Good god-dang it is happening! My age is starting to show up and take over my behavior and even some of my political leanings. I know this because the garage band across the street is irking me and giving me a good mind to... (OH my god, did I just say "a good mind to...?"). It's simply a matter of time before my discussions turn to rants about the damned guv'mint and the libruhl media and how the neighborhood dogs are screwing up my lawn and the kids don't know how good they've got it these days; how much harder it was fer me waaaaay back when. I heard a comedian once say that you can tell how old a person is by how often they insert, "I remember when that was not even here" when discussing various architectural structures. I already do this constantly as I travel through Leucadia or Kearny Mesa or Mission Valley, or... name it.

Let's face it, aging ain't a pretty prospect, and it gets worse when we try to hide it too much. While plastic surgery has its place and often the results can be astoundingly positive, the opposite is also true. And the costs of doing any kind of shoddy workmanship to which one must face up on a daily basis forever is simply not worth it. Besides, why shave and pull and rub and buff and stretch and pay several months wages to look at something in the mirror when pretty much the same view can be achieved with a sixer of Trader Jose's wannabe Coronas? Well, there's the photography issue is why. Comparison with earlier truths, as I've already said, ain't pretty. And believe me, seeing how far I've managed to come? Yeesh!

So the question remains, do I go with that impulse to hammer on the neighbors' door and start what will likely be a long series of "discussions," or do I just mellow out and let them enjoy themselves at a jet-engine volume (and comparable vocal and creative range)? Maybe I'll just let those ol' wannabe Coronas decide.

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