exact.

Life sure was a whole lot simpler when all I wanted to do was hang out at 2400 Tulane Avenue, drinking a Miller Lite, shooting the shit and listening to David Watts.

But, as of today, 2400 Tulane Avenue is an empty gravel lot. Full of a lot of promises, but I’m guessing none of them will ever be kept. I hope I’m wrong, but I doubt it. I’ve come to expect that.

When those bar chairs were still there. When Colin was still serving up good drinks and good conversations about Virginia and music, I was happy. I didn’t know I was happy then. Hell, I thought I was unhappy.

I’ll probably look back 12 years from now and think about how happy I was living at the beach.

I remember the first time Josh took me there. He was so eager. A word that we used to use to describe my boy a lot. Eager. Now, he’s not eager anymore. I’d say he’s settled. Not that really that’s a bad thing. Except those few moments when you can see the look in his eye. That lost look. That look of “take me with you.”

Fuck, he doesn’t want to be anywhere near where I am. It’s not fun.

Of course, I don’t want to be anywhere near where he is. It doesn’t look fun.

Experience is the only way to know these things, however. But I trust instinct. And my instinct says that other than the great woman he’s got, and the awesome travels he gets to take, life ain’t all that grand for him either.

I don’t revel in that. Even if it sounds like I am. There was a time when I thought he’d be my Dean. Or I’d be his Sal. I think he thought the same thing. Maybe that’s why it was doomed from the get-go?

Instead, he found a real Dean. Got to see the world. Got to bag some chicks. Got to have some fun.

Me? I chased the skirt. Didn’t look for a new Dean, or Sal, or even Old Bull Lee.

I guess that’s my burden. My weight. My cross to bear. That I always put a woman over anything else, and then I fucked up all the woman too.

Ha.

I did find a new band. I’ve always been real good about attaching a band to a particular part of my life.

The first one was KISS. That was childhood.

The next band I fell in love with was Guns and Roses. That? Adolescence I guess.

In college, the Clash became my obsession. That one lasted a good long time. In fact, I still cherish the band, even though I don’t listen to them much anymore.

After that, Johnny Thunders came to me. He was my introduction to depression and angst.

Then it was a brief interlude with H.I.M. They got me to face Emily, then run away.

Lucero is now the band. I’m guessing this is life now. I can’t see anything replacing them. Of course, I’ll meet a new love, and they won’t matter as much. It always happens. We’ll see.

Where did all of this shit come from? The bottle, I guess. This is why I shouldn’t and should drink. I get loosey-goosey with everything when my lips hit the bottle enough.

Too honest? Probably. But is there really such a thing? This shit should come out with out chemicals. With out hops and barley. Without shots and mugs.

But it doesn’t. At least not enough to my liking.

Which is OK. It’s how it’s meant to be. At least for me.

Six more rent payments to go. Then I can get out of here. Go somewhere else.

Yeah, I’ve said that all before. But for some reason, I feel different right now. Will I five months from now when the last rent payment has been made? I don’t care, really.

I want to do something with what little is left of my life. I’ve got to figure, even with genetics in my favor, that I’m most likely more than past the halfway point. I’ve got less living to do, years-wise, than I’ve already had.

That kind of fact is not something to sneeze at.

Of course, I’ll live to be 102. Look like Hal Holbrook and still be drinking fucking Shiner Bocks and Jameson. Listening to fucking Lucero and singing at the top of my lungs while doing it.

Hopefully, not dreaming of redheads, however…