Chuck: (informal) another name for Charles

I guess his real name was Charles, but by the time he matriculated in my direction, he was “Chuck.”

He liked music and I played music, and I offered some opportunities to gig–which in the world of the common street musician, translates as

He had a heart for people, a love for God and a thirst for music.

I liked Chuck.

He was just about the age of my two oldest sons, so they befriended him, started a band together and played a lot of different music–covers and even some of my original tunes.

He was always around, but it was pleasant. There are people who are sometimes around, unpleasantly. Not Chuck. He was helpful, he was kind, but he was burdened by internal demons which seemed unlikely for him to possess, but certainly did possess him.

But he talked about it. He was worried about it. He wanted to be different than he was.

This is the only redeemable part of humanity–when we realize who we are and instead of making excuses for it, we make a plan to improve it.

After a while Chuck floated off, got married and had a beautiful little daughter.

I do see him from time to time. It is amazing how we are able to restore the exact same creative chemistry from when we plodded together for a season.

But I guess friendship never dies–it just sits around, patiently waiting for the day it will once again be uncorked and celebrated.



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Bowel Movement

Bowel movement: (n) an act of defecation.

We aren’t supposed to talk about it.Dictionary B

Matter of fact, it could be the definition of friendship. A friend is someone who has joined you in lengthy discussions about bowel movements.

Since it is the forbidden fruit of human dialogue, generally speaking, you have to develop a very close relationship with a fellow-bowel-mover to actually feel comfortable to open yourself up.

And once you get started, you can’t stop talking about it. It’s as if you’ve been culturally constipated and suddenly are granted the free flow of expression.

Uncorked, as it were.

And it is so enlightening when you hear other people discuss their “seated times,” and realize how much you have in common with them–with some delightful differences. It can nearly bring you to tears.

But we are told not to speak of such things and certainly not to joke about them. Otherwise we’ll be accused of “bathroom humor.”

It is amazing that something done by most people at least once a day is relegated to conversational obscurity.

So if you’re ever around me and I start sharing about “b.m.” you can be certain of two things:

  1. It’s on my mind
  2. You must be a damn good friend.

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