Number 9, Number 9, Number 9 . . . .

Back in the day, I used to be the editor of a (very) modest trade magazine, and as the only writer on staff it befell me to write each and every article therein.

I had carefully honed my talents at procrastinating, staring at blank composition sheets day after day, until about 48 hours before the complete magazine had to be delivered to the typesetter, I would fiendishly start pounding the keys of the IBM Selectric, pulling all nighters alternating between vodka and coffee intravenous, and somehow miraculously I would pull it off. And reading back, apart from a few embarassments, what I considered shit at the time wasn't that half-bad.

I still have nightmares of that job, even though it was decades ago. The motif is still the same: we're going to press and I can't find a goddamn bit of copy. My boss is screaming as is my mind. Although I don't wake up with the cold sweats, I lie back in bed, have a puff on a smoke, and thank Christ I got out of that job alive and only somewhat mad.

So what the fuck am I doing starting a blog?

Can you take me back where I've been from?
Brother, can you take me back?