As lame a song as it ever was.

Will you still need me? No. Oldheads doddering into uselessness.

But I’m in my chair, seemingly somnolent, and my supposedly senile mind is still on fire. You just can’t see it. Unless you take care to loook. I am 64 but I’m not interested in being Sir Paul McCartney. You? I’m more like the dirty guy still in the trenches.

The grand farewell is not far away. But it has its attractions.

And then there’s legacy. Just a writer. I’m content with that.

Happy Birthday to me.

My place is the last stop for gas, parts, food, directions, and other necessities before you plunge into the wilderness of the barrens. Not much doing at the moment. Might as well fire up this rig I’ve cobbled together. You can do almost anything with wire and alligator clips. I’ve got a 13-inch TV (color), a rebuilt IBM Selectric, a modified Commodore 64 with an aftermarket supercharger and algae-based memory, and miscellaneous other machines, all attached to an old satellite dish somebody traded for a set of used tires. The whole thing is powered by a 1953 Hemi donkey engine I also use to power my pneumatic garage tools. I’m connected to everything that’s happening in the world. And thanks to an old transmission tower that used to belong to the Jersey Devil Church of Christ before they disappeared without a trace, I can talk to the world too. I’m thinking of it as the Command Center. So when I have nothing better to do I might as well sound off about anything that occurs to me. If you have nothing better to do, you might as well stop by and see what I’m sounding off about. But that would be up to you.