I am hazy about how it started; alcohol was probably involved. I would walk past a group of heroin kids outside what was, at the time, the Big 5 Sporting Goods store. They typically had a cardboard sign on the sidewalk, asking for money. Sometimes the writing on the cardboard attempted to be clever, or funny, or appeal to emotion, with the occasional decorative squiggly lines or smiley face; sometimes it just simply asked. I was at the Bartell's Drugs on the corner, picking up a few items, of which I cannot remember. For some reason I also picked up several two-packs of hard-boiled eggs from the refrigerated section. Outside the store, as I approached the heroin kids, I took the eggs out of the bag, and then gave the packages to them. They were a bit baffled, but appreciative. Maybe a bit disappointed it wasn't just cash. I wasn't going to give them money which then would inevitably be used for drugs; I figured the eggs weren't worth selling for them, and h...

I'll be happy if my last words aren't "I think I just shit the bed." People would remember those when they thought of you. Which would be unfortunate. Everything else: forgotten. "I think I just shit the bed": passed down through generations. -jj

It was mostly fun, being betamax3000. Back in the Day. I was pushing my creative boundaries and enjoying the Althouse Experience. Bob Dylan Robot, etc etc. Still happy with some of what I wrote, chagrined by some others of course. I sort of bounced off the walls, really. And the years of Title Case: yeah, maybe I could have done without that. But not wasted time, I believe. Perhaps the rose-colored glasses of memory, but I believe that it was one of the many Althouse Golden Ages. We are in another one now. Probably what the Table of Contents would call 'The Post-Retirement Years'. After a while I began to feel like I was willingly putting myself in a box. I then would extricate myself from that box, and wind up in another. It didn't matter much at the time: I was an Escape Artist. Then the fire went out. I was having what the doctor referred to as suicidal ideation. Things got dark, medicine got weird, and I was starting to come off the rails. I have since made...

I talk with young dancers sometimes. Well, young, but still twenty-one or older, since they are in the bar. And if their ID isn't fake. Most likely it isn't: the bartender takes great care with that. Especially good with Florida driver licenses; for whatever reason, a lot of girls In Seattle have Florida licenses but don't seem to have ever been in Florida. Talking to strippers can be entertaining. It can also be profoundly boring: for some of these girls getting naked on stage in front of men is the most coherent thing in their lives. Some, though: they have incisive thoughts, said with sly humor. They know how to tell a funny story. They also know the power they have, and can exercise it by simultaneously relaxing it. Nice trick. One of the strippers is getting her real estate license on the side. Why not? She already has experience selling real estate, of a kind. I made that joke to her and she laughed, but it was pretty much a situational laugh, not a that...

"Go big, go arty, go comical, go hardcore." For some reason this makes me think of the Eighties. Being at a friend's house, in the living room of which his parents had a framed Pat Nagel print over the magenta couch. Just a year before they had a Seventies couch. Earth Tones. They now had an Eighties couch. Time Magazine's Man of the Year for 1982 was "The Computer." That could've been on the glass coffee table. As for hardcore: Wild boys fallen far from glory Reckless and so hungered On the razors edge you trail Because there's murder by the roadside In a sore afraid new world They tried to break us  Looks like they'll try again Wild boys (wild boys) never lose it Wild boys (wild boys) never chose this way Wild boys (wild boys) never close your eyes Wild boys always shine Go big, go arty, go comical, go hardcore: sometimes Duran Duran went four-for-four. -jj

Bailey's in the coffee is perfectly acceptable at 5 am if you don't care what people think. --jj

I just got back from the bar. Had a few drinks, watched the people. The day after Thanksgiving, so many of the kids are gone, home to family for the holiday. While I was waiting for a drink I overheard three college girls in line debating on getting jello shots. The bartender came to get my drink, and then I also picked up six jello shots for the girls. When you are a regular who tips well, you can get served on the side. Which is nice. The college girls brought the jello shots over to my table and thanked me. It was still early, so they weren't plastered yet. Plastered college girls: some nights it's funny, some nights it's depressing. Tonight, the night after Thanksgiving, seems like it would be depressing. Yeah, I know: college girls. I'm older than they are, but not so old as to be the creepy guy. I keep clean, and pretty much act like a gentlemen. A lot of times they ask me if I teach at the University. So I guess that is what I look like. I have n...