I didn’t know Cheryl Spector very well, though I knew her for years. I knew her primarily through my uncle and his crew and secondarily because she worked at one time for the same outfit which currently keeps me out of trouble. I would meet up with Cheryl Spector about once a year or so, and she would always inundate me with questions about said outfit. It seemed to work for both of us. It gave me something to talk about when I was feeling out of my element a feeling that is generally reserved for days ending in ‘y’ but which can be especially pronounced in a crowd full of outgoing gay and/or transgendered people and, I think it gave her something new to discuss, or maybe gave her a chance to vent old stuff.
Anyways, Cheryl Spector died last week. Leukemia. That’s just odd.
A guy walks into a bar and ends up attending a wake.
Wait, it’s not a joke. That was me on Tuesday night.
What a strange week. R.I.P., Neal, you old barfly, you.
Johnny’s always running around trying to find certainty. He needs all the world to confirm that he ain’t lonely. Mary counts the walls. Knows he tires easily. Johnny thinks the world would be right if it could buy truth from him. Mary says he changes his mind more than a woman. But she made her bed, even when the chance was slim. Johnny says he’s willing to learn, when he decides he’s a fool. Johnny says he’ll live anywhere, when he earns time to. Mary combs her hair. Says she should be used to it. Mary always hedges her bets. She never knows what to think. She says that he still acts like he is being discovered—scared that he’ll be caught, without a second thought. Running around. Johnny feels he’s wasting his breath trying to talk sense to her. Mary says he’s lacking a real sense of proportion. So, she combs her hair. Knows he tires easily.
Bye-bye, Mr. Smooth