I go to several writer clubs, where a lot of older people are writing their memoirs. Nothing wrong with that, especially if they led an interesting life.
But me? I work, I write, I survive. Not a memorable life, just an ordinary one. However, I write an annual Christmas letter about the interesting points, such as an artist breathlessly telling me, “I draw boobs, I love to draw BOOBS,” or nearly breaking my foot tripping over my cousin’s sunken living room during house-sitting and at 2 A.M. Tucker the dog decides he has to pee and I limpingly and growlingly drag him down the stairs, or me bopping Wrigley the dog’s head with the remote control he chewed up to stop me from turning on the TV, or a lady writer helping me write a story by demoing her karate and saying, “Dave, stand still, I’m gonna kick up at your head,” or going to a San Francisco church service and a homeless-type guy wants to hold my hand during prayer and I wonder if that is the same hand he uses for personal hygiene.
Harvey Pekar said there is poetry in ordinary life. I guess that once a year, this is mine. I have been writing these itty-bitty memoirs for decades. Gotta hurry with the latest one, I want to mail my Christmas cards soon, and I want to get back to writing my stories. Super Holly Hansson is pounding on my frontal lobes. She is not the patient type.