Letter to a friend, summer 2011

Yoooo hoooo! I can’t believe they let you watch the Bruins cup final in the pen. That’s awesome. Still can’t believe they won it after so many years of playoff let downs— the days of Bourque and Neely when the damn Oilers were so fucking good. I went to the parade and it was insane. It started at 11am and I got there about 10:30, found a spot on Tremont and Bromfield street, pretty close to park Street station. There were young kids all ready hammered and crowds were rocking— so crowded that at one point traveling groups looking for open spots had to stop and stay where they were because they couldn’t move any further. It started at the Garden and went down Tremont took a right at the Commons and ended somewhere around Newbury street. I saw the cup and took a few photos of players but I could not see all of them because of there position on the duck boats.

 

Anyway, let me get to your letter…. Tell Facebook people to write you? I barely talk to people on there anyway. Good luck with that dude. Once the social network explosion happened, letter writing became a dying form. I mean I even told Glen to write you and he is one of your best friends and as far as I know he still hasn’t written. I think it’s a combination of the quick fix/human response that social networks provide, and that people are just too lazy to grab a piece of paper a pen. Heck, or even create a document like Word, as I do, because its not a comment or message on public record. Whatever it is Jamie, don’t hold your breath because sadly people don’t care anymore. However if you had Facebook in jail on free time, you would probably get all kinds of messages.

 

Lets see…. You keep talking about getting together one day for rum and cokes but you can’t seem to escape your past or present for that matter. Maybe some day when we are old gray and crippled we will drink and talk about the dreams and directions of our lives.

 

No I have not seen Gina since that day in 2008 at IHop and then once in Randolph Shaws in 2009. Small talk. Pretty sure she didn’t even give me the old, “hows Pat?” I don’t even think IHop is there anymore. Lots of places around here have closed. Zeppys. Friendlys (where Gina worked). Blockbuster. Sals Calzones.

 

Haha that sucks about privacy issues. I suppose if I were in the pen I’d have to learn how to jerk it too with other men shaving or reading beside me. Hell learning to take a shit beside Big Fred would scare me enough!

 

Anyway, as far as my writing I’ve had a realization about theme and how it should reflect throughout characters, plot, settings blah blah blah so I’m working that stuff out and when I get some worthy work done I will send you some through pony express. Been reading a lot of Kerouac biography and letters he wrote and it scares me how similar we are in character, as far as our love for the road and words. If not for my boys, I fear I could just take off some day and travel and write again. But I’m also getting old. How scary is that, 43 this July. Teeth and hair falling out and creaky knees, man it sucks. But I’m lucky I got this far. I think back on my life and feel lucky to still be alive. I didn’t live your gangster/ homeless/ drug addict life but I was doing much stupid drunken shit, daring death with sheer drunken stupidity like some idiot rock star. It wasn’t until the Harvard Square incident with Gary that shook me out of my tangled web. I’m still here, buddy.

 

Okay got to hit the sack. Talk later… LB… I knowwwwwwww….