David Cherry's blog

I always feel a bit queasy when reading biographies and it's not just the voyeur's remorse. Maybe it's because biographies invariably remind me that my heroes could be petty and neurotic and boring and prone to eating tuna straight out of the can standing over the kitchen sink. Or maybe it's because I can't help thinking that all this sturm und drang, this tangled string of decisions and indecisions, this strange and messy stuff that is human existence cannot be (or at least should not be) cranked out at forty-five words a minute then bound and gagged between hardcovers. Real lives generally don't have narrative arcs.

Okay. Okay. Okay. Please stop yelling. I can explain.
Yes, I realize there is a link to Jewel's book of "poems" down there. No, I haven't read the book. No, I do not intend to read it. Yes, my reasons for not reading it are snobbish and do not reflect well on me as a person. No, I don't really care. 

It is an exasperating fact of life that the older you get, the younger the young get. Its corollary is that the greater your own age, the greater the age beside the word "young" in your internal dictionary. You won't really notice the latter until one day when you're talking to a guy with three kids and a second mortgage, you will hear yourself saying something like, "you're just a kid. Give it time..." You will, I guarantee, want to stick your tongue in the nearest wall socket, but deep down you will actually believe what you are saying.