In my younger years, when I could do a thirty mile hike without killing my hips. In those days, when men were men, and women were women, ....and fuzzy blue creatures from Alpha Centuri were fuzzy blue creatures from Alpha Centuri. (quote-D.A.) I did stuff, Anthrax did stuff, the Yonge Street Posse kicked ass...

... then we sorta grew up.

I look back on my days of living on the street with mixed emotions, both from the point of view that first, a lot of my “friends” are dead from a gun, or the poison of a needle. And also looking back at it with a strange feeling of lost family.

My brother would tell me that looking back into the past is not healthy, trying to make connections to people you have lost contact with over the years is not the way to go forward in life.

He might be right.

On the other hand, although it has been said that you cannot go home again, I tend to think we never really leave. In our heart of hearts, deep down where it really counts there are people that you can re-connect with, even after years, no matter what has happened, are still and always will be “family”. The only sad part is, this isn't always true for everyone you would like to include in that number, and is sometimes true with people that you would rather not share it with.

One thing is true about “Old War Stories” is the way you see things differently then when you were actually there. The knife becomes bigger, the gun fired more times, you knocked out a couple of more teeth then you did. And yet at the same time... that guy wasn't so big.. you weren't as scared as they thought you were. That didn't hurt. ..........You were never alone.

Strange how we lie to ourselves more then we lie to others.

The great moments are still great, maybe a little bigger now. But the sad times seem to fade. Strange, strange ... very strange.

There is no hell bigger, then living on the street. Then being truly homeless, of being hunted by cops, by drug users and pushers, and pimps. There is no hell more scary then being alone in crowd. Then crying out for help, already knowing no-one will answer. And the worse place to bleed is the sidewalk.

Wolfe