My friend and buddy cohort Michael publishes a blog now and then. Always an interesting read. I'm sure he reads my blog. If he doesn't, we need to have a conversation about that. REAL LOUD.

When I read Michael's bloggings I hear his voice in my head. I anticipate his pauses. Can hear his breath intake. I know exactly that flawless articulation, the careful choosing of words most picture-perfect. Oh, I see him clearly as I read his words as if he's sitting with me in the Lemon St. cottage. I can see those bluey blues twinkle, that brow furrow, those lips purse, his chin pushing forward, his noggin cocking to the side. I can feel the gears churning, pushing that engine up up up the mountain to a single thought, a moment, an idea, a spark sparkling in the bleak darkness of a 1000 mile stretch of newly laid asphalt leading to the cusps of an Event Horizon. "I don't know Ed, don'tja think it's all kinda funny?"

When we're together we laugh drunkenly. Hysterically. We reflect. We ponder. We tickle and poke; his penchant for New Ageisms and mine for Crime. Old times, stories, memories, broken dreams and wished-for conquests. Laurie Anderson, Siouxsie Sioux, Alison Moyet. Lost loves. Random strange dreams. Shirley MacLaine.

For the first time in 25 years we are hours apart. A simple drive to hilarity.