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A Moose That I Identify With

Reaching for my empty plate, the busfella asked, “hey, man, do you mind if I ask why you have a notebook?”

Internal monologue: “The honest answer will take too long!”

“I’m just working on my budget.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you were a writer or something, trying to find your muse.”

He told me he’s trying to be a writer, and wished he was writing something today, but he’s opted to just enjoy the free beer that he’s permitted at the end of his shift.

Friday morning at Enchanted Forest Water Safari in Old Forge, New York. We wandered the forest in the driving rain yesterday, taking a peek into the Crooked Man’s Crooked House, saying hello to Mary Mary Quite Contrary, peering into Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house.

We were treated to a performance by Rocky & The Ramblin’ Rascals. The sign said they were presented by Klondike Kate. Turns out even animatronic, all-animal bands have sycophants trying to attach themselves to the talent.

Rocky & The Ramblin’ Rascals are not bad for …

Anyone With A Heartbeat

There are two cell phones going at the same time with two different kinds of hold music, intermittent interruptions from two similar-sounding women like some kind of discordant jazz with not-very-poetic spoken word sections. I’m hoping that the voiceover women start talking to each other, confusing one another’s insurance company fun facts for voice commands.

OC4M?? Saret??

I’m always positive that I’ll be able to decipher what I’ve written on my hand while driving. I think OC4M might be “beans.” Speeding down the Turnpike with my out-of-date car inspection (the confidence with which I did this is what is meant by ‘white privilege’), I started thinking about how my Aunt Donna taught me “Beans, Beans, The Musical Fruit” at the courthouse in Doylestown when I was a little kid. We were given the unfortunate task of being asked which parent we wanted to live with and I remember how much Donna tried to lighten the mood with her irreverence. Thanks, Donna! I’ve repressed a plethora of bumm…

Complicated Is Better Than Gone

Last spring, a ninety-two-year-old woman came up to us on the bench outside Newtown Book & Record Exchange and gave us a twelve-minute info session about her life and times, largely prompted by the photographs she carried in her large purse. Everything she said is so quotable that I might co-write a song with her. Not that I know her name....

"That's my oldest daughter. She's seventy. She's crazy." "Instead of saying 'I don't,' I say 'I do'." "God bless you!" "He already did!" "The heart can repair itself." "Do you live the dash of your life?" "Who’s singing in there?" "August." "But it's not August!" "That's my baby, Gary. He's only... '39.'" "There goes my nose! It rhymes!" "I had her when I was forty-one. I don't know if I was sexy... or I made a mistake."

photo by Greg McGarvey (Newtown, PA, USA, 2016)

Cult People Have Comfy-Looking Clothes

I had on my record of vintage TV theme songs and started dancing, for Baby Penny’s sake, to the theme from Green Acres. Pam walked into the living room and joined me. Penny’s expression fell into bemusement and she seemed to attempt to mimic my arm motions. Meanwhile, little Bonkers The Dog roamed around Uncle Greg and Aunt Nicky’s apartment for the first time, making sure we hadn’t left any kettle corn under the couch or the love seat.

photo by Uncle Greg (Newtown, PA, USA, 2017)
As soon as they left, I had a realization I realized I’d previously realized: the joy in my life is ABSOLUTELY equal to the pain in my life. It’s so perfectly in balance. The heartbreak of a hard day with my dad is always evened-out by time spent playing with my nephew, time spent singing a song for my niece, goofing off with my sister, a nice evening of conversation, food, and movies with my girlfriend, or deep immersion into some sort of creative excursion.

In my life, the right people show up at the right …