What were you doing when you were 23?

I was news director at a small radio station, getting shit on by my boss for not enough money and decided to move to the world of print. Then, I met Doc. It was probably the happiest year of my life.

 

Going back 25 years. . . I was a part-time security guard, worked part-time in a library, did the occasional odd laboring job, made about $200 a week. Read a lot of books, saw a lot of rock and roll and watched a lot of baseball. I was still about four or five years away from writing my first story and collecting a byline, or even thinking about doing so. Looking back, I was filling up on experiences, not experience.

 

I was living in a run-down rental house in Austin with a bunch of anarchist political activists. Smokin' weed and bangin' hot vegan chicks with fuzzy legs. Working a shit job and not even thinking about work when I wasn't there. Drinkin' 40s and moshing in the pit at punk shows. Writing screeds for xeroxed zines. Good times, overall.

 

I've actually met this kid. Nice guy.

 

That was my first year away from home. I was working at a small newspaper and digging myself deeper in debt. I knew one person in town, and we went to the bars every Thursday, Friday and Saturday that my schedule allowed, which helped me dig deeper in debt. My roommate was in the process of stealing $2,000 from me by way of not paying rent and utilities while he disappeared to live with his girlfriend for five weeks. Now he lives in Wyoming, and I'm, well, deep in debt. But I was coming into my own as a writer, so it was a pretty decent year despite the net loss.

 

I'll let you know in three months.

 

I'll get back to you in three years.

I predict that I'll be writing lengthy features for Sports Illustrated. Or at the very least regularly appearing on Around the Horn and verbally threatening Jay Mariotti after every victory.

More realistically, I'll be eating insane amounts of Domino's like all of you. Probably still posting on this site. And attempting (still unsucessfully) to pick up women in my sleek 95 Buick LeSabre. Throw in the Boy Meets World repeats, and I think it'll pretty much be the same as 20.

 

Hubba hubba?

 

That would be 1972 if you're keeping score at home.

I was co-owner of a terrific bookstore which my partner and I sold in 1984. I'm proud to say that in the world of superstores, Costco and Wal-Mart, it's still a thriving independent--37 years later.

I had a great apartment with a fireplace--(second floor of a huge house)--two minutes from the shop, drove a 1969 Volvo and, for a few months, had a girlfriend named Michelle--but everyone called her Mike. (Seriously)

I had very long hair and perfectly horrible clothes.

That was also the year I worked on Prime Minister Trudeau's election campaign which the Liberals almost lost because of the stupidest campaign slogan ever: "The Land is Strong".

Coincidentally, it was the same election where the David Lewis led New Democratic Party had one of the greatest campaign slogans ever: "Corporate Welfare Bums".

 

I spent my 23rd birthday suffering from food poisoning. Besides that, I was working as a secretary at my community college's nursing department.

 

Hopefully Season 4 will be out by then, too.

 

Left a writing job at an 80,000-circulation paper and was hired as an agate clerk by AP in New York. One step back for two steps forward.