43

I turned 43 today.

Now, for those of who have already seen this birthday come and go, it's no big deal, I'm sure. To be honest with you, there really is nothing significant about being 43. I'm already old enough to legally drive, vote, drink, see an R-rated movie and rent a car without someone older than me being present. I suppose I am rather ambivalent towards my 43rd year, as if I had just received a piece of mail addressed to "Occupant" or found a dollar bill in the pocket of an old jacket.

When I was younger, I always used Elvis Presley as my barometer for aging. Many a time I would play this game with my friend, Jim Anderson, where I would say, "Do you realize we are closer to Elvis's age when he died than we are to when we were 21?" Jim would fire back with, "Do you realize there are kids in college who weren't even born when we were at school?" This always elicited a shoulder-slumping "Whoa" that would make Keanu Reeves envious. I realize now that I have outlasted The King, thank you very much, but my contributions to society are just a hair shy of what he accomplished. This is where the proverbial rubber meets the road:

"What have I done in my life?"

The short answer is: not a damned thing. The long answer would read like a resume that pumps up your middling achievements so much you stand back and say, "Hey, I'm fairly incredible." We all know the truth, of course. We are greater than we think and yet not as great as we think. We tend to look at ourselves as the sum of our potentials and not what we have actually achieved; likewise, when we are self-critical, we favor looking at what we achieved short of what we have not yet achieved. Follow that? If you need a few minutes with a Rush record and a Rubik's Cube to figure it out, be my guest.

I'm not sure of what the average life expectance is today, but by the time I get there, it will be several years beyond where it is now, if all goes according to trends. I suppose by the time I am 80, the average person will live to be 100. Who knows, maybe some day people will look at Methuselah and cluck their tongues, saying, "Shame he died so young." Then again, there was no junk food in Antiquity, so perhaps Methuselah wouldn't have made it much past his teens if Cheetos, Ring Dings and Pizza Hut merchants were cluttering up the halls of the temple. It set me to thinking. Who have I outlasted? What great minds and artists failed to answer the bell of Round 43? How would I stack up with those people? Thought you'd never ask:

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart: Died at 35. Wrote a few tunes, had a movie made of his life played by Pinto from Animal House and had more musical talent in his ear wax than 99.9% of the people making alleged "music" today. Me: I've had a bass guitar since 1982 and did the Snoopy Dance when I finally was able to play the opening of Pink Floyd's "Money" last year. Advantage: Mozart.

Edgar Allen Poe: Died at 40. One of the greatest modern writers in history, invented the mystery, wrote classic macabre poems, knew stuff about ravens and pendulums and stuff. Me: I can barely read. Advantage: Poe.

Bruce Lee: Died at 32. Played Kato in The Green Hornet, had a famous son who also died young, knew a few karate moves. Me: I can't sneeze without throwing my back out. Advantage: Lee.

Jean-Michel Basquiat: Died at 27. Graffiti-artist-turned-great post-modernist/neo-expressionist painter, influenced a whole generation of self-taught artists, had the Lenny Kravitz look stone cold before anyone new who Lenny Kravitz was. Me: I don't even know how to write cursive anymore. Advantage: Basquiat.

I could go on and on. History, both recent and not-so-recent, is chock-full of people who probably accomplished more by the time they could pee straight than I have up to this very moment - or ever will. I guess not all of us were destined for greatness, except for maybe me, but maybe it's the reaching, the grasping, that makes us great. Think on this: everyone considers their children to be special. Your parents considered you to be special, too. If all of us were special as children, then it stands to reason we are special as adults. If all of us are special, then none of us are special. If none of us are special, at which point in our lives did we cease being special? Think about that for a while.

Me? I'll be playing with my Rubik's Cube.