22 years ago - I lost two friends in a slide in Telluride. Had I smoked that bowl, done that line, I would be dead. Nothing against weed...then or now...but the simple fact that I dropped something else (Little Rose - that didn't slide that day) instead of the front (Tempter - which did)) meant that I was the one behind the bar that afternoon when the Sheriff came in , rather than one of the two in the black body bags being choppered over town to the courthouse. I was I.D.'ing a friend via polaroid ( that's how they do it - may you never go there) and walking out of the cold room into the embrace of the now 'widowed' engaged to be spouse person rather than being swept away at untold speeds and buried (the slide blew threir boots off...ever tried to get a ski boot off without unbuckling it?).
This, among many other things, actually, everything, makes me feel like I need to fucking represent. Every day. For Paul. For Vaughn. For others who haven't made it. I have been doing a pretty good job. I try to eek the juice out of every single day. But, you know what? I could do better. If there is one example I want to set for my son - it's that he should hurl himself at every day. Every challenge. Hurl. Like repeated hits into the brick wall of shit that so much of life has become. In order to teach the little dude this - I need to do it myself. I am durable. This is not new to me,
"nough said. Lookout shit-wall - I am inbound. And I am strong, and pissed, and this time (Rambo), it's fucking personal.