I Still Don’t Know What I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Like most people I bought my name as a domain name without ever thinking about what I might actually do with it. At some point, I imagine I had interesting things to say, but now as I go into that proverbial last lap of life I find that any insight I had has devolved into a series of repetitive stories that everyone I know has heard a million times and which people politely try not to roll their eyes when they hear. I imagine any wake or memorial service held for me would be a series of people yelling out for someone to retell a tale of mine like they were at the umpteenth Rolling Stones farewell tour and calling out for Beasts of Burden. The thought that Keith Richards might outlive me causes me no end of irritation.

So, here I am in a nutshell. I was born in 1959, so do the math because I don’t know when you are reading this. I am a first-generation American, my parents having immigrated here after World War II (or as my mom calls it, The World War Second).

I can read because of comic books and as a result spent my entire life working in comics as a retailer, show organizer, writer, publisher, and experienced whatnots. Fucking comics, avoid them like the Covid.

I run a music venue, which Covid is killing along with everything else.

The best parts of my life are my wife and kids. My sons in particular are much smarter and way more talented than me. Proud of them both, but I want to smack that smug look off their faces.