I've been thinking of posting some pictures of myself so people know what I look like. Not my face, but the rest of me.

One thing I am very sure of, if you see me without a shirt on, you will not be able to see me any other way.

I'm not sure that I want that.

In 2011 I weighed 144 pounds. I've lost about 30, give or take.

I don't remember the last time I walked up or down a flight of stairs. I like to think it's still possible, if I had to.

I bought the fourth vehicle of my life: Saab 900, Audi Coupe Quattro, Subaru Legacy, Dodge Grand Caravan. Yuck.

If you're ever wondering how I'm doing, and you haven't seen me in a while: I'm doing worse.

I can't talk you off a ledge. I need you to talk me off one. 

As the months passed, I began to notice odd little signs of deterioration. Typing a column or a script, I would misspell simple words, not just once, but eight or nine times. Sometimes my fingers felt like gloves filled with water and typing was a plodding effort of physical labor. My hands trembled too, and there were odd twitches in my legs, little spasms of protest, or I'd wake up with no feeling in my legs. I shook off most of these signals. I was just getting older, I told myself. I'm thirty-seven, and that makes me older than most of the ballplayers and all of the prizefighters. Hell, even the police lieutenants are younger than I am. But on a few clear-eyed mornings I knew that my body was sending me a message. I just wasn't ready to hear it. 

Pete Hamill, A Drinking Life

I haven't written here, but I have been writing. I'm trying to write a book. About the last ten years of my life. More about me; what else?