I'm trying. I really am. But I just can't be serious tonight. About the deepest I can possibly go is admitting I heard Rick Nelson playing on the radio today, and noticed how mature his voice sounded in Garden Party (he always sounded older than he was), and after I wondered how old he was when he died, thinking perhaps he was younger than I am now when his plane crashed, I couldn't help but wonder how many of my rock heroes (or for that matter, big names from history) I outlived. I do get a little freaked out to remember that John Lennon died when he was right around 40, and I have now lived longer than he did. I have less than ten years before I have will have outlived Frank Zappa, Warren Zevon, and Robert Palmer. Hell, I already outlived Falco. It's making me feel like the clock is ticking on making something of myself artistically. I'll really get a complex if I factor in the 27 Club (Joplin, Hendrix, Cobain, Winehouse, Morrison, etc).
I am starting to feel less like an impostor when I tell people that I'm a writer now. The first time I said it, I thought I'd be challenged, like I had to produce some sort of credentials to make it through the barbed-wire checkpoint. Now, it's not like that at all. This is what I do, and I own it. I even had a coherent answer to explain the long-format writing projects I'm juggling right now. For once, I didn't feel like an idiot playing dress-up as a writer. It feels good. It feels comfortable.
I haven't been a very enthusiastic photographer, these last few weeks. I am lucky when I remember to take pictures of anything. All I can come up with from the last day or two is Athena sleeping with her tongue out, and Dr Love giving me a high five. I've been cooped up inside for too long. I need to break out and go sightseeing or something. Anyone want to go outside and play with me?
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