Abacab!

Johnny writes from the frontier:

This new movie with Joaquin Phoenix as Johnny Cash has me concerned. I hope it's not going to be as unwatchable as the one with George Hamilton as Hank Williams. Or the one with Dennis Quaid as Jerry Lee Lewis. Or the one with the Bee Gees playing the Beatles. But more than that, I'm worried about my own acting career. It's not that I'm ambitious. I'll be happy if I go down in film history as a supporting actor in the George Thorogood story, playing one of the Destroyers. Recently, though, looking at my hairline in the mirror, I'm starting to think I should downsize my goals even further and go for the title role in the Phil Collins story. I know, it's against all odds, but it's a chance I've got to take.

Last week, his parents went out to visit Johnny and his hot veterinarian wife in the new-ish New Mexico desert digs, where Johnny's promised me a room of my own.

Johnny: I may die.
Tata: Are your parents having sex in my bed? Because that'd be ironic.

When I was 17, his parents rounded up all Johnny's younger brothers and stuffed them into a motor vehicle in a manner that would interest DYFS, leaving Johnny home alone. He and I and Dr. Nnud - our accomplice in many crimes with expired statutes of limitations - drank our way around a split-level suburban home. We did so many whippits that the night before his parents returned we swept the cannisters into a lawn trash bag and filled another with empty bottles. We had an excellent time watching Enter the Dragon by staring at the Bruce Lee in the middle. One night, we ate something that was a little off. The good doctor ralphed. Johnny ralphed. I couldn't ralph. Johnny fed me Ipecac, which makes everyone ralph. I still did not ralph. I went upstairs to Johnny's parents' room and fell asleep on their bed.

A week later, Johnny's mom handed me an earring. We'd cleaned the house pretty well, so I was surprised. "Where did you find this?" I asked. She smiled, "In my bed."