Writing an autobiography is much like self analysis… or maybe detective work,  seeking witnesses, establishing facts, wondering what the hell I was thinking.  There are glimpses of joy and insight as well as bewilderment and regret.  There are accomplishments of great pride as well as dismay… some I wish were  dead and forgotten, though a cult has grown around them with fans that know more about my early work than I did at the time.  That’s not a bad legacy, I guess. I’m “Google-able” so that’s something.  The resume is mostly true so I don’t mind the omissions… It’s always good to step into the breach and bring order to chaos.

     ”An unexamined life isn’t worth living” someone once said.  (Plato).  So I’ll tell some tales even if they do segue from Garrison Keiller to Hunter S. Thompson with more than a dash from Charles Bukowski.  I do hesitate to raise the curtain on some scenes; better the action occur off camera… The reality is best edited , glossed over for the Hollywood version, but memory is a funny thing.  One only seems to remember the good times and the people I am glad to have known… All the star turns, supporting players, the cameos and one liners are the cast in the roadshow engagement of my life. 

    “All these stories are absolutely true,” I lied…