long, I started realizing that it might be due to something else. Something deeper.
He started imagining people who weren't there. He lost control of his bowels often. I was once called upon to help him because he'd fallen, but that just happened to be the day after I learned I'd broken my tailbone in a recent accident. I was in too much pain to help him up. When I saw that he'd left a trail of shit from my grandmother's bedroom to the upstairs bathroom, I was in shock. He'd fallen in a pile of his own feces, and I simply didn't have the strength to help him. The best I could do was drag him to a table so he could use its leverage to get to his feet.
Oddly, the whole time I was trying to help him, he was yelling at me to leave him alone so I could answer the door. The problem was, no one was at the door. He kept saying the bell was ringing, but it just wasn't.
Have you ever seen THE JUDGE? There's a scene in which Robert Downey, Jr., has to help his father, Robert Duvall, in the shower. The problem is, Duvall has lost control over his bowels, and I couldn't help but think of this devastating scene. Later, when I read Christopher Eccleston's account of his father's illness, it struck me in the heart and drove me to tears.
My grandmother simply couldn't take care of him, especially since I couldn't help due to my broken tailbone. My aunt came by to take my grandfather to the VA, where they kept him for a few weeks. I visited as often as I could, and something odd came over me. It's hard to describe.
While my grandfather seemed to be in better shape, his mind was still . . . off. At first, it made me feel sorry for him, but then another thought came over me: he might be in a better frame of mind than he was when he was healthy. You see, he didn't know where he was. He recognized me, my grandmother, my aunt and my cousin, but his time reference was completely off. He thought he was on a family vacation in California that he took back in the 'Sixties. Or another day, he thought he was on a business trip to Oregon back in the 'Fifties.
I knew he'd become dissatisfied with the current world, and to know that he was time traveling, almost like Billy Pilgrim, was a comfort to me. He was in a world he could be happy with. He always grinned for us, even though I could never have fit into his time traveling vacation (me, having been born in 1978, that is).
Goddammit. He was in a world where my mom--his daughter--was still alive.
Her death hit him even harder than it hit me. He set up a shrine in the living room, in the chair she used to sit in every day and night while her sickness ate her alive. Every year on her birthday, he buys a bunch of flowers for her. He makes sure that all of her sons, me and three of my brothers (I have a sister and brother from my father's side, but they've never met Mom), sign cards for her on that day. There is still a shrine to her (complete with our birthday messages on her portrait, a picture taken when she graduated high school in 1975), but now it's on my grandmother's china cabinet, complete with the container of her ashes.
To my grandfather, she was still alive, and that must have been a wonderful feeling.
After the VA, he was sent to rehab to build up his strength. It took him a while, but now he's stronger and his mind is back in the present. He just recently came home, and he's getting back into his groove. He gets around with a cane now--which he would have despised mere months ago, as he sees it as a sign of weakness--but he's healthy again. I'm forever grateful for that.
For a while, it looked like he might not have that 10-15 years I thought he had in him, but now that he's in better spirits, I have hope that I'll have him in my life for years to come. That sounds a bit selfish, and I recognize that. I idolize him so much that I was selfish enough to have said, more than once, that I want to die before he does. I can't imagine a world without him.
But that would fucking cripple him.
I've been giving a lot of thought to my own mortality of late, especially considering how I almost died a year and a half ago. My grandfather is the only one who visited me every day, even though it was highly inconvenient for him to do so. The pain I saw on his face as I suffered . . . I knew I couldn't ever put him through that again.
I'm glad he's home. I'm glad that he's getting better. I'm even glad that he's back to watching Bill O'Reilly at top volumes, even though I can't stand that asshole.
I'm glad I have more time with him. I was deathly afraid that every time I saw him in the hospital would be the last, so I made certain to tell him before I left every day that I loved him.
I'm just glad, that's all. Even if he says he's going to vote for Donald Trump in 2016. (Even though his own grandson is running for president next year!!!)
We hit a rough patch recently. For a while, he's been getting cataracts, but he doesn't want to remove them because he figures he'll be dead soon. Why waste the money? He feels the same way about his hearing loss, refusing to get an aid. It irritated me because he was still strong. I knew he had quite some time left, and I was annoyed that I had to yell at him just so he could hear what I was saying. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I sometimes took out my anger on him. I shouted at him, telling him that he should have some consideration for those around him. For all he knew, he'd still be around for another 10-15 years. 88 isn't the end of the world.
God, I'm such an asshole. I hate myself for doing that.
A few months ago, my grandfather started doing weird things. At first I thought it was because he couldn't hear or see us very well, but before long, I started realizing that it might be due to something else. Something deeper.
He started imagining people who weren't there. He lost control of his bowels often. I was once called upon to help him because he'd fallen, but that just happened to be the day after I learned I'd broken my tailbone in a recent accident. I was in too much pain to help him up. When I saw that he'd left a trail of shit from my grandmother's bedroom to the upstairs bathroom, I was in shock. He'd fallen in a pile of his own feces, and I simply didn't have the strength to help him. The best I could do was drag him to a table so he could use its leverage to get to his feet.
Oddly, the whole time I was trying to help him, he was yelling at me to leave him alone so I could answer the door. The problem was, no one was at the door. He kept saying the bell was ringing, but it just wasn't.
Have you ever seen THE JUDGE? There's a scene in which Robert Downey, Jr., has to help his father, Robert Duvall, in the shower. The problem is, Duvall has lost control over his bowels, and I couldn't help but think of this devastating scene. Later, when I read Christopher Eccleston's account of his father's illness, it struck me in the heart and drove me to tears.
My grandmother simply couldn't take care of him, especially since I couldn't help due to my broken tailbone. My aunt came by to take my grandfather to the VA, where they kept him for a few weeks. I visited as often as I could, and something odd came over me. It's hard to describe.
While my grandfather seemed to be in better shape, his mind was still . . . off. At first, it made me feel sorry for him, but then another thought came over me: he might be in a better frame of mind than he was when he was healthy. You see, he didn't know where he was. He recognized me, my grandmother, my aunt and my cousin, but his time reference was completely off. He thought he was on a family vacation in California that he took back in the 'Sixties. Or another day, he thought he was on a business trip to Oregon back in the 'Fifties.
I knew he'd become dissatisfied with the current world, and to know that he was time traveling, almost like Billy Pilgrim, was a comfort to me. He was in a world he could be happy with. He always grinned for us, even though I could never have fit into his time traveling vacation (me, having been born in 1978, that is).
Goddammit. He was in a world where my mom--his daughter--was still alive.
Her death hit him even harder than it hit me. He set up a shrine in the living room, in the chair she used to sit in every day and night while her sickness ate her alive. Every year on her birthday, he buys a bunch of flowers for her. He makes sure that all of her sons, me and three of my brothers (I have a sister and brother from my father's side, but they've never met Mom), sign cards for her on that day. There is still a shrine to her (complete with our birthday messages on her portrait, a picture taken when she graduated high school in 1975), but now it's on my grandmother's china cabinet, complete with the container of her ashes.
To my grandfather, she was still alive, and that must have been a wonderful feeling.
After the VA, he was sent to rehab to build up his strength. It took him a while, but now he's stronger and his mind is back in the present. He just recently came home, and he's getting back into his groove. He gets around with a cane now--which he would have despised mere months ago, as he sees it as a sign of weakness--but he's healthy again. I'm forever grateful for that.
For a while, it looked like he might not have that 10-15 years I thought he had in him, but now that he's in better spirits, I have hope that I'll have him in my life for years to come. That sounds a bit selfish, and I recognize that. I idolize him so much that I was selfish enough to have said, more than once, that I want to die before he does. I can't imagine a world without him.
But that would fucking cripple him.
I've been giving a lot of thought to my own mortality of late, especially considering how I almost died a year and a half ago. My grandfather is the only one who visited me every day, even though it was highly inconvenient for him to do so. The pain I saw on his face as I suffered . . . I knew I couldn't ever put him through that again.
I'm glad he's home. I'm glad that he's getting better. I'm even glad that he's back to watching Bill O'Reilly at top volumes, even though I can't stand that asshole.
I'm glad I have more time with him. I was deathly afraid that every time I saw him in the hospital would be the last, so I made certain to tell him before I left every day that I loved him.
I'm just glad, that's all. Even if he says he's going to vote for Donald Trump in 2016. (Even though his own grandson is running for president next year!!!)
Thursday, November 27, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #123: DO THEY STILL DO THIS SHIT?
[EDITOR'S NOTE: Whoo-boy. This has never happened to me, but . . . I forgot to post this last night. I may have forgotten to finish it. I don't know. Here's what happened: I'd had a few drinks last night--not enough for me to black out or pass out, just a few--and I stayed up a bit too late. It was about two in the morning, which is waaaay past my bedtime, even for a non-work night. I started writing GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS, and by the time I got to the end, I was so tired that I decided to close my eyes for just a few minutes. A few hours later, I woke up and wondered why I was sitting up looking at a powered down laptop. At least Tired Me had been courteous enough to leave me a drink, and since I didn't have to go to work today, I finished it off. Waste not, want not. Besides, what was I going to do, put it back in the bottle? Anyway, in standing with my rule of never editing a GF post, I didn't touch this one. This editor's note is the only thing I added. I'm not sure if I even finished this, as I thought I might add something in there about how my grandfather might have made up the story just to fuck with a fucked up kid. I also used this incident in a novella I wrote in high school, which will never see the light of day because I ripped most of it off from Steinbeck. It was what would have happened if Jack Ketchum had written OF MICE AND MEN. I probably would have mentioned that, too. So, without further ado . . .]
When I was a kid, I remember my grandfather telling me a story of either his uncle, or his wife's uncle. I don't remember which. Either way, the guy in question owned a shoe store, and his shop caught fire. This guy's hand got burned down to the bone. How did they fix him up without amputation?
THEY OPENED HIS BELLY AND SEWED HIS BONY HAND INTO IT SO THAT FLESH COULD GROW BACK ON HIS BONES.
That's a fucked up thing to read, so maybe you should give it another go before you accept it.
Got it? Good.
The skin grew back, but it took a year. A YEAR OF HAVING HIS HAND SEWN INTO HIS STOMACH. I have problems with not being able to bite into cheeseburgers because of my gum graft. I could not deal with having a skeletal hand sewn into my belly for a fucking year.
Try to imagine that. Then realize that was the typical response. IT USED TO BE TYPICAL FOR BURN VICTIMS TO HAVE THEIR BONY HANDS SEWN INTO THEIR BELLIES.
Do they still do this shit? I imagine not. But what the fuck? How did they find out that it would work?
When I was a kid, I remember my grandfather telling me a story of either his uncle, or his wife's uncle. I don't remember which. Either way, the guy in question owned a shoe store, and his shop caught fire. This guy's hand got burned down to the bone. How did they fix him up without amputation?
THEY OPENED HIS BELLY AND SEWED HIS BONY HAND INTO IT SO THAT FLESH COULD GROW BACK ON HIS BONES.
That's a fucked up thing to read, so maybe you should give it another go before you accept it.
Got it? Good.
The skin grew back, but it took a year. A YEAR OF HAVING HIS HAND SEWN INTO HIS STOMACH. I have problems with not being able to bite into cheeseburgers because of my gum graft. I could not deal with having a skeletal hand sewn into my belly for a fucking year.
Try to imagine that. Then realize that was the typical response. IT USED TO BE TYPICAL FOR BURN VICTIMS TO HAVE THEIR BONY HANDS SEWN INTO THEIR BELLIES.
Do they still do this shit? I imagine not. But what the fuck? How did they find out that it would work?
Sunday, November 9, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #110: PENNIES
None of us ever think about the money we handle. For a society that is paranoid about catching Ebola, no one cares about the exchange of money in our country. At a fast food restaurant or a theater or anywhere, really, we're happy to hand over, say, a twenty and get our change back. But no one ever thinks about the change they give to us. You don't know who held that dollar before you did. The person in front of you at the drive-thru at McDonald's could be a cokehead, and the dollar you get back when you're at the window could have cocaine residue on it. (Unless it was the guy from THE WOLF OF WALL STREET, who doesn't believe in one-dollar bills for coke-sniffing.) Or it could have shit on it, which happens more often than not. It could have Ebola on it.
But no one cares. Why would you?
But never mind that. Some people don't think too often about change--as in, actual coins--because who gives a fuck? My friend, Josh, got rare coins whenever he worked the register at the gas station he used to work at. I have a few Nazi coins because of my stepfather's father. And then there's the scene from UHF about the rare Indian head penny that grants a homeless dude a fortune.
I recently got a 1920 wheat penny back from a transaction at McDonald's. Very few people would think about something like this. If you don't know what a wheat penny is, it's a penny so old that it doesn't have the Lincoln Memorial on the back. It just has ONE CENT back there with a couple of pieces of wheat surrounding it in almost a circle.
But who cares about a penny, right?
I would never call myself an antiquarian. I'm not nearly pretentious enough for something like that. However, I do appreciate old things. I'm interested in eras that have passed us by. Hell, I should be. I grew up in an era where nearly everything that was considered ordinary is now condemned as illegal or at least questionable.
The 1920 wheat penny is worth exactly one cent today. However it's psychically worth more. This penny was seven years old when my grandfather--my oldest living relative I can think of--was born, just to give you an idea. Who knows the hands it passed through, back in the day when one pound of bread was worth ten cents? World War I vets probably held this thing. People who suffered through the Great Depression maybe kept it in their pockets. People who were shamed by Prohibition probably paid bartenders in speakeasies this penny. Hell, it's possible that the last of the Civil War vets could have touched this thing.
Maybe--JUST MAYBE--my grandfather owned this penny when he was a kid, growing up in a household that prohibited speaking English at home. His family wanted to be Americans, and they knew the language, but at home, he would be punished if he spoke anything but Greek. Today? He remembers almost nothing of his parents' language. He recalls the curse words, but that's about it.
He was born in 1927. His wife--my grandmother--was born in 1930. Just to give you an idea.
It makes me wonder: will there come an era when there are new people walking the earth, and they'll be marveling over 2014 pennies that someone gave back to them at a McDonald's drive-thru? Will they be pleasantly surprised? "Dude, this could have been held by the Navy SEAL who shot bin Laden!" Or, less likely, "What if the guy who wrote TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE touched this penny?" Provided, of course, that they still have physical money in the future.
But no one cares. Why would you?
But never mind that. Some people don't think too often about change--as in, actual coins--because who gives a fuck? My friend, Josh, got rare coins whenever he worked the register at the gas station he used to work at. I have a few Nazi coins because of my stepfather's father. And then there's the scene from UHF about the rare Indian head penny that grants a homeless dude a fortune.
I recently got a 1920 wheat penny back from a transaction at McDonald's. Very few people would think about something like this. If you don't know what a wheat penny is, it's a penny so old that it doesn't have the Lincoln Memorial on the back. It just has ONE CENT back there with a couple of pieces of wheat surrounding it in almost a circle.
But who cares about a penny, right?
I would never call myself an antiquarian. I'm not nearly pretentious enough for something like that. However, I do appreciate old things. I'm interested in eras that have passed us by. Hell, I should be. I grew up in an era where nearly everything that was considered ordinary is now condemned as illegal or at least questionable.
The 1920 wheat penny is worth exactly one cent today. However it's psychically worth more. This penny was seven years old when my grandfather--my oldest living relative I can think of--was born, just to give you an idea. Who knows the hands it passed through, back in the day when one pound of bread was worth ten cents? World War I vets probably held this thing. People who suffered through the Great Depression maybe kept it in their pockets. People who were shamed by Prohibition probably paid bartenders in speakeasies this penny. Hell, it's possible that the last of the Civil War vets could have touched this thing.
Maybe--JUST MAYBE--my grandfather owned this penny when he was a kid, growing up in a household that prohibited speaking English at home. His family wanted to be Americans, and they knew the language, but at home, he would be punished if he spoke anything but Greek. Today? He remembers almost nothing of his parents' language. He recalls the curse words, but that's about it.
He was born in 1927. His wife--my grandmother--was born in 1930. Just to give you an idea.
It makes me wonder: will there come an era when there are new people walking the earth, and they'll be marveling over 2014 pennies that someone gave back to them at a McDonald's drive-thru? Will they be pleasantly surprised? "Dude, this could have been held by the Navy SEAL who shot bin Laden!" Or, less likely, "What if the guy who wrote TALES OF QUESTIONABLE TASTE touched this penny?" Provided, of course, that they still have physical money in the future.
Thursday, November 6, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #107: MOUNTAINS OF DOGSHIT
[Or perhaps I should say GOOD MORNING, FUCKERS. I was going to post this last night, but I had a technical issue with my computer, which I will probably talk/complain about for tonight's GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. I didn't change anything from the post, so it's still composed of thoughts from the top of my head before going to bed. I only added this preface to let you know that I DO have a reason for not posting last night, and it wasn't because I was drunk in a ditch or anything like that. Without further ado . . .]
I was, for the most part, raised by my mother's parents. My mother's side of the family were always dog people, except I showed up at the end of that era. I remember as a child having a cocker spaniel named Brandy around my grandparents' home. I loved that dog, but I was pretty young when she got sick and had to be put to sleep. I don't think I was even five at the time. By that point, I think my grandparents' hearts had been broken by a long line of sick dogs needing to be put to sleep, so they vowed to never get another pet again.
When I was a kid and was told that Brandy had been put down, I cried. I hated my grandparents because I was a kid and didn't understand the world yet.
I'm not a pet person, and I don't think I ever will be. I like cats and dogs and fish, but I don't want to be responsible for another creature's life. If I could have the kind of relationship John Wayne had with the dog in HONDO, that would be fine. I don't like the idea of buying my friends. It makes me feel cheap and needy. I don't have anything against people who do have pets, it's just not my thing. I think the idea was cemented into my head by the death of Brandy, and that's fine. I can barely take care of myself, anyway.
But I remember from my youth that Gramps would always take Brandy out into the backyard for her shits. Back then, we had a huge backyard that bordered along the interstate. I remember I would sit back there with my cousin and watch the trucks blaze by. Then, they put up a wall, which I hated back then because it took away my truck-watching fun. Now? I understand that they built it because the people who lived on that block actually wanted to sleep at night.
But my grandfather would take the dog out into the backyard, and Brandy would shit. Gramps would then bring the dog in, and he'd take a shovel--which still hangs in his garage to this day--and he'd scoop up the shit and fling it over the fence at the rear of the backyard.
Whenever my cousin and I played ball back there, and the ball went over the fence, I never wanted to get it because I imagined mountains and mountains of dogshit from Brandy just waiting to be stepped in. Obviously, only a kid would think that. But still, even now I think about those towering piles of shit, and I wonder if maybe we could have grown for-real crops, like farmers.
Drifters would sometimes walk back there. Hitchhikers and people who were looking for help. (Before the wall went up, that is.) I wonder how many of them cursed out Brandy and the other dogs in the neighborhood. Gramps wasn't alone. All of our neighbors threw our dogshit back there.
That's probably illegal now, like leaf-burning, which I also enjoyed to do as a kid. I don't exactly miss the old days, but it's still kind of weird thinking about the things that were normal back then. Maybe I'll write more about that in a future GF. Until then, goodnight fuckers.
I was, for the most part, raised by my mother's parents. My mother's side of the family were always dog people, except I showed up at the end of that era. I remember as a child having a cocker spaniel named Brandy around my grandparents' home. I loved that dog, but I was pretty young when she got sick and had to be put to sleep. I don't think I was even five at the time. By that point, I think my grandparents' hearts had been broken by a long line of sick dogs needing to be put to sleep, so they vowed to never get another pet again.
When I was a kid and was told that Brandy had been put down, I cried. I hated my grandparents because I was a kid and didn't understand the world yet.
I'm not a pet person, and I don't think I ever will be. I like cats and dogs and fish, but I don't want to be responsible for another creature's life. If I could have the kind of relationship John Wayne had with the dog in HONDO, that would be fine. I don't like the idea of buying my friends. It makes me feel cheap and needy. I don't have anything against people who do have pets, it's just not my thing. I think the idea was cemented into my head by the death of Brandy, and that's fine. I can barely take care of myself, anyway.
But I remember from my youth that Gramps would always take Brandy out into the backyard for her shits. Back then, we had a huge backyard that bordered along the interstate. I remember I would sit back there with my cousin and watch the trucks blaze by. Then, they put up a wall, which I hated back then because it took away my truck-watching fun. Now? I understand that they built it because the people who lived on that block actually wanted to sleep at night.
But my grandfather would take the dog out into the backyard, and Brandy would shit. Gramps would then bring the dog in, and he'd take a shovel--which still hangs in his garage to this day--and he'd scoop up the shit and fling it over the fence at the rear of the backyard.
Whenever my cousin and I played ball back there, and the ball went over the fence, I never wanted to get it because I imagined mountains and mountains of dogshit from Brandy just waiting to be stepped in. Obviously, only a kid would think that. But still, even now I think about those towering piles of shit, and I wonder if maybe we could have grown for-real crops, like farmers.
Drifters would sometimes walk back there. Hitchhikers and people who were looking for help. (Before the wall went up, that is.) I wonder how many of them cursed out Brandy and the other dogs in the neighborhood. Gramps wasn't alone. All of our neighbors threw our dogshit back there.
That's probably illegal now, like leaf-burning, which I also enjoyed to do as a kid. I don't exactly miss the old days, but it's still kind of weird thinking about the things that were normal back then. Maybe I'll write more about that in a future GF. Until then, goodnight fuckers.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #100: MY GRANDFATHER, A MAD MAN
Tonight was spent in an unexpected fashion: I was in the hospital with my grandfather, who had slipped and fallen outside. He scraped his noggin pretty badly, but it wasn't as bad as it could have been. It's OK, he didn't even need stitches. The VA took a CT scan and saw there was nothing wrong. They just put a bandage on and told him to put ice on it for 20-minute intervals.
Still, it's kind of fucked up that this happened today when I told you all I was going to talk about him in tonight's GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS.
First, I should give a great deal of thanks to him. All of the times you've heard about me being in the hospital, dying from pancreatitis or suffering from a mystery illness or trying to live with an abscess or fighting through dental problems, he drove me to the ER. For a change, I got to drive him. I rolled him around in a wheelchair. I stayed by his side while the hospital ran a variety of tests on him. And then, as I left with Gramps in the wheelchair, bringing him out to my car, I brought the wheelchair back to the lobby. On my way, I saw the guy who collected wheelchairs from the parking lot. He was in his own wheelchair, and he thanked me profusely to the point where I started wondering if I was the first person to ever bring a wheelchair back to the lobby to save the poor guy from having to go out and bring it back. It's not like this is a shopping cart you can just leave in the parking lot. It's a frigging wheelchair. I couldn't imagine someone NOT bringing one back to the lobby.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I want to discuss my grandfather's youth as a mad man. No, he wasn't in advertising. However, he led the kind of MAD MEN lifestyle you see in Jon Hamm & Co. He went to martini lunches and smoked in the office and all the other things you see on that particular show.
Truth is, he was in men's clothing. He worked in sales at Bonds until it went under. Then, he worked locally at Leonard's until that was sold. All told, he worked in the business for more years than I've been alive, even now. But back in the day? That was something different.
Gramps taught me how to make a real Manhattan. Mixologists get it wrong all the time. If there's ice in your Manhattan, the guy who made it fucked up. A long time ago, I posted Gramps's recipe on MySpace, but since that's no more, I'll post it here for posterity: Take two shots of whiskey (it can be rye, but it's better if it's regular whiskey) and one shot of sweet vermouth. Stir it together over ice. DO NOT SHAKE. Then, pour it into a martini glass, but make sure none of the ice gets in there. Put a cherry into the glass (I skip that part, because I'm an asshole and I hate fruits and veggies), and you're done. Gramps told me that he knew a guy back in the 'Fifties who would drink about 10 of these things and then drive home to his family. Do that math: three shots (two of which are whiskey) times ten. I asked my grandfather if this guy died young, and he didn't. His heart gave out about twenty years ago, which placed the guy in his seventies.
My grandfather told me about the time he was driving home with the woman who would become my grandmother, and they hit a guy in a shady part of town. They looked in the rear view mirror, and they saw a guy back there in the street, but they were certain the guy was pretending, so they drove on. This, of course, shocked me when I heard about it. However, he told me that people who didn't have so much money back then had a habit of jumping in front of cars just to get a payday when they get hit.
And then there were the stag parties. Gramps would get all of his work buddies together, and while their wives played bridge in the living room or parlor, the guys would watch stag films while smoking cigars and drinking scotch.
Surprisingly, these are all things I learned as an adult. You'd think that knowing these things as a child would have informed my career as a writer of fiction. Not so. The world has always been fucked up, it's just that most people don't think about it.
I grew up in a house that was next to a whorehouse. Of course, I never knew that when I was a kid. However, my mom and aunt went to school with the daughter of the woman who whored herself out next door. Johns would drive through the neighborhood, looking for the house, and they would sometimes see my grandmother, who was only forty back then, and think she was the woman they were looking for.
They eventually arrested that poor woman. The family that moved in after her bore a daughter of their own, who would eventually become the first girl I ever played doctor with.
There are certain things you don't expect of suburbia . . .
You never think your neighbor is selling her body to stay afloat.
You never think of your coworkers as guys who would gather together to watch porn while their wives played cards downstairs, and that something like that would be a socially acceptable practice.
You never think of your grandfather as a guy who drank and partied and fucked and generally had a good time.
You never see Gramps as Don Draper, but let's face it. He probably was. I know, in my case, that my grandfather lived up to those kinds of things.
It's not always a good thing. He's sexist, even though he doesn't mean harm. My grandmother once told me that he said, on their first night together back from the honeymoon, that he swore to never do the dishes because that was women's work. He's racist and refers to the mail woman as a Negress, but he means no harm to her. He would actually step in and do his best to stop harm from coming to a woman or a person whose race was different from his own. He's not a hateful guy. He knows that the world has moved on, and he's trying to be better about it. He's not there yet, and he might never be. But he's trying,
I don't know about his feelings on gays. I've never asked him or seen anything from him on the subject. My guess is that he doesn't like them, but he would not want them to be hurt because of their sexual inclinations. If he saw someone being hurt for such a thing, I'm certain he would step in and do his best to help them out of the situation.
My grandfather is not perfect, but he raised me with as much love as anyone could ever bestow upon another person. For all of his flaws, I love him more than I've ever loved another man.
Tonight, I washed blood out of his hair. I treated the wound as best as I could, and I bandaged it with what I had at hand. I looked up the symptoms of a concussion, and I asked him about his experience. Thankfully, he was in the Army, and treatment for him at the VA was free. I drove him there, and the VA checked him out, tested him and made sure he was OK for release. Thankfully, I was right about my diagnosis: there was no concussion, and he didn't need stitches. They let him go after three hours.
In three years, he will be 90. He's got a lot of my medical issues: the 'Beetus, high cholesterol and hypertension. He's had all of these without losing limbs, losing sight, having a heart attack or having a stroke. He gives me hope.
I'm an atheist, so I don't do prayer. He's Greek orthodox, even though he hasn't practiced since he was a boy living in a household that demanded he reject English for Greek in ordinary conversation. As far as I know, he only prayed once as an adult, and that was when he had skin cancer. It was cut off of him, and it was benign, so he was fine afterward.
If you pray, I'm sure he'd be grateful for anything you would say to any Lord that might exist. I even hedged my bets a little. I don't believe in God--or any god at all--but I offered my prayer to whoever might be listening, not because I think anyone's listening, but just in case. I would never ask anything for myself, but for Gramps? I'd ask the world.
Thank you, John Kopoulos, for everything you've done for me. I hope for . . . well. I just HOPE.
Thanks for reading this GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. It's the most important one I've ever written, and I love you all for making it this far. Hugs and kisses for you all. Goodnight.
Still, it's kind of fucked up that this happened today when I told you all I was going to talk about him in tonight's GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS.
First, I should give a great deal of thanks to him. All of the times you've heard about me being in the hospital, dying from pancreatitis or suffering from a mystery illness or trying to live with an abscess or fighting through dental problems, he drove me to the ER. For a change, I got to drive him. I rolled him around in a wheelchair. I stayed by his side while the hospital ran a variety of tests on him. And then, as I left with Gramps in the wheelchair, bringing him out to my car, I brought the wheelchair back to the lobby. On my way, I saw the guy who collected wheelchairs from the parking lot. He was in his own wheelchair, and he thanked me profusely to the point where I started wondering if I was the first person to ever bring a wheelchair back to the lobby to save the poor guy from having to go out and bring it back. It's not like this is a shopping cart you can just leave in the parking lot. It's a frigging wheelchair. I couldn't imagine someone NOT bringing one back to the lobby.
But that's not what I'm here to talk about. I want to discuss my grandfather's youth as a mad man. No, he wasn't in advertising. However, he led the kind of MAD MEN lifestyle you see in Jon Hamm & Co. He went to martini lunches and smoked in the office and all the other things you see on that particular show.
Truth is, he was in men's clothing. He worked in sales at Bonds until it went under. Then, he worked locally at Leonard's until that was sold. All told, he worked in the business for more years than I've been alive, even now. But back in the day? That was something different.
Gramps taught me how to make a real Manhattan. Mixologists get it wrong all the time. If there's ice in your Manhattan, the guy who made it fucked up. A long time ago, I posted Gramps's recipe on MySpace, but since that's no more, I'll post it here for posterity: Take two shots of whiskey (it can be rye, but it's better if it's regular whiskey) and one shot of sweet vermouth. Stir it together over ice. DO NOT SHAKE. Then, pour it into a martini glass, but make sure none of the ice gets in there. Put a cherry into the glass (I skip that part, because I'm an asshole and I hate fruits and veggies), and you're done. Gramps told me that he knew a guy back in the 'Fifties who would drink about 10 of these things and then drive home to his family. Do that math: three shots (two of which are whiskey) times ten. I asked my grandfather if this guy died young, and he didn't. His heart gave out about twenty years ago, which placed the guy in his seventies.
My grandfather told me about the time he was driving home with the woman who would become my grandmother, and they hit a guy in a shady part of town. They looked in the rear view mirror, and they saw a guy back there in the street, but they were certain the guy was pretending, so they drove on. This, of course, shocked me when I heard about it. However, he told me that people who didn't have so much money back then had a habit of jumping in front of cars just to get a payday when they get hit.
And then there were the stag parties. Gramps would get all of his work buddies together, and while their wives played bridge in the living room or parlor, the guys would watch stag films while smoking cigars and drinking scotch.
Surprisingly, these are all things I learned as an adult. You'd think that knowing these things as a child would have informed my career as a writer of fiction. Not so. The world has always been fucked up, it's just that most people don't think about it.
I grew up in a house that was next to a whorehouse. Of course, I never knew that when I was a kid. However, my mom and aunt went to school with the daughter of the woman who whored herself out next door. Johns would drive through the neighborhood, looking for the house, and they would sometimes see my grandmother, who was only forty back then, and think she was the woman they were looking for.
They eventually arrested that poor woman. The family that moved in after her bore a daughter of their own, who would eventually become the first girl I ever played doctor with.
There are certain things you don't expect of suburbia . . .
You never think your neighbor is selling her body to stay afloat.
You never think of your coworkers as guys who would gather together to watch porn while their wives played cards downstairs, and that something like that would be a socially acceptable practice.
You never think of your grandfather as a guy who drank and partied and fucked and generally had a good time.
You never see Gramps as Don Draper, but let's face it. He probably was. I know, in my case, that my grandfather lived up to those kinds of things.
It's not always a good thing. He's sexist, even though he doesn't mean harm. My grandmother once told me that he said, on their first night together back from the honeymoon, that he swore to never do the dishes because that was women's work. He's racist and refers to the mail woman as a Negress, but he means no harm to her. He would actually step in and do his best to stop harm from coming to a woman or a person whose race was different from his own. He's not a hateful guy. He knows that the world has moved on, and he's trying to be better about it. He's not there yet, and he might never be. But he's trying,
I don't know about his feelings on gays. I've never asked him or seen anything from him on the subject. My guess is that he doesn't like them, but he would not want them to be hurt because of their sexual inclinations. If he saw someone being hurt for such a thing, I'm certain he would step in and do his best to help them out of the situation.
My grandfather is not perfect, but he raised me with as much love as anyone could ever bestow upon another person. For all of his flaws, I love him more than I've ever loved another man.
Tonight, I washed blood out of his hair. I treated the wound as best as I could, and I bandaged it with what I had at hand. I looked up the symptoms of a concussion, and I asked him about his experience. Thankfully, he was in the Army, and treatment for him at the VA was free. I drove him there, and the VA checked him out, tested him and made sure he was OK for release. Thankfully, I was right about my diagnosis: there was no concussion, and he didn't need stitches. They let him go after three hours.
In three years, he will be 90. He's got a lot of my medical issues: the 'Beetus, high cholesterol and hypertension. He's had all of these without losing limbs, losing sight, having a heart attack or having a stroke. He gives me hope.
I'm an atheist, so I don't do prayer. He's Greek orthodox, even though he hasn't practiced since he was a boy living in a household that demanded he reject English for Greek in ordinary conversation. As far as I know, he only prayed once as an adult, and that was when he had skin cancer. It was cut off of him, and it was benign, so he was fine afterward.
If you pray, I'm sure he'd be grateful for anything you would say to any Lord that might exist. I even hedged my bets a little. I don't believe in God--or any god at all--but I offered my prayer to whoever might be listening, not because I think anyone's listening, but just in case. I would never ask anything for myself, but for Gramps? I'd ask the world.
Thank you, John Kopoulos, for everything you've done for me. I hope for . . . well. I just HOPE.
Thanks for reading this GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS. It's the most important one I've ever written, and I love you all for making it this far. Hugs and kisses for you all. Goodnight.
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