Adrift

Is it wisdom or just maturity that leads me to tell you I was certain about everything at 18 and am certain about nothing now?

Don't really know. I think back to some of the things I said, thought and wrote as a teenager and cringe. Guess that comes with livin' a little bit.

Once I could have told you exactly where I stood on the political spectrum. Now? Well, let's just say I don't much care for either national party and would probably lean libertarian were it not for their bizarre distrust of the FDA.

Call me crazy, but I'd prefer not to go back to the days of rotten meat.

(Remind me sometime to tell you about Teddy Roosevelt cracking into some rotten meat. I'm belly laughing just thinking about it.)

Once I listened to pretty much two kinds of music. Now I dream of a radio station that will play Miles Davis and George Jones and Frank Sinatra and "Honky Tonk Women" by the Rolling Stones back to back to back to back.

Once I knew exactly who I wanted to marry, the precise number of kids I wanted to have, the type house I wanted to own and where I wanted to work.

Have a good idea about only one of those four now.

Don't understand much of the world. Complete strangers insult each other. Hell, what am I saying? They kill each other, too.

Time was I looked back on the past as an idealistic Shangri-la. Suits and ties, fedoras at night, big cars and I Like Ike. Screw the Sixties, that was where it was at, man.

I still like Ike, but that's about it. (Although the jury's still out on that fedora.)

Used to hate modern living. Still do in a lot of ways. But I like my TiVo and the pills I pop to keep everything balanced and the fact I can watch 60 plus baseball games a week from the comfort of my couch.

Once upon a time I thought I knew all about what makes me tick. Now I don't even wear a watch.

Is it crazy to want to escape? Some nights I want to go on a Hemingwayesque adventure, full of big game, women like Brett Ashley, deep sea fishing, inebriating beverages and a bullfight to boot.

On cool spring nights I long to make it to Norris Lake. Lose myself at the cabin for a couple of days. Or simply to find time to hear Robin sing about teardrops and roller skates on Sunday nights. That gal speaks to my soul.

Still like baseball. That's hung around. So have westerns, good books, great music, and even better conversation.

Otherwise I'm adrift, lost between exits, still searching for that perfect day and, as Hemingway would say, one true sentence.

Funny, but it seems like the perfect place to be.