I wish I was that young Master Thomas again, burning the memories of my youth and creating my own persona. I screwed it all up, eating all the acid I could get my hands on and pretending I could get by and succeed through sheer force of whim and spite. Now I just drink a lot. I will try to get it all down, so as to record it before inevitable dementia takes over, led along gingerly by Irish whiskey and American beer.
Sometimes regret is not useful. It can crackle the neurons when sleepytime comes, making rest impossible. I wonder about the nasty thoughtless things I did when I wanted to be so idealistic and forthright. Lies that I am yet to be caught in, or else have been, but are really just incosequential to friends, acquaintences and new enemies. For example, I never actually took heroin or saw GG Allin, playing a show or in casual curcumstances. I am pretty sure that I have never actually stated that I did, but my silence when these things come up in casual conversation as these subjects often do, was underhandedly ambiguous, to be sure. This is a trait I fall back on again and again. Never deny, but do not confirm either.
It just occurs to me that tomorrow is the 31st of October. As popular mythology goes, that is the date that Mr. Allin had threatened/promised/gifted that he would off himself onstage from 1988 to 1991. As luck would have it, I was living on a hippie mountain switchback hill pup-tent in Colorado in that year and heard the news of the impending spectacle, which would have taken place in my hometown punk rock music hall. Unfortunately the event would not take place because the star conveniently ended up in jail in my home state for some sort of sexy aggravated nonsense. This is as close as I got to the whiff of his scabby grandeur.
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