"1 January 1992, Vancouver, BC.
Dear Kelly:
Hey, it only took me a year to write. But then, you didn't write either. So I guess we're even, ha ha. Kind of, you owe me. Kind of. Your good-bye party wrecked me. So I've only got Dwight's word that you didn't just ditch me when I passed out.
Remember when we did our resolutions? They didn't last very long.
"Find a new look." I really tried. I tried all kinds of things. I'd see myself in the mirror and think, "There's some kid playing dress-up." If I couldn't believe I was really that guy, who would? I didn't even bother to return the clothes. Number one, it was all on the parental credit card. Number two, and I know this is lame, but I kept thinking maybe someday I could be that guy - one of those guys - for real. Maybe.
Anyway. There was one resolution that really mattered. So yeah, I started going out with Lucy from Ciap! Impressed? You always said she was pretty.
Next resolution: the one we cheersed on. I had it all planned. I was going to talk Robin into three months' leave from the photo shop and then I was going to hit the road and surprise you in Key West. All the way across America like Jack Kerouac or something. The whole idea went to shit pretty quickly. I think I only got the damn thing started twice.
Then -- fucking Dwight. He totally skipped out on me, like I was the landlord or something.
One last resolution: Do something with my music. I did. Open mic night. Jesus. There was supposed to be a guy from the Georgia Straight there. I wrote three new songs that week. I was ready to get discovered. I was supposed to be on third, but it got shuffled around, and then none of these shitty bands could stick to the time limit. The longer it took, the more nervous I got. Guess what I did when I got nervous? By the time the guy called my name I could barely walk. Still. I sang as good as I ever did. I went right to the Georgia Straight guy.
I got more hours at the photo shop, but still there was only one thing keeping me going... and then that was gone.
November. I don't even wanna talk about November. The worst thing? It wasn't even the singer. Just the fucking drummer.
So I didn't really keep any of our resolutions. But last night I got some stuff squared away. They had a bonfire on English Bay.
Here's what I figure. If what you are is a haircut... some clothes you bought... a motorcycle you don't know how to ride... a movie you saw... some boots you don't even need... a band you thought you liked... then what is there that's just you?
So yeah, it sucked. But still. Pretty good year.
Love you.
Greg"
~
tears on the sleeve of a man
don't wanna be a boy today
I heard the eternal foot man
bought himself a bike to race
and Greg, he writes letters
and burns his CD's
they say you were something in those formative years
hold on to nothing as fast as you can, well
still, pretty good year
maybe a bright sandy beach
is gonna bring you back, back, back
maybe not, so now, you're off
you're gonna see America
well, let me tell you something about America
some things are
melting now
some things are
melting now
well, hey
what's it gonna take
'til my baby's all right?
what's it gonna take
'til my baby's all right?
and Greg, he writes letters
with his birthday pen
sometimes, he's aware that they're drawing him in
Lucy was pretty, your best friend agreed, well
still, pretty good year
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