It must be because I'm sitting here on Labor Day unable to conjure up the past tense of ski.
I can say the past tense of ski. I know that in the past I went skiing. And I was trying to write about it. Not really write about it, but mention it in what I was writing. And now I realize that I have no idea how to spell a word I can say. No idea if I ever knew how to spell the word.
Hhhmmm.
I wonder what else I don't know.
Even worse, I wonder what I do know.
Last night I stuffed my face with really delicious barbeque. The company was equally good. Fun to talk to.
We talked about Germany, condoms, concerts, food, economists, Kobe, the Kennedys, motorcycles, weather, smoking - and not smoking - pot, the Dixie Chicks, negligent parents, chefs, sous chefs, weddings, Indiana, a woman named Dottie, the Stones, Styx, salsa, Shwartzenegger, and how long the word dog (as in dawg) has been in use.
Did you know that the head chef is Chef and not the chef? I heard it and I believe it. I defer to basically anybody but myself on questions regarding food and the making thereof. But I just don't know how you could ever talk about the chef without using the word the. But, luckily, I have all day to ponder that critical question.
And, of course, we debated way too long about who sang "Dance with Me." Was it the Little River Band or America? We couldn't decide.
But we all did that little guitar thing at the end of the song really well.
"Dance with me, I want to be your partner Can't you see the music is just starting? Night is falling, and I am calling Dance with me"
Well, you'll be happy to know that the Little River Band is currently on tour for their billionth album. And they're a billion years old.
And they didn't sing "Dance with Me." It was Orleans.
OF COURSE!! How could we have forgotten that??
If I hadn't checked their official website, I'd be utterly incapable of naming even one more song by Orleans. And, now that I've seen the site, I can name all their songs. I just don't remember their songs.
But I do remember slow dancing to "Dance with Me." It was 1978 and I was right smack in the middle of an intense crush on a guy named Mitchell. The crush actually stemmed from the first grade. I was just a little slower to act back then. It took us eleven grades to get from chorus to the couch. And even then, it would take us all night to get to the same side of the couch.
Times have changed.
And you'll notice that no kids these days are named Mitchell. I think the trend now is biblical names and names of Saints. And those names that go either way - a name for a boy or a name for a girl.
I saw Mitchell three years ago at a high school reunion. He had changed. He was no longer the prettier one in our relationship. I couldn't figure out if that was good news for me or bad news for him.
So the highlight of the evening was an involved discussion of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."
"Queer Eye" is my newly official favorite show. Keeping in mind, of course, that "Six Feet Under" is still in a category all its own. The category of pure genius.
So we pig-eaters - or whatever that meat was - were well-versed in Carson-isms.
"Clothes may make the man, but accessories make the man fabulous."
"With the hair down it's Jesus, with the hair up it's Kirstie Alley"
"Mirror, mirror on the wall, Am I big or am I small?"
"I need a ritalin smoothie before I can deal with this disaster"
and my personal favorite dialogue:
Carson: Where did you get this shirt from? Jon the straight guy: K-mart. Carson: Don't ever use that kind of language in front of me.
Okay, enough.
Needless to say, it was fun. And funny.
And some of us happen to do ab fab imitations of Carson, by the way.
So then, an individual - who shall remain nameless - admits that he didn't know what couture was before the "Andrew" episode.
You remember Andrew: he's the guy who had to get his entire body waxed. ("Andrew's hairline starts at his butt, and works its way up to the front of his forehead.")
Well, a well-coifed but laid back barbeque participant - but for her vegetarianism - offered the basic explanation.
"It's fancy clothes. Fancy designer clothes from the runway."
"Oh," said the enlightened individual, "so the clothes in GQ are couture?"
"NO!!" came a chorus so loud I'm sure the whole world heard. Or at least all of Frederick.
And I stepped in.
I explained how haute couture technically refers only to those designs produced by accredited Paris haute couture houses. And that the haute couture lines represent only the finest fabrics and highly-skilled handwork. I may have mentioned the history of haute couture as indicating one's membership within the social elite. And I noted some of the most famous modern purveyors of couture: Gaultier, Dior, de la Renta, Lagerfeld, Lacroix, Lang and Balenciaga.
I described couture. With confidence, knowledge and precision.
And when I was finished, everyone was gone.
Did I mention I'm the life of any party?
God, the useless crap taking up valuable storage space in my warped brain never ceases to amaze me.
But it was good
It was a good time and a good part of a day where I did that stupid thing I always do even though I say I won't do it anymore.
I got melancholy.
I don't mean that I was melancholy.
I mean that I actively and intentionally got myself melancholy.
Is there no end to the stupidity of humans?
I was doing some post-run writing. I was writing about some personal stuff. And something triggered something - it's always a mystery how that works. And I got a little sad.
So then I played with Boo and watched Road Rules for a while and had a Snapple and the day was most excellent!!
Except that's not what I did.
No. Once there's a twinge of melancholy, I'm the go to guy. I carry that sad pathetic ball all the way across the field and then I kick that damn thing over the goal.
What I did was snuggle with Boo.
He enjoyed it, as he always does.
And I pondered life without him. Always a picker-upper.
Then I put on earrings given to me by my best friend.
And I pondered life without her. Another picker-upper.
And then - stop now if you can't take this - I actually got into the car (barbeques don't provide for melancholy delays) and turned Jefferson Starship all the way up.
"If only you believe like I believe - we'd get by....if only you believed in miracles - so would I..."
I sang that damn song about twelve times. Since I played it about twelve times.
And it was truly pathetic.
But it was a good day anyway. Despite my destructive habits. Spent time with friends, some new and some old. Eating pig.