Fortunate sits I, at my British reader’s dining room table in rural Oregon, on a three day holiday from Portland, some 20 books on medicine, physics and math heaped to the right, an empty wine bottle to the left. Brit City took me out with his beautiful lady last night to enjoy the Pacific Northwest’s best beer: Mack and Jacks. On the way home this old hoodrat bought a bottle of 98 proof rum and another of 33 proof coffee rum—almost gone this dripping mist-shrouded morning.

The instant coffee is good.

Incognegro called me and asked for a history of combat interview for next week. The Hobo History CEO then called me right back and said, “Oh, and James, I just submitted your name to the Joe Rogan podcast so you might want to answer your phone for a strange call.”

I once had 29,000 readers. 24,000 of those folks, who had once upon a time approved of my writing, decided that I was an oxygen thief. Hopefully Rogan’s people will decide against an invitation, and if somehow they seek to wheel me out for the freak-show of ideas, I will hopefully maintain enough pride to decline. The fact that some 20 to 30 thousand folks who I do not even know, dislike me and disapprove of my work, is bearable after a sense. But to earn the hatred of millions just to sell a few thousand books, that seems like bad metaphysics to me.

But in small spots this cretin finds odd approval.

My dear friend Riley Smith passed almost two years ago in Red Rock Canyon, Colorado… a good man near to my father’s age met far to late in life. So, I mused, that I would never see more of the fine Denver region than that viewed through a train window, missing Riley as the high plain drifted by, wondering if his ghost approves of what became of his odd guest.

Then I am offered dinner and a bed by a young Wyoming reader now residing near Denver.

I recall that Jon Grace of Midnight Movie Cowboys offered to buy me a dinner in Denver some two years ago.

A man I coached this past summer in Baltimore has just moved to the Denver area and invited me to spend time at his place along with this text:

“It’s been an honor getting to know you, learning from you, and hearing your stories. You always have a place to crash in Aurora if you need. Just say the word.”

That tends a worn soul.

And Denver Mint sent this text:

“Hi James. I hope you are well. I can put you up for a couple of days if you need a Denver area rest stop during your travels. Food and drink on me during your stay. Let me know a week in advance if you can. Otherwise a standing offer. Thanks for being you.”

That mends a torn soul.

I do believe it is time to tender a thanks to all of the bullies of my miserable childhood that twisted and tempered this mind into the crooked lens, an odd window that somehow seems to be of value to some distant pilgrims in this wicked world—people I never would have encountered as a fortunate son.