Saturday night. December 14, 2002.

Starting last night and lasting all of today, I've been really fed up with everything and everybody. Fuck'em all!

I'm at the Armory in Shallotte, N.C., preparing to shoot another wrestling show.
Right before I left the house, I watched a little bit of a Peter, Paul and Mary holiday special. I know Peter's last name is Yarrow and Mary's last name is Travers, but I can't remember Paul's last name. God, they've been doing their thing for a long time.
I remembered that when I was a little kid, I had 3 rabbits, named Peter, Paul and Mary. And that made me remember where I got them. My dad used to work with this old man named John Ammett. This was before I was born, but when I was little, we used to go visit him, sometimes. When I was about 9 or 10, Mr. Ammett was 83 years old. I recall his age because it was my school bus number. That old man was full of life. He came from Hungary - ran away from home - at the age of 10. He actually got on a ship and came to America! In 1897!
When he arrived and walked down the ramp of the ship, the first person he saw was a large black man. Having never seen a black man before in his life, he thought it was the devil - there to get him for running away. Can you imagine?
He was a great guy, with a thick accent, who loved to laugh and joke with you. He would slap my dad hard on the back when they were joking around. My dad was very fond of him. And so was I.
Mr. Ammett had quite the menagerie at his home: horses, cows, chickens, geese, rabbits, ducks, goats, pigeons, cats and a dog. He gave me those 3 rabbits I named Peter, Paul and Mary. There just aren't enough people in the world like him. He was a real character who loved life.
By the way, I came home that day with 3 rabbits, but it wasn't long before I had 15 or 20...

At one point, in my childhood, it was kind of a fad to have pet mice. I had 2: Romeo and Juliet. My cousin had 2 also: Bonnie and Clyde. Eventually, his Bonnie died and my Romeo died. He gave me Clyde. So, I had Clyde and Juliet. Now there's a movie...

Wrestling...

I used to help my friend Chuck video tape wrestling matches for a professional wrestling promoter. They were shown on cable TV, in places around the world. It was an interesting experience. This entry was written in 2002.

I did the wrestling thing last night with Chuck, in Shallotte. I gave Chuck a copy of "Magnolia." He gave me 2 Hot Wheels Impalas. A '59 and a '65. Chopped and channeled.

I thought today how we could be mosquitoes to some being so large, we wouldn't be able to detect him. We could be swatted without a second thought. Then I thought that pesky mosquitoes would be too big, too noticeable. We would probably be more like germs. We could be washed right down this giant's drain, without any acknowledgement.
It's not a very original thought, but, oh, the perspective.

I told Chuck, last night, that art was all we had. Art is man's attempt to grapple with the big picture. The big question.

I got a letter from Chuck last week. The first thought I had, for about 1/2 a second, was that it was from my deceased friend Russell. Chuck and Russell have similar handwriting. Then, I saw the stamp. It was Andy Warhol. I thought to myself "they don't put living people on stamps." It took me a minute, or so, to remember that Andy was dead. Since the late 80s.
Maybe we are someone else's germs, but the people who have left my world live on in my heart. Not at all like germs down a drain. (I'll probably rework this clumsy attempt at expressing a thought, later.)

About a month later.

I'm wrestling again tonight. Wrestling. That's how I think of it. I'm not actually wrestling, of course, but helping Chuck film the matches.
It's about 5 pm. I was on the road today for about 11 hours. I'm pretty tired. I didn't sleep much last night, even though I went to bed fairly early.
Wrestlers are working out (warming up) in the ring and they're making a lot of noise in this otherwise empty gym. Chuck is in the back, filming promos, etc. I've seen it quite a bit, by now, so I've decided to skip it.
As it's about a 7 hour drive, it will be around 5 am tomorrow when we get to Chuck's house. We will be dead tired by then. I will probably sleep in my car, in his driveway, for a couple of hours, then make the additional 3 hour drive home. I will fall into bed as soon as I get home (probably between 10 and 11 am) and sleep several hours. When I wake up, I'll fix something to eat, maybe watch a little TV, then go back to bed.
The weekend will be shot.
Monday morning again.

That is exactly what happened - except I slept a couple of hours on Chuck's couch, instead of in my car.

My Dad.

Sometimes I think about the last thing my dad said to me. It just occurred to me that it was in this very same room I'm in now. He was in bed, not yet asleep. My mom was in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. I was 14, standing in the doorway, whining about my mom throwing away my favorite shorts. I admit, they were pretty ragged.
My dad, tired of hearing me fussing, looked over at me, from the bed, and said, "Boy, you don't know what real trouble is." He died that night. I guess he was right.
In the years following that night, I found out what real trouble was.
Boy, did I ever.

John Mellencamp (!).

John Mellencamp started out as, well, John Mellencamp. His early management (Tony DeFries and Mainman - who, of course, worked with Bowie, among others) died his hair black, gave him a pompadour and changed his name to a snappy Johnny Cougar. Later, in what one would assume was an attempt to be taken more seriously, he changed it to John Cougar. Then John "Cougar" Mellencamp.(I worked with a guy, around this time, who insisted the singer's name was John "Cougar" McCulloch...) Eventually, he went full circle and became John Mellencamp.
Whenever I hear "Pink Houses" I think of that line where somebody tells the guy in the song "Boy, you gonna be president. But like everything else, those old days and dreams just kinda came and went..." When I was a kid, I would always score highest on all of the big tests - like aptitude and comprehension. I had a teacher tell me something very similar: "You could be the president one day." Oh, if she could see me now. A 49 year old nuthin'!
They really set me up for a big fall.

Tooth brush update.

I saw an ad for a new tooth brush. It has little plastic paddle looking things that are supposed to clean between the teeth.

 

Dream. August 2002.

I had a weird dream early this morning. OK, here goes.
I was sitting on a street corner, talking to some people, when, all of a sudden, I noticed one of them was Ed McMahon. Alright, I told you it was weird - but hang on. It gets weirder.
I start telling Ed what a gift he and Johnny Carson gave the world. I blabbed on and on. I told him about a song idea I had which mentions him (true). We get up and start walking and he puts his arm around me and tells me he loves me like a father. The next thing I know, we're in bed together and he jabs a needle in my arm - which sort of paralyzes me. When I look over at him, he has turned into a good looking woman, with dark hair. I somehow know she's some sort of witch and she has me in her spell.
I can't get out of the bed, so I ask her "If I can't leave this bed, can we at least have sex?" She says "Sure. OK." So, we both get naked and begin having sex, in an odd position that would take too long to explain, and I realize that my bed is in my kitchen right next to the outside door. And the door is open.
Well, my oldest sister comes over and peers through the screen door. She senses that something is wrong. I mean, I'm all doped up, or under a spell, and having sex with a witch with the door open. My sister asks if everything is OK. I say "Yes, please go away." She says "I'm calling the cops" and leaves.
The woman disappears, but she leaves behind what appears to be a large bag of crack. About $500 worth. I freak out and try to get rid of it because I think the cops are going to show up and arrest me for it. I try to flush it down the toilet, but the toilet wouldn't flush properly, and the baggie is floating in the bowl. Oh yeah, and somehow I knew that the woman (witch?) and Ed McMahon (are they one and the same?) are part of a secret society that started in the 1920s.
The next thing I know, I'm talking to my nephew and I had forgotten that he had just recently lost his arm (he has 2 arms in real life) at his job, somehow. We're talking and he's about ready to leave when I look over and see his stump (cut off just below his elbow) and I say something like "How's the arm doing?" He says it's a little better, but he really misses it. Then he says something about boxing with our uncle Floyd, who has one arm in real life. Uncle Floyd used to do this thing, when we were little, where he was play-boxing with you and then he would act like he was going to throw a big right, but there was no right to throw. But, you would jump back anyhow and he would laugh.
Well, that's the dream - plus a little bit about my uncle. I warned you it was weird.
Oh yeah, when I woke up for work and used the toilet, it didn't flush properly. That dream baggy of crack would have floated like a dead gold fish.

The Present. The Future. The Past. Pt. 2

Terry is gay.
Cloning.
The Lord of the Rings movies.
Star Wars prequels.
Gays on TV, movies.
Crack. Ecstasy.
"Thriller."
George Harrison, Bonzo, John Lennon, Elvis, Princess Di, Zappa, Michael Jackson dying.
Russell dying.
Big Mac Mikey B./Big Mac dying.
Reality TV.
Iran hostages.
CDs and Ipods.
Home video.
Challenger explosion.
September 11, 2001.
The Gulf wars.
My marriage and divorce.
Cell phones.
Satellite TV.
The Human Genome project.
Presidents Carter, Reagan, Bush 1, Clinton, Bush 2, Obama.
Clinton's sex scandal.
O.J.
PCs.
Aids.
The Internet.
MTV.
The unbelievable growth in our home town.
Chuck.

The Present. The Future. The Past.

So, I'm this guy - me - my age, living in the present, 2010, going about my day to day life. Then, suddenly, I wake up - from a dream, from a coma, whatever - and discover that it's actually 1975. And I'm 15 years old. After I get my mind around that, I realize that I've seen the future. Think about it. Consider all that has happened in the past 35 years...
My dad died in 1975. My best friend, D'Arcy, would be alive for 5 more years. Five short years. My mom was alive. My brother was alive. Both for 10 more years.
My beloved dog Ginger was alive. Disco was king. Rap hadn't been invented. Gerald Ford, who I saw at the State Fair, was president.
There were no computers. No video games. No music videos. No Internet. No cell phones. No DVDs. Heck, no VHS. No Ipods. Not even CDs. And, of course, no African American president.
I would find D'Arcy and tell him what had happened to me. How I was a middle aged man (!) living in the future.
God, what a story I'd have to tell. Did I pay enough attention. Could I remember all of the facts? All of the names and details?
Well, brother D'Arcy, here goes:

The 60's and Change. Written around Feb. 2002.

I was born in September, 1960, at the beginning of what turned out to be a turbulent decade. There was Free Love, courtesy of the Sexual Revolution, and a horrible mess of a war. There was the Civil Rights Movement and Women's Lib. By the end of it there was Woodstock and a man walked on the moon. The world changed in the 60's. I was a child of the 60's.

Thinking about all of the doomsday predictions for the new millennium, a couple of years ago (actually, 2001 - but I digress...), reminded me of 1969. I was 9 years old and had lived my whole life in the 60's. I was rather concerned about the decade change. The idea of the 1970's felt like stepping into the future - with all of its uncertainty. My mom, who was about to enter her 6th decade, reassured me that it was no big deal. In fact it held the possibilities of exciting new things...

The old guy I work with.

The old guy I work with was talking about "sayings" the other day. His uncle John William used to say "A lizard and a scorpion went 'round and 'round a pine tree. The scorpion sat down, he was tired. He had turpentine in his eyes." Then there was "Doodle-bug, doodle-bug, give me a cup of coffee."
Now, the old man, himself, often uses common expressions, but he twists them up so that they're almost unrecognizable. Like: "ANOTHER man's trash is another man's GOLDMINE." Or, "What's good for the gander works for the goose, too." And, one of my favorites, "Beggars can't be choicy."
After using one of his mangled expressions, he'll often say "You ain't never heard that?!" To which I'll reply "Not quite like that..."

Sugar Shiva

Have you seen her, my Sugar Shiva?
Have you been there, a true believer?

Chimes and elves - they sit on her shelves
with books and stars and honey jars
and bells and shells and creatures with tails
dripping love from day-glo pails.

Have you seen her, my Sugar Shiva?
Have you been there, a true believer?

(And its all alright...)

In a liquid light, leaking from space
through atomic glasses, I saw her face
a vision of truth, sticky with grace
and skin so blue I could nearly taste it.

Have you seen her, my Sugar Shiva?
Have you been there, a true believer?

(And its all alright...)

The night she came, she gave me a name
that I keep to myself and tell no one else.
She skinned me alive and in the heat I dried
and dipped me in wax and left no tracks.

Have you seen her, my Sugar Shiva?
Have you been there, a true believer?

(And its all alright...)

Dispositional cryogenics?

Recently, while I was pumping gas at a local convenience store, I saw a guy I went to school with. I don't know how to get around saying this: he was a redneck, squinty eyed, red-haired, slack jawed, idiot bully, who went by the extremely ironic name "Purty." That's backwoods for "pretty," for those who didn't grow up in the impoverished south. When we were in school, he never passed up an opportunity to pick a fight with me and my friends. The only reason I'm even mentioning any of this is because of the exchange I overheard between him and a guy driving a brand new, very expensive Mercedes Benz. The big, sleek, 2 door model.
Now this guy, who was obviously rather successful, and quite large - probably 6'6', 275 lbs. - was parked next to Mr. Purty at the gas pumps, and he asked him to please extinguish his cigarette while he dispensed fuel into his old Chevy pick-up. You know, so he wouldn't cause a fiery explosion, blowing up everyone at the pumps, as well as this guy's luxury automobile. Now, the belligerent Mr. Purty told him, in no uncertain terms, where he could go, etc. This provoked a retort from the big guy and the conversation became more and more heated, with Purty inquiring, at some point, "Why don't you make me, asshole?" The big guy followed him to the store, lecturing about fire and gasoline and threatening to call 911. Mr. Purty did then exclaim, in a loud, whiny drawl, "I don't give a goddamn about you and your fucking car!" The big guy called him a moron.
The point of all of this, I guess, is that I found it so interesting that after 35 years or more, Purty was the same weird, ignorant, scared, hate-filled dumb-ass that tormented me in high school. Oddly enough, he even looked about the same.
Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose...

From "Peoms (sic)."

Hipster, trickster, hullabaloo
Evy, ivy, Kalamazoo
Dream-scape drive-in brouhaha
'Lectric lady, ooh, la la!

Systematic peek-a-boo
Be-bop lovely power tool
Lip-sync sinner won the prize
Red rose beauty, neon eyes.

Grateful living city fool
White cloud skyline, broken rule
Doo-wop, hip-hop, artful con
Tripped-up pop god, golden dawn.

Midnight Soul Kisses

I remember places, empty spaces, suggesting sacrifice.
I envisioned faces, in my stasis, eyes of fire and ice.

I felt the ocean, and the motion took me back in time.
I whirled and spun, I lost the sun, I think it was a sign.

Midnight soul kisses.

I saw the Tartar horsemen shake their spears in the camp-fire light.
I knew that our two worlds were going to, at some point, collide.

Midnight soul kisses.

(Your broken arrows on the ground -
I think in time, you'll come around...)

I heard the call, and that was all, no sins will I repent.
You're a crazy lay, in mists of grey, you fed me peppermints.

Midnight soul kisses.

Worms

You held out your hand full of worms
You said you had a surprise for me
Did you hope to see me squirm?
I thought it was a curious treat.

Now I'm building my own house
You can't live here with me
I'll run screaming through my house
Erecting tiny shrines to cheese.

I'll pile my anguish in a corner
Tip-toe over bones and teeth
With my twisted soul, I'll be a donor
I'll fall in love, again, with me.

Now I'm building my own house
You can't live here with me
I'll run screaming through my house
Erecting tiny shrines to cheese.

An army of Longfellows crying
Couldn't change this me into an us
Underneath my bed, your heart lies dying
Entombed in a soft shroud of dust.

Now I'm building my own house
You can't live here with me
I'll run screaming through my house
Erecting tiny shrines to cheese.

A Glimpse of Heaven

I caught a glimpse of heaven, through azure skies
A paradise, ELEVEN, where no one cries
A refuge for the broken-hearted
But, now I'm bluer than before I saw it
Know what I'll never have
A glimpse of heaven.

I heard the bells of freedom, pealing in the night
A sound so clear and pure, like angels taking flight
But, there's a gnawing, bitter-sweet hurt
A photo of god, in a T.Rex t-shirt, with his head chopped off
A glimpse of heaven.

And I'm tripped-up, baby, I've gone and lost it
I've got a date with Patti in Lou Reed's closet.

(Time - it toys with me
It cuts me off at the knees
I want to live to see a me
That's free of the me I be...)

I saw the jaws of evil devour this world
Then throw up on the cosmic Tilt-A-Whirl
Nothing left, everything destroyed
I closed my eyes to receive the void
What do you think I saw?
A glimpse of heaven.

And I'm tripped up, baby, I've gone and lost it
I've got a date with Patti in Lou Reed's closet...

The last week, or so, of my life.

This is the last day of my week long vacation. Well, nine days, if you count the weekends. It has been AWESOME! Because of my line of work, I haven't had a vacation in warm weather in something like 16 years. Even though I spent half of the time working (like a dog) on my house and cleaning up my yard, I still enjoyed it. And I got a lot done. I've done carpentry, mechanical work, painting, tree trimming, burning and mowing.

I went down town for a little Azalea Festival stuff this afternoon. Beautiful day! Lots of people. But, I couldn't find the art show! That's mainly why I went. I wish I had someone to do these kinds of things with, but I don't...sigh...

The other day, I was trying to work on a CD burning project. I managed to get 2 CD's burned, almost by accident, then everything went screwy. The visuals on my laptop screen changed. It became very complicated and confusing. I wasted lots of discs. It was excruciating! Then, when I tried a disc out in my home CD player, it got caught inside and wouldn't come out. I had to take the cover off and look for the disc. It was nowhere to be found. Not only had the machine eaten it, it had apparently digested it also. Eventually, I did find the disc - UNDER the tray! I can't figure out, for the life of me, how that happened. By the time I got it out, my CD player was screwed up. It simply would not work anymore. I messed with it a bit, getting more and more frustrated, then jerked the plugs out, so I could throw it out the door. As I was doing this, it fell over on my bare foot, gashing me open - like it was getting in a last jab. Dripping blood, I carried it, unceremoniously, out to the trash can. Luckily, I found an old CD player in the closet. It's banged up, but it plays. For now.
I decided to go to Best Buy to look for simpler CD burning software. I had a program on my old computer that I liked. I bought the newest version of that. And, boy was it worth it! Click on a button to start. Click on a button when you're finished. While I was there, I thought I would look for CD players. Guess what? They didn't have any. No one buys CD players anymore. I went to Radio Shack. Same thing. I saw a receiver (a rare thing in itself) with a CD function on it, but no CD player to go with it. The guy working there looked it up on the computer, and found one. One. It would have to be special ordered. I may get it.

A lot has happened in the past 9 days. I won't get into all of it here... but, with the temperatures in the 70s and 80s, I've really enjoyed the time off.
Back to work in the morning.

My brother.

I have a sister 16 years older than me, another 14 years older than me and then there was my brother, who was 12 years older than me. My dad said he traded a horse for my brother - because he sold his horse to pay the medical bills when my brother was born. I don't think a horse would make much of a financial dent in today's health system.
My brother played guitar. He loved Chet Atkins, The Ventures, Waylon Jennings and Merle Haggard. He liked fast cars, motorcycles, water skiing and cats. He thought the cartoon character Goofy was hysterical. I remember him, when he was a teenager, watching Goofy water ski, or something. He laughed SO hard and banged his fist on the arm of the chair. Me - I'm a Bugs man. Or Bullwinkle.
A few years before my brother passed away, he left his wife for someone. I think he may even have had a child with her. My whole family, a bunch of religoids, turned on him. I was in my early twenties and was pretty idiotic and easily swayed. I judged him, also.
I remember that he was back and forth, in and out, and there were a lot of hysterical arguments. Often with my sisters right in the middle of it all.
One Christmas, I recall, he was sitting all alone on his front steps, while everyone else was trying to have some sort of holiday - right next door, at my mom's house, where I'm living now. The tension in the house was palpable. Everyone was trying to ignore him, as he sat there drinking a beer(!). I was young and stupid. I remember looking down on him.
I wish I could go back in time to that Christmas day. I would defy the whole family and walk over and have a beer with him.
I missed my chance. I know what it means to be human. If he had had one person to sit by him and not judge him, maybe it would have made some kind of difference. My brother was in terrible pain. I have had that pain throughout my life. I can't forget him sitting there. That boy was torn up.
He eventually got back with his wife and kids, got religion, had a heart attack and died - after an agonizing month, or more, in Duke hospital. He was only 36.
We talked a little when he was sick, and made up. But, there wasn't much left of him, at that point. So, I never had that beer with him...
Life is so fragile.
So fleeting.

Happy birthday.

I want to say "Happy birthday" to Chuck, my best friend and the only follower this blog has. He is 40 today. It seems like just last week he was in his 20s...
There will be more about him in future posts.

Something I believe in.

If there's one thing I believe in, it's karma. You know, how things will come back to visit you. What goes 'round comes 'round. Do unto others (then split. Remember that, from the 70s?). And so on.
I've seen it in action too many times. You will reap what you sow. It seems like such a good and basic rule. It has turned up in religions all around the world. That's why I try to stay positive. I don't want to put bad vibes out into the universe.
Peace.

July 2002. Repressed memories?

I've been thinking a lot lately about repressed memories. I used to think that was a lot of crap, but I'm beginning to wonder. Up until the 3rd grade I was a perfect student. The smartest kid in my school. Why did I suddenly freak out about going to school about half way through the 3rd grade? I would run away and hide in the woods. Or, try to go home.
My parents talked to me, scolded me, beat me, took me to a shrink, took me to a minister and made deals with me. Then, they beat me some more. Nothing worked. I was one scared, ashamed, panic-stricken kid. The other children made fun of me. The teachers all talked about me. I even remember the lunch lady saying something to me ("You're that little boy that runs away from school, aren't you?"). This went on through-out the 3rd grade, into the forth - which I failed. I had to repeat the forth grade. At the beginning of that year the principle said I was too smart to be in the forth grade again, so they promoted me to the fifth. Which I failed. I kept running away and missing days.
Then, for some reason, when I repeated the 5th grade, everything was OK. There was only one incident in which I panicked. I asked Ms. Arthur if I could go to the rest room and instead, I ran outside and hid in the gym doorway. I stood there a while, with the old feelings returning, but I managed to gain control of myself. I remember thinking that if I went back to class right then, no one would ever know about this. So, I did. And I was OK.
That was a horrible period for me. Three years of trauma. I never felt so alone. There were too many painful occurrences, too many details, to recount here.
But, the terror I felt at having to go to school, the major depression in my 20s, the sex, drug, food and alcohol excesses and the difficulties I've had trying to be a social animal (relationships, lack there-of) seem to point toward some powerful stimulus.
If I heard someone else describe the things I've been through, I would think that he or she had been abused as a child.
There. I said it.
But, I don't remember any abuse. That's where the notion of repression comes in. Is it possible? I certainly don't want to start making myself remember things that didn't happen...

I've been a little boy lost my whole life, it seems.

Medical procedures.

Sometime around 1988, I guess, I lost 65 lbs. in 10 weeks. This was after my wife and I broke up. I quit eating meat and sugar. I didn't suppliment my diet with other proteins. (What happened to the i before e except after c rule?) I didn't eat many veggies in those days, either. All I did was drink and...otherwise party.
In early 1990, I came down with flu-like symtoms and went to the hospital. They did some tests and discovered that my white blood cell count was extremely high. They gave me something to take and I began trying to work some meat back into my diet.
Around November of 1990, soon after I turned 30, I began experiencing excrutiating stomach pains and feeling very ill. I was hospitalized. Doctor after doctor saw me. They ran every test you can imagine, for 2 weeks straight. The whole time, I was getting sicker and sicker. I also began getting spots on my feet and legs. They biopsied my intestine by cutting me open, right down the front of my stomach, and removing a section. (That's the first time they cut me there. They went around my navel and when it healed, it left a clean scar. Operation 2 was another story. More on that later.) Finally, they came up with a diagnosis: Poly Auteritis Nodosa. PAN syndrome. The spots on my feet and legs? Henoch Schindlin Purpura.
The condition was so rare, one doctor told me he was going to do a paper on me.
I asked them, over and over, what had caused this. No one could really tell me. But, I know it was my horrible diet - going 2 years with no meat and no alternative protein source - and the alcohol and the drugs.
I had a tube in my nose, running down my throat, a catheter, and 2 IV poles with about 4 lines stuck in my arms. Even though I had been diagnosed and was being treated, I was still very sick. And I wasn't responding to anything. A doctor came in and did a little operation right there in my bed. She sewed a patch into my chest in which to insert IV needles. This, for some reason caused a difference in the way my body took the drugs. Up until then, they thought I might die - but, they didn't tell me that. After I had been in the hospital for about a month, I slowly began to come around.
I was given Morphine for the pain. I had a lot of it. Pain - and Morphine. When I came home, I was a mess. I had withdrawal and would break down and cry over any little thing. Even a stupid TV commercial. Also, for some reason, I couldn't sleep in my bed. I slept on the couch for weeks.
I've left out a lot of details. Some of the tests were horrible. I felt like I was dying and being tortured. A lot of people came and went in my different rooms: patients, visitors and nurses. Teams of doctors and interns would look at me, talk about me and question me.
I heard that one of my room mates died soon after he was discharged.
That, in a very small nut shell - an almond, maybe - was my first operation. Like I said, number 2 is a whole other story.

My birthday. 2002.

I remember my 3rd grade teacher talking to us about the future. She told us that in the year 2000(!), we'd only be 40. FORTY?! We thought that was ancient. Well, here I am, turning 42 today.
I'm kinda depressed. Not because of the age thing, but because of the way I've been acting lately. I am not aging gracefully. In fact, I've become rather grace-less these days. I've got to work on this. And I mean REALLY work. I desperately want to be a better person.
So, maybe I'll start on that today. Sept. 15, 2002.
John Lennon said that life begins at 40. OK, maybe he's a bad example, but he had the right idea.
Maybe my life is beginning at 42.
Here's hoping.

2002?

It's a kinda rainy Sunday evening. Very quiet. I'm feeling really sad today. I so want to change.
Same ol', same ol'. Last night it was alcohol, today it was sex and food. I'm a sensation junky. I'm going overboard in all directions. This is all I know. What else is there? I need to find out. I'm killing myself, physically and spiritually.
I feel doomed.

I'm not the crazy, angry person I was when I was married, in my 20's. I'm calmer - I've leveled out in a lot of ways. But, in my own quiet way, I'm madder (as in insanity) than anyone I know.

Human = walking contradiction.