For Claire

I had dinner with my Uncle Tom tonight.

Through marriage.

But whatever. He's still paying. So we won't hold it against him.

Actually, he's a stand up guy, my Uncle Tom.

Married my Aunt Barabara when they were both in their forties.

He wrote her a song and played it for her at the wedding.

She cried.

A lot, according to the pictures.

Which is why I call him 'uncle' Tom.

If he just wore a corsage and didn't give a shit, I'd probably call him Tom.

This evening he bought me a steak as large as the fist of a man who eats a lot of steak.

Follow that?

Fantastic.

He bought a bottle of wine for us, and gave me instruction on how to taste it the way that wine nuts drink wine.
But without all of the empassioned discussion of distilleries and grape moistness and 'hint of oak' this and 'hint of juniper' that.

Instead, he explained how he journeyed to The Canary Islands when he was in high school, and that wine was all that was available to drink there because apparently The Canary Islands are not known for their wonderful drinking water.

They're known for their canaries.

He then explained how he was consequently drunk most of the time that he was there.

Then we spoke about my doing comedy and he hinted that in a few years he might be willing to try acting as my agent.

Which I think he could do.

Then he talked about how much weed he smoked when he was younger.

To his dismay.

And that's why Uncle Tom is wicked.

Because he doesn't talk to me like I'm the youngest in the family.

Aunt Pat is wicked for the same reason.

She's not my aunt through marriage, though. In fact...she's not my aunt at all.

Just for all of you 'the youngests' out there who are reading this:

When you're 26, everyone in the family continues to ignore what you have to say.

Because you're still the youngest.