She and I spent the entire holiday break together. It was one of the best breaks I’ve ever had.

We got to hang out with most of our loved ones, and made good plans for getting together soon with other members of our extended and far-flung tribe. Dinner with my sister and her boyfriend, an evening at Becca and John’s, time with Martha and Troyce and Megan. And so on. Lots of long days just being together.

But. She’d promised me that she’d complete a certain task for me, and it all came to a head the night before last. She spent a lot of time on it, but I was almost impossible to please.

Every time she thought she was done, I made her do it over, until it was just the way I wanted it to be. She was graceful about it, but it went late into the evening.

I thought she would put behind her any feelings she might have had about the process. But I was wrong.

We drove into Austin yesterday afternoon, and she cajoled me into going with her to her workplace. It should only take forty-five minutes, she said.

As soon as I entered the shop, I was surrounded by her co-workers. I knew that I couldn’t leave.

Within minutes, I was flat on my back and Rachael was bending over me with an implement that was sharp indeed.

I was brave. I didn’t cry or scream, or even flinch much. But it went on and on. For over two hours. I bled copiously. It’s entirely possible that I’ll be marked for life by this experience.
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Jody Rosen at Slate has a great article on the force of nature that was James Brown.

The obituaries that have appeared in the wake of Brown’s death yesterday at the age of 73 have sketched the milestones and curiosities of his life: his hardscrabble childhood in Georgia, where he was raised by an aunt who ran a brothel; his rise through the chitlin’ circuit; his marriages and arrests; his big hits, black pride anthems, and strange fondness for Richard Nixon. And his nicknames: “the Godfather of Soul,” “Soul Brother No. 1,” “Minister of Super Heavy Funk,” “the Hardest Working Man in Show Business,” “Mr. Dynamite.” No one who ever saw Brown in concert could doubt that he earned those titles. Even in his dotage, he led a band as tight as any in the world and executed his signature shimmies, slides, and splits in dance shoes buffed to a high gloss.

He was obviously a complicated person, and who knows? Maybe even an asshole. I don’t know. But I surely love what he did for American music. You can’t ask for a better legacy than that.

PS 2007 is almost upon us. Happy New Year, y’all!

(image via Slate)