My Birthday, Feb, 12, 1951

Well, there you have it. I'm 59-fucking-years-old this Friday, at about 3 AM, and I hate everyone who is younger than me. Worse, I'm gonna be a grandpa in the next week or two. Not that I hate having a grand child, I just don't want to be a grandpa. Aren't I an Amazon guide? Can't I beat nearly 99% of the world's population at one-wall handball? Can't I walk across Peru's deep jungle? So can't I just be 42 again. And still be a grandpa? Can't this stomach be taken away by liposuction and my beard be brown again?
I don't mean to bitch. I just hate this. Get it?
That said, let's go back to my book. Who's reading this blog and thinks what I write is cool who has not yet bought a pre-publication book? Com'on girls and guys. I'm trying to feed five kids and an ex here and I worked for 25 years to write this thing and I think you should all read it. NOT BY PASSING IT AROUND. By buying it. The illo's alone are worth the price of admision. And the $1200 I paid to a copy editor should give you a warm fuzzy feeling that most of the words that should be italicized, will be.
What else you want?
Want to dance?
Want me to teach you how to play NYC dice?
Want me to teach your kids how to get 4th of July fireworks?
Or just want to read a fun, crazy, adventurous book I wrote?
Good choice. So go to pgorman.com, punch the "book" note on the face page and send me the money. In about a month I'll be sending you a book, signed anyway you like it. And I think it will be a good book. Best I can do, anyway.
I'm out.