Grooming and Grieving: A Deadly Combo.
Word to the wise – You should never attempt any grooming-type-things when going through a harsh emotional phase. Just go to work with a wrinkly shirt and uncombed hair. Nobody really cares. If you try to primp in any way during this delicate period, you’ll do more harm than good. Trust me. Especially: Don’t ever, ever even think of touching your eyebrows.

(“Oh, no.”)

Oh, yes.

The other night I went and plucked my eyebrows in not-the-best light. I think I was listening to Richard Buckner, and I might’ve been crying just minutes before. Don’t do, this, okay? Usually, I only go through the most basic of eyebrow depilation – a couple-few plucks – and always underneath the brow – but the other night in my madness, I was driven into that Amateur No-No Land of Above-the-Brow, and now I have two weird, rectangular caterpillars over my eyes. I’m just recounting this personal moment as a cautionary tale. Don’t let this happen to you. Put. The tweezers. Down. If you really must groom, paint your damned toenails.

Meant to Be.
It seems strange that we would count the break-ups in our lives. That we could tally up significant others like cars we’ve owned: “There was the Nissan and the Ford and the Honda.” “There was Tony and Greg and Philly Joe.” Like possessions. Like things in our lives. Things that belonged to us.

And past-tense makes everything feel so goddamned manifest-destiny, you know? Cut and dry, like our recollection is the only one that counts, and like there was a definite and pre-ordained Beginning, Middle and End. It also makes the entire experience more easily disposable.

And I say this only because this is exactly what I do, too. These past few years have definitely been a different existence from the three before them, and that mostly has to do with Hunter. Okay; it pretty much entirely has to do with Hunter. Living together, we formed our own little colony, like some group in Montana. Hunter-Alice-Land. Paroled the perimeter of our insular little nation with rifles, muttering, “Stay offma’ land!” to all passers-by. Even when things got hard, we kept it guarded. Never defiled it. Even when we realized it was too much to try to keep together. Not sustainable.

And now the fact that I’m really gonna have to find a new way to do things feels like I’m leaving my home.
And it's fucking terrifying.

The language I will now be forced to develop is entirely foreign from the one in my head. And that includes all thoughts; it includes the music and film library; it includes the things I order at different restaurants and the local ice-cream shop; it includes the phrase I say when I mean “My, god!"

[=“Jeezle-pete!” Originally, it was not my term. It was Hunter’s mom’s. But now, out it comes -- naturally as Ouch! when I stub my toe.]

It even extends outward -- to include the[/our] sweaters in my closet, my[/our] books, the[/our] coffee-shop I call home -- and the guy at the video-store who knew us only as a couple.

I guess it’s healthier to compartmentalize everything and make it seem like Fate in retrospect. It makes you certain you did the right thing. It makes Now seem like the superior moment.

Your favorite song.
When you listen to your favorite song, do you have the urge to–

A- Sing and/or dance with broom/toothbrush/whatever other household accessory happens to be in your hot little hand at the time?

B- Dissect the music, including the various musicians the artist made use of on this album -- and comparing the record’s merits to artist’s past records -- talking loudly, maybe even turning volume down so your important voice can be heard over said-music – and then not letting the subject go, no matter how often your companions try to change the subject to something else? Something like "Gee. I like those spicy almonds." Or "Gee. I think Katie Couric’s whole look has gotten a little out of control." Or "Gee. I really must go as my head is about to explode."

Sometimes I myself have inclinations toward the latter, but I’m actually waay more at home in the former. It’s Why. I like. Music. It makes me shake my butt or it causes my insides to turn to marmalade – including my brains, so I am unable to argue with you about whether or not this musician was in his prime for thirty-seconds back in 1986. Sorry.

You wanna party with the lights on.
Question: What makes it a brawl, and not just a fight? Or a fracas or a tussle? That basketball incident that the stations keep bringing up again and again so that they can hit their auto-dial instant-replay buttons?
It has been officially coined now, a brawl -- which, according to Dictionary.com, is "a noisy quarrel or fight."

Hmm. Pondering just what a quiet quarrel would look like. And could deaf individuals engage in a brawl, or does it absolutely necessitate making noise, in some way?

It's just strange the way that media defines words for ya. Now, whenever the word "brawl" comes into my head, it's accompanied by that particular tussle.

Last thought on this: Anybody remember that old Saturday Night Live News Update reporting that Buckwheat had been shot? That's what this excessive instant-replay salivation is reminding me of:

Reporter/Commentator/Freakishly Botoxed Talking Head:
"My goodness-! This certainly could influence the young people of America to see violence as o.k.! Let's show that clip again..."