The beginning.

I have a lot to say and a short time to say it.

That's a lie. I have until my fingers blister and bleed and I stop coughing and I stop typing. Typing for real. This is written on my typewriter. My son is the one who decided it should go on the internet, so he takes care of that part. I'm just writing. Just writing.

(That was his introduction. He really can't take computers. Doesn't get them at all. I'll be transcribing his manuscripts and putting them up here. I apologize in advance about the sporadic updates. He spends most of his time sleeping and ranting now. But I'll do what I can to keep the old man writing. Below is the first paragraph of his that I found on the floor. It's what made me search for Terricloth. It is why I am making him write. Below that is the first thing he wrote for this "Journal" (he doesn't know what a blog is). I hope you all learn from this. -Eric)

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You know how he got his name? He was in a rut that night, reevaluating his life and all that shit, and Pete asked me "Dante, my friend, what is the least punk thing you can wrap your mind around?"

"Damn," I said, takin a drag "That's easy. Terrycloth."

He just looked at me and his eyes lit up and Pete said "That's it," and Jack stood up and said "My name is Jack Terricloth." He looked down at me, sitting there. "We need some wine and a guitar."

And that’s how they began.

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At this tender moment almost sixty-three years into my life, it seems almost suicidical to think of all the wonders I have experienced. Marilyn Monroe gave me a backrub, once. Fuck you if you don’t believe me. The point here is that I don’t think about it but my fingers do. They take the bourbon and the nicotine and the caffeine and music and they find my old Remington Noiseless Portable in the locked box in the closet upstairs and here I am, my left hand holding a cigarette and my right tapping away.

If there are two men that have shaped my life X If there was one man who shaped my life, it was Jack Terricloth and Pete Ventantonio. Ever heard of Superman? That idea was based off of him. Completely true. Not the mild-manner reporter of the 50s, of course. The one they published in 1972, mere years after the Pete/Jack dichotomy began. The short-run series about an infant that slept by day and single-handedly saved beautiful women from cheap white wine by night.

Don’t remember that, eh? You should. It was the beginning. Of course, his parents found out pretty quick, once they noticed that little Pete’s crib smelt like a sleazy bar. They barred the window, locked the doors, and bought little babycloth some pastel jumpers. That settled him down for a while. Pete started showing signs of being a normal little baby.

You know, someone should invent a screen, so you can’t get cigarette ash in your coffee. Or your liquor. Or both at the same time.

The point is that little babycloth became little Petey, who grew into an older Petey. Jack popped by from time to time. He’d kiss the girls on the playground, stomp on the kids who stole lunch money, and get kicked out of restaurants for stealing quarters off of tables. But that was just kid stuff. Everyone thought it was still Pete. Hell, Jack himself probably thought it was Pete. Little kids never know enough about themselves. Too much candy, not enough alcohol. Gene wilder said something about that, once. Damned if the man wasn’t crazy.

But listen, young Petey was normal, mostly First time I saw him, I was teaching middle school chorus. This kid - this goddamn kid - isn't singing with everyone else. He's singing some other song. So I take him aside after and I ask him, "What the hell, kid. What were you singing in there?" And this kid just looks at me for a second and then he says "Old Devil Moon. Frank Sinatra" and he just walks away.

The hell kind of sixth grade kid sings Frank Sinatra? To this day, I can't even tell if it was Pete or Jack. Goddamn kid.

I need more coffee.