Tuesday, March 17, 2009

Wall of Regret

Ah, the day when everyone proclaims their 1/16th Irish heritage as an excuse to drink green beer and Jameson with the sloshed masses at the local Irish pub while downing some bangers and mash. I'm a whole 1/4th Irish and sporting the clover leaf boxers ready to get my cheer for Eire!

Some people are hoisting their spiked shamrock shakes in Uruguay (sadly I had to look up the spelling this morning). Geography. Not my strongest subject.

Others are in the eye of the drunken storm and will most likely hitting up Irish Kevin’s this morning, afternoon, and evening. If I may make a suggestion, you should watch the agile (and not to mention completely hot) bottle slinging waitress video.

Rock on Al, hope you get everything you want in paradise.


Ok, I’ve trying desperately to get this story out of my head and on paper but it’s a mix of past feelings, block, and no clue as to why I can have it half written in air but can’t place it on Times New Roman size 12 font. It’s for a friend (sounds like the Phish concerts rocked!) and he can do whatever he wants with it, as I’m forever graceful for his help with bringing my daughter wails for her extra blankets at five a.m. much much closer :)

There’s no delusion that the person who “writes” here is a “writer”. I blog. I have zero schooling and even less functional sentence structure that makes even the most liberal Freshman Comp professor cringe with every letter here.

But, I want to try.

Here’s the beginning that I can’t quite nail down, and I think once I get past it the rest of the short story will flow:

Many people sport a scar.

That scar could be four inch gash on their face from that bad car accident when your buddy had the great idea that shooting car bombs until two a.m. with the townies, well after the softball team took off for their awaiting families, and ended with turning your 1999 Honda Prelude into the letter U on I-494 with a trooper shaking his perfectly starched hat at your stupidity.

Holding a firecracker long enough to qualify for a Darwin Award. Caught mounting the high school junior next door neighbor listening to Blink 182 when the wife came home early from the gym working off her mid-section to get back into bikini shape after producing your second offspring, and she applied a Ginsu to your back while trying to go a second round with the young three-sport star.

Other scars are not seen. In my life, the proclamation of having one regret rings true, and the reminder of that scar burns with every trip to the office. My scar is buried under six feet of solid Nordic dirt and ice, among the mass headstones there’s a grave marked with her name that has not been seen by these eyes. Coward. Not getting the balls to take a simple right on 85th Ave. into the small plot of land for the dead to let 17 years of regret spill out.

Survivor questions have pelted me since the day a letter from her mother arrived at the ASU campus with a Denver newspaper clipping with her face down on the pavement as a result of an attempt to recreate a Hawaiian cliffdiver’s form off a five story parking ramp.


This is where I’ll stop and try to get the rest of the story out because it would mean a lot to me to do so.

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