The summer of talking it out

This summer has reaffirmed my belief that face-to-face conversations with another human about anything, everything and straight up nothing at all is super fucking important if you’re planning on navigating what the internet tells me will soon be a scorched earth (news flash! We’re all gonna die, like, next Tuesday, I believe is the date). It’s oddly wonderful how quickly a one-on-one conversation about what might be next for the Avengers now that (spoiler alert) Thanos has wiped out half of all existence can segue into the burial plans for a recently-deceased grandmother or an unchecked fear of hereditary ailments or troubles on the job or mental health problems looming in the backdrop or hang-ups in the love department.

People need to get shit off their chest… big, crazy, messy shit and weird little confusing bits of ordinary madness and extraordinary sadness that we all go through no matter what our gambit. You need all the facial expressions, hand gestures and bathroom breaks (or as a friend calls them “intermissions”… they drink fine wines and are fancy) that go with talking with someone in real time, with their physical form sitting or standing or riding a goddamn horse right along with you!

And this isn’t some weak-ass plea for people to put down their phones or stop emailing conspiracy theories to each other and come hug it out at the drum circle that’s held in a public park, because I’m a horrible baby boomer who enjoys making others suffer with my barefoot bullshit Jerry Barfcia ways.

No, I’m not that type of prick.

And in no way am I ditching my phone, like, have you seen Contra Points on YouTube yet? She’s delightful! Plus, I need to be constantly sending my friends updates on which classic NBA jersey I just snagged (Shawn “The Supersonic Truck” Kemp) to keep their mouths watering.

But fuck, you gotta make them dates, hit up them peeps, spread gossip, speak the truth, talk shit, get toothy with it, stamp cigarettes out on a half-eaten Twinkie, split a 40 ounce, then go buy two fuckin’ more, walk it, together, rain or shine, ‘cause it’s worth it.

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In the last two weeks I’ve had long talks with six different friends in all types of crazy locations, from a bus bench, to a funeral parlor, a front porch, a workshop, a mini van, parked and being bombarded with summer rain to the classic kitchen setting, hanging around the fucking sink like a couple of British gangsters up to some British gangster shit, which means we was sipping tea and talking about dear ol’ mum on a Sunday for six-and-a-half fucking hours!

That last conversation was a doozy!

We covered everything from Iran to Ted Bundy with Fassbinder and the best curry on the market in between. But it was important, fucking vital, to keeping me from losing all rational thought in where I would no doubt devolve into some sorta creepy stalker dead set on finding Nicholas Cage and forcing him to understand, for once and for all, how much he means to me! And look, life is way too complex to ever have it all figured the fuck out, no doubt we probably all kick the bucket with at least 95 percent of all things still a complete mystery. People alone are so complex as to be absurd… yeah I’m talking about you.

“What is your life my dude, and why are you living it that way?” is something I say to myself about other people all the fucking time, and I’m sure they think the same about me, and who gives a shit. The point is to go meet up with your amigo, ya home-girl, the Twitch to your Sam, those mainstay motherfuckers who you can get with a bitch and hiss about this and that and everything under the sun until you’re blue in the face and horse in the throat cause it’ll do you a world of good…

Peace, love and a million thanks to the one queen of soul, Aretha Franklin.

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