Nick Adenhart’s number was 34. I didn’t change what I wrote. I just write ’em, I don’t make ’em up. I wrote this (the title) in 1993, when he was seven. Thirty-four degrees would be reasonable to drink it at, but I tend to write everything as if the world will blow up and scraps will be all there is, and this one is going to have the freezing point of water. I just write them. If I need two or more endings, it can’t be words. My ending has an amalgam of “full-assed”, because, by drinking it cold, you guzzle more and get fat like America basically is (see, with the Adenhart thing, I am getting a flood of insect emotions, of inlaid teakwood angst from up North in Orange County). I stuck a needle in my arm before this walking beer billboard was born. I bet he knew it all. That’s the last base she’ll ever steal. Going to a bar! Why don’tcha walk? I see grown men who don’t have a car. It is also ‘die for last’, a credo of sorts. I can think of a sportswriter I may have written a letter to high. Let’s see if he still works at the Register.
Yeah. Found him. Mark Whicker. There’s his picture, same guy; a name that reminds me of a beating with a branch that’ll sting as it whistles through the air, and, no talent. But, he’s rich. They have others, well, it’s the Times that has all the playaz, if I didn’t drive them all away, the Blumpkin, Rusty Trombone, and Dirty Sanchez.
Tags: cliche as title