Yes, but what's it like now? I can hear you asking. This stroll down memory lane is of ever lessening interest to us. We want the present, the future! That's what you clamor for, you unruly mob. Well, I shan't go into too much detail about my life at home, but I feel I can divulge some things. To start, two heads are better than one, a proverb goes. Balderdash! These two heads, even if you were to rub them together in a vain attempt to get a spark, ain't figuring nothing out on that glowing, mocking screen.







And through the wall I hear the wails of misery and confounded confusion:


    Wait wait what's it saying now?
                                    You need your password!
              What is my password?
                                                                Try this...
                                                                Try this...
                                                                Try this...
                                  What happened?
  Bring it back...


Also, there's this. Years ago I had a car I loved. An Oldsmobile that made its way down the family - from my Grandfather to me - like a strong hereditary gene. My siblings and I passed it between us not unlike a prostitute passed between William Shakespeare and Christopher Marlowe. That car, that painted lady of the road, was stolen from me in New Haven.

I then got a second car, this from my Dad, this one like a much lamented but equally potent recessive gene. This car would have been the bane of my life over the last year were it not for oh so many other banes. It died and it was resurrected. It broke and it was fixed. It stalled and it was started. All to the tune of a shitload of money.

And yet it remained, superficially, in good shape. After it rained it glistened and shone red and true. One needn't scrape deep below the surface to find flaws, but the surface was in tact and in that the car and I were one.

One thing: I always thought the car a bit serious looking. If this car had a mischievous dimple, a cheeky dint, I might be happier.







That wish answered because my father forgot my car was there, where it always is, as he backed out of the garage to get a haircut. I heard him yell as I was cleaning windows, but I assumed it meant more work for me and didn't respond immediately. I went to the deck railing as he pulled out of the driveway and saw what is now my car.

My father went to the barber and now my passenger door doesn't open. That's life at home.