I started on February 19, 1985.
I don’t remember a whole hell of a lot between then and now. Much of it’s lost to the blend of booze in which I marinated my brain for about six years. That’s not as long as some people do it, but it was sufficient for me to lose some really good stuff, you know? Some honesty; some memories; some character. More of those things went with repression and, of course, the simple passage of time.
Here’s what I remember liking as a little kid: space, rocks, ancient history, mythology, dinosaurs and a bunch of others. I wanted to be a student of all those subjects, and I had it all plotted out. I would spend the immediate five years becoming an authority on large aquatic mammals, and the succeeding five exercising my brain about the deadliest snakes in the world’s jungles, and etc., until I had mastered them all. And one day, in my early 20s, I would suddenly be complete, working as an astronaut who doubled as a National Geographic photographer who tripled as a leading expert in geology who quadrupled as … you name it.
But then, a lot of things changed that, and between the ages of 20 and 26, what I liked most was controversy- and politically-charged journalism, and drinking while I did it. But it got to the point where I wasn’t very good at both anymore, and most of my friends thought I was an idiot. So I had to quit both, and because I spent so much cash on the latter, I had to join the military to bail myself – and my newly-wed life counterpart – from the hole.
And now, what I like the most is my wife, Hailey, my budding family, my dog. As an aside, I’m committed to buying my soul back in little pieces by making it through this tenuous adventure as a Navy fire control technician and returning to what I like second-most: being a writer.
You might relate; you might not. Either way, I think I have a damn good story, and if you come along with me here in this ether of information a friend of mine has lovingly coined “the blogosphincter,” I’ll tell you.