On the Saturday following Thanksgiving "Never There" by Cake was nominated as the R.B.D.S.O.T.D., with a note that the selection was connected to events of that weekend, under the auspices of Projects MERCATOR & PANDORA. First, MERCATOR.
Daddy Dylweed, his lovely wife, & their many Kinder were back in Michigan for the holiday, to see kith & kin. He & I stated our intention to meet, though in the natural way of these things we doomed those intentions to almost certain failure by neglecting to secure them with concrete plans. I was very much looking forward to seeing him, not because it had been ages since our last meeting, but because the last two times we saw each other were occasioned by the deaths of first his sister & then his mother; it was my honor & duty to help him grieve, but for both selfish & selfless reasons I wished to see him under happier circumstances. Alas, due to the vagaries of both our schedules & the aforementioned mutual neglect, we were not able to rendezvous before his clan decamped back to the old Confederacy. We were in regular e-mail contact prior to Thanksgiving & have remained so since, but I regret my part in our failure to meet face to face this November.
A stalwart from the early days of Project MERCATOR, The Cowgirl, recently initiated e-mail contact in a not unwelcome bid to foster those neglected ties. She organized a lunch for much of the old gang, including herself & the sisters The Most Dangerous Game & The Impossible Ingenue amongst others. Despite mine own part in allowing those friendships to lapse, I would gladly have partaken of the lunch & reconnected with my old distaff companions—except that the appointed hour was noon on Saturday, 24 November 2012, the same time as kick-off in the benighted Horseshoe for "The Game" 'twixt the valiant Wolverines of the University of Michigan & the hated Buckeyes of THE Ohio State University. I pointed out this profound oversight in The Cowgirl's planning & received as a reply assurances that the sports bar/restaurant where the lunch was to take place had "plenty of T.V.s." There was clearly a failure to communicate. The Game. The Game! Who in her right mind schedules any social function for that nigh-sacred Saturday, & especially at that most important of hours? My choice was easy. Though I would like to have seen The Cowgirl, The Impossible Ingenue, & The Most Dangerous Game, I would have rued titanically missing The Game.
Last Thursday, my good chum Red Patton, having decided not to spend a year apart from his betrothed studying abroad in Polska, invited me to Flint's unsatisfactory but sole pub quiz. The invitation came after 8:00 P.M. I declined, having already settled into the idea of a quiet night at home, but I have high hopes that there is more good-enough pub quiz in my future.
The same Saturday that the valiant Wolverines came up short against the ancient foe, a pair of days astern of Thanksgiving, I received a postcard from From Russia, with Love (formerly Comrade Coquettish). She wished me & mine a happy Thanksgiving, & reminded me, sagely, "Grace is bliss." Upon contemplating the great geographic gulf twixt she & I, the pain is acute. I name her kith, but I wish her kin.
The Rebel Black Dot Song of the Day
Mark Mothersbaugh, "Ping Island/Lighting Strike Rescue Op" from The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou: Soundtrack from the Motion Picture (T.L.A.M.)