Just had a long conversation with a co-worker/friend (more of a friend than a co-worker) about having kids. We’re both at that stage in our respective marriages where having kids is now a topic of concern. At first, I wanted them and the Missus freaked out over the whole idea. I became less enthusiastic about it while her mothering instincts seemed to drive her further into my former mental territory. Now I’m not sure what to think. On one hand, I see it as The Great Thing, a furthering of my genetic material, of passing on the evolutionary torch before I die. On the other side of the coin, I’m finally working myself into a groove with me. I’m learning who and what I am (hint: it’s mostly water and carbon based molecules, with a few extra herbs and spices) and after thirty years of running around trying to please everyone, I’m setting my own pace and learning to please myself. I worry that I may lose that pace soon, at least until these unseen cherubs of mine move out of the house.

Of course, now I have more important things to wonder about. Summer vacation plans will have to include the question:

Will an attack happen? To me, it’s a matter of statistics. Several other countries have lived with the threat of bombings for decades. For some, like the Middle East, it’s simply a way of life. For us to sit at the top of the global pile and not expect to get attacked is ludicrous. For me, I’ll buy some more batteries and add to my bottled water collection. The most you can do nowadays is simply accept your possible fate, shrug and move on.

It’s things like this that color my thoughts on kids.

Thieves are stealing our guardrails.

(pause for uncontrolled bout of laughter)

It seems the Chinese economy has become a huge importer of scrap metal, especially aluminum. Scrappers can get up to 80 cents a pound there, roughly double what scrap aluminum goes for here. So someone in the Garden State has been making a tidy profit skinning whole sections of guardrails in the middle of the night, leaving only empty posts and sawed-off bolts as evidence.

As if we needed any more reason to be the butt of jokes in this country.

Suffice it to say that the last three weeks blurs quickly in my head. I remember getting paid, working a lot, going to the gym, not going to the gym (and being upset about it), eating food, and driving around a lot of places. I remember these things more because of routine than from whatever I was experiencing at the time. I tend to use this blog to kind of keep some mental mileposts for myself. The best part is reading some of my posts and actually remembering something. I know it sounds sad, but ignorance is bliss and I sometimes approach nirvana.

Sometimes I’ll be some place or with someone and realize there’s a story here. Nothing deeply poignant or prize-winning, but a nice tiny little slice of my life. Carefully rolled in words and baked inside my brain, it would make a toasty little piece of posting. But the yeast of the idea seems to spoil quickly and I’m left with unleavened bitching about work or something else. Sorry for the lame bread references, but blogging is a lot like making bread at home.

It’s equal parts science and art. You have to know your material and how to work with it. Work the it too much and you’re left with a hard, crusty thing that no one wants. Work it too little and it’s weak, flaccid and boring; it becomes the cyber equivalent of Wonder Bread. It takes a sharp eye to know when to keep working it and when to leave it be. Some people can just spill a post out of their head with little or no revisions and it’s gold (I’m looking in your direction, Mick). Others, like me, labor over each sentence, punctuation mark, phrase and point of view. Of the dozens of posts I've put up here, there are three times as many posts that never made it because they died out halfway through revisions.

Is this an apology? Heck no. I’ve done that before and I’m getting tired of making apologies that I don’t seem to keep. (Plus it keeps you folks guessing on when I’ll post again.)

Is this a copout? I really would love to live the blogger’s dream and post every day, bind the posts into a book, roll it into a movie deal and make a mint on it. But in reality, I know this keeps about seven people informed that I’m moderately satisfied with my job and am pining for a chopper-inspired bicycle built for 8-year olds. No wild political rants, no deep thoughts with equally deep comments to follow, just a guy living in the Armpit of America and taking the hits as they come.

In short, this is a post. Take it for what it is.