I met Moe Berg (of the Pursuit of Happiness) once in Toronto. Everyone was swooning and trying to get an autograph, but I was on the outside of the group looking for sexy Kris Abbott. I suppose wild red hair, short skirts and fishnet stockings rate higher than a guy with nerdy glasses and mousy hair.

At the time I was really there for the music. I used to think that I’m An Adult Now was funny; now I find it alarming:

“I don’t write songs about girls anymore
I have to write songs about women”

Up to this point, I think my friends and I can still get away with ‘girls’, but we’re really teetering on the edge. Soon our time will be over. We’d better get our last crooning-neck gawks in before it’s too late.

“No more boy meets girl boy loses girl
More like man tries to figure out what the hell went wrong”

That may be the most wholly-accurate phrase put to paper. I’d elaborate further, but I really still don’t understand it all.

“I can’t take any more illicit drugs
I can’t afford any artificial joy
I’d sure look like a fool dead in a ditch somewhere
With a mind full of chemicals
Like some cheese-eating high school boy”

Sure, meeting the long-haired chronic friend from high school is amusing a couple years after University. At some point (say, when you’re nearly 30), it gets rather sad.

“Sometimes my head hurts and sometimes my stomach hurts
And I guess it won’t be long
Till I’m sitting in a room with a bunch
of people whose necks and backs are aching
Whose sight and hearing’s failing
Who just can’t seem to get it up
Speaking of hearing, I can’t take too much loud music
I mean I like to play it, but I sure don’t like the racket
Noise, but I can’t hear anything
Just guitars screaming, screaming, screaming
Some guy screaming in a leather jacket”

I may have actually grunted old-man style when I sat down to type this… Everything is down-hill from here. Soon I’ll be whiling away the hours with adult contemporary music, spending countless days preparing for trick-or-treaters to show up, and snapping at the firm bottoms of young girls who venture too close to my Rascal scooter.

Or — I could continue to smoke, get bombed, and be generally nuts. We’ll see.