Pileated

pileated

Add insipid to the hopefully shrinking list of words that do not mean what I think they mean. The trails near the campsite were full of salmon berries, described by all the field guides as ‘insipid.’ For some reason, I always thought the word meant ‘evil,’ but apparently it’s a matter of taste. Too bad, because I always liked the goddamned things. But I liked them so much better when I thought they were somehow depraved.

Add pileated to the aforementioned list. Not sure if I ever even guessed at its meaning. Not sure if even knew it was a word with any meaning unattached to the woodpecker I’ve been so desperately stalking for a snapshot all these years. Heart rot softens the bark, the woodpecker excavates a hole, and over the years, perhaps hundreds of animals will move in and out of the tree snags.

On these sorts of trips, I’m fond of saying things like, ‘The human body can produce its own adhesive,’ whenever I can’t find the duck tape.

But whenever he asks what this means, I’m forced to answer, ‘It means we should stick together.’ He’ll have a long list of words that do not mean what he thinks they mean, until he has outgrown decorum.

I have many thank yous swelling up in me, a backlog. I have to thank Albert for the very lovely iPod Nano that arrived last week. I have to thank Rae for the Rachel Yamagata, the very first album I listened to on said Nano. I have to thank Kat in advance for helping me figure out how to delete songs from the Nano that were never meant for transferring to the Nano. Seriously, how the fuck do I delete songs from the Nano? Why can’t the Nano just let go?

I have to thank Manuel for perhaps the funniest phone message anyone has ever left me. Sadly, I allowed my cell phone contract to expire on Friday, so now I can never again listen to what can only be described as a drunken rage-a-logue. I adore when people open a message with, ‘Brandon, you son-of-a-bitch…’

No, really, the next time you see me, if you want to make me smile, greet me with, ‘Brandon, you son-of-a-bitch.’ It’s even better than, ‘Brandon Rogers! How ya been, you old so-and-so?’

Whoever invented the phrase, ‘you old so-and-so’ deserves a precious medal.

There were other messages on that phone I meant to listen to, calling in at 90 + 3 to hear one last time. GOALLLLL! But the cell battery died whilst searching for a signal, my pockets full of salmon berry-stained granite and memory cards. It really doesn’t matter. I have those messages memorized.

I have to thank Scott for the drawing. You so, so perfectly captured how I was feeling in what I’m now referring to as my “Bearded Period.” I’m not sure how I can ever repay such a lovely, lovely gift. There, indeed, goes my hope for living the rest of my life debt-free. Scott, you old so-and-so, I swear that if those replica watches and insipid soft tabs ever do in fact materialize, I’m sending half your way.