Listen up, man. I got something to tell you. I’m tired of watching you drift. Sick to the teeth of it. All the ‘Maybe I wills’ you bounce around inside your skull—know what I mean? And it ain’t no new thing, either. I’ve heard it all before. Heard everything you say to yourself. Every stinking life-time word of it. “Man, at my age why the hell care?” Can’t count the times I’ve heard your whiny-assed voice say that. I got to tell you, it’s a trap, man. A trap. I mean, how long can you feel good watching reruns of MacGyver? It all bores me to tears, man. It really does. Bet it bores you too, if you think about it.
“So what?” you say. “Why do you care?”
I care because I’ve known you from your first second of self-awareness. Watched you grow into a man. Seen you succeed, seen you fall flat on your ass, and I can tell you for a fact, I like the former more than the later. Besides, I’m your damn friend. Times, the only real one you got.
Listen up. You gotta know you’re doing well with what you’re doing. Much better than you think. Step back. Take a look. Realize you’re luckier than most, because you’ve got guidance, and a clear path laid out in front of you. All you got to do is separate the bear shit from the buckwheat. Well—I guess you got to do more than that. You got to bust your ass on a daily basis and work with all available resources. You’re surrounded by good people, so don’t shy away. You got a good family. A whole lot funner than Theodor “The Beaver” Cleaver had, and not near so damned insipid. You got a car that usually starts. A chateau near the beach. Friends who’ll walk through fire with you. And me. You got me for sure, and I’ll be around long as you are. Wowzers. What a deal. Come on. Be bold like Custer. Charge right in. Carry out the Plan of the Day. Anything’s better than sitting on your ass daydreaming.
I’ll tell you too, Bro, time’s passing quick. One of these days everything you know, all of it, is going to vanish—poof. Won’t even leave a smoke trail behind. Guess you can take that two ways. One—since it’s all going away, none of this shit matters. And Two—maybe I need to make each day count. I’m banking on you, Bro, to do the latter. Maybe you can leave this world a small body of work that will tell them something about your times. Might be an important thing to do. And then, who knows, maybe someday, because of your hard work, somebody’ll dig up your bones, let the sun caress them awhile, and say, “Alas, poor Sigurd. I knew him.” Think about it, Bro. Think about it real hard.
I’ll be around.