hello again from the insomniac kitchen. i’m making chili with like half the necessary ingredients, pondering watching that lena dunham movie on netflix even though it is pretty much guaranteed to piss me off, and mostly posting because i want to share this beautiful thing that lynn breedlove wrote on his facebook. lynn was the singer for one of my fave bands ever, tribe 8, and wrote a book about a butch dyke bike messenger and has a way of capturing a moment. and i want to save this, mostly for myself before it floats into internet land, lost in the swirling pit of all that is out there. (oh, and homobiles is a SF-based cab company for queers, with the intention of getting us all home safely)

here it is:
“tales from the homobile:

6pm. dinner rush. a boy calls frantic, emergency! gotta go home now! it’s a restaurant at dinner time. i pull up, finally. he’s very worried, small, beautiful, still in his wait staff suit, in front of a famous italian restaurant, he brings his own sick bag, and lies down in the back for his long ride home to the east.
i say whats the matter?
he says he is positive, and he cant get his meds, and he hardly drank at all last night, but it doesnt agree with him.
i thought of chester who swore he wouldnt let this thing change him and drank til he got tired of fighting it, whom i never helped through his sickest years.
i played some sweet music for my passenger and said do you still have a mom?
a plaintive noooo… came from beneath his jacket.
do you have any friends who mother you?
nooooo… came the forlorn voice again.
i said well homobiles is here for you. parents on wheels!. his voice smiled back weakly. yes you are.
for all the loves we didnt show up for, there are always new loves to show up for.” –lynn breedlove

this makes me more than a little misty-eyed, and it all comes back to what a powerful mysterious force told me from her deathbed: take care of each other. no isolationist bullshit. take care of each other.


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