Tag Archives: Michael Ingram

To: Ingram, Michael (PlusOne@notforgotten.you)


Hey bro,

It’s been too long since I’ve written you, but not a day’s length since I’ve thought of you.

I can’t imagine you’d tolerate any place without Wifi, but, just in case reception is spotty, a quick update:

I thought of you this weekend, kickoff of the NFL season. Why did we know so much about every sport, regardless of whether we played it? But you would have loved the U.S. Open. Federer is still great. Serena is still great. As good, dare I say, as when we marveled them on those courts in Westwood. Every time I drive down there, I think of your apartment, and how those neighbors must have considered us pervs, the adult men who gathered every Sunday night to giggle at a cartoon.

That, by the way, is still on, too. And dude, I gotta say, Homer is still damn funny. So, uncle: funniest. show. ever. homer

Maybe that’s why you were on my mind. Sunday nights in fall were always pretty cool: football and Simpsons. And a Futurama should we need further geeking.

Oh, I began the arduous process of applying to be a Big Brother. I need someone to endure my magic. Why not force a child? Hell, they’re already being fed Halloween costumes and candy  in August. Seriously. They don’t celebrate it like D.C. did, though, and no one makes a better member of the Village People.


Man, you’d go ape shit over all the Steve Jobs movies. Seriously, at least five this year. This is mythology in the making. You think history ultimately sees him as visionary or PT Barnum? If you see him, tell him the new iphone sucks.

Well, that’s about it. I miss hell out of you, dude. See ya.

Your idol,



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Every Day, for Once


I dreamed of Michael last night.

Like 99.4% of my dreams, I don’t remember the details. Just that we are always doing normal stuff, kids killing time. And when I wake up, I feel uplifted, charged for a nebulous reason. Like we’d just spoken on the phone, or I just left his place.

He always charged me a little. Perhaps because we geeked over the same things — The Simpsons and Star Wars. And we both knew way too much about documentaries and sports.

But I don’t remember those times. Like when we were playing tennis and he dove on a cement court and was a wounded ring bearer. Or the time we met a derelict woman who spewed accusations that we, er, knew each other biblically. Or his medicated voicemails. Or the day he told me he wanted to be a donor. They would all become fond dinnertime stories. But not the taproot of these dreams. preop

Nor do I think I replay the dark chapter, when Michael set sail for Mortal Waters. Not the time he told us of the brain tumor. Or when he came to see mom and downplayed falling in the living room. Or kissing him on the forehead goodbye in the wheelchair. I don’t see those visions revisited, either.

Instead, we are always doing day-to-day things. Working side-by-side in a theater; cracking up at crappy fast food joints; frantically searching for our tickets before we’d walk into a premiere (Michael once toyed with legally naming himself Plus One).

preopWell, shit.

No wonder I feel warmed by the dreams. How can you not when the everyday feels extraordinary?

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