"She fades just out of sight so there isn’t any sweetness in the dreaming…"

When I was 14, I went on a weekend church retreat with Sister #2 and Papa Benchly to a tiny white church in a small town in southern Vermont. Before we left home, Mama Benchly had received word from her brothers that their father, my grandfather, was most likely on his deathbed. For a few hours, we tossed around the idea of staying home but then decided to leave with the understanding that if anything happened, we would come home right away.

Around 9 p.m. that first night of the retreat, while I was seated at a table joined with others to form a half-circle, the church office phone rang. One sound I can assuredly say is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, is the sound of a phone ringing in a hollow church on a quiet, small-town Friday evening. It’s so loud, you almost expect it to be God. The person who answered the phone said it was for Papa Benchly and in that split second, I knew who was on the other end of the phone and why. And to this day, I can still vividly recall Papa Benchly’s calm, yet pained expression as he passed by me and my sister on his way to answer the phone; and Sister #2’s fearful and sad expression, too; and I can still feel in my stomach the feeling of anxious dread I felt that night. It’s a feeling that accompanies any inevitable news of death, and it’s a feeling I felt when I woke this morning.

I first met Hypothetical on a Saturday morning in February when Montana Girl and I ventured into a Main Street consignment shop called Pam’s Place. The three of us were the only customers in the store that hour. Montana Girl took me there to search for her Mardi Gras parade costume; I went on the off chance I would find a cool outfit for an upcoming date with Peeps.

After a few short minutes of browsing through a depressingly small men’s section, my “Cute Girl Radar” sent urgent signals to my attention and moved me into a position where I could see Hypothetical. As Sarah the L and I like to say, she was “wife cute” (aka, on a strictly superficial level, someone I’d feel comfortable waking up next to for the rest of my life). She was wearing jeans and a grey, knee-length, pea-coat-like winter jacket, and her hair and make-up suggested she was in control of her life. She overheard my conversation with Montana Girl and took the opportunity to point out leather pants that might work with the parade outfit. While she paid for her clothes and as she left the store, I made a point of remembering her name; I can’t explain why except to say I felt like I’d be using it again someday. And I did.

In early March, the determined folks in the world of fate pushed Hypothetical into my life again and this time, I didn’t let her go. What followed were intense dreams and promises and kisses and smiles and text messages and hopes and hugs and cuddling and passion all rolled up into one big unhealthy fast start. And slowly, but surely, as is often the case when you mix ingredients out of order or too quickly, the flimsy foundation we had built began to crumble as we silently realized that our true personalities, though both drenched in heartfelt sincerity, were not a perfect match for one another. The death of us was inevitable and for the best, and yet I couldn’t help but fear it.

This morning, Hypothetical made official what we had unofficially felt in our hearts for awhile. And as I sit here pondering all the wonderful memories I’ll have of Hypothetical and succumbing to the tears that accompany the painful memories I won’t be able to ignore, I’m reminded of a conversation CP, Sarah the L, and I had about the superpowers we would each choose to possess if given the chance. Sarah said she would be Super Leap-Tall-Buildings-In-A-Single-Bound Lesbo-Loving Telepathic Chick, thus giving her the power to read the minds of lesbian, Empire State Building sightseers. CP said she wanted to be Super Flying Leper-Healing Invisible Woman, allowing her the opportunity to heal people and to be invisible and fly away if “the lepers got out of control.” I said I wanted to be Do-Over Man, not to be confused with Dover Man, the invincible capital of Delaware! I would have the ability to go back in time to correct my mistakes.

And so, as I file this Hypothetical chapter away, I can’t help but wonder one last hypothetical question. What if I never saw Hypothetical after Pam’s Place? What if I could go back in time to make it so our story ended the way it began?: Hypothetical left Pam’s Place. Montana Girl purchased the leather pants, I resisted the temptation to buy a cheap wine rack I didn’t need, and we left the store, heading up Main Street. On our walk to the Church Street Marketplace, Montana Girl turned to me and said, “where to next?”

Anyone who knows anything about me understands that very few words come out of my mouth without careful consideration for how they convey some sort of ironic or genuinely meaningful symbolism. Sometimes it’s blunt, like my “Hypothetically…” posting last month, and sometimes it’s subtle, like the last paragraph in each section of my “Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume II” posting last week. So it will come as a shock to most all of you when I end this posting in a tone lacking any subtle symbolism:

Hypothetical’s departure from my life hurts like hell. I want the pain to go away and I don’t think it will for awhile. But, if given the chance to go back in time to take away this pain, if I could be Do-Over Man for one day, I wouldn’t trade away one star-crossed minute with her for anything. She made me smile more than most. And I’m thankful for her.

Song of My Anecdotal Self, Volume 2: My Juxtapositional Life

Part 1.
For the next few weeks, the Loser Cruiser will be driven by a substitute driver while its regular driver, Deane, visits with his son who is on leave from the military. I don’t know the new driver’s name but she seems nice and unlike the regular Friday morning driver Steve, she actually knows how to drive a big bus and how to drive on the highway.

Tuesday morning, I was the lone passenger as we departed the B’town bus station. Monday morning, the driver had to ask where to make one of the turns but by Tuesday, having memorized the route completely, her only question was whether or not to stop to pick up a man standing at a bus stop on the side of the road. Without hesitation, I said, “no, he’s waiting for another bus. Deane always waves to him as we pass him.” I was alarmed at how familiar I’ve become with the route and routine.

A few minutes later, I instructed the driver to stop for the silver-haired Daddy Sutherland standing on the side of the road nowhere near a bus stop. I’m not particularly fond of this man, a state senator, but I figured it was my civil responsibility to make sure he made it to work on time. Not coincidentally, I was reminded of a recent conversation I overheard him having with another state senator in which he said, “sometimes you have to vote for the things you disagree with in order to make sure the ones you really want pass.”

As the bus made its way onto the highway and its patrons cozied into their seats for their morning nap or read, I wondered what it must feel like to be a substitute driver. For all I know, she’s only been hired until Deane returns in which case, what must it feel like to do a job efficiently while lacking any job security whatsoever and never knowing if the seat you’re sitting in is a temporary or a permanent one? And if you were worried you were only in a temporary job, would you have it in you to do the job well?

Part 2.
Wednesday was Othello’s 4th birthday. To accommodate everyone’s schedules (including my own), I scheduled a birthday party for Tuesday night. After spending the first half hour eating and talking and letting Othello get used to so many people in the apartment, my mother, Sarah the L, Smoochie Poo, Jay Peak, CAT, Hypothetical, Montana Girl, Surfboard Guy, and I quietly sang happy birthday to the kitty while Smoochie Poo carried into the room a food dish with Fancy Feast and a lit candle in it.

After Othello ate a little of his birthday “cake” and while he went to the bathroom 5 or 6 times (he’s a nervous kitty and his bladder goes crazy whenever he’s nervous), I opened his presents for him. Considering that Othello was able to cope with an apartment full of people and then he spent most of the night playing with his new toys, I think it’s safe to say the party was a success.

Afterwards, after most everyone had left, I sat there with Sarah the L and Smoochie Poo, playing catch up for all the time we’ve lost now that Sarah no longer works with me. At one point, she asked me if I would be willing to watch her kitty for a day or two this weekend while she and Smoochie traveled to Connecticut. Considering I had no way of getting to her apartment, I had to regretfully decline. This prompted Sarah to wonder if her indoor kitty would be OK alone for two days. I reminded her of what I had heard about cats: most cats, after being left alone 2-3 days, believe their food supply has been cut off and start looking for a new home. So while her kitty wouldn’t be able to escape, she would most certainly greet Sarah’s return with a very cold shoulder.

Part 3.
This next part, I’m surprised to say, I’m finding incredibly difficult to write. Last night, as is always the case on the second Wednesday of every month, was Trivia Night. My team, the Hotties, gathered for yet another attempt at the Trivia Crown. Our team consisted of myself, CP, CP’s mother, CP’s brother and his girlfriend. Sadly, Sarah the L was not in attendance. The night started without fanfare as we barely found an open table at which to sit. We were surrounded by obnoxiously drunk legislators and for a brief moment, I considered packing it in and calling it a night. But then…

After the first three rounds, One Flew Over the Hotties Nest (our name for the night) found itself alone atop the leader board with a perfect score. Only after the next two rounds when, unlike past Trivia Nights, we found ourselves just one point out of first place, did we begin to think something different was happening. And even then, we were prepared to lose. You see, we Hotties are accustomed to losing. We’re like Cubs’ fans and our motto has always echoed what a summer beer league softball coach once told my team: “It’s not whether you win or lose, it’s HOW you lose that matters.”

I’ve spent the last three years of my Trivia Night life crafting email invitations and recaps detailing every which possible way we Hotties could lose. And this is why I’m having trouble finding the right words to say. How do you say “we won”? After so many times trying and failing, after so many close calls and near misses, after so many nights when you dared fate by trying to glimpse into your glorious future, after so many heart-breaking finishes, how do you say you won? I think I’m unable to find the right words because I’m in shock and I’m having trouble accepting the reality. I expect to wake from this dream. But man, oh man, what a sweet dream it is.

The Benchlys

In one of her songs, Ani DiFranco sings “we all owe our lives to the people that we love.” I was reminded of this quote a few days ago when Hypothetical and I were discussing how our interactions (both good and bad) with loved ones have molded us into the people we are today. It feels as though only the ones you truly let into your heart have the chance to alter your existence and they can do so by hurting you or loving you, or both. I’ll leave the loved-ones-who-have-hurt-me discussion for another day and focus simply on the ones who have loved me, and specifically, the ones who have loved me the most: my parents.

I spent the first 25 years of my life trying to understand Mama Benchly and began to think I never would. She purchases old photographs from flea markets, frames them, hangs them up on the wall, and devises a back story for each one; she once tried to convince me that cows could stand on hills because their left legs were longer than their right ones; the only care package she ever sent me in college contained a short note, a dozen washcloths, and nearly a pound of peanuts; and she has a dream catcher hanging in the rear view mirror in her car.

(For those unfamiliar with the Native American tool, the dream catcher is said to separate the bad dreams from the good. Some believe they let the good dreams pass while trapping and destroying the bad ones, while others believe the bad dreams pass through the center while the good ones are preserved for life in the web. Regardless, I thought the location for the dream catcher was odd and one day, I told her:

Me – “Is that necessary?”
Mama Benchly – “What?
Me – “The dream catcher.”
Mama Benchly – “Why not?”
Me – “Well, is sleeping something you really want to encourage the driver to do?”
Mama Benchly – “You don’t need sleep to dream. This is for your daydreams.”)

For a number of years, when asked to describe her, I said Mama Benchly was weird. Then, with the guilt hiding behind that insult finally weighing me down, I began calling her eccentric. That was soon followed by the vague “one of a kind” or “unique” descriptions; and then, one day not too long ago, I had two revelations: 1. my mother’s imagination is more lively and inspiring than an entire kindergarten class on a rainy day; and 2. Any creativity I possess can be traced back to its origin: my mother (eg, my clock on the wall that’s forever at 3 o’clock and whose presence gives me both stability in a chaotic world and a punchline with a Matchbox Twenty reference; the candle in the fishbowl surrounded by fake seaweed and real seashells; the window panes that I turned into a coffee table; the picture frame hanging diagonally in the kitchen that frames nothing except the vertically striped wall; etc.).

And then there’s Papa Benchly. Yes, he’s sensitive but he’s also endlessly caring; yes, he’s critical, but he’s also remarkably forgiving; yes, his life is built around traditions, but he also seeks out and embraces change; yes, no matter the weather or the day or the time of day, he’s always reading or doing crossword puzzles, but he’s also the most intelligent person I’ve ever met; yes, he’s stubborn, but…OK, well, he’s stubborn; yes, he’s self-conscious and shy, but he’s also one of the greatest public speakers and story tellers to whom I’ve ever listened. That last one took me longer than it should have to realize.

Papa Benchly has been a minister my whole life and so naturally, some of my earliest memories center around uncomfortable clothing worn on hot summer afternoons in a sticky sanctuary with opened windows that never quite let the breeze in from the outside atheist world, and listening to my father’s booming and clear voice echo throughout the room. For all of elementary school, as should be expected of a child, I was bored out of my mind in church and my only saving graces were the unexpected, yet always rewarding moments in my father’s sermon when he mentioned my name, which, in my head, made me a celebrity. But in my childhood selfishness, I never listened to the remainder of his sermons.

Only recently, and especially this past Easter Sunday, did I realize how well and poignant a story Papa Benchly tells. With Sister #1 on one side of me and Brother-in-Law #1 on the other, I found myself on the edge of my seat, with my next breath hanging on my father’s next thought. I know that people go to church for different reasons (ie, to find God, to find peace, to find answers, to find the familiar, etc), but on this day I realized that somewhere along the line of my life, I began going to church (though irregularly) for my father’s advice. His words give me new meanings to old thoughts, guide me through rough times by providing answers to never-before-asked questions, and help me see what I’ve subconsciously known all along. In a symbiotic way, he has been able to fulfill his responsibilities as a parent by doing his job.

So after coming to the dreaded realization, in the last year or two, that I’ve become my parents, a realization most every 20-something fears and goes to great lengths to ignore or avoid, I’ve also realized that this development isn’t really a bad thing. Yes, my parents have their flaws, which I’ve spent a lifetime silently criticizing, but in the end, their faults are far outweighed by their redeeming traits. And if I could accumulate half of these traits, and gain my father’s sarcasm, and my mother’s bad jokes, and my mother’s creativity, and my father’s intellect, and my mother’s comfort, and my father’s concern, and my mother’s hair, and my father’s nose, and my mother’s superstitions, and my father’s facial expressions, and my mother’s imagination, and my father’s story telling ability, and if I could become just a speck of who they are, I would be all the better for it.

Hypothetically

She’s the words, phrases, and thoughts you’ve always said that never made sense, and the ones you never thought to think; she’s the correct assumption that you’re going to have a female best man in your wedding; she’s freckles on soft skin; she’s the long walk on an ice-covered lake; she’s the brother that encourages you to have another smoothie; she’s your secrets and fears; she’s the classified ad that means more than she’ll ever know; she’s the dancer on an empty dance floor; she’s Track 5 on a recently-purchased CD; she’s stoli raspberry and tonic; she’s birds chirping outside your window at 5 a.m.; she’s getting your butt kicked in a game of pool only to see the other player scratch the 8-ball; she’s a made 3-pointer from 4 feet behind the top of the key with the game on the line and a college basketball upset in the making; and she’s the celebration afterwards.

An insult to injury

I still own a car and her name is Inga Beep the Jeep. I have not moved her in months but have visited her every other week or so to start her engine long enough to keep the winter-month paralysis from killing her completely. The plan has always been to wait until the ice thaws and the snow melts and then drive her one last time to whichever business is willing to take her off my hands. So while we have that one last ride around the block together, for all intents and purposes, Inga Beep the Jeep has signaled, moved over, and exited for the Big Interstate in the Sky.

This morning, I went outside to our parking lot to start Inga, hoping that the warmer weather had helped the heart in her engine to keep beating. When I reached her, however, I found her back door unlatched. I opened the front door to discover the dashboard had been broken and the CD player/stereo had been stolen. The glove compartment was left open and that, combined with the opened back door, drained the battery. Though I’m tempted to think the battery wasn’t drained but rather removed. (I’ll have to check under her hood later to confirm this.)

Those of you who have known me for awhile may recall that this is not the first time Inga has been violated. A few years ago, someone smashed one of her windows to steal 20 CDs, a sleeping bag, and my LL Bean tent. And those with exceptional memory skills will remember that the genius who stole my property managed to take every part of the tent EXCEPT the poles. For the camping-challenged out there, that’s sort of the equivalent of someone stealing a dustpan but leaving behind the broom.

Discovering the tent poles, for me, was a bittersweet moment because, although I knew the thief could never use the tent, the poles were a constant reminder that neither could I. This morning, I felt the same bittersweet feeling. And now, as I sit here with the bitter taste of victimization in my mouth, my small but sweet consolation is the thief’s expression I imagine will cross his/her face at the realization that, although expensive and fancy, the CD player hasn’t worked for more than a year.

It sucks to be me

I’m about to contradict the mood of my previous posting so bear with me…

Mama Benchly is a bit of a drama queen. And if you tell her I said that, I’ll forever deny it. She has a tendency to make situations in life seem more traumatic or intense than they really are. She’s the one who, during the Cold War, when asked if our family could build a bomb shelter, sat down on the porch with her two youngest children (I was 9 at the time) and said, “if there’s a third world war, life wouldn’t be worth living so our family will sit out here on the porch and wait to die.” She’s also the woman who treats every goodbye as the last goodbye, even if you’re just leaving the room to go to the kitchen. You’ve probably noticed by now, from the extremes of my blog postings, that I’ve inherited the same emotional genes as my mother.

A little over a year ago, I met a woman named San Fran Girl (long-term friends of mine will notice I’ve dropped a certain adjective from her nickname). Emotions between us became very intense very quickly, so much so that, within weeks, we had purchased plane tickets for a week-long vacation in San Francisco. And unfortunately, this trip turned disastrous when the pendulum of our emotions swung unexpectedly to the other extreme. When the roller coaster came to a complete stop, I was torn apart by what amounted to only a 3-month experience.

I took quite a bit away from my brief encounter with San Fran Girl, but what impacted me more than anything else was my new mindset that I plagiarized from a souvenir button I purchased while San Fran Girl and I were in New York City to see the Broadway show Avenue Q: “It Sucks to Be Me.” After our falling out, when I felt like life couldn’t possibly get any worse, this $5 button, purchased to support various charities, seemed to perfectly summarize my woes. She dumped me? It sucks to be me. My car died? It sucks to be me. I’m frustrated with my job? It sucks to be me. I ride the Loser Cruiser? It sucks to be me. I wore the button like my Scarlet Letter of Rejection. And for nearly a year, I believed its message.

Last month, I pinned my “It Sucks to Be Me” button on one my traveling bags and headed off to the airport for the first leg of my Ultimate Road Trip: New Orleans (URT 2). After numerous delays, no guarantee that the flight would take off, and the Near Death Experience airline representative saying “if the flight doesn’t take off tonight, we can’t get you on another one for 6 days,” I decided my only option was to get a full refund, rent a car, and drive to Long Island where the URT 2 was set to begin in just 12 hours. I drove the 6-hour trip on one cup of coffee, one cup of hot chocolate, two sodas, and one and a half tanks of gas. My thought at the time: it sucks to be me.

And then the URT 2. Our below-sea-level room flooded during the pseudo-tropical storm and drenched half of my clothing; halfway through the trip, my college friends and I all realized that maybe a week was too long to spend in each other’s company; half of my time-alone day was spent in the hotel room because of the rainstorm and the other half was spent outside and drenched because of the rainstorm; I ran out of money two days before the end of the trip; our swamp tour lacked all wildlife except the occasional and inaudible (English?) comments from our is-he-taking-a-nap? tour guide Glenn; we drove through the night to get home and I woke up in the backseat early in the morning fairly certain that I was the only person awake in our car; I was dropped off near the Brooklyn Bridge at 7 a.m. with no certain idea of how to get to Manhattan; I took the wrong train, which ultimately put me in Harlem; and my full refunded plane ticket meant I didn’t have a return flight home and thus, had no sure way of getting back to Vermont. But for the first time in nearly a year, my thought process wasn’t blinded by the easy-explanation-button. It didn’t suck to be me and here’s why:

Despite the room flooding, I had a roof over my head and (though dirty) dry clothes on my back; I realized that although my college friends and I were spending too much time together, we were dealing with it and making the best of the situation, thus showing the maturity we had gained since college; I spent a day alone in a big city, which is something I never would have had the courage to do a year ago; one of my friends lent me money trusting that I would pay her back in two days; unlike the obnoxiously loud motor boat rides, our swamp tour was in a canoe(!) and I got to paddle(!); we drove through the night to get home and how many people can say they drove from New Orleans to NYC in 23 hours?; despite the short detour, I ultimately arrived at Mia Wallace’s Manhattan apartment where I had a warm bed, a hot shower, and a great friend to keep me company for the day; my trip ended thanks to the 4X100 relay team of the Metro North, True, Sister #2, and Brother-in-Law #1 who all took time out of their days to ensure that I got home safely.

As the Metro North train approached the Connecticut station where my friend True was waiting to pick me up, and as I approached the exit, the traveling bag on my shoulder caught itself on a train seat. In my effort to free the bag, I ripped off the It Sucks to Be Me button, which fell to the floor. With enough time to pin the button back on my bag, I bent down, picked it up, and placed the souvenir in my pocket.

In threes, right?

Within a span of 24 hours, I canceled my car insurance and thus, officially became temporarily car-less for the first time in 5 years; I was rejected by the University of Vermont after delivering writing samples and having an interview that were both described as “very impressive”; and I was rejected by a girl who made me smile more than most. How could the next 24 hours possibly top that?

Happenstance

A few weeks ago, three college friends of mine and I left the northeast on what we nicknamed the Ultimate Road Trip 2: New Orleans. A few days before that trip, a coworker of mine gave me a $5 bill and asked me to pick up a King’s Cake baby for her. Having never heard of the baby or the cake before her request, I needed an explanation and description of what it was exactly I’d be buying. And then, for whatever reason, while down in the Big Easy, a place apparently known for King’s Cakes, I had difficulty finding the baby and ended up leaving the south without one.

Considering I had never heard of a King’s Cake or a King’s Cake baby before this trip, and because I had had such difficulty locating the baby in the city in which I should have easily found it, as I walked into my home with luggage in tow, I was blown away at the discovery of a King’s Cake baby sitting on the table by the door. The night before my return home, my roommate attended a party, ate a piece of cake, and found the baby. Not wanting to keep it, she gladly let me take it to my appreciative coworker.

While on our road trip, my friends and I determined that even if one of us had chosen not to attend our university, all of us would have met each other eventually anyway. This reminded me of one of my all-time favorite pastimes: the autobiographical, chronological, six-degrees-of-separation game. In other words, who did I have to meet?, what did I have to do?, what did I have to say?, where do I have to go?, etc, to get to where I am standing at this exact moment. For example:

If my family never moved to Plattsburgh, NY while I was in junior high, I never would have met my friend Ferris who later introduced me to Sloan whose presence at a nearby college made it easier for me to choose my college out of state. Had I not chosen this college, I never would have met The Redhead who put in a good word for me with The Gay Editor who hired me on the school paper and later introduced me to Hugh, who, after college, introduced me to Cornell Girl, who, on a hot, sunny, playful, summer day, took my picture while I slid down a playground slide. Had she not taken that picture?……you get the point.

It’s fun to look back on your life at the seemingly important moments and the easily forgotten subtle moments to find that the choices and events in your life are never as clear-cut as you ever thought they were. At the time, moving to Plattsburgh because of my dad’s new job was the most devastating moment of my young life. I lost touch with Ferris as soon as I left for college and while at college, I never once visited Sloan. I was nearly too shy to accept an invitation to dinner with my roommate, his girlfriend, and The Redhead but went anyway…because I was starving. The Gay Editor hired me because The Redhead’s recommendation was misleading and slightly untrue. And though I had fun that day, Cornell Girl soon flaked on me and, per my usual behavior, I cursed all women.

My question today is, are all of these choices and events in your life fate, or are they simply random and sometimes serendipitous coincidences? And regardless, is it ever possible during the moment to realize the important role that moment will play in your life 5 years later? I submit that we’ll never know. No matter how big or how small these moments were at the time, or how ultimately important or unimportant these choices become through time, though all of these events may seemingly culminate to affect your life on an unassuming Wednesday in mid-February, you’ll never have a grasp of how important or unimportant they’ll be on the chronological map of your life. And that’s OK with me because, to quote a recent sci-fi movie, “what happened, happened, and couldn’t have happened any other way.”

Too much time on my hands…

I’ve got plenty to write about. Seriously. It’s going to take me a week to write out everything that’s happened to me in the last three weeks. And I’ll get to that soon, but first, with apologies to Bob Dylan, here’s my latest Trivia Night email invitation. Enjoy!

Come gather ’round Hotties
wherever you roam
and admit that the waters
around you have grown
and accept it that soon
we’ll only talk on the phone.
If your time with us
is worth savin’
then go to Trivia Night
next Wednesday night
for the times, they are a changin’.

Come Dorie and Adam
with your wedding plans
on the eve of your move
to the Carolina sands.
We would all love to see you
‘fore the goodbye hugs and
we regrettfully start
the sad wavin’.
Come lend a hand
and our win will be grand
for the times, they are a changin’.

Come Sarah the L
back to central Vermont.
Leave that new job
you’re not sure you still want
and return to the Thrush
to help as we taunt
all the other trivia teams
that are fadin’.
The Hotties lost then
but next week they’ll win
for the times, they are a changin’.

Come Eric and Tara
and bring your mom, too.
Pull up a chair
and have a Thrush brew.
The Hotties aren’t complete
without all of you.
The Trivia Night battle
will be ragin’.
It’ll turn the Thrush Tavern
into the Thrush Zoo
for the times, they are a changin’.

The line it is drawn,
the e-mail is cast
and as usual Benchly
isn’t mentioned till last.
And the present now
will soon be the past.
We Hotties are
rapidly agin’.
And this Trivia Night
could be our last
for the times, they are a changin’.