October 24th, 2008


An Ode To Neverland

By the way, I'm not talking about Michael Jackson's man-boy wonderland whose property I once peed on oh so many road trips ago. I'm talking about THE Neverland. The Never-Neverland. It exists, don't you know. It exists ... right down there in the heart of Tacoma.

You remember that movie Hook? Robin Williams, Dustin Hoffman, the kid from What About Bob? Then you know the deal. When you're in Neverland, you don't age. You can stay a kid forever. There are no rules, no parents, no consequences (well, some consequences, but shit man, you can still fly and hang out with bomb-ass Julia Roberts fairies). You can eat what you want, you can stay up as late as you want, and you can have as many friends over as you want.

That's what it's like living at The Hammer's. It Is Awesome. Kitchen is always stocked, lots of cable Internet, lots of DVDs and games.

You can stay up and drink, watch movies, and as long as you don't disturb The Hammer's sleep too much, you can be as loud and boisterous as you want. You could truly live there for the rest of your life and feel like you've never aged a day.

As long as you're able to stay In The Moment, there's no better place on Earth in which to live. But, there's always a downside to every paradise.

If you're like me, then you have a very indulgent personality. It's nobody's fault but my own, but when I'm confronted with an endless bounty of all the things I love, then I'm going to eat, drink, and watch the shit out of those things until I'm horribly out of shape and irrevokably unproductive.

Plus, there's like no cool way to tell chicks, "Yeah, I'm living at home with my dad. But it's cool, because I can totally stay out as late as I want. You wanna come over and look at my football card collection???" I mean seriously, they take one look at my complete 1988 Topps set and ask me if this is my sister's football card collection. Apparently, having mint-condition Bo Jackson and Brian Bozworth rookie cards doesn't get the ladies wet like they used to.

That's the thing about living in Neverland - or, as I'm petitioning to get it renamed, Hammerland - you don't age. You don't grow up. Maybe not literally, but definitely ... the other kind. Spiritually? I dunno. All I know is, there comes a time when you've got to start wiping your own ass, and if you're not making your own way when you're on the downslide into 30, then there's something seriously wrong with your mental makeup. Flying around, getting into adventures with the Lost Boys is cool and all when you're still a boy, but eventually without even trying you fucking grow up, wrecking the whole sweet gig you had going for you.

But, luckily, I'm a man. And as a man, I'm not expected to really ACT like a man all the time. Most women see us as giant boys anyway, what with our proclivity to crude humor, mindless sporting events, and television shows featuring anyone in bikinis, running, or running while in bikinis.

So, you can take the Steven A. Taylor out of Neverland, but you'll never take the Neverland out of Steven A. Taylor. As long as there's a Friday and/or a Saturday with nothing to do, I'll be there. As long as there's a bowling league, I'll be there. And as long as there's an unstable financial market forcing me into unemployment, you're sure as shit I'll be there.

There's nothing like a good security blanket to make you feel at ease in a world that's going to shit. When the Chinese finally come calling for a return on their loan, you better believe I'm grabbing a bat and a machete and hightailing it down to the Hammer's to hunker down and hack the limbs off of all the zombies trying to eat our brains.