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Moms,

Good weekend, over here.  Trying my damnedest to forge relationships with L’s crazy friends, while understanding myself to be cut from the same solitary cloth my father was.

Bummer.

It make me wonder about how Eric and I grew up, in a way.  Whenever we asked what you or dad were up to, the standard response was, “What, are you writing a book?!”  I’m not blaming you or anything, but sometimes I wonder if we we ever really properly learned how to communicate as social creatures.

PS A moment today reminded me of the time here in Seattle, just before I brought Lauren home to meet you and dad.  We were at a bar– I can’t remember which– & I started blabbing with this guy who turned out to be a hospice worker for an AIDS clinic in the city.  We went back to his apartment, hung out with his twenty-something roommates, & met…

A PILE OF KITTENS..!

We all got stoned,& played around with those little monsters until it was time to head back to our crappy hotel.

There was something in that completely unexpected moment of sweetness & grace that makes me think of you– the time you got me that copy of Abbey Road, signaling the end of a rocky puberty, to getting stoned with you in grandpa and grandma’s den, back in Torrance.

Mom, if my story winds up ending well, it’s because you wrote it.

Love you,

Ian

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