One happy thanksgiving day you're nestled among cousins at the children's table. Next thing you know, BAM!, you're old and you just hope to wrangle an invitation to any family's holiday function so that you don't end up hurrying through a bowl of Grape Nuts to get to the cheap, Chilean wine.
Jamaica is either six or seven, depending on when I do the counting. Angel is about the same age. My only ambition at this point is to live about as long as they do to make sure that they're properly cared for. I was wallering in the blues when this occurred to me. I'm on top of the world now and it still makes sense.
I've seen all of the Charlie Chan movies. I've over-extended myself in romance. I've had erections that have lasted for more than four hours and I've seen London. I have not seen France and, probably, not your underpants but I did shake Roy Rogers' hand.
If I have ever hurt anyone, I'm sorry. I hope that I have mostly told the truth. I have few regrets. I look forward to everything to come. I'm planning on peace and enlightenment but I'm not betting money on it. I don't have any money. I'm waiting for new songs, too. The ones that just write themselves. The ectoplasm is full of 'em.