We are smoking cigarettes on the front porch. It's 25 degrees and it's hard to tell our breath from the smoke. I say: "The thing is, that's what I used to do. Write about me. About us."

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The bar has become crowded. There's a woman sitting alone behind you wearing a dark green hoodie. Her chair is close to yours. Too close. It's weird. Maybe she's listening to us. You sip your beer, then you apply some lip gloss. You're not eating your veggie burger because that last cigarette put your stomach off. I say: "I can imagine that there are people who would pay money to read what I write. "

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It's time I come clean: It's not working, this not blogging thing. In fact it's having the reverse effect. I'm actually writing less than I was before. So I've started sneaking in posts here and there. And I've tried to pretend like they don't count because mostly they've been fictional. But they do. They count.

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More than any of us, Honey loves when Chubby visits. They are really in love these two. They play non-stop. And kiss and lick. In the morning, they are at their most crazy. They roll on the bedroom floor and make groaning noises like little monsters. And so I get up with them and we go outside in the cool dawn air which feels more and more like spring these days, thank God. And they begin their morning running and playing and sniffing and pooping. And I stand there for a moment in that silence specked with bird chirps and woodpecker knocks. And eventually I go back inside and make coffee and watch them run around from the window. And I like to stand there and imagine how these interactions go.

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Strangely, the biggest problem for me with blurring the line between fiction and reality on this blog hasn't been a fear that people will confuse the fictional elements for reality. It's been the other way around: that people will confuse the real things that happen for fiction.

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The truth is that guy has retired and is now living someplace in the Great White North, drinking beers and eating back bacon and fishing through holes in the ice. And he just sits there not worrying and writing it all down in a leather-bound journal that smells like farts and cigarettes. And he's waiting to die.

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My friends are becoming avatars, smiling faces with one-liner quips next to their names, short expressions of happiness or sadness or love or hate. Or, oh my god, self-promotion. Propaganda. Marketing. We've become our own advertisements for...ourselves. Publicity agents for our own lives. Whoring ourselves to our friends. And I'm sure it's all genuinely felt. Oh, I'm sure it comes from deep within. But I know I start to get numb to it. And I just skim now and I don't really read. And I've "hidden" more than I show. And I think probably my friends deserve more than that. More, even, than my "Like" or "Become a Fan." An email, maybe. Or a phone call. Or simply our memory. Some of our friends just deserve our memory of them. That's it. We should all kill our Facebook. And I have a date to do just that. With a friend who isn't even in my Facebook. We'll do it over shots of whiskey. And we'll curse while we do it. And bang our fists on the bar. And celebrate our freedom.

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It was how I referred to the vacation that was odd. Alluding to some project I intended to start, I had said to my friend at the dog park: "I'll work on it as soon as I get this vacation over with." She had laughed. "When you get it...over with?" I laughed too, because I understood on some instinctual level how ridiculous it sounded and I figured I should act like I was joking so as not to seem weird. Like I had spoken these words, you know, just to be funny. But the truth was I really didn't find much humor in it. It's honestly how I see most vacations: as something to get "over with."

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Whatever. Here's what I know about music: I like being a little surprised by it. I like playing with people and feeling the pull of that thing you're doing take you where it wants you to go. And tapping into the energy, on stage and off. And just feeling a little awed by it. Letting the sounds rush over you. The sounds. Drowning out everything and forever. And feeling your heart race because you're not sure where this thing is taking you exactly, and it may drop off the next cliff, but it'll be one hell of a ride if it does.

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The following is the eulogy I read at my mom's funeral on February 26th, 2011. There is audio of me reading it at the service if you want to listen while you read it. I've also included images of her California Trip journal which I read from.

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I'm reading. Poetry. In public. Here are the details.

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I read this at the Doolittle Reading a couple of weeks ago. It started as a story, not as a poem. And I think it's going to go back to being a story. A slightly longer story. With the kind of arc you've grown accustom to in my stories. I think I like it better that way. But I figured I'd post it in this form, along with the video of me reading it. Scroll to the bottom if you're interested in seeing my first attempt at reading in over 10 years. And watch the lights dance on my shiny, bald head.

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This is the toast I gave at Mitch and Naoko's wedding...September 24th, 2011 after only two beers and one sake.

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If I wanted to be an expert at rollerblading, and if I believed Malcomb Gladwell about achieving expertness, I would have about 9,997 more hours of rollerblading practice ahead of me, give or take a few minutes. In those hours of breath and sweat and flailing arms, my body would gradually get more familiar with the sensation of gliding on concrete. My sense of balance and timing would adapt to the reality of wheels. I would be able to anticipate dangers quicker. My awkward, jerky motions would turn into smooth, confident strides. It would become less an exercise in careening, and more of just plain exercise. Muscles in my legs and core, muscles that before were weak and unused, would get stronger and bigger. Also, my brain would grow new white matter. Myelinating is the process of forming new connections in the brain, new white matter. And in the process of becoming an expert at rollerblading, I would myelinate like a motherfucker.

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I want to be clear: this isn't a call to myself to retreat into a cave. I want to continue to try and have my words in other people's places. But I miss the freedom of just writing because I want to say something trivial or non important or, sometimes, extremely important. To me. Things about my life. Thoughts and ideas and stories that are only half-formed. But still out in the world and not hidden on a hard drive. I want to start giving myself that luxury again. It's something I told myself I would do in 2013. And I'm finally doing it, by god, even though it's taken me 45 days or so.

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I am already dead. And thank God, really. It's such a relief. To have that out. To be done with the deviling drama. At least that's over with! I think, taking a hydrant photo, chewing on sugar cane. When you already know the worst, you can face the rest. And the rest is just me. Here. The rest is just this. This peace, and this piece. Of history and time.

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