Things To Say, Part Infinity

I spent Saturday making a little day trip to New Hampshire for a memorial service. As happens with these things, the purpose was awful, but necessary; the visiting was far too short and great fun. I saw many beloveds, none of whom I'd seen for at least 9 years.

Not the point, though. The point is New Hampshire, and Yankeeland in general. What a fuckity place. I'm sorry, New England beloveds, but I just fucking hate everything between New York and Maine. I recognize this as a matter of aesthetics, an entirely me problem. Your accents pierce my eardrums, your need for a Dunkin Donuts outlet every 11 feet eludes me, and everything is so fucking quaint it makes me wish I were hurling. If not for the presence of beloveds, and your presence on the road to lobster, I would cheerfully agree not to despoil your land with my presence. Immersing in your rock-ribbedness for a day is always a culture shock, and always makes me realize how very happy I am to keep myself south of the Mason-Dixon line, but not too far south, knamean? I guess there's value in your existence right there, so exist on, and shit. Just shut the fuck up, stuff a cruller in your dunkin hole, and we'll do just fine.

Jolene: Not you. Not Whispers, either. Y'all have softened it up enough. Unlike the entire fucking state of New Hampshah.

I experienced all of this in the presence of John the Daftist, the She-Nurse, and 32-Ounce; the departed was a family friend of over 45 years, and the relationship among three families such that his passing demanded our presence as a family unit. I organized, helping the family's disparate tentacles to see that this was a thing we really needed to do. I rented the car, did the driving (yes, I threatened to Stop This Car), kept the peace, maintained the sobriety. It's fucked up, having aging parents, especially in a family that puts the diss in dysfunction. And that fucking well knows who the oldest son is, and isn't afraid to remind him of it every 6 fucking minutes.* It was the first time in something like 35 years that I'd been in the same car, or even in that confined a space, with my parents and brother. Before we had even boarded the first airplane, I texted this to Ilse: "Shoooooot meeeeee." While I was glad to see extended-family parents and sisters, my mood about the overall enterprise didn't improve. Oh, right. Not the fucking point. My bad.

I took pictures that crystalized what struck me. Please forgive the shitcam.

As Yankee as Yankee gets.

Some things just cry out to be shared.

If you don't understand this intuitively, Robert Rodriguez can explain it for you.

You probably need to blow this one up to get the point. But it's a gift to a friend.

I probably should've played it.

* Yes. You're old. You're going to die. All I wanted was a fucking Pepsi.



** If you expected futbol...tough shit. We'll just do a solid fuck you for violent felon Andre Hainault and biased shitdick Ricardo Salazar, and manfully stride forward to next weekend. (Seriously, Salazar, not even a foul? Fuck not only you, but your entire bloodline, especially the ones you hold most precious, you corrupt piece of dung, and with whatever flavor of cock you find most vile; games turn on moments like that one, you could not have got it more wrong, and your willful ineptitude took away whatever bit of starch United might've been able to summon--thanks a lot, you macho retard, for deciding that during that moment, arm-tackling a guy on a breakaway was fair fucking game. You're fucking pathetic, Ricardo Salazar, you fucking hijo de puta. Sure, come look me up, we'll watch the fucking replay together, perro.)