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From somewhere up the bike lane I could hear a man bellowing, his voice funneled my way by construction walls and buildings as he came rolling up the street. “Fuck you! I hate it! I hate the fucking motorcycles and the loud fucking cars and the fucking bass amplifiers fuck you you fuck I fucking hate you all!” He was in front of me now, pedaling a commuter bike at a frantic cadence, his face mostly obscured by the shade of his helmet and his sunglasses but still clearly twisted with rage as he yelled at the Honda cruising along next to him, a Civic with tinted windows and a pair of chome exhausts the size of beach pails. The car was purring, windows down, its driver grinning like a toadfish who’s swallowed a hook.

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May you all feel the way about the person you love that I feel about this one, a dumb breathless love that smothers cynicism and fills you with wonder, a love that’s undiminished over this first 17ish years of marriage. Happy anniversary, Nif. Thank you for marrying me.

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But it wasn’t all buttercups & pumpkin pie for country mouse, who chewed her way in to a cardboard box but somehow couldn’t chew her way out again…. #deadasadormouse #coldcoldground

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I was in high school when R.E.M. was being born, and I was against them on principle. They were too popular with girls who wouldn’t give me the time of day to be trustworthy. But the cover of Murmur said almost everything about the south that mattered to me. Those shapes lost to kudzu so thick that even in winter it masked everything; scrappy, shabby woods, filled with decaying junk, abandoned barns; mystery at once cheap and profound.

Understanding their southernness was what brought me around to R.E.M., and now every time someone holds up “Sweet Melissa” or “Free Bird” (though I love them both) as the anthem of the south I want to say no, “Catapult”; and anytime someone holds up a skillet or a leg of fried chicken as the icon of that place I still think of as home I want to show them the cover of Murmur and say, no, this.