Today, my daughter Selene graduated from Boulder High School. As you can see here, I'm very proud of her. Afterwards, she and her mom and I went out and stuffed ourselves with sushi. I wanted to not pay, but they made me.

But now, it's after afterwards and I'm at a loose end on this Memorial Day weekend. Hanging on the futon with the cat. What else: typing. It would be traditional to get hammered on a fine Spring day such as this, but this month I am celebrating -- in a low key sort of way -- 24 whole long years without a single godddam drink.

[Oh wow! I just now remembered I was totally loaded in a dream last night. Old habits, as they say, die hard. Yippie ki-yay, motherfucker!]

I don't have an actual "sobriety date," as they tend to get called, because I don't remember the exact day I quit. It was in Tokyo in 1984 and the only way I know it was this month is the Dylan line: must bust in early May / orders from the D.A.

But notice I don't say I've been "clean and sober." Not quite. I got fairly ripped on pot at my son Jesse's wedding. The joints were going around the picnic table in my (first of three) ex's Boulder-suburban back yard, and I thought... well, shoot. The only thing that happened was I tried to pick up some guy's old lady because I couldn't remember who she was. Man, she looked great! It had been so long that I'd forgotten about all about the altered states aspect of the thing. Aha! So that's why people do this! Yes, it's all coming back to me. And then there were the couple-three years of serious Ativan addiction. It was prescribed, though. And I needed it -- as long-time readers will doubtless recall from 2002 onward. What time is it now? But I jest. I kicked a couple years ago after the shit I started getting from India because the fucking cognitive psychology fuck at the local mental health center refused to prescribe for me anymore ran out. Six days on the roller coaster edge of a grand mal seizure. No hyperbole. Do not try this at home! Like I did.

I didn't start writing this to tell you any of that, though. Not really. It just sorta came out that way. No discipline. No higher purpose. Just reacting to the effluvia bouncing around inside my forebrain, not much more conscious than a reptile sunning on a rock. So here it is a Major U.S. Holiday and I'm doing lines of Equal and drinking Gatorade.

The picture you should be getting right about now is of me bored clean out of my mind. Duh-dum, duh-dum... What happened to Locke, anyway? Wasn't he once an Internet marketing goo-roo? Ah, but then he got tangled up with some fancy broad and bought a major benzodiazepine jones and now he puts pictures of pigs on his Facebook page for his own private amusement. Sad, really.

And when I get this bored? OK, I admit it. Sometimes I go to bottom-feeder trash sites like Slate. Or when it's really bad, Salon. But today I wasn't suicidally bored, which is what it takes to get me to Salon. I was only bored enough to go to this story on Slate: Gawker Shocker: THE NEW YORK TIMES MAGAZINE ON "OVERSHARING" ON THE INTERNET. Where I read as far as the first sentence...

New York Times Magazine, May 25
In the much-discussed cover story, former Gawker blogger Emily Gould writes about the thrills and hazards of airing her personal life on the Internet.

Now, I've been to Gawker before, of course. At least three times. So I clicked the "cover story" link. And there, I read the entire first paragraph!

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Exposed Back in 2006, when I was 24, my life was cozy and safe. I had just been promoted to associate editor at the publishing house where I'd been working since I graduated from college, and I was living with my boyfriend, Henry, and two cats in a grubby but spacious two-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I spent most of my free time sitting with Henry in our cheery yellow living room on our stained Ikea couch, watching TV. And almost every day I updated my year-old blog, Emily Magazine, to let a few hundred people know what I was reading and watching and thinking about.

So I thought, you know, what the hell. I've exposed myself with the best of them. Let me give that a shot.

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Exposed Back in 1971, when I was 24, my life was a terrifying blur of goats and window-pane acid. I had moved to the Catskills to grow organic kohlrabi and rutabagas, and I was just becoming aware of sheetrock. Crazed hippies lived all around me and we had orgies up in the back forty. No electricity. We pumped water from the stream, had propane lights, and cooked on a wood stove. Nobody had the faintest fucking clue what I was thinking and I liked it like that.

[TIP: If you only click two links this year, you're really going to want to enlarge those images.]

Hey, I've been trying to get The New York Times to do a profile like that on me for years! Shit, I was blogging when this Emily individual was still in Pampers.

So what am I?