How many props can one give? I preface with this: I don�t go in for elitism, unless it�s coupled with action (and even that is being diplomatic, but HEY I don�t want to come off sounding like an elitist, get it?), and if I forget anyone in this paltry tribute, catch me after the fucking MTV Video Music Awards, the Emmys, or the Academy Awards, when ten second speeches, already too long, always leave someone out.

And they�re bullshit.

Because, like I�ve said a thousand times, Almighty Fame is not the measure of success, and like I�ve quoted, �God is in the details.� And That Guy Who Said That First is content to remain anonymous. Chew on that sweet fat, Mama, and RIDE.

Several tributes but I got too ambitious and realized more have to come later:

Brent. My love, my boy, is nodding his head to Doug Martsch�s solo album. If you haven�t already heard Built to Spill�s Keep It Like A Secret (and you will not, I promise, keep this album like a secret), go listen to it right now. In fact, you�re wasting your time here if you haven�t started and embraced your autumn with this album (beyond good not bullshit, THE BEST). Doug Martsch will hand you dying leaves, make you smell them blindfolded while he plays slide guitar and sings, �Isn�t amazing how everyone�s crazy �bout violence that they can�t conceive?� Brent will tell you what he�s singing, what it means straight from my dear Brent�s perfectly honest Idahoan ex-Mormon heart, McDonald�s for a special go-out dinner as a child, while rubbing olive oil into his thick wavy locks and expertly mixing you up a seamless dish of polenta with a white cheddar so sharp it could shape his flawless auburn sideburns. I love that boy for so many reasons I can�t even begin to tell you. You know what (I have special authority from Hank Hill to ask you that question)? I will tell you more about him later. Jesus Christ (swearing in Mormon) he amazes me. He just went to rest his sweet head on the red satin sheets I just brought back from Jerz while I write. He has to cut and grill millions of steaks tomorrow, at a more reasonable hour, at the East Coast Grill.

Kristin is my beautiful woman, my high priestess, who walks in this world (as opposed to through this world) with her exacting green/hazel/blue/black/grey eyes; irises narrowing on snapshots that go on infinitely to allow 24 frames per second, 24 hours a day, and yes, you guessed it, seven days a week, to bite, lick, breathe on, and leave their ectoplasm on her exquisite mind and soul. When she has a moment or two she slows these images down in her pantry-turned-darkroom and smiles, thinking of Professor Vandermark�s fetching grey face and his incongruent hatred of Contrast (he wouldn�t exist under a five filter). She has the jaw of the most gorgeous snake and fingers like a ballerina�s toes if they were untouched by dance but had still miraculously imbibed the wisdom. Again, like my description of Brent, I wish I could capture her spirit in words but find myself confined to the physical.

Wil. Where do I go here? Yes. We were boyfriend and girlfriend for four years. That�s the skinny from the �What Are They Like?� tip. I am tempted to both write volumes for you on that part of our relationship (which should not be glossed over in favor of pithiness, but nonetheless, will have to be jammed into parentheses for now because I feel myself getting drawn to moment upon moment and tear upon tear in description). How about this: Wil will never be Switzerland to me. We are family. When I have the period�and Aunt Flo is a-currently a-visitin��I will cry with a shaking skeleton thinking about how amazing it is that we are friends, and how much I would physically shake and shatter if anything happened to him. Our closest friends thought it was ridiculous that we would remain friends after our breakup. Well, here we are. And I was a jealous beyotch for some time. Thank God Wil is as laid-back as he is. But that�s not even it. Again� I wish I could capture the truth and beauty but it is impossible. At Das Otto Cats practice tonight we laughed and laughed because we danced like fools. He banged his long-haired head, visions of his mother talking about his perfect Florentine jaw and the wonderful silliness of that Northern Italian model face coupled with his long curly rarely washed (but still smells like Wil) dirty blonde Leo mane. We laugh continuously with each other and at each other. He taught me to dance while smiling continuously and I can�t even explain that until you see me dance. Then you�d understand.

Susan is my girl. She made me my first chicken fried steak. And my first chicken and rice. And she is Wil�s Love. And we had the proverbial buttsmelling phase, the step-off phase. We loved each other after one trip to the CVS where I find all girly situations can be easily pacified. But it�s so much more with Susan. She is and had always been an amazing and wisdofuckingmatic learning girl. This Tank Girl has been through Basic Training. Her ex-husband was stationed in Hong Kong while she hung out at home, also in the Air Force, realizing while stewing in the often bland but stable stew of Hansom Air Force Base, that she�s made a mistake getting married to young. But you know what? I give her mad props for falling in love and getting married so romantically and young. She says (and I second, from what I�ve heard,) that the kids in the old military MUST have one failed marriage. What�s fucked up is that her EX brought her back (and let me interject that she has a little tiny waist, and yes, BIG boobies), an itty bitty Ain�t No Hong Nor Kong About It shirt from the War Land that could never have housed her sweet white bazoongas, even for a moment.

Ok� there is so much more to love I don�t even know what to do with myself. It flows like the humans from all of the loins that they�re popping from now. It�s so weird that no one cares that�s been alive for two minutes, but OH FUCK it was my niece�s fifteenth birthday today and I didn�t call her. Oh shit. She is beautiful and talented and here I am not writing about her.