68 last week.

My pre-frontal lobes seem to keep growing. I can remember the name of my first grade teacher. And the 4 year old child she lost. Also Andy Sweeney, whom I wrote about when I was 16. He died. Lots of death in my life. Les Egerman, Sig Miller, Howard Levin, Steven Quinn, and all the deaths in place who didn’t stop breathing but never lived again. Skip Truesdale, Archie Gwathmie, Ron Thorpe, Page Grubb, Philip Core, Will Martin, Robyn Basichis, George Ward, Frank Freudberg, Dan Lee, Mark Long, Joshua Lake, Peter Chamberlain, Brian Lott, all the ones who never made their fiercest dreams come true. I worked hard for all your dreams. 

I pretty much did make my dreams come true. There’s some concern I might be losing my memory. I just have too much memory. So stop worrying that I can’t remember what happened in 1820. Called Compromise. Which I have never done.

Sadly, he’s dead. Just 67. Perhaps more sadly, I’m not.

But we all git there, mostly the ones don’t back down.

Still not backing down.

Except I just don’t care anymore. It’s a Trans thing, I guess.

I already rang the bell. There’s no crack in me. Live with it.

And I am a man and always was a man. A hurt one.

See? I can do ANYTHING…. I’m 68. 

But my empire is NOT of dirt.

Moi? Always a more than slightly drunk Hero. Ask my wife.