Written In My Backyard. Now. Just A Cigarette Ago. Wheee!...

It seems that now, my time is measured more by the clock than it ever was before. I used to write in these notebooks everyday after work, before parties, during nothing, after....but usually alone. In a crowd. Always. These notebooks of mine are more of an appeasement of the nostalgia gods now, then for the appeasement of the mind-madness gods that used to rule my life. Some of it's still there. But the majority of the old-school craziness is gone. Some facets have been squashed. Some are still lurking. Cancerous, in the back of mind-cave, Gollum-like. Some have thrived, and the spores have created new homes, festering themselves through new sores. Only seeping out when the time allows.

I miss you, notebook. Even though my inability to accurately convey thoughts remains the same - I feel listful, and long for the days when I could glance down at the paper and be amazed by my devil hands. Pages flipped. Ink scrawled. Furious. Wonderful. Madness. Computers. Increasing responsibilities. Newfound love and age bodyslams the Hulk Hogan of the hands. Writing this is like watching the first four WrestleManias on 99 cent-rented VHS tapes. Was I ever so wide-eyed, energetic and innocent? Am I now growing so old that I'm asking imaginary Andre The Giant's, Haiti Kids', and Iron Sheik's questions?

Because when it all boils down to it - the fact that I'm still doing this, while the bombs fly overhead and the lichen grows underneath my soul/soles - it means that I'm still ready to defend my title, Mean Gene.

Still ready to piledrive your scrawny ass.

Let's wrestle.

Rawrrrr!