Birthdays make me a little reflective. They didn’t used to. Mostly, I noted the birthday and carried on. Since hitting 50, though, I feel like I should take some time to, well, ponder.
For the most part, I feel pretty good these days. I walk as often as possible and will do more now, since fall is here and it’s not 300 frakkin’ degrees, and also since a busy work summer is over. I try to eat well (and when I succeed, it’s all due to Norma).
My writing has slowed considerably, mostly because of the events of the last 18 months (which comes with a huge tradeoff: my wife is still here and she’s doing great and nothing–NOTHING–means more to me than that), but I also think my writing is better than it’s ever been. I know, I know. Some of you believe it had nowhere to go but up. Who am I to argue?
In a few weeks I will mark 36 years in the radio business. Incredibly, I still love it. Or most of it, anyway. Specifically, I love the part I got into the business for: I still dig going to work early, putting the show together. Writing funny scripts and doing funny voices and finding out what stupid things celebrities got up to overnight and what boneheads in little towns did when they drank too much.
53 was also the last birthday my father ever had. Not surprisingly, that’s an age that been in my head for a while. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t obsess over it. But the idea will surface now and again this year.
Mostly, my hopes for the next year are simple, ‘cause I’m a simple guy.
I want to spend more quality time with my wife.
I want to watch my niece grow another year and hear her describe lunch as “chicken with a handle”.
I want to talk more walks and write more books.
And I hope the Bengals finally figure out this football thing.
