In the year of Our Lord, 2011...

I resolve to:

• exercise moderation in the pursuit of all things, particularly the quality of being moderate
• give a Dutch oven to a Dutch girl
• eat less cheese / destroy fewer commodes
• give without any thought of reciprocity, especially in instances of ass-kickings and STDs
• not rage violently about things such as cyclists, democrats, the New York Rangers, Texas' sodomy laws, the Amish, the lack of good bagel shops in Houston, my ever-increasing volume of ear hair, etc...
• see at least five films in theatrical release (the gauntlet is thrown... bring it on, Hollywood)
• make every effort as one man to bring parachute pants back into style
• be less overtly gassy in the company of friends and family (NEVER gonna happen)
• write more
• put more effort into grooming myself
• put more effort into grooming my dog
• put more effort into grooming the lawn
• put more effort into becoming a groom (grooming myself will hopefully help towards this end)
• be a bigger bad ass than I was in 2010 (a tall order, indeed)
• be more resolute

"All women become like their mothers. That is their tragedy. No man does. That's his." -Oscar Wilde

I just saw an advertisement (by the way, I emphasize the second syllable in advertisement, not the third. I feel very strongly about this and, thus, was compelled to inform you of as much) for a stage production entitled "Menopause: The Musical", and it got me to thinking (which is always a dangerous thing... that's why I try to avoid thinking altogether)... fellas, we need a performance of some sort showcasing the beautiful metamorphosis that is the masculine manner of maturation. How about "Songs of the Sagging Sack"... or perhaps "Prostates a Poppin'!"... maybe "Ears, Nose and Back... Thar's Hair Up There!" would make a fine tragicomedy... "Infatuation, E.D. and Me" just screams poignant!

Yeah.

Good God Almighty!

This coming Monday, my little sister turns 30... my little baby sis, who used to pee on me during diaper changings; whom, as a toddler, I used to delight in tormenting, mentally and physically (for no better reason than she completely lacked the ability to seek recourse); who, at the age of three or so, clobbered me on the back of the head with a brass cat statue when I wasn't looking for no readily apparent reason (as you can see, she got her revenge!); who used to sing songs that she made up as she went along; with whom my friends and I used to play the "Potty Monster" game; who was identified as "gifted and talented" back in elementary school (she was, and is, quite "special" in a lot of ways actually... haha!); who horrified me beyond words the first time I heard her use profanity, saw her smoke, etc., etc.; for whom I felt responsible when we were young, and who is now my drinking buddy and best friend. 30 years old... wow!

It's not that I consider 30 old, not by any stretch. I'm 35 (I think) and I still feel (and act) like a stupid kid (the people that will confirm this are legion), and, where it counts, she is much more of an adult than I... She has a "real person" job (complete with actual professional obligations), a husband of soon to be six years, a home, two cars and two dogs (meanwhile, I have no less than three stuffed plush monkey toys). All that being said, as stunted maturation leaves me in my perpetual, and mostly blissful, state of delusional youth, I always feel at my youngest (and my happiest) when spending time with my sister... and as young as I feel, I look upon her and see a joy and exuberance of youth even greater than my own (even when she gets really drunk and cries for no reason!) and I know that regardless of age, health, fortune... whatever, she will always be my little sis.

But, shit, 30 years old?!?!? When the hell did this happen???

There was that law of life, so cruel and so just, that one must grow or else pay more for remaining the same.

Apparently, sweet potatoes really like the cool darkness of the pantry at my folks' place...

thirtysomething

Remember the TV show from the late 80's-early 90's? Well, neither do I... I never watched the crap. That's neither here nor there... and frankly, I'm not quite sure why I brought it up to begin with. Anyway...

So, I turned 35 years old yesterday... right smack-dab in the middle of my 30's, in other words, thirtysomething. Oh yeah, that's why I brought it up. Anyway... I worked, just a nondescript day... yet another infinitesimal sample in the discrete-time signal that is my life these days. Afterwards, some of us went out in honor of the occasion (my friend was kind enough to put together an informal little gathering, despite my insistence that I didn't particularly care to do anything). We had some beers, listened to some live music, enjoyed some intelligent discourse on a number of matters, including poop, sex, work and poop... all-in-all, quite a nice time. When the time came for me to call it a night, (in other words, when everyone other than me had left) I ran by the friendly neighborhood Taco Bell late-night drive thru, then back to the house. And now the payoff, the reason I felt compelled to retch up all this background tedium! I awoke this morning, my arm draped above me, with the back of my hand resting on my forehead... and as the fog of a drunken evening's repose began to dissipate, I discovered that in my hand was a half-eaten burrito, now a cold and congealed remnant of my early morning mess. Yes, I had fallen asleep / passed out while in the act of devouring my alcohol-absorbing aliment. Fabulous...

So this is what has become of my life... I'm 35, single, fat... and sleeping with a half-eaten bean burrito on my melon. America... truly, I am living the dream!