The image of people like me in air-conditioning-washed houses everywhere, doing nothing to better humanity, just existing, getting by. My house isn’t the biggest one on the block, neighborhood, town, but it’s big enough to help me feel like I don’t need to go out and help anyone with their lives. There is plenty of work to be done around the house, and even that isn’t appealing to me. What I really want to do is just lay around getting drunk on cheap beer, watching television, and pretending that my life is as epic as the lives lived in movies.
I can’t write anymore, it would seem. There hasn’t been any writing come forth from me that I would deem as being worthy of re-reading since at least last June. Before that, it was probably even longer since I wrote something I wanted to re-read.
I would like to write, though. I would like to say something about being almost 42, almost 20 years out of college, with graying, balding head of hair and a three-year-old little boy and a twelve-year old dog. I would like to mention how few friends I have, and how much I still like consuming porters, stouts, IPAs and some cheap beer.
We are going to NYC in two weeks–it will be my third time. I haven’t been in eight years and before that it was eleven years since I’d gone. It’s too long to wait for a place that I really love to be for short periods of time. I feel the same way about Colorado. I haven’t been in almost thirty years to the state in which I was born.
The reason I don’t go to these places more? Simple fear of traveling, or the fear that anticipates the stress involved in traveling. Once I get my traveling legs back, though, I don’t want to stop, and I hate coming back to suburbia to sit and drink and write and then go back to work for years at a time.