July 2, 2015 | Fiction
His family was there. My family was there. My bouquet was made of flies.
July 1, 2015 | Food & Drink
Words cannot possibly describe the utterly disgusting experience that was the consumption of this bullshit soup.
Tanja and I were competing to see who had moved the most as a child.
“I know of at least fourteen places we lived before I was eighteen,” I said.
Tanja started naming places she had lived. She kept naming her grandma’s house over and over, between every place.
I was afraid the security guards would stop us, but they just shrugged when I took the plane out and put it on the field. One of them even said something nice like, “Whoa, that is a cool.” I taxied it from the end zone; it took off and buzzed up into the sky.
We’d do it with whatever was laying around: a jump rope, an extension cord, stray fistfuls of fishing line. Down in the basement, while the babysitter watched Spanish-language television in the living room, we pulled these things taut, secured wrists, ankles, and torsos to my father’s old recliner. Toby was a boy scout, so his knots were better than mine, but I was by far the more skillful interrogator.
And when you play pickup and three-on-three and one-on-one no one keeps track of wins and losses, except for me, so no one else knows that I have never won a basketball game of any kind. Since I started keeping track, when I was sixteen, I am zero and six-hundred forty four.
My sense of regret is the dog
you remember with immense fondness
but that you no longer know.