Work ain’t honest but it pays the bills

September 7, 2007

I met an artist recently. He was from the west coast and he had a two-initial name, like A.J. or O.J. I hated that he had initialized his name like that, because the first initial stood for his first name, and the second initial stood for his surname, which is ridiculous. If your name is Aaron Paul Jones and you want me to call you A.J., what, you want me to look at “A.J. Johnson” on your email footer and website and not spend the rest of the afternoon disgusted at how fucking retarded that is? A.J. Johnson? Aaron Johnson Johnson? Honestly. Whatever. He was actually a very nice person and I enjoyed sharing space with him.

But when I try to picture him now, I can only conjure the image of a distant cousin I met once, a year ago. At a funeral, he showed me naked pictures of his girlfriend. An artist in his own right, I suppose.

What is it about these two that cause them to be linked inextricably in my brain. A very whiteness. Blonde hair, blue eyes, likely college fraternity membership. But more than that. Something in their smiles, something in the muscles behind their eyes that said: When I drink I do things that cause the Police to chase me.

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