Who am I?

In terms of Broadway's bombastic musicals, of which there are myriad, my favorite is Cameron Mackintosh's "Les Miserables." To its credit, it is not based on a movie. It is based on a real event, the pesky French Revolution, as interpreted by Victor Hugo in his seminal novel of the same name. So at least it has that going for it. Another thing it has going for it is one of its least bombastic songs, "Who Am I?" This song is belted by the protagonist, Jean Valjean, as he comes to grips with who he truly is, as he asks, "Who am I?"

I've been asking myself that same question of late, "Who am I?" What deep existential crisis is causing me to ponder this question? What event occurred that has caused me to look deeply into my soul? Well, remember who is writing this and I don't think you'll be surprised by what's driving this.

So what is it then, you ask? What has led to this navel gazing (and for those of you have had the misfortune of seeing me sans shirt you know that there is ample opportunity for navel gazing)? Quite simply, I've had a pang for something that has me questioning if I am ready to retire.

I'm beginning to think that I'm ready to move to Del Boca Vista.

If I do that, it seems only appropriate that I become the Republican committee chair for the community.

If I do that, I should be driving the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and her widow friends at Del Boca Vista to the 430PM buffet because 500PM is entirely too late for dinner.

If I do that, I feel like I should be watching Fox News and agreeing with that wee man boy huckster, Sean Hannity.

I'm feeling all these frightening things because of that pang I mentioned earlier. That pang, which I blame entirely on our local Chevrolet dealer, is for a car. That's right, a car. If I were a normal nearly 51 year old man, you'd be expecting me to tell you that the car that is calling my name is either a Corvette or a Porsche or any other compensating vehicle. Nope, not me. It's this:

That's right. A Cadillac CT6. An enormous, land yacht Cadillac. Are these not the milieu of retired insurance salespeople and bankers who shuttle back and forth between Rotary Club meetings and appointments with their proctologists?

Every time I see this car, prominently parked in front of the aforementioned local Chevy dealer, I am bewitched. As bewitched as I am by it, I am unnerved. I have no idea why this thing appeals to me. I certainly do not fit the key demographic that buys this car. I really have no business liking this car and yet, I do. Hence, my spiral into the philosophical question, "Who am I?"

Fortunately, I have some answers. A) I read my own Tweets and am reminded I really am not the key demo Cadillac is after and 2) I could never bring myself to unload the kind of cash they want for this Barcalounger on wheels.

As to the question of who I am, well, that mystery remains unresolved. I'm still figuring that out. This much I know, though, that this morning as I drive by that dealership on my way to get religion, and I see that car, I'm still going to wonder, "What would I look like driving this thing to the Chuck-A-Rama?"

I'm Back.

Well, after an unprecedented absence / break / disappearance from the Den, I'm back, for better or worse.

My last post, on Memorial Day, was 68 days ago. I wish I had some dramatic backstory to give you as to what caused my near ten week absence. I can affirm that I was not kidnapped by aliens, unless they gave me a heaping dose of Propofol, in which case, I affirm nothing. Also, none of Trump's goons came after me for my Twitter feed (although I may be tempting fate on that one) and forced me to work in one of Ivanka's sweatshops as punishment for exercising my freedom of speech.

While none of those things went down, life kept going.  That's the only excuse I have for my absence: life happened. Regretfully, some of those things didn't get documented. I'm not going to turn this into Patty and Selma's Egyptian Slide Show Nightmare but here a couple of highlights.

The RM came home for the first week of June, in the company of a lovely young woman named Megan. She seemed to really like him because when they rolled off the plane, the RM was dressed in the latest in what can only be described as "Utah County Young White Mormon Rapper Thug Chic," and she wasn't bothered. Suffice to say, I was highly agitated. Anyway, we spent a great week with them and loved getting to know Megan. Two weeks after they returned to the Zion Curtain, the RM asked Megan to marry him and she said yes, in spite of the aforementioned clothing debacle. We are delighted for them and excited to welcome Megan into our family.

The day after they left, Our Lady of Awesome and our two grandchildren arrived for a glorious two week stay. I took a week off while they were here and we had a tremendous time together. I was reminded that I am no position to argue with a four year old about anything, especially when it comes to dialogue from "Toy Story." We picked strawberries. We found out that Pez are made in Connecticutistan. We found out that my granddaughter harbors zero, and I mean, zero fear around water when we took them to Ocean Beach for the day. After having them with us for two weeks, we were reminded how hard it is to live so far from all of our children and grandchildren.

July found me in London for a week for business and I'll never complain about that. After that, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and I spent a weekend in NYC to celebrate her latest birthday. That included taking in "The Lion King" on Broadway. I've steadfastly refused to see it for a host of reasons but I finally caved and surprised her with tickets (she genuinely had no idea). I will admit it was not horrible. I then had a quick trip down to Atlanta where I had a chance to take in the Porsche Experience Center. This was an insane experience and I highly recommend it. Seriously.

Suddenly, June and July were gone and we're inexplicably into the first week of August and 68 days below by without me posting. I'm back now. Back to the occasional inanity that are my posts. Back to the observations of a middle aged man doing time in New England. Like I said, this is for better or worse.