In my very early teens, I scribbled notes on school desks to communicate with Landon’s luscious ladies. (Speaking eye-to-eye was unimaginable.) I knew the act was wrong, but societal guidelines were to blame.
A mid-teen decision was to hide my friend’s quad. His brother, Little Sweetie, habitually parked it in an empty field adjacent a busy Broadway, causing crooks to salivate. I knew it was wrong—and a subsequent police report confirmed this—but I placed blame on the naivete and irresponsibility of his brother.
Thank heavens humans grow beyond this childish blame game. Otherwise, we'd never hear the end of blaming the likes of Katrina or Sandy, Fannie or Freddie. It would become languishing listening to blames on bosses or Barry, government or gun owners. The 1% would be blamed nonstop! And every other poor decision or misfortune would be blamed on parents, kids, competitors, Wall Street, the devil, discrimination, fame, inequality, God, gas prices, weight, war, love, hate, limited quantities, debt, disabilities, genetics, aesthetics, schooling, weather, marriage, heritage, sleepless nights, the sniffles, or the cough.
It would grow old.
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