Wednesday, August 12, 2009
I have a brother.
I have a brother. His name is Dan: a.k.a. Dan the Man, Danny Boy, Danny, Daniel, Danny Danny Fo Fanny, Johnny Cash, Cowboy Dan, Hey Dude and Bye, Dan. He likes ice-cream and Oreo cookies and Mom’s cooking any day of the week. He likes race cars and has an odd affection for one particular orange Charger. When he makes a friend, it is for life. He wanted to be a fireman when he grew up and a police man. He grew to be a good man. That’s what matters. He giggles. His smile is as wide as a mile and when he smiles this way his blue eyes become brighter. He likes his dental appointments, and other appointments, to be on Wednesdays. At eleven. He likes to make appointments. He knows people. He likes to hang out with his nieces. He was a toe-headed small boy, but now is brown with grey – more grey than me. I remind him of this often. He is my fan and always has been. I admire him, but he does not know that. He likes to tell me what to do which is only fair because he lives in a world where many tell him what to do every day. He is sweet. He is caring. He calls often enough that we have to regularly change the ring tone to stay sane. He forgives easily and moves on quickly. He likes demolition derbies and pretty girls. He is my best friend and John’s best friend and the kids’ best friend. He likes to come over for dinner on Friday night, the third week from this Friday. He likes to play baseball especially if he can take us all out for ice-cream afterward – we’re buying of course. He is Dan. He is the man.