I can tell the story now. They are all accounted for.

You wanna know the real reason I can't work? I know. I gave you a reason yesterday, but this is the real one. It also goes hand-in-hand with what I covered yesterday, however, so I wasn't fibbing yesterday. Far from it . . .

The title of this post should give you a clue to what I mean, even if no one is reading these words. Still, maybe that tarnished angel who has been assigned the enviable task of looking out for me all these years is hovering nearby, even with the damaged wings he has received from being stuck with me, instead of say, someone not so damned exasperating as your truly . . .

I can tell the story now. They are all accounted for.

"They" are my children. Candance. Patricia. Nick. There is a story, a good story, about each of these wonderful people. I have known for many years, since the turbulent sixties that I was going to write my memoirs, although even back then I knew it would be a fictionalized account of my life. Why fictionalized? Because, to get it written, to do justice with what has trespassed, I have to fictionalize it, or it will not get done. By fictionalized, I don't mean it is all going to be fiction . . . Far from it . . . No, it will be as true to what happened, or what I remember that happened, as I can possibly can write it. But using another name, in this case Martin Rayne Kirby (a name I have given myself almost as many years as I have been thinking about the story) will allow me to write my life in his name, therefore hopefully I can say what needs to be said and not fudge anything . . .

Excited? Yes. Fearful? Damn straight.

Full steam ahead, to coin an oft used, but still viable phrase . . . Its tentative title? . . . Misdemeanors & Felonies . . .