Can #6 Because Ray Halliday Has More Stuff to Say

Can #6: VAL2E 1ZSWG 09:49 best buy AUG 20 2009

This goes out, at first, to the great Dave Kress, who long ago taught me that horse radish was the fun way to spice up your tuna sandwich. This goes out to people all over the world who have taught me all kinds of things...Mary P. Groman, who taught me how to brush my teeth. Chris Turano, who taught me how to wash my eyeglasses. My mom, who, among other things, taught me to zip up my jeans and pull the pockets out before putting them in the dryer. Marie Kane-Seitz, who taught me how to dance, all side-to-side. And Trace, who taught me the Yucky Gum Song.

This was a tuna sandwich with horseradish and some sweet banana peppers. It also had a little salt and pepper, some bread and some lettuce. I used to be a defender of iceberg lettuce, then someone sat me down and told me the benefits of romaine, and now that's where you can find me, on Romaine Street.

Let's get to the books, because that's what prompted this entry anyway. Last night, several nights ago (time gets bent in a blog) the book lady and I were going through her books. We were looking at them, and thank goodness she was here, because I will tell you, and please don't tell her, that I was, at that point, going through a slight bout of disappointment. After the Brautigan was uncovered and filled my house with refreshing pancake smellin' breezes, I started to anticipate great things...a vein of Vonnegut, a block of Bukowski, a gaggle of Garcia-Marquez, a cache of Carver (pushing it?), a rain of Richard Ford! (I'm done).

But there weren't none. Although, I remember them clearly.
I've seen her shelves, throughout a big chunk of my life. I know the binder-colors and patterns by heart. I've envied them, mostly because she just used to always get great, great gifts from all sorts of people, until the whole chicken-thing happened to her.

And I was thinking. Hmm. Maybe she's lost stuff in some metaphorical fires as well. Maybe it's not just me. And then, I remembered some of her fires, and where those books went, including an oft debated volume of Rilke.

But here's the difference between me and her. She moves on. Those that might know, may agree that she is the most moving-onest person there ever was. Her past, literally, does not exist. While I have been sitting up in a teeny apartment trying to find a way back to my past so I could hang on to something, she has been having new experience after new experience after new experience. New, new, new, new, new, new, new, new, new. While I just keep getting older and older. I haven't had an experience in ten or twenty years. Not one.

Anyway, the sandwich. It was kind of dry. I do not eat mayonnaise and most of you know the reason. It is a tribute.

She is out there, ridding herself of the baggage...the baggage, dear readers.

While I am up here, alone, massaging my own butt.