It's Duncan Ian McDuncan on Trustafarians and Poetry and...

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...art and living life to the fullest extent possible given one's resources and background and other relative factors. Like relatives. Like rich relatives. Like folks who leave you money; tax free, the way it's meant to be.

Now, I looked, and I can't see where a person goes to sign up for a new blog at the PTLeader, and I ran into Erwin when I was hanging [change to 'writing'] out on the mezzanine at Aldrich's, enjoying some raw fish. I would tell you which variety, but, really, it would probably be lost on you. Yes, working on my upcoming epic, non-fiction, semi, no-totally-autobiographical thriller on being the BARD OF LOWER MORGAN HILL, and, in particular, how I survived the great recession. Maybe you remember it. 2008. Hard times. I mean, like, my monthly was cut. Seriously. Mommy said I'd have to cut out a few 'extras.' EXTRAS?

Yes, that's what I said. "Choose," she said. It was tough, but I kept all three gym memberships, all three therapists, didn't drop out of any of my societal obligations. I mean, others depend on my 'extras.' Can I trim my own beard? Yes, but no one creates the perfect line, sculpts the 'to die for' soul patch like Flaumbault. [check spelling].

So, Erwin, working in the neighborhood, and I knew him from some surf culture event he was involved in that I just happened upon while making my thrice-daily rounds of Port Townsend, was just at Aldrich's to use the bathroom.

"Hey," I said, "I know you." "Sure," he said, "But I'm on my way TO the bathroom." His facial expression and hand positioning let me know he was desperately seeking relief. [Ha! Funny. Keep it in] 

So, I, long story short...shorter; despite his, possibly feigned, disinterest in all things raw, even kale, Erwin did listen to my terse description of my opus. Maybe, in retrospect, he was feigning interest. No, it was real; and he listened to how I was constantly disturbed by 'regular people', like, I mean, people I know, but don't want to talk to while trying to work. 

"Then write at home," he said. "Real writers write... anywhere."

"WHOA!" I said, starting a new tab on my laptop. "I have to get to work," he said. "In a minute," I said, "You must listen to this."

I stood up. I mean, others would want to hear this. Laptop in hand, I read:

"Low; I was low. My accountant slash manager had left me with only the smart car and the 'used' (and leased) Lexus. It was, because these were my 'responsibilities,' a choice between heat and electricity, or full data coverage on my phones and the full package, like [change to 'as is,' sounds more civilized/cultured] everything available on Direct TV, Roku... I mean, I need the very music of CNN in German. I don't regret breaking up and burning my grandmother's supposedly valuable armoire; it was necessary; in Lower Morgan Hill the wind can be vicious, and always, from any direction, blowing off cold dark waters. The ancient varnish added a little headiness to the evening, me, alone, with only my defiant sense of self worth, facing a depressed stock market, low dividend, meager interest rates... me, against it all, with only Safeway deli brie, week old crackers, and three cases of Chateau Buggerhead pure white, 1929, left in the cellar."

I looked up, wiped a tear from my eye, half expecting applause, or at least an audience other than a guy in a painting costume.

"Uh huh," Erwin said. I think he was holding back from full praise. It seems... I will adopt that kind of attitude. Workmanlike, sort of stoic. Still, I could sense he was impressed. "Got to go," he said. "You already went," I said, waiting to see if he would get the joke without my having to nod toward the bathrooms. Luckily, he got it, sort of smiled, oblivious to the fact he had a smidge of paint, kind of a taciturn off-teal, right on the tip of his nose. More like toward the nostril, but I'd never say that about someone who allowed me to use his blog space to get my messages out to you, the soon-to-be-adoring public, even those of you who haven't attended any of my poetry readings.

"It's not like that many people read the blog," he said. "Go for it." He gave me his password and all, but, when I looked back up from writing it down, ready to ask for his cell phone number, he was gone. Back to work, I guess.

I just went crazy for the next few minutes, thinking of all the stories I can tell, but I just had to take a call from one of my counselors. [may want to add quote marks to 'counselors'] "Guru," I said, "how am I doing?" Yeah, I had to go. Leased, indeed.

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