This afternoon I will see my estranged family. The occasion? Unfortunately a funeral.
Douglas Robert Blomquist, was a night driver. I'm thinking he'd been around for about 15 years, but I don't really recall when he started driving. He was experienced, he knew what he was doing when he started here. I have no idea where he drove before Madison, Wisconsin.
Fast Eddie called yesterday and told me of the funeral. I don't know what I'd do without him.
I found yet another login to a site for writers. I'd given up trying to remember the site. When my previous laptop died, my access to it died. The password was no problem.
What I'm thinking is that there are a hell of a lot of people who want to be writers. That's nice. What do they want to write? Lit class exercises? I accepted being unable to write when I was 10 years old. I accepted it for a lifetime. Obviously, all these would be writers never had that obstacle.
What 'lit exercises' should I write? Perhaps some based on the Xanaduvians. I wonder what ever happened to that fellow from South Africa. Kind of funny story, but I can tell it because the only name in it didn't do anything she'd be able to sue me over. Her name was Andrea, and she probably disliked me more than any other house member. If memory serves, she was lady natural, one of the whole grain mamma's in the house. She had a brother in the house too, Jack. Anyway, Andrea really had it in for me. Then the fellow from South Africa cruised into the house one evening. He was looking for something. He found what he was looking for.
I asked him how he ended up in Ann Arbor, he told me he was a draft dodger. Ran to England rather than shoot people out of a helicopter in SA. He got a real good job as a computer programmer. His company transferred him from Leeds, England to Ann Arbor. He was real young too. As in, 21-ish. He must have been a REALLY smart kid.
15 minutes after he left on his first visit, Andrea was at my door, and she was real friendly. Would I introduce her to my new friend. Yeah, right. He was cute, she wasn't, at least in my estimation. I don't recall making the introduction. Why would I want to do something like her to my new friend? She didn't think of it in those terms..... Raging hormones. Even the biggest politically correct jerks have that going on when they're young it would seem.
Another funny story is the house member who wrote Lesbo Cult. That's a funny story too, I'll bet he got a whole $100 for it. He'd always claimed he was a writer. He had the right prerequisites, he drank too much, didn't fit in in a Hemingway-esque sort of way. Does he rate being remembered by anybody? Nah, he doesn't rate being remembered. Worth remembering is the fact that he was free to live there. Equal treatment for people, in a cooperative setting. The way cooperatives should work. Reflections of The Principles of Rochdale.