NO LESSONS! NO TALENT!

My father used to ask me when I was going to grow up. Except he often used to insert "the hell" between "when" and "I". And I would answer him "April 12, 1978." At the time, I thought I was giving myself a vast ocean of hours, days and minutes to formulate a plan for transitioning to adulthood. Or at least to be struck by a meteorite packed with the requisite paraphernalia: a pipe, perhaps, a set of car keys, a small green bottle of Aqua Velva, that kind if thing. But those meteorites apparently burned up in the atmosphere, never to pierce my adolescent brain. Now, suddenly, in a warp of time, space, and some a them string-theory dimensions, I find myself way way over on the other side of April 12, 1978 without having made the slightest bit of progress in my quest. And talking to my contemporaries, which I can't avoid from time to time, I'm surprised to learn that they pretty much feel the same way, the exception being that they seem to have collected most of the trappings of adulthood anyway. Me, I don't seem to accumulate trappings; trappings slip between my fingers like a cherry pie made from cherries, flour and water. A bizarre analogy to you, no doubt, but one with which I am intimately acquainted. This absence of the burden of trappings probably contributes to the sensation of hurtling toward some looming denouement while standing still, although my trappings-encumbered contemporaries would probably say they feel the same way, as they turn to their flat-screen tvs to check the stock reports, the cocksuckers. Sorry about that; I'm still immersed in season two of Deadwood.