BLOGGING PLOT-WHEEL--WHERE FOR ART THOU?

What to write about?

Work called me yesterday morning at around 9:15, leaving a message on my cell phone, offering the chance to come in early for some overtime. Time-and-a-half for nearly a couple hours of meter turn-ons and shit like that. I thought to myself, well, why not? I can always use extra caish. So I took King Louie Outside and, on the way back in, I stopped by my car and fired it up. The time was around 9:45, so, at that point, by the time I got in, I would have garnered around an hour of OT, give or take a few minutes.

I settled in front of the computer and perused some 'blogs while I waited for the car to warm up. I read some 'blogs--check out "Grossly Unimaginative" if you want to laugh--and I commented on a few, as well. I uploaded some pictures onto Flickr and also explored a bit on the site, again, leaving some comments. I got up to find a lighter (I've already misplaced my leg lighter) and as I walked back from the kitchen, I glanced over at the clock. Holy shit! It was 10:42! I reckoned that I wouldn't be going in early for some overtime. Then it struck me: While I had been jerking off on the computer, my little four-door silver Ford Focus hatchback had been running the entire time. With the doors unlocked. My noodle is hanging in tatters, methinks. My brain just isn't what it used to be. On the plus side, no one stole the car (I did mention that it is a four-door Ford Focus, right? enough said) and the aforementioned car was as toasty as a witch's hootalia during Walpurgis.

So. Anyway. I guess my point here is that I'm getting forgetful in my old age. Is 33 old? No, not really, but tell that to my body in the morning, the day after playing basketball. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Forgetfulness. At work I have left my leak detector and my tool bag at job sites and I've left two of my bar-probes (for checking underground for gas leaks) someplace in the Void. I need to write down lists for going to the grocery store--even for a few simple items--so that I don't forget. I call my dog Luigi sometimes and think that that is perfectly okey-dokey. Sometimes I can't remember if I'm an only child or not. For that matter, sometimes I wonder if I have a family at all. (Okay, that last part was bullshit, put in there just for effect.) The point is, my noodle is hanging in tatters. Did I say that already? I plumb forgot.

There is medical science saying, recently, that drinking toxic beverages to excess does not have the brain-cell-killing qualities that was formerly thought. In fact, say scientists, brain cells do not actually die off; they can and do regenerate. I don't know if this is fact or not but I do know that my memory ain't what it used to be. At all. Is it agism or is it from my full-on assault on my bwane? I'm only 33, for God's sake (rice wine)! I'm still a virtual baby! Tell that to my aching knees after a night of basketball. Did I say that already? I guess I'm getting old. I've been dropping things, too, lately. Actually, this worries me, a bit, seeing as how my grandfather died of ALS and my Dad has Parkinson's disease. (My family tree is very neurologically unfriendly towards the males.)

So. What's my point? I don't really have one besides the fact that I feel Age creeping around the corner, resplendant in Ben Gay patches and super-strong eyeglass perscriptions and a flowing dark robe of Black and I feel that I am not in the place in my life that I want to be nor expected to be when I was a child. When I was 13, 33 seemed like it was an age with a foot in the proverbial grave. I know, I know: Perspective. But, still. When I was 13, I figured that at 33 I would be an architect with a beautiful wife and I'd have two or three little Adams running around. ("Look at Billy's grades! Good boy, Billy! Suzie? You have some work to do, child.") I would have money in the bank and I would live in a nice house to which, in the summer months, I would invite Earl and Becky over for a barbeque and we'd shoot the shit and eat greasy ribs whilst downing cold glasses of suds.

I'm going to quote an Aerosmith song, here, God help me: "Life is a journey, not a destination." I'll also quote an ancient Chinese proverb: "The longest journey begins with but a single step." Combine the two and add this: "Every day is a blank slate, yours for which to do as you will." Meaning? Fuck the Past and fuck preconceived notions--from a child's eye, no less--of where you should be in Life. You are where you are because of choices and happenstances and circumstances and self-will. That is all. But, here's the joyous thing: Every day is a new day and every day can be nudged into the direction in which you want to go.

Here's another quotation, from an insanely-successful athletic shoe company, founded in Washington state in the late '70s: "Just do it."

But my knees hurt and my muscles are sore and I...do what, again?