It finally happened yesterday: someone used the dreaded "your age" reference with regards to ME. I let it pass for the sake of appearances, but I was a cauldron of seething rage inside. Here's the skinny:

We were in the car with my 23-year-old brother-in-law and he asked me if I'd seen the new "Transformers" movie yet. I replied that I hadn't, as I'd been so let down by the first one's deconstruction of my childhood icons.

The insouciant boy then replied, "Yeah, a guy I work with is about your age, and he said the same thing." My eyes flared open in disbelief. Was the dial on my hearing aid not turned to "loud and squeaky"? Had this whey-cheeked upstart really just called me out on my advancing years? I began to fumble around on the floor for my cane to administer some old school justice on his still-cone-shaped-from-birth head.

Then a thought slowly wended its way through my ancient neurons: this walking ultrasound hadn't meant to give his elder "the sauce". I'm sure he had no idea the effect his callous remark would have on my wizened emotions. Nothing going on here but the folly of youth on full display.

So, demonstrating my decades of accumulated wisdom and forbearance, I let it pass. He fell quiet, no doubt musing on the relative advantages of various Otter Pops flavors and wondering what time Pokemon was on.

To him, and to all smug teens and twentysomethings out there, I paraphrase another icon of my '80s childhood: "When 30 years of age you reach, look as good you will not."

What constitutes both the fastest and the longest sixty-five seconds of your life? A ride down the bobsled track at the Olympic Park. My entire body is still tingling.

My cousin, brother and I recently decided that the refreshingly warm weather and snow-free mountain trails demanded that we head to the hills. With guns!

Warning: The following depictions of the wholesale slaughter of innocent fruit with hollow-point rounds are not for the faint of heart.

You can't watch TV for two minutes or go to more than two websites without seeing an ad for the new Watchmen superhero movie. Seriously, this thing is EVERYWHERE. As I watched an ad the other night and observed the variety of latex, rubber, goggles, blue paint, etc. that are requisite for any self-respecting superhero's wardrobe, I got to thinking. If I were a superhero, what would I be? Would I use my powers for good or evil? What would my name be? How would I dress? A few suggestions:

HEROES

Captain Good
Most heroes are named after critters (bats, spiders, wolverines), or their abilities (super, wonder, green). One option for me would be to just have a generic, catch-all name and be a generic, catch-all kind of hero. With Captain Good, you're getting a nice, plain vanilla guy who's just out to do you a solid. He probably won't swoop in and catch you as you plunge from a skyscraper, or use his freezing breath to put out your electrical fire, but he will vacuum your carpets while you're out and replace your Glade Plug-Ins. And at the end of the day, which dire situation do you think more people need saving from: being held captive by a super villain at the top of the Statue of Liberty, or forgetting to pick up the dry cleaning on Saturday night? Citizens everywhere will sleep just a little more soundly knowing that Captain Good, clad in his white J.C. Penney shirt and pleated Dockers, is on the prowl.

Other possible hero identities:

The Swab
Six feet, two inches of soft cottony goodness. Blots out evil with his absorbent yet fluffy head. The bane of filthy ear canals everywhere.

Gun Show Glen
Always clad in an orange vest, camouflage, green plaid and a mesh John Deere hat that is the source of his power. This bearded tower of Red State power battles every day against the forces that want to take away your rights to automatic weapons, swollen bellies and smelling like jerky.

Other heroic identities I considered and discarded:

The Taffy Puller
The Baconator (name was already taken!)
Mister Right Now
& (also known as Ampersand)


VILLAINS:

The Incredible Sulk
Not really very dangerous. Just sits around in his room and throws his shoes at the door. His weaknesses include Cocoa Puffs, hugs, and newly hatched baby chicks.

Dr. Psoriasis
Causes itchy feelings and occasional flakiness in all he comes in contact with. Can only be defeated by his arch-nemesis, Captain Corticosteroid.

Other evil identities I considered and discarded:

Damaged Goods
The Unwelcome Masseuse
Potty Mouth
Puppy Kicker
The Nubbin


Try it for yourself - it's fun! Please also note that for some reason many superhero names would also make great punk band names.

Today you get some original poetry about that most obnoxious of months, the one in whose vile clutches we currently find ourselves. Calvin of Calvin & Hobbes fame once called February "the armpit of the year". Well said, sir. Well said.


Ode to February

Two fortnights in length, so unspeakably bleak
Each hour's a day, each day seems a week
The land stricken and barren, the air frigid and raw
Viscous and vicious, still awaiting Spring's thaw

A fell shadow lies ever, o'er skies never blue
The world robed in ashes, steel winter's grey hue
Release me! I cry, from this impenetrable shroud
One sliver of light, one respite from cloud

Never! you hiss from your dark glacial soul
Most cursed of months, you've exacted your toll
Of my humanity, sanity, thou villain most arch
But your reign's finally ended, come the first day of March


Let's all say it together now: February sucks!

Is it just me, or is everyone sick? I know it's that time of year and all, but right now it's different, somehow. People that I usually can count on as stalwarts of unassailable health have fallen ill. Disgustingly, drippingly ill. I myself have not been immune, having to call in sick yesterday for the first time in a long, long time.

I hate calling in sick. I hate the confinement of the house that I come to loathe as the hours slowly pass. I hate knowing that e-mails are stacking up in a quivering electronic pile, those little beige envelopes glowing accusingly at me when I finally go back to work. I hate getting that same guilty feeling I got in fifth grade when I would exaggerate a cough to my mom in order to stay in bed with Coke, saltines and Calvin & Hobbes books. But most of all, I hate what my mind does when I stay home sick.

As I lay in bed yesterday, staring up at the ceiling and wondering when death's sweet embrace would come, I started thinking about my life. My fevered brain started going through all the things that have happened over the years. People I've known, stuff that I've done, feelings I've acted and not acted on. I began to ask myself THE QUESTIONS. You know what they are:

Is this it? Is this where I wanted my life to be at this point? What should I/could I have done differently? Is this, to quote Jack Nicholson, as good as it gets?

The answer I gave myself was surprising, yet very Shane-like: yes and no. As always, I could see both sides of the issue. I have a good life; a great wife, supportive family and friends, a solid career. But I also felt like I wasn't quite there yet. It seems like there are a few more of life's sweet fruits that I'm still not picking.

I don't usually get all introspective in my blog, but here it is: I'm going to turn up the awesome in my life. It's not a new year's resolution - it's a new life resolution. Things are pretty good, but I know they can be truly great. It's all in here. I'm going to try new things, have more adventures, and cram more living into life. Interesting what a not-really-so-near-death experience will do to you. Wish me luck.