A sort of life

You can’t lose what you ain’t never had

WASHINGTON — Can’t believe this year is already kaput. The back and forth, the here and there, despite all hours of its ache, are now in the wind like last night’s meat loaf. It’s cashed. Done. Buried. Like news that the much unwanted John Rocker was a user of the mighty steroid. Who’s John Rocker? Who cares!

Yet I still hope to compile my annual retrospective. Yet the year grows ever more resigned to retirement.

I write tonight to wish you all a good holiday. For once, adult that I am, I yearn for the coming of Santa Claus. I woke today with the strangest bit of ESP on my mind. Kept my eyes tight and tried to hold on.

She escaped like always, and I was left with Ashley’s ass in my face.

Ashley, some of you might remember, is my mother’s dog. My attention starved and hungry dog. I’m reminded in times like these how we can never out run our families. Nor do they let us stay mighty when we do pick up a few paces. No matter how great I feel, no matter how great I am, Christmas will always find me home in my kid bed with my kid sheets and my kid dog with her kid ass in my kid face. Makes me all warm inside to remember how my family, Ashley and the other three, have always been there welcoming me back with arms open.

But yes. Yes! I danced for a bit in the dream. And maybe one day my feet will rock to the rhythm in mind. But until then, we’ll just have to work things out in this space. I’m sure you won’t mind.

So here’s what’s on tap — what’s coming up:

  • Retrospective.
  • Announcement.
  • Updated life list.

Whether I get to these things before the new year, I can not say. But I sure hope to spark some of that quality day-in-day-out writing of months past. I’m sick of not sharing the load.

“You can’t lose what you ain’t never had” is from Volume One: Frank’s Wild Years (1983–2009). Written between 2003 and 2009, Volume One was this author’s attempt to find meaning from life as a young twenty-something. While this endeavor would ultimately fail, what remains is a comical tale of loneliness and debauchery.

It sort of spooks you walking into an empty apartment

It sort of spooks you walking into an empty apartment

This writer's empty flat on Floyd Avenue in Richmond, Va. on June 15, 2006. It remained sparsely furnished for several weeks.