It's been a long time

October 2001 was a long, long time ago. Since then:

* I've moved from one major metropolitan area to another, then another yet.

* I've executed a career slingshot -- took a small step backward that led indirectly to a huge step forward.

* I've watched three Mini-Humans grow from tiny little semi-functioning beings into full-fledged children. Back then, the oldest of them was 7. In two days, the youngest of them will be 7. The oldest is now a teenager.

A lot of things have changed since I banged in that first post at my desk at the Very Large Metropolitan Newspaper, the one with the cubicle where the window looked out on the concrete jungle of the nation's eighth-largest city.

I type this post looking out into my backyard, with the towering playset and the big pool. The girl who "celebrated" her first birthday in rather dubious fashion during that first month of this forum -- by learning that she has a neurological disease -- is now 7, outwardly perfectly healthy, and interrupting my typing every few words with some other question.

In the last six years, my two remaining grandparents have died. My father was diagnosed and has largely beaten colon cancer. The last remaining member of my mother's immediate family passed on. My sister had a baby and got married, in that order, after years of quiet desperation.

The original inspiration for this forum left his cubicle for things I suspect even he can't yet fully comprehend; a chance to become fully immersed in something he dearly loves. I've sensed a bit of "Be Careful What You Wish For" in some of his writing. I've had that thought more than a few times myself over the last 2,191 days.

Sitting here this morning, I've come to realize this: "Careful" people don't ever find what they want. They're too busy being careful. A "careful" quarterback racks up a 70-percent completion rating but never makes a big play. A "careful" politician can hold on to his seat for 35 years without ever having an accomplishment with his name next to it. A "careful" mom raises perfectly average kids.

Screw being careful. Throw that long pass, quit that job, say something that people aren't going to agree with, and write it all down so you can refer back to it later or perhaps help somebody else through a similar situation. That's what I've learned since 2001. And I've learned it largely through expressing myself in this forum, and through following others through similar forums along the way.

It's important to learn. It's important to share. Thanks to all of y'all for sharing with me.

--

I noted in yesterday's post that there is nothing else in my life that is six years old or more, other than my wife and children. There is some truth to that. I have one prized possession that predates 2001: A black-and-white Telecaster, purchased with my first paycheck as a full-time sports writer in 1988.

I'm a big fan of committing to things that matter. I made a commitment to a young woman in the fall of 1990. Now I'm growing old with her. (Odd how she isn't growing old; it's just me. How the hell does that happen?) It has been everything for which I could have possibly hoped: To spend my life with a beautiful woman with charm, energy, intelligence, and wit.

The story of Us makes little sense to those who were not a part of it (i.e., everybody but her and me.) I've tried to recount it here in the past, but the story transcends the words available to me to tell it.

Over the course of the six years of writing stuff down here, we've moved from Years 11 to 17, which I guess aren't exactly milestone years. But know this: Every day is a milestone, and for me, every day is another day in which I'm getting better than I deserve.

That's what wakes me up every day. That's what makes me want to write it down. Can't wait to see what happens next.

Clearing the cobwebs

See, the problem is, that when I have good subject matter with which to work and still find a way to make it boring, that’s when I start to think I don’t know how to do this anymore. Some people – real professionals – would say "you have to write through it," the same way a major-league hitter would try to get out of a slump. And that might work. But instead, I just crawl into a shell, try to grab on to something else that’s out there, and try to find my inspiration that way. And oddly, it never works.

I’ve had some great subject matter with which to work over the last several weeks.

I had an anniversary celebration that was straight out of the dream. It is still a bit overwhelming to think about, to try to wrap my mind about how I am blessed so far beyond what I deserve. She knows that too. I am. That’s a good thing.

--

See, the problem is, I have this long, long, long list of things I should do. I should eat better. I should exercise more. I should write more. I should focus on one task at a time at work, rather than let myself be distracted by all the stuff going on around me. I should do more stuff around the house. I should do a lot of things. I don’t do very many of them. I find this frustrating. Sometimes it’s just as hard to be me as it is to deal with me. I hate that.

--

There are things, however, I really like. Randomly:

-- Single-malt Scotch. A group of like-minded co-workers holds a monthly Scotch-and-cigar fest. One of those guys, G, is way more into it than, well, most people. He’s been choosing the distilling region and doing hours of research on the best whiskies from that region. He provides a long list of recommendations, and he and the rest of us buy a different bottle from that list to sample. We’ve been through the Islay, Speyside and Highland malts. The favorite so far, to my palate: the Speysides, authoritative drinks which pack a gentle wallop.

-- My dry cleaner. They lost a shirt of mine a few weeks ago – a shirt I had never worn. I am probably the only person who has had that happen to him twice in his life. (Yes, 15 years ago, another dry cleaner did the very same thing – lost a shirt I had never worn.) This one had a happier ending, though; two days later, they found the shirt. But that’s not why I like these people. I like these people because Martina behind the counter calls me by my name, knows my starch preferences, and has my clothes hanging for me before I even come in the door because she knows my car. That, friends, is good customer service, and there are few things I like better.

-- My son’s swimming coach. She’s incredibly good with a bunch of hard-to-control 8-year-olds. She’s in her early 20s, and is studying to be an elementary school teacher. She’s going to be a really good one.

-- New toys. One of the joys of my job is getting fresh technology and not having to pay for it. My latest new toy: a T-Mobile Dash. Nice to have a QWERTY keyboard again. I’d much rather use Windows Mobile than a Blackberry or Treo, and this device adds the bonus of being a really nice, clear phone. The great thing: About the time I get bored with it, some new device will show up on my desk. That rocks.

--

Today’s main event: The Young Daughter turns 7 on Tuesday. Her party is today. The Wife found a local firm that is putting together a princess party from start to finish. All we have to bring is the juice boxes. This should be fun.

--

If the Young Daughter is turning 7, that means this forum is turning 6. The only other thing that I’ve stuck with for six years or more is my marriage. In my adult life, I’ve never driven a car, lived in one place or held a job title for six years. Like so many other things in my life, I don’t treat this forum as well as I should. But I’m glad it has stuck with me for all this time; and I’m glad you have stuck with me. I’ll put this on the list of things that I should do better, and I’ll start attacking that list.

Don't talk to me, and nobody gets hurt

SAN DIEGO -- I was an asshole this morning. In my defense, it was completely justified.

I have a very well-defined System that takes me from one place to the other with maximum efficiency. It's very important, for a guy like me who goes from one place to the other with great frequency, to have an efficient System. That's how I get from one place to the other without losing things like my passport or my credit cards or my right ear.

Part of the system involves how I carry my bags. I have a basic roll-aboard suitcase, and a backpack that plays the part of "small personal item," despite the fact that it basically has the contents of an Office Depot inside. The backpack is strapped to the suitcase. On cross-country flights, such as the one I was on Monday morning, I strap one of those neck pillows to the suitcase-backpack rig.

So I'm getting ready to board the shuttle that takes me from landside to airside at the Home Airport when a salesman-looking guy spies the rig. You know the Salesman Guy: Tall, in good shape, mid-40s, polo shirt, black Dockers. Being a Salesman Guy, he has a pathological need to make small talk. "So, you got your pillow; you're all ready."

Now, he doesn't know that I'm pathologically opposed to small talk; he doesn't know that before 7 a.m., I can be violently opposed to small talk. I gave it my best, "ha-ha, yeah, I got a long flight."

He doesn't get the message. "So, you got a blanky packed away in there, too?"

I gave him a look of utter contempt, and just barely by the skin of my tongue stopped myself from saying, "Man, shut the fuck up." I proceeded to untie my shoes; this is part of the System, also. I have a hard time finding shoes I like, given that I wear a size 6 1/2, and all the shoes I own have laces.

"Ah, yes, you'll learn someday," he said. "Slip-ons for travel. You don't do this very often." He continued to leer.

By now, I'm openly fuming. He's attacking my Travel Skill. "I travel a lot," I said, through a fake smile, "and I like these shoes." I then gave him the Shut-the-Fuck-Up look again. This time, he did.

I needed THAT start to my day at 7 a.m. when I was faced with sitting in a middle seat from the Western Edge to Phoenix. Fucker.

Later, after some soothing music, I realized the guy is just one of those people who have perpetual diarrhea of the mouth. Well-meaning, but possessed with a belief that people want to hear what they have to say. Poor guy couldn't have been more wrong at that particular moment, but hey, everybody has his weakness.

I tried to get some of the good travel karma back. I managed to get an aisle seat for the second leg of my trip, but gave it up so a woman's 6-year-old daughter could sit next to her. I was also excrcuiatingly nice to the person sitting to my left in the new seat; her headphone thingy wasn't working, so I let her string the headphone wire across me to my seat so she could watch the movie. Having already had my Asshole card punched for the trip, it was the very least I could do.

More about ... me

I've been tagged with one of these meme things by Cousin Otis. I'm cool with memes. I usually learn something, even about myself. And in this case, I'm particularly grateful, because it prods me to post after a month of sheer wackiness. So, here goes:

Seven things you might not know about me

1. I do not apologize for my love for Kelly Clarkson. Even though I probably should.

2. I was never suspended from school. I never skipped school. I was never in serious trouble at school. That doesn't mean I didn't do things that would have merited serious trouble; it just means that I was very good at covering my tracks.


3. I can read with decent comprehension four languages other than English. However, I have not learned enough about Spanish, French, Danish or Norwegian to consider myself the least bit fluent. I can answer in English most e-mails sent by my European co-workers in their native language. I am more envious of people who are truly bilingual than I am of professional athletes.

4. I work in the technology industry -- but I did not own a home computer until 1999.

5. I once interviewed Ted Nugent. And yes, he's at least as much of a wacko as you think he is.

6. I've ridden a motorcycle 140 mph. But I have never, and will never, get on a rollercoaster.

7. I bought my clothes in the children's section until I was 26. And with my size 6 feet, I can still occasionally find shoes in the boys department, for half the price of the comparable size 8 in the men's area.

Alas, I can't think of any tag-ees at present. We'll come back to that.

What five years can do

Five years ago, I was one of the top news editors for the eighth largest newspaper in the United States. I was 33, and had been a professional journalist for more than a decade and a half. I had assembled sections for some of the biggest stories ever -- the first World Trade Center attack, the Branch Davidian siege, numerous World Series and Stanley Cups on impossible deadlines.

All ego aside, in whatever newsroom I was working, when something big broke, I was the go-to guy on the production side. I don't know much, but I will put my newspaper production and design and decision-making skills up against anyone anywhere in the world. I know how to put out a daily newspaper.

At 9:34 a.m. CDT on Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, I was summoned to work early to put out the most important edition ever of the nation's eighth largest newspaper. I covered the 34.8 miles to work in 32 minutes, hitting my car's electronically governed 112 mph limit on the way.

As I pulled up to the building, with the newspaper's big Gothic nameplate on the side, it started to hit me. I pulled my car -- somewhat more slowly -- into a parking spot, near the news helicopter pad for our TV station. I got out. I closed the door. I began walking to the employee entrance, just like any other day.

Then I stopped.

A thought kept ringing in my head:

I don't know how to do this.

I stood there, on the top floor of that parking garage, for probably three minutes. Just stood there, the staircase down to the door in front of me, the car behind me. To my right was the skyline of the eighth largest city in the nation. A city that, for all I knew could have been the next target, being as it is a symbol of American consumption and oil power.

There I was, the Go-To Guy, just standing there. I don't know how to do this.

I took probably 100 deep, deep breaths. Somewhere around breath No. 45, I thought about going back to the car, back home to my family, and pretending it never happened. That thought went away before breath No. 46 came out. But I still stood there for another minute and a half. I don't know how to do this.

It was 10:01 a.m. My deadline for the extra edition we were publishing was 2 p.m. A quick review of a post from 2002 tells the story something like this:

I got out of the car and stood in the parking lot for a second, trying to get my pulse rate back down to normal. It hit me then that this was the Biggest Story Ever. I don't know how to do this, I thought. I don't have any idea. It was as if my brain had been wiped clean of everything I had learned over the past 16 years.

As soon as I was in the building, I was herded to a computer terminal and told I was designing the cover of our Extra edition. Deadline was 2 p.m. God only knew what more would happen between now and then. I didn't worry about it. I started designing, and fast, because everybody on the newspaper's masthead -- the publisher himself, the editor, the executive editor, the managing editor, and assorted others -- was standing behind me.

I hit the button on that page at 1:58, and turned my attention to the regular paper. The final page count was 48. I don't remember a lot of specifics from that exercise. We were just hunting and gathering and trying to determine what was true and what wasn't.

Back then I wrote, "I stood there for a second." I remember now it was much longer than that. Over and over in my head, I don't know how to do this.

I was responsible for the front page, back page and two inside pages of that Extra edition. I did the other pages fast enough to be able to spend time on the details of the cover. I remember fussing for several minutes over the spacing between the words "of" and "terror" in our main headline, "Day of terror." I switched the main photo five times, as a different photo editor brought me a new and better photo for the front page.

The front page I did that morning -- with the entire masthead of the nation's eighth largest paper standing behind me, watching every mouse click -- is now hanging in the Freedom Forum's Newseum. Everything on the page was spelled right. The words "of" and "terror" were properly spaced.

The main story was being written and revised right up to the point when I hit the button to send the page. It went out two minutes before deadline.

It was, in short, the culmination of everything I had learned and everything I had done in 16 years in journalism. I was handed a monumental task, and I delivered at a level that I never had before and never did again.

I worked more than 14 hours each of those first three days; then, one night, I broke down. Cried like a baby. I was able to ignore the full impact of what happened to our country, to a bunch of people whose only crime was not calling in sick on a beautiful Tuesday morning. But I could only ignore it for so long.

Dick Cheney tells us that the administration policies are working, and proof of that is that we haven't been attacked in five years. Excuse me, Dick, but we also weren't attacked in the 60 years before Sept. 11, 2001. Dumbass. The administration has accomplished nothing, and in many ways has made things worse. We've created chaos in a little country that had nothing to do with the attacks. We're stirring up shit in another. Meanwhile, the man with the money behind what happened is still out there, somewhere, with full ability to do it again if he wants to.

As for me? That was probably the beginning of the end of my journalism career. I damn sure never want to be part of another story that big, or that awful. The stories in the years afterward -- Afghanistan, Iraq, the threat from North Korea, day after day after day of human suffering and awfulness -- I just didn't want to know anymore. I still do know, of course, but on my own terms.

I'm not the go-to guy anymore. Journalism is a young man's game. I aged a lot those last few months of 2001. I just hope the young people who are taking it over learn to ask the right questions and don't accept everything that's being handed to them. It's more important that they know how to do it now than it was for me to know how to do it then.

I feel better, and I don't know why

This week was supposed to be a week for big things. Without the distraction of work, I was going to sit down tonight and rattle off a long and impressive list of accomplishments.

I was going to start a Self-Improvement Plan. You know, eat less, exercise more, be generally more organized and more disciplined.

I did actually do a small part of that: I haven't had a sugared soda in five days. This is a big, big step for me; I love the soda, love the CO2 bubbling in my mouth, love the sugar dissolving my teeth. Love everything about it, except the gut that those 150-calorie-per-serving delights have left me with. I have a refrigerator full now of various diet sodas. The goal is to wean myself off of soda entirely. A few weeks of repulsive diet sodas ought to do the trick. We'll see. I've tried this a few times before, and have not been successful in the least. I now understand how hard it must be for a dedicated smoker to quit smoking.

As for the other parts of the SIP: Nothing. Still ate crap, in copious amounts; exercised not at all. But I really did think about it ...

We began painting the exterior of our house during Thanksgiving weekend. Of 2004. We were going to finish this week.

Didn't happen. Too damn hot. And even if it had been 72 with no humidity, well, it still probably wouldn't have happened.

I was going to think about work not at all.

... until the phone rang Wednesday. Small problem, easily resolved. Then Thursday. Bigger problem, but also solved in one call. Then Friday. Real big problem. Had to intervene. Multiple calls, incoming and outgoing. So much for vacation. At least I was able to handle it all remotely; back in the newspaper days, I would not have been able to avoid dropping everything and going into the office for an issue of that magnitude.

I didn't go to the high school reunion.

Now I kind of wish I had. The committee just sent an e-mail a few hours ago with a link to the pictures (technology rules!) I was stunned at the number of people I didn't recognize at first or second or third or fourth glance. Where the hell did all those 38-year-old Realtors and teachers come from? I saw about 70 faces in the pictures, and was able to get solid ID's on about 15 of them -- and at least five of those I could only recognize because I could read their name tags. As Joe Walsh sang, everybody's so different, and I haven't changed.

Yeah, right.

---

I certainly wasn't bored this week. I did get to see the wonder of the Young Daughter becoming a first-class swimmer. I did spend a lot of time just hanging out with The Wife, and she in turn was able to catch a little bit of the break from some of her routine. I read a couple of Bill Bryson books. I had a great motorcycle ride last Saturday.

But other than that, I accomplished nothing in the last week. I crossed nothing off my to-do list. And I'm OK with that. I needed to waste a few days. I've spent a pretty long stretch trying to cram 1.6 days into every one day. I think I was owed a few. We're even now.

Data transfer interrupted

I am reachable, by one medium or another, pretty much 24 hours a day, every day. The only time that I am completely out of pocket is during the one or two hours that I am on an airplane going somewhere.

Being constantly available, of course, does not mean that I am providing better service. It just means that I can half-ass more stuff. It means that I can be in a meeting while driving a rental car from a customer site to an airport. It means that, while a customer is paying some absurd sum for me to be on site, I can simultaneously be helping two other customers who are not paying for the privilege.

This is a true story, and yeah, it's a little gross, but it's an illustration of what American business has become: Yesterday, I was on the phone with a customer and answering an e-mail ... in the bathroom. Hey, when you gotta go, you gotta go.

And don't think that I don't know where to find the "Ignore" button on my phone. There are plenty of unanswered items in my Inbox. At some point, I do have to sleep. At some point, I'm with my family, and that means With My Family. At some point, the sign has to turn around to "Closed." But every one of those Ignored calls and unanswered e-mails is still a tiny little failure.

One thing that makes my job extremely complicated is that the European co-workers on whom I depend heavily have a minimum of five weeks of vacation. Over there, it's acceptable to basically accomplish nothing in June, July and August. Over here, it's not acceptable to be unavailable while you're in the john.

I'm not complaining. I have a family which is very well-provided for. My roof covers a large number of square feet. The bills are paid and times are largely good.

But I know in some way, I'm paying for all this prosperity. And I also know I'm not the only one. This is the way We live. I just wonder what the end result really is.

As the fog descends ...

What would be fun, really, is to sit here and write while I'm at the complete edge of exhaustion, just to see what would happen. I've been in constant motion since last Wednesday: fly, drive 2 hours, meeting, drive 2 hours, fly ... one-day weekend lull ... fly, drive an hour and a half, meeting, drive an hour and a half, fly, get another rental car, hey! why is there a traffic jam in downtown Boston at 11:30 at night? lost in Boston, find freeway, drive an hour and a half, meeting, and eeew, that was why there was a traffic jam in downtown Boston.

So I'm in New Hampshire right now, with another day of meeting, fly, drive in front of me. And yeah, with the downtown Boston tunnels closed, it's going to be a bitch getting into Logan. Tomorrow's flight goes to North Carolina, where thankfully the meeting will be held in the same city in which we're landing. Then, fly and drive home Friday night. Weekend lull, then off to Southern California next week. Fly, drive an hour, two days of meetings, drive an hour, fly.

Then, a week of vacation. No plans, just vacation. The plan does not include moving eight miles a minute, as Seger once sang.

So writing all that was a long way of saying no, I'm not going to go to the reunion. That would be another three days of flying and driving, and I'm just not up for it. I can come up with more reasons to not go than reasons to go.

The fog is coming faster, the eyelids are getting heavy, the thoughts are coming both fast and slow at the same time. It's like the gears are turning without any actual power, the perpetual-motion brain that is spinning 7,600 rpm on the way to nowhere. I'm pretty sure I've forgotten why I'm in New Hampshire, and why I'm going to North Carolina. I'm just here, typing, not even in full control of the text I'm currently entering. I wonder how much longer I can do this.

Resetting

Technical difficulties. Testing only.

20 years now; where'd they go?

Rumors keep circulating that my high school class is going to have a 20-year reunion this summer. A few days ago, I received an e-mail detailing the program. Looks like a lot of fun; a golf tournament, a cookout, a trip to a Class AA baseball game in Anytown. I'm still not sure I can bring myself to go.

For one thing, we're 1,400 miles away, and even with the absurd amount of airline miles I've amassed in my recent travels, it's not enough to get all five of us there. I'm not sure I can pull off going to Anytown without my wife and kids; the rest of the extended family back in Anytown would be profoundly disappointed. Plus, I have a fair amount of business travel scheduled for July. Since my recent promotion, I'm not doing as many five-day trips, but I still have to do a lot of one- and two-day schmooze-fests, and I have many of those in July.

For another, I don't need people pointing out that 20 years ago, I had hair past my shoulders and weighed 100 pounds. I have dramatically less of the former and quite a few more of the latter now. I'd take the under on how quickly I get sick of people pointing those facts out.

I rather liked most of my high school classmates. I had a lot of friends in high school, many friends who crossed many of the different strata of a high school class. You remember The Breakfast Club? At one time or another, I would have hung out with all five of them.

I'm kind of ashamed of myself for not having kept better track of these people over the last two decades. I've done quite well over the last 20 years, in my career, as a husband, as a father. The thing I sacrificed to do all that was my friends. Truth be told, I was like that before I left Anytown, probably, but I became even worse when I could use distance as a weak excuse. I'm a shitty, awful, rotten friend. Too busy for this, too busy for that, too busy to send a simple e-mail or Christmas card.

In short, I suck. I'm not sure how squarely I want to face that fact.

So I toss this out for feedback: Should I go, or should I clean out the garage that weekend?

Summertime, summertime, sum-sum-SHADDUP!

No vacation here, sorry. Still trying to figure out the mysteries of ASCII characters 0D and 0A. For now, everybody's having fun around me. Oh well; my time will come.

I was right, I was wrong

SPOT ON: See the post headlined May 23: iTunes downloader ready. I was right; The new Dixie Chicks album is damn good. It's an exquisitely manicured middle finger standing tall against the crap they've had to endure over the last three years.

And it is, thankfully, more than that; it's a nice transition out of the hard-core country world into tunes that cross many lines. "Easy Silence" showcases the voice not of Natalie Maines the Texan, but that of Natalie Maines, the former Berklee student.

All that said, it's hard not to point out that the Chicks have been the top album download on iTunes all week while the president's approval rating struggles to stay above 30 percent. Take that, rednecks.

EATING MY WORDS: I wrote this in February 2002 after the Super Bowl. Musing about the commericals:

Cadillac has finally figured out that its customer base is, like, almost dead. The average age of a new Cadillac buyer is 69. The marketing folks catch a clue: Cadillac cues up the Zeppelin, finds a '59 Eldo, and voila, a star is born. Not crazy about the CTS; it's kind of a funny-looking car.

Well, maybe, I might have to amend that: Everybody else's CTS is funny-looking. The one that'll be in my driveway for the next 39 months looks pretty cool.

Sad and pathetic

A lot of heavy stuff here lately ... time for a chuckle in my most favorite way -- at my own expense.

Funny scene on the streets of suburban Tampa on Friday afternoon:

Guy in a black 2006 Rapidlyagingdudemobile, late 30s, sun shining off his receding hairline, windows down, 7-speaker Bose cranked up to the max, just absolutely rocking out ...

The song? "Behind these Hazel Eyes" by Kelly Clarkson.

Hi.

My life, brought to you by iTunes

A tremendously fun meme. Simple rules:

1/Get your iTunes library.
2/Set it to shuffle
3/Ask the questions below and hit Play (or next)
4/Whatever song comes up, go with it.

Q) How does the world see you?
A) The Road Goes on Forever / Robert Earl Keen
This is a song about a girl I knew back in Anytown. Several of them, actually. However, the story never ended as well for any of them.

Q) Will I have a happy life?
A) Drinkin' on the Job / The Rainmakers
Now there's an idea.

Q) What do my friends really think of me?
A) Manic Depression / Stevie Ray Vaughan and Double Trouble
They could certainly be excused if that's what they thought.

Q) Do people secretly lust after me?
A) Free Bird / Lynyrd Skynyrd
Yeah ... probably not.

Q) How can I make myself happy?
A) A Million Miles Away / The Rainmakers
This song is a really really deep song about a guy who could be recovering from a traumatic experience, drug abuse, or homelessness. I always took it as that he was contemplating suicide, but that might be reading a little bit more into it. It does feature one of Bob Walkenhorst's very cool turns of phrase:

And the landscape in the dark,
it could have been New Zealand
New York, or New Mexico
So what else is new? Jim thought

Q) What should I do with my life?
A) More than a Feeling / Boston
Ah, a great song from the speakers of the Trans Am in the mid-'80s. Not much guidance there, though.

Q) Will I ever have children?
A) I Know My History / Van Zant
My history would suggest that I'd have a big family. By 21st-century standards, I do.

Q) What is some good advice for me?
A) The Three Fine Daughters of Farmer Brown / Eddie from Ohio
Hmm ... nah, that would probably cause trouble.

Q) How will I be remembered?
A) Creepin' In / Norah Jones
That's me, sneaking into places where I don't belong, over and over.

Q) What is my signature song?
A) Small Town Jericho / Sugarland
I always wanted to live in a small town. I never have. And I think it would be too late now. If you weren't born there, you'll never belong.

Q) What do I think my current theme song is?
A) Take Me Down / Kelly Willis
I don't believe the words you're saying
And I know the game you're playing
So it's only just for now
That I will let you take me down

Q) What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
A) Wide Open Spaces / Dixie Chicks
I lived in one place for 25 years. I haven't lived anywhere else for more than three. Might explain a lot about a lot.

Q) What song will play at my funeral?
A) The One That Got Away / The Rainmakers
The old man's lament.
Well I did this and I did that
And I guess I did OK
I did whatever I had to do
And I did it my own way
Whatever hand I drew
Whatever hand I played
From place to place
I come face to face
with the one that got away"

In a lot of ways, that's strangely appropriate. I've never felt I've made the most of the opportunities I've had.

Q) What type of men/women do I like?
A) If I Wanted To / Melissa Etheridge
Odd that she'd pop up in that spot.

Q) What is my day going to be like?
A) Snakedance / The Rainmakers
This is the lion's den ... And yeah, I knew that before I came in.

From largelypro.com (and please note: the fact that the blogger had a close association with a band that popped up repeatedly in the above list had no influence on the content).