A few years ago, I was known as “the guy who walked” -- often putting 7 to 8 miles beneath my feet. And as one buddy of mine commented decades ago, I have the gait of a “determined caveman” often with my head aimed solely toward the path beyond me. (Hancock Park, 2011-12)
I've begun scanning pieces of writing from my earlier days. This for instance is the cover from my first (failed) novel. The title was a blatant ripoff of "The Ginger Man" by J. P. Donleavy. The plot was non-existent especially considering it was set in Dublin and I had never traveled to Dublin. Despite these petty indiscretions, it's a failure worth remembering.