104 degrees of ID

Of course when my friends started to have babies, I knew it was the end of an era. The late nights, the debauchery, the wasted mornings, the poor choices, the addictions, etc... But just recently, the surest tangible sign of an end of days was physically torn away, replaced by a sandbox.

Hot tub, I will miss you.


Time to get new friends. New, younger friends.

ends...

Walking past tenement building on my way home, seemed like something fell out of one of the maple trees that line the property, on closer inspection, it's a condom. Damn you city workers strike!

beginning...

So, here we are kids. Blog. To blog, or to shut the fuck up?

Does anyone care about the ramblings of a failed writer, failed husband, and failed nice guy?

Probably not.

Begin as that skinny kid who wrote poetry (bad poetry, though did I really have to mention that?) by candle light in a goth club in between shoe-gazing, pitchers of bad beer, a little cutting, and a lot of wasted opportunities with the girls who thought you were harmless. Then what? Go to school, fail as a writer there but learn how to drink. Stumble through innumerable joe jobs just to get by. Fall into a great relationship that sours over the years until it finally cracks under it's own weight, the 3rd break up being the charm. Luck into an ever so slight career with a film festival. Cultivate quite the Id, act accordingly. Now there's hob-knobing the slightly famous while trying to convince your 'peers' that the Transformers movie was horse-shit and your co-workers that you have indeed seen every Godard film, or even a single Godard film.

I just remembered, I don't really care what you think. And I'll probably just post a pic every day. Or not. Also, none of this is necessarily true.