Big Aussie guy whose name I can’t remember (17/261)

He looked like a big, mean skinhead but was actually a koala bear, sweet and slow-moving due to the narcotic effects of the local vegetation. He upchucked (“upchooked”) while climbing the first hill of the trek, and ended up with lots of photographs of kneecaps.

Mrs. Cornwallis (16/261)

She loved living things, as long as they lacked a digestive system. Maybe her wrath against cats, dogs and squirrels was misplaced? The deposits they left after excavating around the roses and peonies may have accounted for those luscious blooms that graced her garden.

Uncle Bob and Aunt Joan (15/261)

They were the hippest hippy couple of the family, until a Trans-Siberian voyage brought her into close contact with capitalism, in the form of an English banker. She exiled her ideals to the gulag, and Uncle Bob’s hair deserted him shortly after Aunt Joan did.

Liam (14/261)

Liam composes 20-page Christmas lists, adheres to the “live like there’s no tomorrow” philosophy, and advises his brother (who hordes his savings in the event of a future pension plan fiasco) on what Kiernan needs--invariably some item that appears on Liam’s 20-page Christmas list.

Kiernan (13/261)

At 10 he inquired about the trans-fatty acid content of cookies. At 11 he bemoaned the lack of a pension plan for writers, actors and private investigators. He really doesn’t have to worry about either of these; doubtless he’s headed for an early coronary event.

Tino (12/261)

He was my Italian stallion and I thoroughly enjoyed our rides on the wild side. Our mothers were less thrilled: his deplored my mother’s reliance on Campbell’s soup, and mine was worried that I’d end up barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, making home-made pasta.

Claire (11/261)

Your long legs transported you to realms that we could never hope to reach. As you glided by jaws dropped; if we had been snakes we would have unhinged those jaws and devoured you whole, the women to possess your power, the men your beauty.

George (10/261)

We laughed behind his back and called him a fag to his face; but really, even though there were plenty of black sheep, he was the only nonconformist of the herd. The only guy brave enough to take home ec and knit scarves during class.

Jane Doe (9/261)

You were a marble statue lying on the beach. Was there a moment of terror as you flailed, eyes wide open like a deer caught in the headlights? Or was it like a return to the womb, the water wrapping around you, rocking you gently?

My brother (8/261)

I found my white shirt, an unhealthy shade now, too long hidden in the back of your closet. You denied that it had been mine, but French labels don’t lie. Years later I donated it to the Goodwill, but never got rid of the feelings.

My father (7/261)

It seemed so pointless: rising at 4 am, driving to a speck on the map, waiting… waiting… photographing the train pulling into the station, then repeating the whole cycle. Perhaps you were an inadvertent anthropologist, documenting a way of life that was doomed to extinction.

Mom (6/261)

My mother would have loved it if Campbell’s had sold their soups in Warhol-sized cans. A staple of her recipe stable, she used them to make such culinary delights as pork glazed with a cream of tomato sauce, and rice delicately steeped in beef bouillon.

Philip (5/261)

He was 5, I was 6, when I liberated him from the banality of his bowlcut. Asymmetry turned out to be a hair don’t though, and the barber censored my art. Admiring Philip’s tough new look, I proceeded to turn my Barbie dolls into skinheads.

Other Heather (4/261)

Talks with angels, makes manna from Swedish pancakes, channels light and love, won’t donate her organs. She has a good heart, I see why she’s attached to it; but why relegate her spleen kidney liver to worm fodder, when they could be airlifted to sainthood?

Heather (3/261)

In appearance a beautiful and delicate flower, like her namesake; yet hardy enough to survive being trampled by her husband's affairs. He doesn’t believe in monoculture. I tell her she should try a new brand of fertilizer, or perhaps indulge in the pleasures of self-pollination.

Johnny Depp (2/261)

True, I haven’t met him in person, but he’s a big part of my life. Don Juan de Marco, I’m pawing the ground, carving a trench in my earthen fantasy… when you grow weary of la belle femme, wave your cape and I’ll come charging.

Ed (1/261)

Too bad he wasn’t a cat. He managed to survive a night walking home in bare feet during a Montreal blizzard, a case study for the medicinal effects of marijuana. But his second life ended in an overturned car, body dangling from the passenger seat.