I don’t think I’ve ever been close to death but I am a nervous flyer, especially during turbulence, so there have been many times where I’ve felt that I was.

Today is a pretty important day. It was August 15th, 2007, when I was told I likely had "three to six months of good health left." Today is six months from that day. Just to prove I'm still alive, here I am, holding today's New York Times! I rode my bike today; the cumulative effects of the chemotherapy are hurting my stamina some, but I bet I can still run a quarter mile faster than most Americans. The doctors weren't wrong; they always said that if the palliative chemo worked, I'd buy more time, but that it was a long shot. And the doctors have done a brilliant job of tweaking my regimen to help my odds. How much longer this will work is hard to know, but I'm going to keep having fun every day I have left, no matter how many or how few of them I get.

When I was about two, I accidentally knocked a boiled kettle on myself. I am scarred, in many ways, from that.

The motorcycle crash, but also when a neon sign fell on my head in Soho in the 90s.

One handsome dude.

People not remembering who I am.

You have to go to the end of the line.

Shucking oysters one summer in Nice.

That Sparks predates the Beatles and it’s kind of all too obvious where they got a lot of their inspiration.

Signing away the rights to my life story to a major motion-picture company for a sum that I have since been told was way below the market rate.