Wade Boggs, Stan Musial or Joe DiMaggio?

“It’s time!” a voice inside my head yells.

I try to figure out if it’s Michael Buffer’s kid brother, the guy your event gets when it wants a cool introduction, but has a budget of a movie that would have Sid Haig in it in the 1970s, not in the 2000s when Tarantino wannabes made him cool again. Sort of.

Anyway, I sit here every night wondering when the first tooth is going to just fall out. I’ve been thinking about that for over three decades now. I think about it a lot more than I used to. Mostly because that reality is actually a reality now. It used to be some kind of badge of honor that the chicks dug. “Yeah, I wrecked my bike once, almost lost all my front teeth,” I’d say. “Ooooh, that’s so cool.” or “You’re full of shit.” or maybe they’d say nothing because they were now scared or turned on or just stupid. I really didn’t care because it was rare for me to get into a conversation with a lady.

But seriously, it is time. Time for me to make up my mind. Am I going to say fuck it and do it, or am I going to once again just get by.

Three months and a few days from now, I’m going to be a dad. That shit is starting to get real. It’s no longer off on the horizon. It’s speeding up like the Jeepers Creepers dude. And you either get sewn into the fucking mural or you kill the mother fucker.

How the hell did that go there? I have too many damn stupid things going on in my head.

It’s why I spend money on ebay for Weeble Woobles for the damn kid.

He’s going to be playing Atari 2600 at 3 and it’ll be cool. Until his friends show them their cell phones at 5.

Why the hell does a kid need a smartphone?

Get off my lawn!!!! I will shake my cane, dammit.

I don’t have a smartphone. I’m 43.

Do I want one? Yeah, sometimes it would be nice to find out exactly that fucking restaurant is that you drove 400 miles to go eat at, but can’t find it b/c you don’t have a fucking map.

I used to think I could write a pretty darn good story. Just one story, but a good one. I tried and tried to do it, but never really fully tried.

I’ve watched awful writers I know get books published (usually self-published, but fucking a, someone bought at least one copy). I’ve watched liars and shitheads get great jobs, simply because they don’t mind lying and being shitheads.

And I keep making excuses.

It’s not fun. At least not as much.

I don’t drink anymore. It actually bores me. Unless I’m with friends, but then I’ve got to worry about saying or doing something stupid.

Yesterday, a fuckhead in a giant small penis truck wouldn’t get out of the lane. Finally, I got beside him and I fucking tried to punch the car. At 60 miles per hour.

That’s just dumb.

But funny.

And if you don’t do some of that bi-polaresque shit, you can’t write about it.

Just like Ben Nichols used to say “I can’t write the fake shit.”

Well, he writes fake shit now. I think. I mean, I guess taking it from a book, script or TV show means it ain’t fake, exactly.

Fuck, it’s all fake and it’s all not real.

See, see what happens?

I might just quit my job one day in  August. Just leave. Right before my two-year. Yep that would be a Randy move.

Just like all of them.

Follow your heart, they tell you. But then they don’t do it.

You do, and you end up making less at 43 than you made at 33. And less than just about every, single person you know or knew.

Hell, my dead grandfather probably still makes more money every year than I do.

Is that possible?

Stop with the fucking Jim Gaffigan shit.

It stinks.

Hahahahahahaha.

I used to say I didn’t hate things.

I think that’s true. At least I hope it’s true.

Hate is waste.

Love isn’t, even if some don’t believe it’s enough.

Really, though, it’s everything.

We all figure that out one day. Some  earlier than others, some really late.

Hopefully, some don’t ever figure it out. They either end up being Wade Boggs or Stan Musial. I hope I don’t end  up as Joe DiMaggio.

Gang of Four's dewclaw

It was 8:23 in the evening and I was driving from the office to Food Lion. Gang of Four’s “Entertainment!” was blasting out of my poor car’s speakers.

Soon, I noticed that I was hunched over in the seat, wishing I was inside the song. It was a strange moment. One that I can’t really explain. It happened, and then it was over. Why? Because I sat up in the seat.

Something about the hunch, I guess.

These are not normal moments, for normal people. They’re fairly normal for me.

I’m at home now. It’s 2:54 a.m. James Scott Farrin is trying to ambulance chase me on the television. Followed quickly by Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

My dog it chewing on his dewclaws. It’s as if he wants to pull them off. One got stuck on my shorts earlier today. I’m guessing it’s too long, and probably damaged now. Guess I’ve got to figure out how to cut it correctly in the morning. Even though it’s already morning.

Tomorrow I’ll drive to a high school. Sit alone in the stands watching the games being played. I’ll keep stats. I’ll watch people. They’ll watch me. Then I’ll talk to the coaches and a couple of kids. Drive back to the office and crank out two stories. Fast. It’s the one skill that hasn’t eroded – quickness.

Interviewing after games? That’s a whole other story.

Features and long-term? No problem. But the after a game ones? I’ve lost it.

“Talk about …”

“What were you thinking when …”

“Tell me about …”

My mind goes blank sometimes mid question or mid reply. It’s kind of frightening, but also kind of invigorating. It makes me have to work harder on things that became routine. That’s a rationalization. I’m no longer 29 and witty. I’m 42 and bitty.

K.C. & the Sunshine Band playing on Dr. Oz. Fuck. My life gets more numb every moment. I want to run to my car and drive somewhere, but I don’t.

Iron Maiden Japan. Charles, why sock E?

There once was a time that my war wounds were cool. Now they’re yellow and old. The wrinkles show. The gray hairs don’t lie. The scars have shrunk with my muscle mass. I look at my legs now and wonder how on earth I used to ride 20 miles on my bike to go try and find Atari games in 100 degree heat. It seems so foreign now.

It makes me think about the video game board games I left behind in the Murphy bed apartment I lived in during my internship in Birmingham, Ala. That makes me think about all the miles I drove around that state. Just about every day I went somewhere new. That was what I thought it was going to be like for decades. When the job didn’t provide it like I thought it would, I used my days off to make it so. Then I used any excuse to go somewhere new.

Now, I dream of going somewhere new. I went to 38 states in about 30 years. Maybe it was 37 and I added one a bit later.

I’m still stuck at 38. At 42.

Those old posts taunt me now…

In 2009 I’m going to visit a new state.

In 2010…

In 2011…

In 2012…

In 2013…

Now, it’s 2014 and I’m working a job. Getting a check. Writing cheques.

I’m going to be a dad. Maybe. I’ve been down this road before. More times than I was ever allowed to know about.

Which makes me think of Oakton.

And bathrooms.

Bad sex.

When there wasn’t such a thing.

I went to New Orleans instead of answering the phone. I’ll always wonder what was on the other end. It’s me. It’s just the way it is. I can say all the right things, but I won’t be thinking them.

John T. Orcutt looks like my boss. It’s like he’s here at home every night on WRAL in Raleigh, North Carolina taunting me. Telling me things I don’t want to hear, but need to.

If I had a gun …

I’d most likely pawn it and buy that Lucero album on ebay that I just can’t afford. $150 for a slab of vinyl that I already own in its actually rarer form, but don’t own it from the special pressing. Why I’m talking about Lucero albums is anyone’s guess. Go figure.

They’ll always be a part of who I am. Which means she’ll always be a part of who I am. And honestly, that’s the way you are too. You just don’t admit it.