When I was very young, and sittin there watchin TV in the front room of our house, I would hear my big brother's motorcycle as he made his way homeward across the field in front of our house. A lot of teenagers had motorcycles in our neighborhood, but I knew my brother's by the sound of his engine. When I heard him, I'd run outside and open the garage door for him so he could just ride right in and park. "Thanks, Jeesher."

'Jeesher,' he called me. That or 'Captain.' "HEY CAPTAIN!"

My mom called me 'Little Bear.'


Old people walking around in jogging suits carrying big sticks just daring you to try something . . .
When I die, I'll be the kind of ghost who occasionally goes back into the past and drops in on my own self when my own corporeal body is still kicking it. During tough times, when my body and me are still alive and together, I'll make a mental note for my ghost to come back and help myself out, to be there in spirit, maybe write a little advice in a steamed up bathroom mirror or something - double team my problems. I'll also come visit you. As a matter of fact, I'm there with you right now - my ghost is, I mean. You're looking well. I have to say, however, that the thing you just did a few minutes ago was pretty gross, but that's okay. Yep, you're getting twice the Bobby. I'll help you too, really. Like if you ever get lost, I'll rustle up the leaves in a straight line in the direction that you should go.


Every time I let slip a secret, I wonder if I've just disqualified myself from membership in some elite society, some secret group. Like there are scouts out there among us, looking for people who excel at maintaining confidentiality in all things. People who are able to suppress their urge to gossip, and maintain confidentiality in all things, are secretly recruited into this secret society. They all attend meetings and sit there and don't tell each other anything ever. They don't even look at each other. They sit in the dark.

So . . .

Tell me a secret.


There won't be enough room in the ground for all the coffins by the year so and so, but it is still kind of funny to see your old car, the car you sold so long ago - to see it parked somewhere or just broke down, and you know it was yours because of the dent that happened that time you made that ‘misjudgement.'

My banged-up old car - I'd drive it, and when I beeped the horn, instead of beepin' she'd go "LOVE! LOVE!"


I'm going to start carrying around some of those fake blood packs - like they have in movies - they splat them on their bodies to make like a wound. This will save me in awkward situations. Like if I get in trouble at work, I'll splat one of those packs on my forehead - grazed by a stray bullet from a nearby gunfight, I'll say. A bullet came in through the window. They couldn't possibly stay mad at me. I'm hit! Or when I forget somebody's name - SPLAT! Grazed by a stray bullet from a nearby gunfight, I'll say, and they'll forgive me my thoughtlessness. Maybe it could help me negotiate. When I'm buying a used car, splat, shot in the head, hey, gimme a break - and the man will feel sorry, and give me a good rate. When I go into H.R. for a raise . . .