Okay Mitch, You're On Your Own
I've accepted employment after a long bout of being un-enned. Sadly, this means that Mitch and I's weekly bull sessions at the Country Kitchen will have to come to an end. I remember when we started hanging out--ostensibly at first to discuss blogging and who would be a good target for Fisking. Then realizing our shared hatred of HR people and often filling our mornings plotting homicidial revenge. Thankfully nothing came of that.
I fondly remember being the first to read Mitch's rough-draft treatise about unemployment and the Republican dating scene--hopefully it will flesh itself out into that novel you always talked about.
Or hearing his first concerto in Bb for bagpipe--the power, the mastery, I'm welling up just thinking about it.
Or one morning when he came in (late as usual--some things never change!) with a large, red Trapper Keeper under his arm. "Whatcha got there?" I questioned. "Oh, this? It's nothing" he demurred. Insisting, I wrestled it carefully from his grasp (keeping in mind his training in Drunken Boxing) and discovered a veritable treasure trove of poetry dating all the way back to his days as a teenager growing up on a beet farm in North Dakota.
This one, which I have committed to memory, is a personal favorite. It is titled No More.
Dad makes me pick them
Has threatened me with a stick then
I say No More No More
Up every day
With no time to play (my bagpipes)
I say No More No More
A bushel then a peck
And nary a hug around my neck
I say No More No More
One day he'll see
When I sell this wretched story to TV
Then he'll say
No More No More
So Godspeed Mitch all of your many endeavors, although it looks like I won't be able to participate in your idea for the Northern Alliance of Blogs Car Wash.
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