Whenever I need to cheer myself up, in the absence of beer or salty snacks, I remind myself that I’m just a babbling, snoring, lump of carbon, clinging to a ball of dirt, spinning through an endless, airless void while being bombarded by cosmic radiation, asteroids, bits of junk falling off satellites, or old rockets that we shot into orbit. Whoa, wait, you say. That’s some dark-sounding s*#%, McNessor. This is what cheers you up? No, but it reminds me of how fortunate I am to be here. So I should stop feeling sorry for myself, hop in my old truck and head to the corner store for that beer and those salty snacks at the earliest opportunity. And that cheers me up. Ahhh, you reply. Now it makes sense. Yes, and you’re welcome.

I feel a weird sense of accomplishment when I make it home and back from even the briefest ride in a 50-plus-year-old truck whose pieces were once randomly scattered among two or three garages, a basement and the closet in a spare bedroom (which is where I stashed the glass, wrapped in blankets). I’m betting you feel exactly the same way about the last project vehicle that made you wonder: Will I ever get this thing back together, or will I eventually have to cart its pieces off to the transfer station, and then take up golf or pickleball in disgrace? And just what exactly is pickleball, anyway?

When I was growing up, there was no doubt that someday soon we "humanoids" would be warping around the entire universe, getting into lightsaber duels with life forms who looked mostly human — you know, other than maybe blue skin or an extra eyeball — yet spoke the Queen’s English without the hint of an accent. But now, when I hear people talking about going to Mars I think, What’s so bad about this planet? All my favorite stuff is right here: air, water, my recliner with the decorative box next to it that The Chief bought to hide my car magazines. Plus, the UPS guy just dropped off some new lightweight body filler and this cool primer that I can’t wait to try out.

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