Knew a girl named Nikki, I guess you could say she was a (Linda)

There is so much I want to escape from in my real life in the here and now--reading Marty's post was like stepping into a pool of surprisingly warm, burnt orange, sunlit memories that linger in purple twilight. There, the air is steeped thick with alcohol, laughter and song. Alcohol--the Captain's Tattoo, 3 Olives Raspberry Vodka and enough red wine to drown in. Laughter--Cooter Turtle (or was it Turtle Cooter?), Turret's Syndrome Convention (could we have possibly sworn more?), and the many ways I could spank my bottom during "Guesstures" while the two of you shouted out every word in the dictionary but "spank".

Song--here, I must depart from my format because this memory demands. Pulling in the dock from the walkway, like a boat, floating out as far as the rope would go--so separate from the land we were one with the lake. Sitting in the deep dark end of twilight as the fog rose off the water, a sheer mist around us, reeds emerged through it like fragile, slender statues. Our songs graduated with the night, as it turned darker and the full moon rose on us like a spotlight, casting aside the fog while the air grew colder and inched its way into our bones. My favorites were Prince's "Nikki" (Kudos to Marty, the lyrics queen who kept us going all night) and Hotel California. I would have never known I knew every last living word to that song. We all sang it like it was the anthem to our childhood.

I was delighted by Marty's beauty (so radiant in the moonlight!) and her honesty (though I could never wrap my tongue around the cherry chapstick/cherry cheesecake line). I was intimidated and worshipful of Alessandra's intelligence, the politics of the day peeling back the heavy shroud of her motherness, as she spoke her sharp, educated, smarter-than-I'll-ever-be mind, and the dimly lit cottage air cried, "she's baaa-aaack". Her little mini-me slept through the night and seduced us all with her dark perfection. I was pleased that we resisted gunning down the political signs (first time we'd seen Palin on a lawn) as we made our mad pesto dash to Waldoboro for our bread, wine, that addictive pesto, and small town walk. Not to mention the small bar beer. Remember the picture of a cottage on a grass lane with the moon above it? Good, I want it for Christmas, you can go halvsies.

Enough, enough, next year it will be posts about getting into bar brawls with toothless men because you hustled them at pool and used me as horny old biker man bait. I can't wait to wear a trashy denim mini-skirt again, it's been years! So, until then, keep writing--that means you, Bocco. Anything, every scrap, every bit, every run on edit free sentence your little fingers can type.