You Want Fries With That?

I’m that Tired Guy.

I wonder where the time flew and how I could miss it, yet refuse to wear a watch. If philosophy were a hamburger, then make mine a double mushroom swiss with a dash of ketchup and a big ole chocolate shake. Cholesterol simply reminds us we’re human. So do taxes, late charges and the occasional speeding ticket.

And the smile of my son.

It’s indescribable, the feelings engendered by the simplest of expressions. I adore my child. He is the best boy in the world. He’s better than yours.

He could kick the snot out of your honor student.


He doesn’t swear. He has perfect manners. He employs proper grammar and punctuation with every scribble and scrawl of the crayon.

In a word, my son is perfect.

Of course my son is also seventeen months old, began walking three weeks ago, and drools about as much as I do. Oh, and I’m his dad so I’m biased.

He’s a clean slate in nearly every sense of the word. Each new experience is like the dawning of a new age for him. His happiness is genuine, contagious, pristine like the fall of fresh snow on a winter’s eve.

And who hasn’t dreamed of innocence lost, when we too were that age, so pure, so free?

We spotted the ocean
At the head of the trail
Where are we going
So far away?

Somebody told me
This is the place

Where everything’s better
And everything’s safe

Suddenly you wake up one day, gaze at the mirror and realize the enormous distance between now and then. Maybe it’s the streaks of gray? Perhaps the receding hairline? After all, grass doesn’t grow on a busy street! How about those extra pounds? Or the care lines at the corners of your eyes each one a distinct reminder of some critical event that shaped and molded your tangled skein like clay on the potter’s wheel?

How did we get here?

Well we know where we’re goin’
But we don’t know where we’ve been
And we know what we’re knowin’
But we can’t say what we’ve seen
And we’re not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain
Give us time to work it out

Some say we’re a “been there / done that” society. If it isn’t the latest, greatest, gaudiest, priciest, biggest, baddest or best…est…then who really cares? You can thank Reagan for that. Oh, and some guys named Jefferson, Franklin, Washington, Barbarino, George Lucas, the Fonz, Jell-O Pudding, CD players, the microchip, Madonna, Bush, Clinton, the grunge movement, promiscuous 30-somethings living in New York with no real job or source of income, a show about nothing, the Internet, George Lucas again. On and on.

We really did start the fire.

Face it people, Elvis is dead along with Morrisson, Dillinger, Ed McMahon and Michael Jackson. All that’s left are the memories.

And their music.

Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out of role
Riders on the storm

But then there is my son. And despite the gray of the world, war in the Middle East, swine flu, economic upheaval and whether Paula will stay on American Idol next season, he’s my McDonald’s french fries.

Who says fast food is bad for you?

G’night folks.

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