If I work out to The Postal Service, does that make me a poseur?

It's 81 degrees and cloudy in Murfreesboro. I'm a big fan of March in Tennessee. Such a promising month with promising weather and trees blooming like crazy. I remember visiting Memphis last March and thinking, Geez Louise, the air smells like sex and flowers. I'm looking forward to going home. My grandma called this morning to ask when I'll be in. That means it's getting closer.

When I was nine, my mother made me watch an Oprah special called Nine. It was about nine-year-olds who'd triumphed over economical adversity, were intelligent enough to attend college before puberty could ruin high school for them, and, oh yes, were sexually abused. Fantastic.

When I was 10 (Thanks, Callie's flyer, for sticking to my long-term memory like cheese to a crappy skillet), I was old enough to impress my neighbor, Andy, with a double-digited age. For some reason, that was a measure of cool to him. I think he was 12. Big deal. He'll be dead before me and who's laughing then?

When I was 11, I met Stefanie, who poorly played the role of my best friend for close to 11 years and planted the phantasmic social seeds I'm still trying to outgrow. The rest is history. And so is she.