My auto fill offered to put "Disassociate me please," in this space.
 

In the Year of the Virus, I have nearly attained my 4☆ status. Just need one more shoe to drop, but ecstatic that my son, the man is constant and content, holding his **** together while my emotions are in absentia.
When I'm not working or on a relaxing road trip, I write and I make objets d'art out of **** that was gonna get tossed into a landfill otherwise.
I turned a busted French horn and a beat up fez into a lamp I named Hey Nineteen. I made a Black Flag shadow box. Currently researching ways to add audio excerpts that emit from the box of either as many different ones as I can get my grubby paws on, or of my personal favorite Black Flag fronddude extraordinaire, Mr. Keith Morris. His enunciation slays me.
I made a Rolling Khali Action Center out of a Sticky Fingers cover that was trashed, but the zipper still worked. Now, the zipper is pulled down and Kali the Hindu goddess (or Devi) of death, time, and doomsday and who is often associated with sexuality and violence but is also considered a strong mother-figure (and the Rolling Stones' open mouth/protruding tongue icon) and symbolic of motherly-love dances out, then back into, the stressed zipper of Mick Jagger. Currently researching how to add a snippet of not a Rolling Stones song so they won't sue me for using .06 seconds of an obscure Living Strings version.
Also in the midst of a major overhaul: a triple whammy of emotional wackiness associated with The Change, an ongoing "possible, but maybe not, but probably" style divorce, suffered the loss of one of my most favorite performers to ever grace a stage, John Prine, and received my Half A Century Old birthday card from AARP. I'm not a firebug, but I will gladly torch 2020 if you give me the go-ahead.