Other times…


A few more things tonight before I go out driving
with my friend and roommate Meghan. That’s all

we are anymore. Things will be changing soon.
It’s like that Bob Dylan song Things Have Changed, we

used to care, but … well … the fire is not there
anymore and we’re driving each other nuts.

I love the woman. There’s no doubt about that,
but she and I were meant to be friends and not

lovers. We barely look at each other now,
at least in the way we once did, but it’s nice

knowing she’s around and I know she feels the
same about me. We’ve moved on. It’s that simple.

The best comparison would be Jack and Meg
White – did you know his last name was Gillis when

he worked as an upholsterer in Detroit?
He took her name when they got married. Back then

he was a nobody. Just a punk with a
dream. Now look at him. He’s Jack Fucking White, badass

song and dance man, like Bob Dylan, only not.
The man from Hibbing can’t play electric like

that. I hear these days he can’t play it at all,
and that’s a damned shame, because who’s Bob Dylan

without a guitar? Just an old man on stage.
That’s how I feel, most of the time. I’m only

  1. I look younger, or so I’m told.
    It doesn’t matter to me. I just want to

write for a living and I’m holding Meghan
back in her life as I, the Bard wannabe

spend more time click-clacking away than paying
attention to her. To Megh’s credit, she is

infinitely patient and kind. She helps me.
She’s the one who set up my website, because

I am technologically retarded.
I’m a baboon, and she’s not. In the time of

chimpanzees she is a monkey. A goony
bird. My best friend in the wide world and soon to

be ex-wife, sanz benefits. We’re past all that.
If it were up to me, I’d sell something and

buy her the bookstore-slash-coffee shop she’s been
dreaming about running for nearly ten years,

then I’d get in my car and just drive, writing
like Hemingway – every day. Sometimes drunk.


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