Alright, so I was already in a crappy mood. I’d graciously offered to make my legendary creamy vegetable soup for my friends’ dinner, but I’d also indulged in my legendary procrastination, so I was way behind in my food prep.

Actually, I hadn’t fallen behind — I hadn’t done a damned thing. And the calculus of my lassitude was weighing heavily on me. I’d make the soup in my crock pot, and the recipe called for six hours on “low” and one hour on “high.” Ergo, seven hours en toto.

However, it was now 1:45, dinner was to be served at 7, and I was in Aldi buying the ingredients. Without going into boring detail, let’s just say it was obvious I didn’t have enough time to cook it the way it should be. Yeah, sure, I could try to compensate by putting it on “high” for several hours, so it’d be finished by 7. But it might bend up less a perfectly textured vegetable soup than a goopy mush.

As I grabbed celery, carrots and potatoes, my irresponsibility weighed on me. Rather than being the cool, calm and controlled lad I usually am, I was the psychic equivalent of a powder keg. And all it’d take for a major explosion would be one tiny spark … which just happened upon me in the person of Hizzoner, Clyde Rabideau.

As I was bruising a few tomatoes, I heard my name called.

I looked up, and there he was — Bright-eyed Clyde — diddy-boppin’ down the aisle.

“How ya doin’, Clyde,” I said.

“Pretty good,” he said, big grin plastered across his mug.

“Pretty good?” I said. “Only pretty good?”

“Yup,” he said, looking as pleased with himself as Teacher’s Pet after being chosen to erase the blackboard that afternoon.

“Ya know, I was raised to answer that question, ‘Fine, thanks, and you?'” I said. “It was never ‘Pretty good,” or “OK,” or “So-so” or any of that ilk.”

“But … but ..,” he stammered. “It’s the truth. I’m only doing pretty good.”

I felt my lip curl into a sneer of disgust.

“In the first place, Your Highness, no one gives a rat’s rear about your actual condition. Especially me,” I said.

A look of confusion and hurt crossed his features, looking like the little kid who just learned his puppy got stolen out of the front yard.

“And second,” I went on, not missing a beat, “what is it that has caused the Lord Mayor of Dogpatch to feel only ‘pretty good?'”

When I said “pretty good,” I threw in the classic two-hand, four-finger sign for quotation marks.

“Uh, well, I got pain,” he said in a small voice.

“How old are you?” I said.

“Sixty-four,” he said.

“And you got pain?”

He nodded.

“Well, good thing,” I said. “‘Cause lemme tell ya, Excellency, at your age, when the sun comes up and you’re not in pain, it means you croaked.”

I narrowed my eyes for emphasis and continued.

“Let’s face it,” I said. “Basic etiquette and civility are dead. And ya know why?”

He shrugged, obviously afraid of giving the wrong answer.

“It’s because we now live in a country of narcissists. Say to someone, ‘How ya doin’?’ and they actually tell you. Can’t just say, ‘Fine, thanks, and you?’ ’cause they don’t care about you. Uh-uh. Now it’s all about them, precious beings that they are.”

My face flushed, and I suddenly thought about my doctor warning me about my blood pressure. Still, I soldiered on.

“No one’s the least bit shy about sharing all the details of their miserable existence. They’ll gleefully tell ya the ins and outs of their hangnails and hemorrhoids and their new snowblower. And thanks to the wonders of digital photography, they’ll show ya a slew of pictures of all three on their damned phone and … and …”

With that, I ran out of steam and vitriol at the same time.

A long moment passed.

“So … uh … how you doin’?” he asked cautiously.

“Don’t ask,” I said, dismissing him with a wave of my hand.

—

Life with a capital L

—

And then, the lecture over, the dust settled and the air cleared, we proceeded to have an actual conversation. And somewhere in the middle of it, he said he’d gone to his granddaughter’s first communion that morning, and at it the priest had raised a thought-provoking question — namely: What is our purpose in life?

Clyde told me his take on it. I had no take.

I don’t know if it’s due to the two Ds I got in philosophy or simple obliviousness, but while I’ve always had small goals I worked for, I never considered myself having a purpose in life, with a capital L.

Clyde and I said our goodbyes, and the rest of the day and eve proceeded on course (except for my veggie soup, which tasted OK, but whose potatoes were more than a tad on the crunchy side). The issue of Life’s purpose was as far forgotten as my Boy Scout merit badges — both of them.

—

Night time is the right time

—

I’m a night owl and always have been, rarely to sleep before 0130, and rarely awake before 0900. In fact, I would not wake up early (that is, any time before 0900) to see a reincarnated Cleopatra signing hieroglyphic autographs in DJ’s Rustic Restaurant.

Mornings are just too busy for me. Everyone and everything is awake, hustling and bustling and raising all kinds of fuss, making thought — actual, considered, meaningful thought — impossible. On the other hand, nighttime is dark, soundless and peaceful, lacking distractions of any sort and thus perfect for contemplation. Which is not what I was doing that night at the Witching Hour. Instead, I was thumbing through a book of quotations. I have a bunch of quotation books that I look through from time to time, since I always get a new insight or two — however fleeting.

This one was arranged according to people, not subjects, and as I flipped through it, no one caught my eye, till I saw Pablo Picasso and decided to check him out.

Now a note of explanation: I don’t believe in things mystical or metaphysical. I don’t think if we do something, the universe will respond in kind. Nor do I believe in the existence of some omnipotent and omniscient being who, in the process of checking out the 7.8 billion peeps on Planet Earth, will take the time to note the life of Li’l Dopey Boy of Saranac Lake, let alone lend me a divine hand should the occasion demand it.

I’m not saying such things don’t exist — just that I don’t believe in them. I do, however, believe in coincidences, and while looking at Picasso’s entry in my quote book, I ran across a smashing one. Actually, it was the first quote in the section.

Here’s what ole Pablo said: “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”

That quote reminded me of what Clyde had said, and I mulled over it quite a while. In fact, I’m still mulling over it.

And as a result, have I figured out if I have a purpose in life? And if I do, what is it?

Not at all. But it seems like a good place to start.