And so the day arriveth, when The Surge must don his rock&roll mantle (a waistcoat and extra tight black jeans) and tour the country spreading his message of rock&roll whilst consuming as much beer and roadside Cracker Barrel as humanly digestible.
I'm gonna miss that sucker, I am, I am. We've been doing pretty well at This Thing Called Marriage.. Sure I want to beat his ass with a rubber hose quite frequently - but more often (only by a hair) I wanna love him up. Installed deep within his soul resides a sweetness. Almost a naivete. Yet he is the wisest fellow I know. Can one be naively wise?
He is innocent in regard to the semantics of life. Basically, he ignores the boring shit and lives for the fun stuff. And I fell right into his devious little life plan. I am certain to be the 'asshole' disciplinarian parent that our children will only appreciate after they enter their thirties while he secretly showers them with candy and later cash. By the time they realize that during all the groundings I administered I had their best interests at heart, I'll be a senior battling Alzheimers (it runs in the family).
It is no coincidence The Surge is a Christmas Junkie who believed in Santa Claus well into his teen years. Knowing this about the man makes it anything but strange that he pens some of the most powerfully nuanced, desperately alive lyrics you've ever heard.... Spirited words that emblazon new trails across unexplored areas of your heart and mind.
He is a high level executive in the Dreaming Department.
So it's with a heavy heart that I begin the unsettlingly familiar task of packing toiletries, clothes and secret love letters tucked within magazines and books, and send the ManBoy back into the throngs.. Five weeks is a long time. The bed feels roomy for only that first night and then it's far too big. Holding the remote however, remains a victory for two or three nights before becoming boring. Love me some Roseanne reruns... and I can only take The Civil War: A Documentary for so long until I crack..