I’m on the clock. Ready, set, go.

No, I’m not chugging beers for New Year’s Eve. Hell, I haven’t even had a beer yet and it’s already 6:21 p.m., although I am drinking some Gluhwein that Sugar Mama found at the beer & wine shop. It’s just like what we had in Prague and Berlin last year during our Christmas trip. Considering it’s only 24 degrees out here in Chesapeake, Va., it goes well. It was actually warmer in Prague this time last year.

No, I’m on the clock because it’s time to write.

And, yeah, I know all four of you reading this are thinking, “Sure. We’ve heard that line before. He says he’s going to write all the time and doesn’t. Whatever.” That’s totally valid, too. I have only four blog posts in the past 12 months. Unfortunately though, time isn’t on my side.

Wait. Stop. Just quit. Before I get a call from my mom asking if I’ve got the cancer or something, the answer is no. I’m as fine as I’ve ever been. No known health issues other than a constant, nagging craving for cookies and Budweiser. But after 46 years of that, I assume it’s just normal for everyone to crave those together, right?

No, it’s time to write because this year, this fucking shit-tastic year that has been 2017, has taught us all that we don’t know how much time we have here on this Earth with each other. We don’t get to set the rules like we thought we did when we were in high school or college, when our nights drug into days and weekends into weeks, stretching us beyond our limits physically because, you know, we owned the fucking night. We did what we wanted and who the hell was going to stop us? Or at least some of us thought — and acted — like that. And we don’t get to put off what we should be doing today just because of careers or kids or whatever we do in our 20s and 30s to allow ourselves to “grow up”, become an “adult”, or to escape from it.

No, there’s no time left, and I’m not saying that in a dire, world-is-ending tone. It’s said in a tone of defiance that my 19-year-old self would actually be proud of. It’s said in the way that, because the world says we should do this, I’m going to fucking do whatever is opposite. Just because. And really, it’s because there’s no time left if I want what I have to say to be heard.

Losing Dwin and Chuck has been hard on everyone in my circle. I can still hear the gasps on the other end of the phone when I called to say Dwin was dead. I learned so much about his relationships with other people after that that made me not only feel better than ever about him, but about the world we live in — or at least the world we live in when it includes guys like him in it. And I saw true brotherhood in the way Chuck’s memory was taken care of after he left us. Even though I wasn’t there for his memorial, I know he was done proud, and that’s because he was our brother, and loved and cherished as such.

Closer to home, the fucking death-o-meter was cranked to 100-plus on us in 2017 with my step dad passing away in February and then Sugar Mama’s father in October.

It’s funny. I never, even in my mind, never ever called Frosty anything other than “Frosty” when he was alive. Surely never “step dad.” While we grew closer later in life, he scared the ever-living shit out of me when I was a kid visiting their house occasionally. He was this massive, bigger-than-life former Marine (although, “Once a Marine, always a Marine” as I learned much later in our late-night, once-a-year talks when I came home for poker weekend). I think back and wish at times I would have listened to him more when he did have some input into my life. It wasn’t often but as I get older, I know he was only offering what he thought was best for me, always watching out for me as if I was his own. He always treated me like his own even if I didn’t acknowledge it well. I just had to be a jackass and do it my way, but I’m glad by the end he and I, at least I think, had an understanding that went something like this: “Here’s what you should have done, but be your own man and do what you want. Just own up to it. And I’ll still love you anyway.” I can live like that, although it’ll be hard next year coming home for CCMP and not getting to talk about the Cubs and Bears for hours. Well, by talking I mean scream over the 103,398-decibel volume on the TV, but you know what I mean.

And with Kenneth, that same respect resided. He was 30 years in the Navy, willing to do something I was never strong enough to take on. He was a good, good man and I can’t even fathom my life if he had not had such beautiful daughter. I miss our talks from when we first moved up here, and especially from when we’d visit before when he was healthy. He had a simple way of speaking the truth and enjoying life, and I liked that so much.

It sucks that there was no time left with them. It was their time. That’s all it was. We can’t stop it, just like we can’t stop it when our time comes. So, for this new year, I have to take advantage of what time I have, be it a week or 35 years (and FYI, anyone who thinks I’m a cranky dickhead now, just wait until I’m 81). And that means doing what I just did here. I took 30 minutes to write something. The truth is though, I’m so scared shitless of sharing what I write most of the time, that a lot of it gets wasted. That’s why I am going to do this and anyone reading this can help keep me accountable: I’m going to write 30 minutes every day. Doesn’t matter if I post it that day; I just have to write it. I have to write now. And then, every now and then, post the good stuff. And feel free to ask me what I wrote that day. Maybe it’ll prompt me to do more.

Luckily, I have a great topic to write about, although it’s not as great as normal. And yes, I mean that I normally write about me. No, I have been doing something on the side that needs to be written about someone else and his unique travels through life, and it’s time to tell that story. So, starting today, with this blog, I’m going to write 30 minutes a day and going forward, I’ll use that time to get his story told.

And I’ll write about some more of the things around me. There are plenty of stories, like the picture at the top of this page. That’s from 25 years ago tonight, New Year’s Eve of 1992. Maybe some day I’ll be able to remember that night and share it in my 30-minute writing session. Too bad for tonight I’ll just have to stick with my Gluhwein and ring in hopefully a better year with 2018.

Here’s to you having time to do what you really need to do in the coming year as well.