Uncategorized – Page 2

Knowing

I know you, George.

I know you by the sharp pang I feel when you plunge your teeth, all ten of them remaining in your mouth, into my shin as I’m moving too slowly in the morning as you wait for your Friskies. I know the three canine teeth especially, and I’m always surprised by your strength. By your fearlessness. Your…assholery. I know that your crooked grin is from fighting valiantly as the calicivirus ravaged you, your mouth full of sores and your organs shutting down. You survived because you are a fighter, and you finally submitted to allowing a human’s assistance.

I know you by the hoarse series of vocalizations you give me, and I know what they all mean. I know that one is a plea to go outside—one that, until just a month ago, went unanswered. You are an inside cat. Inside is safe. One means you’re hungry. One means that you’re needing attention. One means you’re incredibly annoyed with the canine attention you’re receiving. Each one demands an immediate reply. It’s why, although you’re named for a few men that your character echoes—you’re known around here as “King George.”

I know the feeling of your fur and your paws as you walk across the bed and eventually settle in beside me. You aren’t as heavy as the other boys, and you don’t ruffle the covers. You’re careful and precise. You spent a lot of time outdoors before we found you; you know how to maneuver unnoticed. You are svelt and weightless.

Outside—that’s new, and it’s because I know we’re near the end. I know that because I know you. I knew immediately when things changed for you. And I realize that once upon a time, you reigned as an outside Tomcat, errr—intact—and no human told you what to do. So watching you roll in the dirt and feast on grass and scratch the palm tree—I know that’s not the virile Tom you once were, but it’s a compromise, King George, and that’s all we have in the back yard. I watch over you like the secret service, and I know that you hate that. I won’t compromise here.

You are named George Harrison Ford. Your name hails from two men—George Harrison, the subtle but insanely talented Beatle who went largely unnoticed and asked for so little. And Harrison Ford—handsome, usually playing the hero, and weathered in just the right way.

You found your way to my mother because you were dying, and for ten years, you have let me know you—despite the fact that you were reluctant to be a people’s cat. And I thank you, George. And here we are now.

In the next few weeks, you’ll ask me to let you go, and I will do that for you. I believe the biggest gift we give each other is knowing well enough when to say goodbye.

And I’ll know. Because I know you.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Long Time No See

It’s what my dad says when he sees someone after a massive gap. Sometimes, if he’s feeling especially feisty, he just says what he feels, “I thought you were dead.”

It’s what you can say when you’re 85, and people excuse you for honesty. I’m not there yet. I still lean on some semblance of polite small talk.

It’s what happened the other night when I pulled up in my Chevy—oh, not that THAT Chevy. Not the Nova. I guess…I guess I owe y’all some backstory.

Long time, no see.

The Nova taught me how to focus. She taught me how to use my hands and fix things. She taught me how to steer into a skid (a few times). She taught me how to drive without electronannies. She taught me how I shouldn’t trust a speedometer or a gas gauge. She taught me how to rewire around fusible links. She taught me how to sweat it out, fight, push, and endure.

And her last lesson was how to just let go. She sat for a long time after my ex ruined her. I pieced her back together with the help of my friends, but she really needed a new start, and she had taught me everything I was going to learn from her. Except, well, that one thing. I wrote a big, emotional ad and I put it on Craigslist, and I said “no” to a few people. And then it happened. Some guys pulled up, they drove her, and they left with her.

I realized I was never going to finish that car. I realized that I didn’t want to. She was, to me, the car from high school. The silly old Nova that gave me my first lessons about installing an engine and replacing motor mounts, and adjusting a carb. She wasn’t the lessons I needed…right now.

So, here we are.

Wait, there’s actually more. My new job started expanding my travel, and things got intense, and with the travel came pet sitting like crazy, and my gorgeous Jaguar was sitting around costing a fortune while I was in San Fransisco ALL THE TIME. So I traded it for…drum roll…a Chevy.

And now we’re here.

I parked my Chevy at my new 2nd job. Why the 2nd job? Because with all of the travel comes petsitting. And with petsitting comes people in my house that don’t handle the dogs the way I do, and there are vet bills. Petsitting plus vet bills mean… the second job.

I found myself small talking with these people…thinking of my father and his honesty and wishing instead I could be talking to him and spending time with him—with my family and loved ones. But here were are, here I am, like so many of us. 2 jobs, debts. The new American dream.

The disintegrating American dream—is it because we’re bad planners and big purchasers? I don’t know, kids. I’m skeptical, but I can’t say. I’ve done nothing but reduce and let go. What I can say is that my next “Long time, no see” to my family will be well earned and followed with a sigh of relief.

Also, blog readers…
Long time, no see.

Happy Trails. Long May You Run.

-Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Consistent

At times the hardest part of being in a relationship is knowing that there are parts of you that are difficult, trying, and stressful—and knowing there is no control. My mother, throughout my childhood, often turned around to find me gone, leading a wayward steer named Jackson back into his stall by his ear–I’m sure she barely mitigated a heart attack simply by knowing that if she ran into the pasture in a frenzy, he might react. Luckily he didn’t, and she didn’t, and I was able to usher him back to safety. These things often popped up—a flying squirrel that curled up on my doormat and found a home in my hoodie pocket, a very pregnant cat behind the Outback Steakhouse that would ride home as quiet as a mouse in my Mustang and have 6 kittens on our porch, a motley colored dog in our yard that would find sanctuary from the Florida heat.

It was just—divine—-the animals. As easily as the automobiles came to me, so did the animals find me. And the facts were facts. The shelters killed them; this I knew inherently. And so—I know that I have subjected those in my life to the stress of extra paws and fur. I know, and while I’m sorry that it makes life harder, I can’t possibly imagine that letting them die is worth the—what? Convenience?

I can’t even put together a comprehensive list of animals that have benefited from the patience of my mother, brother, and yes—-even those horrible exes that have come and gone. And now—the patience of my boyfriend who endures the lifesaving rescue of one very big, very sweet Pit Bull named Tyson.

Here’s what I’ve learned about Pitbulls in the short time I’ve been involved with their rescue. People see the breed first and then the dog. They see the stance, the head, and they cut a wide berth around them. I can’t help but liken this to racism—isn’t it really similar? It’s judging by misconception alone, by appearance. It’s saying, “a handful of pit bulls were used for crime; therefore, we’re going to lump them all into this stereotype.” Instead of looking at his attributes: knows basic commands, great with all other dogs, calm, hardly barks, wants to play and walk with you but desires to snuggle on the couch as his primary directive, intelligent, young, strong, a clean bill of health, good with cats—people see “pitbull,” and that’s that. That’s one hell of a list of great attributes to simply disregard.

That’s like getting a fantastic resume for a job that fulfills everything you could want for that position—and then making a judgment call against the individual because of someone’s ethnic background. It’s just…ignorant.

So here are some things that are consistent about what I’m garnering from my current rescue situation: people consistently fail me but never surprise me; animals tire me out, keep me exhausted but give me something to work for and something to believe in; despite the hurdles, they throw into my life and my wallet and my personal life and relationships, they are the reason I’m here. These things are never changing.

Cheers to being consistently covered with fur, consistently the crazy pet lady, consistently tired, and consistently giving comfort to the small army of previously unloved creatures that call my house their home.

Past, present, and adopted animals. Foster kittens were thankfully all placed into amazing homes.

Past, Present, and adopted animals. Bottom left: Circe, my angel, may she rest in Peace. Bottom right, Dexy—the 11 year old Shepherd dumped at East Valley that lived her last year in happiness with me.

Past, Present, and Adopted animals. Bottom Left, sweet 22 year old Yoko, may she rest in Peace. Top Right—tarantula rescued from rushing river in Puerto Rico. I’ve been told it’s not “native” and I don’t argue spider geographics, but I didn’t want to see her die. My sweet foster kittens and adult foster cat were placed into amazing homes.

Tyson, with Joplin, about whom I blogged a few years ago when I pulled her from East Valley Shelter.

My fosters, Sheila and her 6 babies, Luna, Berkely, Squishy, Tyra and her 3 kittens, Tinga, Fontana, Cary Grant, Onjie and her 5 kittens, Dexy, Lily and her 6 kittens, were all incredibly loved. I didn’t go looking for any of them. Just like Tyson—running down my street, through my yard—they found me. Consistently.

Skeptically Yours.

Salvation

Years ago, indescribably, a 1976 Nova and a Rottweiler formed a foundation for me to rise from the ashes of depression, fear, and self-harm. They did so by giving me something to do with my hands in the form of repair and restoration with the car, learning how to revive something from the past that, frankly, no one else would have noticed. The Rottweiler—well, she was my savior in the form of protector, moral North, and governing director of responsibility. Going from invisibility to boisterous and frightened to safe and secure was empowering.

I’ve often made the comparison between myself and the Nova, the lessons of self to those of the car. It perhaps sounds shallow and banal to someone who doesn’t give a damn about cars or classics, but here’s what I say to that: the Nova isn’t a classic, and this week, she transcended the status of “car.” Lessons come in so many forms.

Everyone that knows me, actually KNOWS me, knows that I drove that thing in high school, through college, out to California, and in daily traffic in LA. They know that it was once taken from me by an ex who thought he had the right because he had put some work into the car with a shitty magazine that needed a topic. Six months and a flatbed later, minus an engine and interior, etc., I got it back. She had been gutted, and so had I.

I have replaced three engines in that car, put about 100,000 miles on her, and all in all, she has actually never put my feet in the dirt. That car has outlasted leased Lexus vehicles, apartments, boyfriends, fiances, jobs, the death of my best friend and protector—the Rottweiler, Circe, multiple nights out in Hollywood, and before that, Homecoming, Prom, the expedition to college, the move to Los Angeles, the day I took my first script to Emmett Furla Films.

And she has been the only constant. She has been an unwavering force of consistency.

The last blog I wrote talked about the gas leak in the Nova and my frustrations with her, and I did, actually, put her up for sale. I’ve received a few inquiries about her, and I’ve countered each with “no.” The universe, it appears, has sent me a few messages regarding her purpose in my life.

This week, 2 things happened. First, a massive pitbull appeared on my street at the same time that school lets out, and little bitty school kids and their mothers were scared silly. Big dogs with gargantuan heads do not frighten me, so I lassoed the culprit. After walking him around the neighborhood for hours, it became clear that there was no owner to claim him nearby. No one recognized this big boy. He was pliable and amiable, so I postulated that he must have an owner, and the next day we planned to go to the shelter to scan the microchip. After all, if any of my dogs got out, I would be frantically searching the shelters for them. It’s only fair, I convinced myself.

He spent the night at my house, my own pitbull feverishly trying to attack him through the door, him sweetly ignoring her futile efforts. The next day, we were going to make out way to the shelter…but…he was too big, and slightly stinky, for the Jag. So…the Nova…was the chariot of rescue. As he climbed into the back seat, I realized that my girl, Circe, was the last dog to ride in the Chevy and that the Nova was performing a task that my new—and, very expensive—-Jag—couldn’t.

And she did it flawlessly.

The dog is fine, by the way. He was chipped, and the owner was contacted. If for any reason he isn’t claimed, the Nova will fire back into action, and we’ll go get him and bring him home—errrrr—back to my house for rehoming. He is, after all, too good not to love.

Next…my boyfriend’s “rock solid” Jeep grenaded. As if on cue, the Nova raised her hand as if to say, “You need me. I am here. I have outlived all of them, and I always will.” He’s never been a fan of the Nova and in fact, is the person in my stories that said of the Nova at the show years ago, “Why is THAT thing here.” I, of course, defended her honor by saying, “fuck off.” However, he has never understood her. Not really.

The Nova carried him diligently to work, no frills, no AC, no radio, no power windows—but when he returned, smiling, he said, “The Nova is kind of a hoot…” and then he wanted to drive it again, and again…it was clear.

She gets under your skin. She is flawed and imperfect. She is nothing if not strange, underestimated, infuriating, and wonderful. She is not beautiful exactly, but something about her makes you look at her. She has been abused and lived through so much—and the wisdom and experience she can share are worth the patience of waiting. She is mine—she is my counterpart. She has rescued me again this week and reminded me what’s actually important—the lives of the helpless, helping those you love, and loyalty. I forget from time to time, and she finds a way to teach me again.

Skeptically Yours.

Fuel

Yesterday Bigskeptic jumped in her rickety bucket of a Nova and attempted a short drive around the block, after which I was going to wash and wax. She looks like hell; she really does. The time spent in pieces, stored car-knapped from me outside in the California sun, uncovered and unloved, meant that the aging paint was ruined, as were the wheels. It really looks the part of the 70’s POS these days.

Instead of a quick run around the block and pleasurable wash/wax, my nose was assaulted with fuel, and I luckily coasted into my driveway as gasoline dumped from the carb onto the intake and, subsequently…everywhere below it. A smart person would have made a trip to the store, bought a “For Sale” sign, and washed her hands of the whole damned thing.

I may not be smart after all.

Sweaty, wearing Eu Du Fume perfume, I went inside and sat down with a coffee and thought about the path of the Nova, how she got here, with me, how I got here, with her.

I have taken immense shit for that car. While there have been the occasional blubbering males commenting on sexy women with cars, it’s been more judgment than anything from even those closest to me about why the hell I hang on, with claws, to that ridiculous, dilapidated car.

The closest I can muster to logic on the matter is because all this time, that stupid Chevy quite literally fueled my passion for cars—how they work, why some matter and why some don’t, why some get restored, and why some get left behind, the history, the physics, the design. She is antithetical to custom cars and hot rodding as I am antithetical to those typically involved in this industry. I cling to her because somehow our plights are tied together, and where everyone else would leave her behind because she doesn’t matter, I cannot. She has to be along for the ride.

Once I met someone at a car show that looked at my Chevy and said, “who brought that??” and my response was, “fuck off, that’s mine.”

That’s exactly how I still feel today about my bucket of bolts, our outsider plights intertwined, both of us taking a moment to sit and be broken until we figure out just exactly who we should be in this iteration of our self-revision.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Dirty crawlin’-around-cars-legs. My shoes smell like gas.

Empty Shelves

I’ve been flea marketing my whole life, so I know better than to attend with a set agenda or with the weight of a broken heart dragging down the process of sorting through someone else’s castoff goods. Today I made the mistake of attending under both circumstances, and I left with the rarity of emptihandedness.

There were treasures to be had, I’m sure, but in my state of mind, the biggest bits of baggage weren’t in the beat-up boxes and card tables surrounding Veteran’s stadium but with me. I needed to replace a shelf leaving with a fresh ex, and everything I looked at reeked of my broken heart, and while some measured 36 inches wide, it wasn’t, somehow, big enough to fill the gap. I had subconsciously tasked the flea market and all of those vintage goods rich with the energy imprints of lives over and done with the task of answering some very big questions and filling some very big gaps.

Emerging single again means that 1300 square feet of house feels enormous, I feel immense loneliness, and the gigantic chaos of everyday life seems harder to navigate. Those things are parts of breaking up, as is the division of property, the crying, and the logistics. Even those splits made for the better are filled with these tragedies, and I know that, but I still went searching through other people’s pasts for answers today, hoping to numb out or wise up.

I came out empty, with no shelf, no answers, just…the same skeptic that got me into this mess in the first place. Here’s a tall, stiff drink and a Cheers to you, all of you, making a go of things. It’s harder than it looks.

Skeptically Yours.
Bigskeptic

Forgetting

Living with the voice of a WWII veteran constantly broadcasting his story to me has changed a lot about how I feel today, Memorial Day. When I’m writing, the voice of my narrator feels very close and real, like a radio station being picked up from 1951, a crackly station played only to me, through which I become a messenger. My book, which I have finally finished after years of construction, is about a veteran of WWII who watched many, many of his brothers die in the European Theatre.

Because of this narrator, I’ve tossed myself into several books about the war…The Forgotten 500 (buy it here The Forgotten 500 ), and The Monuments Men are two of my favorites thus far, as well as jumping into Part 2 of my own book…so the death toll of WWII has been fresh for me these past few months. I’ve been in it because that’s where my Narrator is, still coping.

Circe Taurus Izaboo.

The story he tells is about what happens NEXT for him and his guilt for those he left behind in Europe. Enthrallment with the past and nonstop-fingers-are-beating-the-keyboard-writing did something peculiar for me this month: I was writing so much that I remembered May 12th as nothing but Circe’s birthday, and today I celebrated Memorial Day with a humble and thankful heart.

In remembering only Circe’s birthday, I forgot something that was once fucking huge…my Unwedding Day.

Two things: First, Circe was my hero and best friend, the Rottweiler that taught me everything I needed to know about life, love, dogs, myself, dignity, and humor, forever and ever amen. She was born on May 12th, 1997, and died on January 14th, 2009, and those two days are hung in my heart.

Unwedding Dress.

Second: May 12th was also the planned day for my wedding years ago, which I canceled. It’s been, for 2+ years, a day that I remembered mostly for what it wasn’t rather than what it was. Certainly, I have felt bitterness, remorse, anger, “what the hell was I thinking” and confusion, but this year I felt nothing. It’s the best nothing I have ever felt, and it’s the best thing I have ever forgotten.

The year of my Unwedding, after the cancellation and the lost deposits, I put on my wedding dress (a cute little casual vintage lace mini dress) and went to see a movie in the graveyard at Cinespia, Hollywood Forever Cemetery, Hollywood, with my friends and family. It was a way to “put it to rest” and move on, but it was clear on my mind each year until 2014 when I completely forgot that this was the day I dodged the biggest bullet in existence.

I believe very much that if I had gotten married on May 12th, 2012, I would be a statistic of divorce by now. As hard as it’s been to separate myself from that life, it would have been harder to negotiate a divorce. Canceling a wedding and breaking off an 8-year relationship was devastating, and the ensuing questions about my marriage status weren’t fun and never will be, but I am thankful for the opportunity that changed my trajectory, thankful for the inspiration that I have right now to write, and thankful for a spirit that can choose to let go, and simply…forget…because it was a small moment in time that doesn’t matter in the long run.

Remembering all souls that have been lost, those with 2 legs and 4.

Memorial Day is about remembering those that perished protecting our country, and I do so with a heavy heart each year. I also celebrate Memorial Day by forgetting the bad things that have weighed me down so that I can better appreciate the good things we have because of those people, the things that all along we tend to take for granted because we worry so much about the trivial and meaningless. Buried in the anxious and unforgiving past is no way to live, not when so many lives have ended prematurely, brutally, and often rather anonymously. Their legacy often lives in our ability to forget the insignificant and focus on the chance to be alive, to do good for one another.

Here’s to forgetting the things that hurt you and remembering the people that free you.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

The Window TO 1959

When I stop at a Swap Meet, I feel like I can hear a thousand voices talking at once, telling the stories of the energy imposed on the items for sale. All of these things were left behind or unwanted by the previous owner, by death or choice, or force.

Rarely does a window open so clearly into a basic piece of the past as it did for me this past Sunday at the Long Beach Flea Market. Drawn to a vendor selling pictures—which is almost always a bad idea—I picked for an hour through some of the most evocative pictures from the 40s and 50s I have ever seen, especially considering there were pictures of strangers.

Next, at the bottom of the last box I picked through was an envelope addressed to one C.M. Burnett of San Diego, CA, sent from the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce. Inside was Chamber of Commerce tourism information from 1959, and before I ever knew how much I would be charged, I knew I had to have it.

Once home, I carefully pulled the information out and found:

Helpful Driving Tips: a brochure alerting visitors to One Way streets, parking on hills, jaywalking, and tow away zones.
Gray Line San Francisco Tours Advertisement: Choices for which tour. The Burnetts have put a checkmark next to Tour 1.
Calendar of Events for all of 1959: The Burnetts have a checkmark next to July 7, 11, 18, 21, 25, and 28 for the Municipal Pop Concerts
San Francisco Hotels and Restaurants List: The Cliff House Restaurant is checked, but nothing else
Your Guide to San Francisco and its Nearby Vacationlands: The Burnetts have checked off Bus Tours, Bay Cruise, Cable Car Rides, The Embarcadero, Golden Gate Park, Presidio, Seal Rocks Playland, and Zoo, Nob Hill, Maritime Museum, Russian Hill, Telegraph Hill, Chinatown, and then further out Yosemite National Park and Sequoia as well as Monterey Bay Country.
Avis Rental Car Ad

San Francisco Chamber of Commerce ad, plus other incredible photos I couldn’t leave behind.

I love the little pen marks.

They had a lot planned for their trip, certainly, and I don’t know how much they actually saw or if they even made it, but affording a glimpse into a regular family planning a vacation in 1959 feels like I opened a private window. I know that the little envelope from the Chamber of Commerce wasn’t meant to sit around until 2014 and be purchased by a stranger, but in the end, we are just stories, and we never know what part of our stories will live on…and which ones will be boxed and carted around swap meet to swap meet, anonymously.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic

Heroes For Ghosts

The law of diminishing returns seems to be a plausible reason for things dwindling as we age as well; at least, it makes sense to me because trading my heroes for ghosts happened over time, such a subtle, incremental change that I hardly noticed it. I’m not just talking about actual heroes, people—I mean, that’s changed a little bit as well, but largely the idea of things that were once important drifting into the ether of time and being replaced by less substantial elements.

When I get into these modes—this existential “life is empty-ism”—my natural response is to seek something visceral and terrifying that will call back into existence the pertinent and meaningful guardians of my moral compass. When these key directives dwindle, it’s an almost innate draw to danger.

I have less clarity these days than I did when I was in my teen years, and to show how old I’ve grown, I’ll quote Don Henley in a blog intended to quote Pink Floyd: “the more I know, the less I understand.” Part of growing older means getting answers for questions best left unanswered. My life’s path has been a lot different than most of my peers; and part of it was choice, part of it was by the universe’s design and not my own. I look back at things that I thought were my own decisions, and it’s almost laughable. As much as I hate the idea of predestination, some things do seem like they weren’t up to me.

Without the typical elements that usually keep people grounded—kids, marriage—I have to create my own center. And those “life is empty” moments are frightening without the bigger picture to create focus. No matter how much meaning the other things have—job, friendships, passions, it all leads back to a paragraph that sent shivers down my spine when I was 16 and reading Kerouac for the first time around: “My whole wretched life swam before my weary eyes, and I realized no matter what you do it’s bound to be a waste of time in the end so you might as well go mad.”

So MUCH of modern life seems like a giant goddamned waste of time. When I think back to the most wonderful moments of my life, they were spent twisting along Beach Rd, speeding on I-10, resting with sand etched into my elbows as my best friend and hero, the long-gone Rottie Circe, played at the beach. Perhaps in the trading of my heroes for the ghosts of things that once mattered, there has been an ensuing madness. The madness lands me here, over 30, unmarried but also never divorced, finally finished with my first book, the clear reality of “who my friends are…” and although I understand less, in general, and have to watch my demons at times…I do realize one important factor:

Some of the heroes were simply false idols and worth the trade to ghosts, who do me no harm.

Skeptically Yours,
Bigskeptic.

Who We Were

I come from a small town that revolved, for me as a kid at least, around the beach. I was allowed to roam free, mostly as a child, carefree on my pink and grey ten-speed bicycle that I received on my 9th birthday. Some things about that world, as I have learned in my adult life, were not as I remember them, and the world was not as safe as I believed. Perhaps my free roaming rights should have been a little more restricted, but if that were the case, I wouldn’t have had those long sun-filled days burning the bottoms of my feet and picking sand spurs out of them at Englewood Beach, grabbing a hot dog and Coke lunch at Circle K; or spent my evenings at Pelican Pete’s Playland earning enough tickets for a slap bracelet or some other useless plastic bit and running the go-carts until I was out of the money my mom had handed me in the parking lot.

Englewood is where I was a kid at Englewood Elementary watching the Challenger explode, where I was re-zoned into Vineland Elementary and became a Pop Warner cheerleader, and where I suffered through middle school at L.A. Ainger, where I was both bullied and the bully at one time or another and our class of hooligans was denied the benefits of the classes before and after. Lemon Bay High School, by comparison to high schools in the city, was a tiny school where essentially everyone knew everyone, and you’d run into them eventually at the beach because it was really the only place to go in town.

For that reason, when we lose someone that ran the same roads in high school, that hit the beach on the same weekends, that you can trace all the way back to elementary school—it hits home in a different way than people you lose from your adult life alone. It’s happened again, and it’s happened all too often.

It’s different because when I see his face, I see the 11-year-old Darrell Baxter that used to run me into the wall on the slick track at Pelican Pete’s but still let me win in the end. I see the Darrell Baxter with spiked hair giving me a Suicidal Tendencies CD for my 11th birthday, after which “All I wanted was a Pepsi” became a running joke. I see Darrell Baxter spinning himself on a bar stool until he puked just to make my brother laugh. I see the Darrell Baxter that made me watch bad horror movies and then secretly held my hand when he thought no one was looking. Even in High School, during Mr. Pearcy’s History Class, I saw 11-year-old Darrell when we’d talk. He was definitely still in there.

Who we were back then, in a small beach town with nothing to do, set us on our paths towards the places we’d go and the friends we’d keep. It also means that when we lose one of the pack, looking back is inevitable and hurtful. I’m looking back a lot today at the moments I had with my friend, with all my friends in the storied beach town of my childhood, sentimentalized as it may be in my head. I’d rather look backward with fond memories and forget the harsh realities that must have co-existed. And I’d rather remember Darrell as that 11-year-old boy, digging in the sand on Englewood Beach with 11-year-old me, still mostly sure that things would turn out okay.

Skeptically Yours.

Our friend Darrell took his life on February 27th, 2013.