This year I found myself neck-deep in my own past. It began with Facebook, which delivered to me everyone I’ve ever known, loved, despised and/or kissed; most recently came a request to write essays about my childhood, which sent me diving into old journals and quickly concluding with a shudder that perhaps the past is meant to stay firmly put.
Paul: Okay, well, I’ll see you at the “I’ve peaked and I’m kidding myself” party.
Amy: Where ya been these last ten years? Debi: Yeah, where ya been, “Marv”? Amy: Ya look great! Martin Q. Blank: Thanks. I work at Kentucky Fried Chicken. Amy: Ya do not! Martin Q. Blank: I do! I sell biscuits and gravy all over the Southland.
Martin Q. Blank: Do you *really* believe that there’s some stored up conflict that exists between us? There *is* no us. *We* don’t exist. So who do you wanna hit, man? It’s not me. Now whaddya wanna do here, man? Bob: [Pulls out a folded up piece of paper] Martin Q. Blank: I don’t know what that is. Bob: These are my words. Martin Q. Blank: It’s a poem? See, that’s the problem… express yourself, Bob! Go for it. Bob: “When I feel… quiet… when… I feel… blue…” Martin Q. Blank: You know, I think that is *terrific*, what you have right there. Really, I liked it, a lot. I wouldn’t sell the dealership or anything but, I’m tellin’ ya… it’s intense! Bob: There’s… more. Martin Q. Blank: Okay, would ya mind, just skip to the end. Bob: To… the very end? “For a while.” Martin Q. Blank: Whew. That’s good man. Bob: “For a while.” Martin Q. Blank: That’s excellent! Bob: You wanna do some blow? Martin Q. Blank: No I don’t. Bob: [Hugs Martin]