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Friday, 30 April 2004



I'll never forget when we posed as evangelical ministers. Man, we must have logged over 5000 miles that summer, traveling to tent revivals. Me, sitting in a wheelchair in the crowd, ready to be "healed" by your prayers. You, on stage with the fingernails and all that mascara - not a hair moved on your teased and sprayed head! My half of the offering plate collections put me through two years of school. But I remember you blew all your earnings on a big collection of velvet portraits. The South just affected you that way.


Do you recall that time when we climbed Mount Vesuvius in our underwear just to roast some marshmallows? You're right, we should have checked with the tourism board. Who would have known that marshmallow roasting is illegal in Italy unless you sing "on top of spaghetti"?

That poor meatball. Good times.


And then there was that time that you spent an entire summer as a fashion model trainee in Paris. It's amazing that those medieval racks still work after all these years.... Oh the rich and delicious french food you deprived yourself of! The glamorous photo shoots you nearly made it to, had you not screwed some suave Frenchman on the banks of the Seine, losing all track of time. But I think the thing you most enjoyed, was all the makeup you had access to...and managed to filch in the free Chanel tote bag they gave you when you didn't make the final cut.


I've always been meaning to ask you just exactly what it was you and former President Jimmy Carter did with that giant bottle of honeybees that day. He had such an amused, conspiratorial grin for hours afterwards. I have always suspected they had something to do with Ronald Reagan's bathroom, but never had absolute proof. I figure some day... you'll fess up.

Julia S

I always wondered what brought you to Nashville. I didn't want to ask - you weren't as forthcoming back then and it didn't really matter anyway. I'll never forget sorting silverware with you that night in the kitchen of a Michelin two-star restaurant. The sound the spoons made as they slapped together, the rhythm of the forks... was it you who first started humming to it, or me? It seemed as if that song wrote itself. The riffs, the hook- it was composed in the time it took us to empty the bin and start the next load of coffee mugs.
After closing we huddled down in that bar and wrote the lyrics. Oh how we laughed! I would never have believed there was a rhyme for orange. But, Jilbur, we should have noticed the other table. We should have paid attention to the cocktail napkins they filled with our words...

Damned Dixie Chicks.


I'll always remember the morning when we were running late for class but you insisted on stopping by the coffee shop for a muffin (remember how big muffins were in the 90s...) and while reaching for the butter, you accidently bumped the guy next to you and he dropped coffee all the way down his pants.... He was nice enough about it though, and every now and then, when I roll over and look at him in the morning, all sleepy and groggy, I'm quite thankful that you insisted on that muffin!

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