Home sweet home means your own bed, which if it smells like a dog it’s your dog.

Out before dawn to Chicago to the nursing home where they won’t eat the food and g-pa is starting to look like a swizzle stick so the McDonald’s-a-thon until they’re in a food coma, then onto Wisconsin to my mother’s, from where I call the friend I have there and then lunch with both of them then onto my Dad’s where he’s made steak and has wine more wine (which given the circumstances, means a lot of demonstrative feelings about his and my and everyone’s existence . . . ) then back to my friend who takes me to my first Ultimate Fighting Party, attended by a room full of peace loving lefty hippie types, which you’d think would be counterintuitive but not really, where I made a friend! (Domino, the border collie—love that breed—who herded me to the end of the couch where he kept me pinned, which was reassuring given my feelings about any gathering of persons) then a few hours sleep and onto my sister’s in Milwaukee where her house has been gutted and the only thing left is the couch, the tv, and my bro-in-law’s laptop and one-liners [thank god for both, as usual], then out from there by 4 a.m. to get back to Chicago in time to deal with the omg security nightmare at O’Hare . . . and home, to Jasper-butt pillows (ahhhhhh) all in about 60 hours

=

the experiential equivalent of electric shock treatment. Really, the only thing it is possible to feel is disconcerted.

One highlight, randomly chosen: I’m in my Dad’s kitchen looking at a photo on his fridge of my daughter and her father, who was so young when she was born that he kept growing and his shirts kept getting too short in the sleeves. The one he’s wearing in the photo fits, I’d just given it to him for xmas, I’m remembering that and our kid is in a purple velvet get-up we found at the thrift store, and I’m smiling at the photo. My mother comes in and looks at me and says, “The bible says that in the end times the love in most will grow cold and small, except for a few who will have the ability to draw a warm safe circle for those they’ve loved . . . .” Note that I’m not drinking the wine cuz I’m going out later. So it bemuses plenty me to learn that apparently just by not hating my X’s, I’m personally saving them from the Apocalypse. (You’re welcome! lol)

the killers- mr. brightside (jaques lu cont mix)