I've known my best friend, Eric, for ten years. He knew me when I wore baggy pants and several earrings... and sideburns down to my chin. We have a girlfriend in common. He picks me up from the airport all the time. I spent six months in Antarctica with him. Basically, I love this guy.
Today, we were telling stories, and he reminded me of one of my favorites.
A few years ago, my parents owned a ranch. Their intention was to buy 100+ goats, become certified organic, and sell the goat milk to nearby Haystack Mountain Goat Dairy. However, they only ever had four goats (Brama, Lucy, Miss, and Luther), and they sold the place soon after this story took place.
Brama was a Nubian goat with strange ears and a creepy underbite. Although she had had a bunch of kids during her younger life, we believe she also may have been a lesbian. (I don't know how else to say it... She was just a little dykey.) Eric was once driving me home to the Ranch when I pointed out into the front pasture at her and said, "That's our goat, Brama." Just at that moment, the old goat sneezed, which also made her pee. Eric said, "I think your goat just exploded."
Lucy, on the other hand, was a French-Alpine goat who came to us pregnant. She gave birth to both Miss and Luther, whom my parents named after my grandparents. (Whether that's an homage or a joke at their expense, I don't know.) We later sold Luther to a Mexican family, who cooked him up in a stew. The father, a tanned cowboy in boots and a hat, brought us a Tupperware container of the goat stew a few days later, which my mom and I couldn't stand the thought of but my dad happily (and unemotionally) enjoyed.
A few weeks before Eric and I were scheduled to leave for Antarctica, my mom called me. I could hear something sad in her voice.
She said, "Lucy died. She's just laying there in the manger."
"Oh, God... Mom, I'm so sorry."
"It's okay. She was an old goat."
"That's true, I guess."
"But I need a favor. Do you think you could call Eric to come over and help you bury her?"
I called him, and fifteen minutes later he was there with a shovel and gloves. We dug a deep hole, wrapped her in a blanket, and put her in the ground. When we climbed out, Eric was quiet. He looked at me and asked, "Do you want to say something?"
This man will be at my wedding and my funeral.
Always remember, a friend is someone who will help you move. A real friend is someone who will help you move bodies.
My buddy, Hunter, invited us to Brooklyn this weekend for the Bust Magazine's Holiday Craftacular. It was packed (about 200 people too many) but fun. Good music and great stuff; I saw a tiny T-Shirt that said, "Boys Go Pee Pee When They See Me," but it was $35.00...
This weekend in New York, we went to the Apple store on 5th Avenue. Just inside the door, there was a young, good-looking kid greeting people and shuffling with excited energy. Joli pointed at the tiny little iPod Shuffle clipped to his shirt, and he suddenly lit up. His face became strangely animated and he lifted his eyebrows excitedly as he said, "It's smaller than you think! It's TEENY!" His feet didn't stop moving the entire time.
Yesterday, at lunch, I overheard a woman say to her friend, "There was this guy there last night. He was so cute... in a Charlie Brown kind of way... My hormones are so screwed up."
I've known my best friend, Eric, for ten years. He knew me when I wore baggy pants and several earrings... and sideburns down to my chin. We have a girlfriend in common. He picks me up from the airport all the time. I spent six months in Antarctica with him. Basically, I love this guy.
I was sitting at Wahoo's Fish Tacos the other day, eating some lunch, and two things occurred at the same time: a couple, sitting at a table just a few feet in front of me, started discussing fly fishing, and the song Whip It! came on the stereo.
On my way back from NYC last weekend, I brought back a cherry pie in my carry-on bag for the friend who was picking me up from the airport. I held it in my hand on my way through security so that it wouldn't be crushed in my bag.
