Dangerously close to sentimentality

I am going to be the first to say it: I am a poor man’s Jessica Hopper. But I have to agree with her choice of song and description: “Total sex threat soul, like he means.” This is some filthy, filthy goodness, and pretty much always what I imagined my boyfriend would be like, which is pretty much how I knew I was straight. ‘Cause this is some straight straightness here.

So, Teddy Pendergrass dies and so does half of Haiti and at the same time I’ve got two of my people with strokes and a third that needs brain surgery. A fourth friend gets surgery for thyroid cancer tomorrow, and a fifth friend just got released from his third hospital stay in as many weeks. All this happened in the wake of visiting my grandfather and taking part of his life history in order that we capture some of it before his Alzheimer’s progresses much further. Add the book chapter and two (co-authored) papers, a grant proposal and conference abstract, and I’ve pretty much told you the events that have occurred in my life over the last month.

I almost never tell you these sorts of things and I’m only doing it now because I feel like there’s something useful in sharing it. And Teddy is going to be my object lesson. If you watched that man sing, and move around the crowd and dance and hit on the ladies, you watched someone loving the wonderful accident that put them where they’re at. He is, as my dad might say, like a pig in shit. Happy as can be. If he got one moment in life like that, and he obviously did, then it was all worth it. All the months like my month, or your months, all those are less important than that one moment you get on stage. And if you’re lucky, you get a bunch of them.

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