I never succumbed to the urge to learn to dance Gangam Style. Comes to that, I rarely try out the latest dance craze, even when dancing is The Thing To Do. I’m not dead set against dance music as a whole, but I have very little interest in it, because so much of it is largely monotonous to me.
I say this as a way to avoid writing about what I came here to write about, while still telling you something about me that might amuse. I can dance, and I love certain kinds of music that are fun to dance to, but what passes for Dance music in the late 20th and early 21st Centuries reminds me of Chef Boy R Dee Ravioli: Fun at the time, but mostly fat in a can.
What I came here to write about was why I haven’t written an autobiography yet.
This is relevant, because a lot of my writing has biographical bits in it, and I don’t shy away from telling uncomfortable truths about myself.
What I said on Facebook this morning was:
I would probably take a stab at writing an autobiography, except for two things: 1) Almost the only things I remember vividly are the truly cringe-worthy moments; and 2) I STILL haven’t done anything that most folks would want to read about.
The nice thing about writing characters like Richard Burley is, even though I put him through hell, at least he gets to do cool stuff.
And it’s true. Richard has bigger problems than I do, but he still gets to live in a nice apartment in Manhattan and play at the Roseland Ballroom with his reconstituted band. He has stuff happen to him that has never happened to me, and stuff that has happened to me but on a much grander scale. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t envy Richard. He’s got problems. But he’s also got more of the life I wish I had, which makes it both fun and difficult to write new stories for him, because I packed so much of it into the one novel. There are other stories to tell, but I wonder if any of them will ever be as strong as Terminal Monday.
A friend of mine told me he is reading Terminal Monday. I barely remember mentioning the book to him. I don’t really sell my books to my friends. It’s like, I don’t expect them to want to read my stuff any more, and I almost don’t want to know what they think anyway. Almost.
That’s not to say I don’t care about what my friends think of me. I probably worry about it more than I let on. Doesn’t hurt that I find so many of my friends–especially my new* friends–terribly charming. I just want to impress them so much, because they impress and inspire me so much. Makes me feel like a younger man sometimes.
I’m listening to the Kinks right now.
I was thinking about finishing a tune I started writing a decade ago for my ex-girlfriend, Bev. It came back to me while listening to the Kink’s song Polly, and reminding me that I had a song with that name in it, and, as near as I can tell, touching on similar subject matter.
Another ex-girlfriend, from almost twenty years ago, posted a ‘family’ photo of us with her little boy and a handful of her then-closest friends yesterday. It reminded me how young and thin and pretty I was back then.
(Guess which one I was, and no, not the baby in the front)
Time to get dressed and do something productive. So you’ve been spared more random asides and anecdotes. Don’t say I never did anything nice for you.
Thanks for reading.
* At my age, anyone I haven’t known for over a decade is ‘new’. That still includes my wife, really.