Take these broken wings and learn to fly

Instruction and choice prevent me from being maudlin about tomorrow (10/07) being a full three hundred and sixty four point two five days since Ben died.

Here's a slightly edited version of what I sent to my friend Matt that night, just a moment of stream-of-consciousness writing:

He was very tall. I mostly knew him with a ponytail. He showed me how to change my alternator.

For a time in high school he toured as a semi-pro wrestler. An accent and slight lisp would come out in his speech if he was overly-tired. You could tell he thought something was really funny by the pitch of his laugh. His appetite was huge.

Nothing could rattle him or shake him to the point where he was out of ideas.

He always pitched we should make this TV show about this astronaut named "Ben." Or this other show about a secret agent named "Ben." He always referred to a smoked turkey and smoked cheddar sandwich as a "Smokity-Smoke-Smoke."

He was the smartest guy in the room but never needed you to know that.

Briefly, we got to be around him. It's never long enough.

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Of course, that's a smattering of Ben. A quick rundown of what I was thinking about.

Oddly, while I was driving in this morning, I thought about how funny he is compared to most living people. What does that tell you about a guy that you still laugh more thinking about him/making fun of him than you do with most people?

Tomorrow, my goal is to have as much damn fun as I possibly can, as slow or fast as I want, with as much smarts as I have, while wearing big work boots and jeans and eating like a garbage disposal.

If you've never had chocolate ice cream mixed with Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, then you haven't lived.

If you haven't had chooclate ice cream mixed with Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls made by Ben, then I'm far better off than I should be.