Below The Fold

It’s hard to believe more than a month has passed since I last visited these margins. Apparently, that’s what happens after you turn 30—you blink and months are gone. This freight train is moving at an alarming pace, and I’m enjoying the ride far too much…need to figure out how to slow it down… or at least lengthen the track.

My thoughts turn to that often, as of late. 30 is a benchmark of sorts, one that prompts you to take stock of your life and your direction. I cast a long, sweeping eye across the landscape of my life over the last month and decided I could be doing far worse.

The downside is that the bar is higher now. And the higher it’s set, the more careful you have to be as you surpass it. I’ve got more to lose now than I’ve ever had to lose before. It’s a sobering thought that only several glasses of scotch will even begin to soften.

I’ve decided that 2005 will be the year of the motorcycle. I’ve said that in the past, and haven’t had the opportunity to finally buy one, but on New Year’s Eve, I ran into Blair, a greaser with full-sleeve tattoos and petroleum-slicked pompadour who I haven’t seen in years, and he gave me his number and promised he could get me on a Harley for two Gs. Blair’s a rough-and-tumble kid from the old school who drinks and fights, but he’s pretty straight, so I’m going to follow that up.

Change is on the wind. I hear it whispering…feel its icy claws scraping against the shutters. The backdrop I play my daily routine against has changed already. Players are gone, for better and worse, and I remain left to my own devices. Not that I’m worried. I’m just sad to see friends go.

My own devices tend to be wily enough to get me by, for the most part. The most important lesson I’ve learned in the last 30 years is to never trust anything to chance. Chance is the most fickle, hateful bitch you’ll ever know, a siren who will tease you with just enough promise to keep you coming back, when she’ll find a way to shear you again. Chance is like a pair of pocket deuces in hold ‘em. So now, my goal is to never have to rely on Chance. Which means accounting for everything personally. And that’s a filing nightmare.

I’m already looking forward to spring. Normally, that doesn’t happen until mid-march, but I’ve never owned my own yard before. I’m going to buy a kick-ass outdoor gas range and have barbeques all the time. And I’m going to buy a hammock and stretch it between the two elms in the backyard, which I’m sure were planted originally for that very purpose.

One thing I learned over the last month is that I’m blessed with a good number of friends who are good people, and that was really quite a humbling thing. The only legacy most of us will ever leave will be carried in the memories of those we’ve touched, and while I’m assured most of these will be in an alcohol-fueled haze, I’m also assured they’re mostly kind.

I watched A Bronx Tale again last night. The part where C asks Sonny if it’s better to be loved or feared. Sonny says fear, because it lasts longer than love. I used to agree with that sentiment, years ago. One of the happiest moments in my life was last night, when I saw the scene again and realized I don’t agree with that any more.

Nothing’s better than being loved.