2.
The Ugly Man, Early Friday Morning, 16th August, San Francisco’s Tenderloin—Willie Nelson was trying to sing something in his high-pitched, nasal twang on the jukebox, a bit grating on my early-morning hangover. But I wasn’t really listening anyhow. I was too busy honestly evaluating my features in the mirror behind the bar at The Greeks—hadn’t paid too much attention to how I looked during the last year…I grimaced. No question, I was really getting scruffy, and showing my years—all fifty-two of them. And not getting any more distinguished, even with the deeply etched wrinkles and graying hair…Not any better looking either, that’s for sure. Had to admit that my face looked like I had been blocking punts and forgetting to cross my arms. Or maybe it was more like a beat-up club boxer’s f
