I had one night to spend with my little-brother-friend on Thanksgiving Eve, and he and his girlfriend graciously let me crash on their couch before I picked up my friend from the Phoenix airport for our Thanksgiving in northern Arizona.
Northern Arizona is beautiful, but be careful -- it bites.
Brandon and I were co-workers when he was still an undergrad and I was still a glorified go-fer. We made each other mix-CD's and saw B-movies so terrible they are now un-Googleable. I used to shave his head in my kitchen and taught him about my secret ingredient for making perfect sautéed mushrooms.
Bless his beautiful girlfriend, because she patiently sat through our reminiscences about said head-shaving and movie-going.
Not much had changed. He had the same cat, the same taste for beer, the same penchant for portmanteaus and puns.
He is extremely well-read, and still one of the best humans I know with whom to have lengthy discussions about books and authors.
And I credit him with asking one of the most entertaining and thought-provoking literary questions I've been posed: "If you could pick any author to re-write any book, who and what would they be?"
After many toasts of tequila and wine, I settled into his oversized couch and fell asleep only nominally regretting that I'd finally confessed, after all these years, that I had indeed kept his missing copy of Pygmalion.