25

Just after I turned forty, a couple of old friends contacted me through email. I hadn't spoken to either of them in years. They both started off the conversations by saying nice things to me, which was a relief, because when I think of my old friends, I immediately start writing mental apologies.

One of them sent me this:



Twenty five is an amazing, ugly, horrible, beautiful time. I was the bassist in a shitty rock band with potential. I had the arrogance of the musically self-taught. I was Andy fuckin' Partridge, or close to it, so just shut the fuck up because I'm right.

When I tell people that I am difficult to work with, this is the time I am remembering.