David Bowie died.

David Bowie died.

I was sitting where I am tonight, staring aimlessly at the internet. At the same pages over and over again.

Not doing anything.

A week or two ago, that David Bowie was doing this at your age thing went around. I never clicked on it. I didn’t want to get depressed. Now, I think about it differently. I almost want to go and click on it. Just to see what the fuck he was doing at the age of 44 (soon to be 45). That was 24 years ago for him. He died at 69. So that was 1992.

I was a virgin.

I was in college, fawning over a girl that I would one day actually get a date with. A bunch of dates to be exact. Then, she broke my heart.

Nothing new there. Well, it was then, but now, not so much.

He was doing Tin Machine, maybe?

Still better than what I’m doing. Hell, I never gave Tin Machine a chance back in the day. It’s probably damn good. My good buddy Josh from the college days, he loved them. Preached their gospel all the time. I ignored it.

Did the same with Lucero. You see where that got me.

Anyways, all this outpouring of love and sadness over a celebrity that very few of us ever even got the chance to see perform, let alone meet, is usually looked at as silly.

People fill their Facebook, Twitter, Instagram whatevers with posts about dead celebrities every day.

This guy was different. I found myself crying about it. Not balling all over the place, but sniffling whenever another story came on the TV, or the radio, or the internet.

I listened to his new album ‘Blackstar’ on the ride to work. I wish I’d listened to it the day before. It wouldn’t have hit the same way.

It’s a goodbye. And it’s a damn good one.

I wrote my dad’s obit. It sucked.

I said a bit when we buried him at sea. That didn’t suck, but it still wasn’t perfect.

David Bowie did it perfect for us.

All of this has gotten me to think a lot today. I’ve been angry about things out of my control for a while now. Nothing new. Job, you know.

I don’t want to waste any more of my life.

I’ve got a great son.

A great woman.

A cool dog.

A sneezing cat.

And I don’t want to be so unhappy for 8-12 hours every damn day anymore.

Tomorrow (today, actually), I have to go in and talk with a management consultant in the office. I’ve been down this road before. Anyone who works at a newspaper 10 years ago and still is, has gone through this dance before.

They’re going to fire people. Or at least give you new jobs. New duties.

I hand-wrote my job description. It is filled with spelling errors and scratched out bad words … no not that kind.

I have no idea what I’m going to do tomorrow. I actually just found out I would be able to make the meeting time I signed up for due to baby-sitting issues. We always have baby-sitting issues. Another reason to get the fuck out.

I know I’ll be wearing my Pete Maravich socks.

And jeans that I have worn for six days in a row.

My shoes will have holes in their soles.

I will shave. That I will do. I will not wear a suit. Or a tie.

But I will wear clean underwear.

Then I will write a column. I’m thinking about writing one on why I can’t stand professional football anymore. How I didn’t watch a game this year involving my favorite team – the Washington Redskins – even the playoff game.

And you’re a sports writer?

Yep.

I still love writing stories. Telling them, I guess. I always thought I’d tell my own one day. Boy meets girl, girl breaks boy’s heart, boy drinks, boy dies.

But I took a left turn instead of right. Went East for a while before turning West again.

Now, it’s time to do what I’ve talked about for years.

Get the fuck out.

-30-

How am I supposed to get to 750 words. It seems this one will make it happen faster, harder, longer? Probably, not. But probably.

Eat a peanut. Drink a Yoohoo. Some day you’ll look at the sky and not see the stars anymore. The computer will be at fault. Silly.

An economics major...

Six Miller High Lifes in my belly, I decided to go down to the beach. I wasn’t drunk, but I had a good buzz in my head. Nothing too special, nothing to out of the ordinary. I just wanted to go see the ocean.

The drizzle marked up my glasses in a hurry. I looked down at my $2 Wal-Mart flip flops and tossed them into the weeds that make up my yard. No reason to slip and break my ankle right now. No insurance.

Getting fired does that to a person.

I walk down and notice how quiet everything is. I don’t notice that enough, sitting in front of my computer. Going to the same six web sites over and over, hoping for a conversation with friends who have long ago moved on from being my friend.

The sky isn’t cloudy, it’s murky. I see a few stars busting out of the mist. I look at them in awe.

The houses are mostly empty. The summer is nearly over. Just two weekends until Labor Day. Then everything will start closing up shop.

I won’t be here anymore. My last day here will be August 31. A Friday. I guess I’m excited.

I get to the beach and I marvel at how empty it is. I love it like this. I realize how little in the last year I’ve taken the time to come down here and revel in it.

When I first moved to the beach, I was here every night. I got off work, then in April, and walked to the shore. I always had a beer with me. Sometimes a few.

I’d sit in the sand and watch.

The waves. The people. The clouds. Whatever was there.

The boardwalk was always empty. A sexy lady would be working the bar at the TBT, but I’d never go in. Sometimes she’d wink at me. Wave me in. I always pulled out my pockets when this happened. My “I’m a hobo” moment. Or statement. Whichever you like better.

She’d always wave me in anyways.

I wonder what would have happened if I’d gone in?

I don’t think I would have ended up much differently, really. So, chalk it up as a lost chance. A missed opportunity.

I’ve had a lot of those over the years.

I think about my key. I placed on top of the carport when I left a few minutes ago. What the fuck, I thought. My stuff is packed. I’m leaving. Who cares if someone robs me now.

It’d be fitting, really.

I’ve thrown away more stuff than I did in the great purge of 2008. Of course, that was just my writing. How stupid was that? Hemingway would look at me and shake his head. His woman lost his writing. I threw mine away because of a woman. Hell, there isn’t much difference in the end.

The ocean slashes away at the shore. If man wasn’t here, the beach would be hundreds of feet the other direction by now. But, we’ve got houses here now, so, it stays. Until it wants to really move. Then it moves. Houses be damned.

It’s a fucking sandbar people. If you build here, you should expect it to fall.

That never goes over well with property owners.

Anywhere really.

I’ve never owned. Except for that car I bought.

It already has a dented bumper and scratched up paint. Character points.

One day, I may actually own it myself. Just $5,800 more to go.

Debt enslaves you. I wish someone had told me that when I was young. Instead, I watched my parents buy too much. And I thought it was normal. I thought I’d find a great job and it would all be all right. Then, I realized it wasn’t going to happen. So, I decided I’d find a rich lady and she’d make it all right. That didn’t happen either.

Now, I’m still a drunk. Who thinks he can write, but never does and I still have credit card debt.

And I was an Economics major.

Ha.

It’s unrealistic of me to expect much out of myself.

Unless I apply myself. Then it’s pretty impressive.

I can’t type well anymore. My carpel tunnels is deep and ingrained. My hands get tired.

I noticed that the other night while interviewing someone for the first time in over three years. I couldn’t keep up. Kind of like sex. I have good intentions, but they seem to go awry most of the time nowadays. The belief is still there. The effort is still there. But the results aren’t. I guess this is how a 30-year-old NFL running back feels. Unless he was lucky, and sat out a few years because of an injury or dumb coach. I always think of Otis Anderson.

My throat is dry. You drink shitty beer all night, that’s what happens. No matter if you eat a fucking fantastic meal – which I’ve managed to do the last two nights – or not.

I hate shitty beer. But I like getting drunk. I used to like both. But, I got refined. I got cultured. Fuck that, I got a little bit of the “good life” and I don’t like going backwards. Who does, really? Unless backwards means the best fuck of your life. And damn, I was 21 years old when that happened. On my childhood bed even.

The things you remember.

I know she probably doesn’t think of me. That pig-tailed girl with doe eyes and ab muscles before they were cool.

A redhead was working at the bar across the street tonight. She wasn’t attractive. She had an awful voice too. But she was staring me down. And I looked back.

I’d never have done a thing, even if she came over and said “Your dick, my mouth.” Which really, is just something some guy would write in a letter to Penthouse.

I’m in love. But I’m scared. And that scares me.

Does that make sense?

I hope so. Because I’m scared and don’t want to be.

11 days ... aka no words...

When I was 17, my dad asked me what I wanted to do. I said “I don’t know.”

When I went to college a year later, I had one visit with my advisor. He asked me, “so, what do you want to do?”

I said the same thing.

I drove 4,000 miles a few years later with my best friend. We talked, he drove. We listened to music. We crossed the border. We drank beer. We watched the movie “Speed”. He never asked me what I wanted to do.

I met a girl and fell in love. At that point, I thought I knew what I wanted to do. Be a journalist. Be a happy person. I’ve learned the two weren’t compatible with me. Not that they aren’t for others. Just not for me.

I broke her heart one day on the telephone. It was going to happen sooner or later anyway. But that day she forced the words out of me.

A couple days later, a girl asked me “what do you want to do?”

I said “fall in love again.”

I was drunk. I was sad. I didn’t know anything.

A few months later, I fell in love again. It was slow. It was hard. It ended up being perfect.

Six years later, on the phone, she broke my heart. She asked me a variant of the same question. I said “be with you.”

I sat and stared and drank and cried and drove for the next two years. Had a girl for a little while. Then I sat and stared and drank and cried a little more.

One day at work, I got a phone call. I got fired.

I left North Carolina. Drove back home with my tail between my legs.

I met an old friend for drinks. We talked about what we wanted to do then, and what we could do now.

It’s been a constant conversation with us two ever since. She’s had job after job after job. I’ve turned down four jobs then got one. So I could live at the beach. I turned down on really good job. And I was asked why. I said “because I want to do something for me for a change.”

So I moved to the beach. Always wanted to do it.

Now, a year later, I finally had a party here. It was fun. I kissed a girl that night. First time in almost three years. It felt good. Nervous, but good. It was the second date. She wanted a kiss on the first date, but I didn’t. I needed to not.

The same band was playing in the background of the first date. The moment was there and I went for it. I never go for it. Well, I used to not ever go for it. The last four kisses have all been me first. Maybe that’s a sign of finally moving. Or maybe it’s just me overthinking things that don’t need to be analyzed. I’m good at that.

The record player is off right now. The birds are singing some sad song. Well, it sounds sad to me. I think about getting up, putting on a record and going back to wherever it is I was. But I don’t. Atrophy doesn’t look good on me. But my roots are starting to show.

The pen doesn’t run out of ink if it’s never used. The brain doesn’t breathe if you don’t feed it words.

I haven’t written in over a week. I haven’t read in over a month.

So I sat down and starting typing. Just words. Just thoughts. Just whatever needed to spill out of my head. Slow, steady and sad. Those three words just seemed to be all I had at that moment. That instant. So I typed them. Fast and slow.

I was asked again yesterday what I wanted to do. I still don’t know. It’ll come to me, though. I have faith that the last 40 years haven’t been wasted. They’ve just been practice. Experience. I’m good at longing for something. I’m also good at chasing things down. But when I get them, it seems I’m always disappointed. Either by them, or by me. Is it ever enough? Or have I just not found the right it?

Words. That’s all they are. Actions are better. Even when actions involve just words. Remember that, will you? It’s the most important thing to remember. At least right now. At this moment. It’s what you need. It’s what you are.