story of my life

Birth. School. Work. Death.

That's the short. I was born. Survived. Grew larger. Was sent to school. Did fairly well. Went to work. Haven't died yet, but I guess it's next.

In the meantime I smoked a lot of dope, drank booze, had carnal knowledge of some fine ladies and committed a few crimes (never more than a night in jail) and read some books. Bought a paperback copy of Dostoevsky's 'Brothers Karamasov' and checked out 'The idiot' from the library. Read Charles Bukowski and Alan Watts, Sun Tzu and Jack London. When I wasn't reading David Foster Wallace I was checking out Dickens and Twain or sneaking a peek at Cormac McCarthy.

That was school and I carry it forward but eventually, work beckoned. Even while I was in school. I took to work like a schizophrenic - love/hate. Raking and mowing, sweeping floors and cleaning bathrooms, cooking burgers. I was so good I was a supervisor at 17. Now I'm a manager and hire and fire. It's a ball and chain. A burning ring of fire.

But just last night my best friend stopped by and stayed in my home. All that went before put me in a position to offer my friend a comfortable place to stay. Of that I'm proud. I gave him a key to the castle should he pass through when I'm away. I know his family well and I know the door is always open at their ranch(es). They've done it for me several times before.
Just makes me realize that however hard it gets - what a pain it is to just get by in today's world, I'm one of the luckiest dudes alive to have friends like these. And just in case, I also gave my friend a key to my truck in case he needs to dip down to Nogales and get the truck while I sweat out a charge in a Mexican jail.

"I swear Mr. Officer Alejandro, sir, I didn't know 600 Oxycontin and six kilos of Mexican schwag was more than the Sonoran State limit regarding cross-border transport. Dude, really? Can I go?"