Like Jim Palmer and Richard Nixon in 1991, the comeback appealed to me.
I had made too big a deal of how hard life had become. My pal L'il Jimmie, suffering a similar fate, took his corpulence, sucked it up, and tried to rebound. But he wasn't trying a comeback. No, that was my gig.
It ain't no more.
click any photo to enlarge
You folks have been some godalmighty kind. Well wishes from friends I've never met -- you know, friends across the country who get that they might see their friends play a club on a Thursday night only to realize they're in the only place in the world anyone should want to be -- have made their way to me.
Ignored phone calls from Lupners and Lalanes [Jack] have buoyed my spirits, whilst not kicking me out of this shit.
You wouldn't know that I'm doing badly -- when I posed on Wednesday for the above pic, I tried to rally. Give the comeback one last try.
I'm just goddamned tired, and can see how every "characteristic" of my family [read: pathology] has played out over the last fifty-five years to land me here.
If it weren't for masturbation and the double switch, I don't know how I'd survive.
Anyway, my thanks to my friends. I'm tired, unfunny [unfunnier than usual, that's too bad], but oh-so-eager to make a comeback.
But when I do, I promise I'll bring some flair to it. . . .