I want to be a stuntman.

When I was born, man walked on the moon,

It was the 'Summer of Love', the age of Aquarius, and Woodstock,

Easy Rider, Monty Python, and Sesame Street began.

Eight years later things had changed.

Hippies are dancing to disco.

That's when punk was born.

Vietnam is over, Nixon is done and the peanut gallery takes over.

I didn't know, I was watching Scooby Doo, and the Muppet show.

There were Happy days, Waltons, and Little House on the Prairie.

I guess what I liked best was action.

Charlie's Angels, Chips, and Starsky and Hutch were my favorites.

There's one dream I remember from that time.

I wanted to be a stuntman.

At least that's what I told Grandma on an old 'cassette letter' we unearthed.

I would run, jump, roll around, fake fight, and pretend I was wounded.

I would purposely fall down carpeted stairs, climb trees, take dares, and jump off stuff.

Now I'm not young or small or active.

Except in my mind.

I run my mouth off. I jump to conclusions. I roll out of bed. I fight my demons. 

I act wounded. I slide down slippery slopes. I climb into bed.

I dare to be different. I jump into new things with abandon.

Maybe the stuntman is still around in there somewhere.