Lately I have wondered about the world of the year 2100. Will we see a peaceful syncretism of the world's cultures...in other words a brown America? Will the parts of the Old World once known as Christendom cloak itself under a single flag with English as the de facto lingua franca? Will we look back on the 21st century as yet another parade of formerly unimaginable horrors? Will piecemeal violence become our daily sorrow in America, as in so many places now? I do not know. I will never know. I will not live to see it and I fear that I lack the imagination to envision much beyond what I'm going to stuff in my food-hole (my wife's word) next.

A digression: In a much misguided attempt at emulating today's youth, I started growing a goatee about 2 years ago. I even made an appearance at the workplace, though it was a day off for me and I was in casual clothes. My wife made it clear in no uncertain terms that she wasn't going to have me walking around, a balding middle-aged overweight man, in a goatee. She didn't say all that...she just kept talking about my food hole. Of course, I shaved it off there and then.

And so that's what it's come to for many of us. How to stroke which erogenous zone, and how to keep ratcheting up the intensity of the stimulus so as not to lose the pleasurable response. It doesn't matter whether one talks about loafing around, stuffing one's face, seeking ever more potent sexual stimuli (in a vicarious manner, of course), or spending money. It's all really old hat, the seven deadlies and all... Every "sin" is a hard-wired survival instinct in disguise, indulged as a result of the ready availability of the means of indulgence. In effect, the sinful impulse (or drive, if you prefer) operates in nature to motivate behaviors that increase the likelihood of survival and reproduction. But when the bond between the work ordinarily required to fulfill a desire--hunting, planting, wooing a mate, building a dwelling--and achieving that desire is rent asunder and plugged directly into the source of gratification--gluttony, adultery, masturbation, lavish self-indulgence in luxuries--one subverts the very meaning of our time on this Earth. And that's the truth!

Sometimes the sight of my weekend ramblings by the light of day truly disgusts me.

Here is the site I have been listening to tonight. It has made me very happy to hear this music from this very wonderful young lady, who first appeared on "A Prairie Home Companion" on NPR in April 2000. The music is sung by Leilani Clark, and she has her own website. I have requested to buy her CD and you should, too.

No, it's not hip-hop. I didn't mention below that when I said I listen to rap, I also listen to many other kinds of music. My only regret is having taken my truly modest talent and hidden it under a bushel. I rarely play the piano anymore. It was once a joy for me to spend hours doing this. And when an opportunity would present itself, such as at a party, I would be ready. Now, my playing (such as at last year's neighborhood moveable Christmas party) is too abysmal to deserve compliment from friends or family.

I have taken to rap music. Yes...rap. I am forty-two years old. I don't own a sportscar; I don't have a girlfriend half my age. I am a contentedly married man. My wife and I have grown to love each other's softest and most vulnerable parts. Yet when I listen to music, I gravitate to the street, the urban, the hip-hop beat. I like anything with a beat and something to say. I like the samples...the old skool mixed with the new. The beat, remembering how you could hear a beat in the late 70's and even before, that would one day be the driving beat of today's R and B. A beat that every song on the radio has today. It is so emblematic of today's period, yet so ubiquitous today, that no person who is young today, could possibly feel other than that this is the way it's always been, the way it should be. And yet for the very same reason, it will, decades hence, resound of a time long gone, to those young people yet to be born.

It's been an eventful week. My wife was laid off from her job. Now it all falls upon me to bring in the bacon. The economy truly is in the tank. But I have hopes for my dear wife. She is starting on a novel, which she hopes will one day be freatured on Oprah. Stay tuned. In the meantime, I have been out in the yard this afternoon. You see, all summer long, it didn't rain. Then it rained. Then it got very cold, very fast. We had frost and a trace of snow on October first. But the grass just kept growing. And now it was high and lush and green, and I had to cut it with a Honda mulching mower--the kind you don't have to bag. It tends to get clogged with clumps of wet grass very quickly, if the lawn is high. That's why we always tried to get to the lawn in dry weather, and before there has been time for the lawn to become dense and lush. Today, there was ballet upon my humble lawn. I held my partner, the Honda mower, in thrall as we deftly carved corners, and held back just long enought to permit the engine not to stall from the clumps of wet grass. Soon I was looking back on a satisyingly complete mowing job...I only had the sweeping of the driveway and sidewalks to do, this time taking care to sweep the grass clippings from between the sidewalk and the edge of the front lawn. The grass was so wet that it stained the driveway a garish lime color.

In the meantime, I had taken in all of the remaining garden produce. We had tomatoes, some red, but many green ones remaining, awaiting a chance to loll in the hot sun. All were taken down. Green and red, large and small. The only ones discarded were the rotten, gnawed-upon, or wormy fruits. We took a thumb-size eggplant and a slightly larger zucchini from our garden. This left the apples. I removed the 8 or 10 red apples from our two-year-old apple tree. This tree is a prize. The apples stay on the vines and ripen, no chemicals used, they just don't get wormy. The other tree is a Macintosh, which produces apples that look like they came right from the store...but these don't stay on the tree as long and can get wormy. Fall is truly here. What does it mean when you are out of the formal grade school structure? I guess I would be in a new grade, of sorts, which for me maths out to be grade "37".....yes you're in the 37th grade, kiddo. And yet the lessons of the 37th grade are every bit as vital as those taught in the lower-numbered schools we're used to. And with winter looming in the wind, in the trees, in the furtive glances of our hurried, half-known neighbors, as they close their garage doors at night, or run their truck engine for a quarter-hour in the morning to heaten it against the chill of early October. What will come upon the bitter winds of January and February?