I would like you to meet Kirby.

Kirby is my best friend, although we say "bestest" friends because in point of fact, we have never grown up and never will.

We were raised in the same neighborhood. He was somewhat older; I do not remember meeting him. I do remember riding bikes in the alley between Western and Fillmore streets in Topeka, Kansas. That was us.

Kirby has had a couple of marriages, maybe more, who's counting? I am not one of the partners in any of those unions. I do remember them, sort of.

I don't remember a time that Kirby was not part of my life. He's gotten me out of some really horrible situations; he's gotten me into more of them, to be honest.

Sometimes if he's been drinking, he'll tell me about his exciting times. Otherwise, we just talk. Like friends do.

I have never denied being a pain in the butt to Kirby. When I am happy, I email him. If I'm really happy, I call. When I'm sad, I email him. When I'm really sad, I call.

You get the point.

Kirby was here in August, 2006 and that's too long ago if you ask me. He has since written a book and photographed some famous people.

We email twice a day, usually, and no matter what, I know that my best friend is there.

How lucky is that?

I don't want to talk about our arrest in 1977, what difference does it make now? I was a minor. And that water tower was crying to be painted, I tell you.

Kirby went away to college and then he just went away. I never lost him, precisely, but he was off Having Adventures while I was Being Good. To this day, I wonder what he was up to. He's been all over this country and elsewhere.

Sometimes he's very busy; Kirby is a world-famous photographer, pretty much, and if he is too preoccupied to take me on, he sends links, photos, stories and other things to keep me off his back.

I have about two hundred links that Kirby has sent. Most of them are dead links now. And, let me be honest, some of the links that Kirby sends are just wrong.