A Profile from the Pit

I didn't realize the shot was going to be full-body
or I would have changed out of my slippers.

September 26, 2023 — Many of you have been reaching out to me since I started posting this season. And not just with the usual (and glorious), “Yay, pumpkins!” You’ve been reaching out to tell me kind things. Nice things. Beautiful things. Meaningful things. And I thank you all so much for that. And if I haven’t gotten back to you yet, it’s because I’m lost in the myriad notifications from all the labyrinthine social and communication apps.

However, some of you made me realize more fully that I’m being annoyingly vague over some of my troubles. Part of that is on purpose, of course. There’s only so much dirty laundry I can throw around while pretending to look for a clean sheet for my ghost costume. And there are probably legal reasons to stay within the bounds of the fog machines, as well.

But, for those who want a little more backstory, check out this month’s profile of me in New Hampshire Magazine. That’s right. A profile. Of me. Of the “describe the clothes he’s wearing” type. Crazy, right? It's called "Visiting Personal Demons."

Of course, had that profile been conducted any time before this time, it would have been lighthearted and quirky and full of family. In fact, even though I was interviewed near-nadir a few months back, I’d wanted at least one of my daughters to be a part of it, to take the edge off my cynicism and keep me within guardrails, but the maniac with the ash-globe interfered again. So it was just me and a journalist and a photographer for three hours in my empty house and then five more hours cramped into my Civic on an oddity trek. As a result, I got more honest than I meant to.

But the writer did a good job on the profile (despite my panicked sending it around to a few trusted confederates as soon as it was published online with the text, “oof.”). He dug up a much more interesting angle than “weirdo writer likes strange shit.” A lot was left out of the piece, but that was because I left it out. I’ve had many bottoms on this journey. Every time I thought I hit the final one, something would happen and I’d crash through to the next. Like the night I spent in prison. Or the few nights homeless. The maniac with the ash-globe, you know? I mean, I’m not even sure I’m through to bedrock yet, even now.

I do have one correction for the article, though. I do NOT—I repeat, do NOT—have a seven-foot-tall skeleton in my garage. That’s gauche. 

The sucker’s like twelve feet tall.