I purchased a gym membership, some new sneakers, some sweats (in black, to hide the flubber) and finally, downloaded a bunch of Springsteen to my iPod.  I was ready, baby!  The only thing I lacked was Burgess Meredith hollering, "Whatsa matta wit' ya Rock?!  Get your left up!  Move your feet, will ya!" while chewing a half-smoked stogie.

I figured I could hit the gym after lunch and get in a good 40-minute workout without disrupting my workday or cutting into my "Law & Order" viewing, which starts most weeknights promptly at 7 p.m.

The first 30 minutes went great; I warmed up, hit the treadmill at a reasonable pace (for someone who hasn't moved from the couch since September of last year) and put in some time on the stationary bike.

My downfall came in the weight room.  There were a bunch of young guys about my son's age in there; I'm guessing from the high school weightlifting team, which trains afternoons at the gym.  Now, I'd been sensible up to this point, not wanting to overdo my first day, as I have been known to in the past.

But - how do I put this? - have you ever seen one of those National Geographic specials on "The Lions of Africa" or "The Great Apes of Borneo?"  There's always one lion or monkey, usually older than the rest of the animals, who - owing to his physical prowess or generally bad-ass attitude, leads the pack.  That old monkey, for whatever primal reason, feels he simply must assert himself and establish dominance.

Today, I was that monkey.

I usually lift pretty regularly, and as recently as last summer I could bench nearly 300 pounds without my eyeballs popping out of my head.  I figured, how far downhill could I have gone in just nine short months?

Far, as it turns out.

I loaded up the bar with about 240 pounds, reclined on the bench and - without a spotter - hefted it off the supports.  It seemed far heavier than I remembered from last summer, but still, getting it down to my chest was a piece of cake.

The upward journey was considerably more troublesome.  I grunted, I strained, I quite possibly wet myself slightly.  But eventually the bar made the long trip from my chest back to its point of origin.

I made some lame-o comment about, "Oh, geeze, I guess I should warm up a little first," to the young bucks who had gathered 'round to set odds on when the old guy's heart would give out.  Then I did a few sets with some barbells, not too heavy, just to keep up appearances.

I managed to get my coat on and get out the door without weeping openly, but it was a close thing.

My arms hurt for awhile, but now I can hardly feel them at all.  In fact, to type this, I've been forced to duct tape my wrists to the base of my keyboard; without the tape my hands keep slipping off the desk to hang limply by my sides.

It may take a couple days before I'm ready for the gym again.  But at least all those guys in the weight room know who the head monkey is!  I may not be as strong as a great ape, but I'm almost certainly as smart as one.

It's tough being a rap-loving honky.  I'm not a huge fan or anything, but there's a lot of rap and hip-hop I enjoy, just like I enjoy blues, rock & roll, funk, soul, opera, country & western and yes - if there's a beer in front of me - even a polka now and then.

I've been a more or less professional musician for over 30 years (and by professional, I mean people give me money to make music, even when it's not especially good - suckers!).  In that time, I've played pretty much every genre known to western man.  Well, not opera or anything else that requires more than three chords, but you get the idea.

The band I work with these days, The Guinness Brothers, is certainly capable of doing some rap, but there's no way we'd be able to get away with it.  Why?  Lyrics, mostly, coupled with my skin color.  The two don't go well together.

Take one of my favorite rap tunes, "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta," by the Geto Boys.  It's got a smooth, tight groove I really like, some cool sampled sounds ... it's good music.

I'd love to do that one with the band, but it's never going to happen.  I was raised by very white, very liberal parents, who also happened to be very Catholic, and there were certain words that never got said around my house.  Most of them are included in the lyrics of "Damn it Feels Good to be a Gangsta."

There's the "D" word, the "A" word, the "C" word, the "P" word, the almighty "F" word ... and the word no right-minded, over-40 honky is supposed to say, ever, ever, ever: the "N" word.  The "N" word figures very prominently in the song, and to be honest with you, I'm a little uncomfortable with it even when sung by the Geto Boys.

I could "clean up" the song for the mostly middle-class, college-graduate, gin-and-tonic-drinking audiences we usually play for, but I think it would lose a lot of it's impact.  Check it out:

"Golly it feels good to be a gangsta; A real gangsta-fannied African American plays his cards right; A real gangsta-bootied person of color never runs his silly mouth; 'Cause real gangsta-tushed African Americans don't start fights..."

Nope, it just don't work, folks.  And any "gangsta" - especially a white wannabe - who rapped those lyrics in public would no doubt soon find himself with a cap in his patootie.

So it looks like I'm going to be sticking with James Brown and B.B. King if I decide I simply must channel my inner urbanite of color.  That's okay, I guess.  Just don't ask me to play a polka.  Not without a beer nearby, at least.

There!  I finally have this damnable blog set up the way I want it.  Spent half the day figuring the bastard out, but now it's done.  I feel like I should kill a fatted calf, sacrifice a chicken beneath the light of a full moon, and burn the whole mess on a pagan alter out in the back yard.

Seriously, why in the name of all that's holy should it be this hard to drop a few pieces of art into a simple template?

Of course, maybe it's not this hard for everyone.  Maybe it's just me.  I hate to think I'm finally turning into one of those "old guys" that has to get his kid to program the Tivo for him, but I suppose it's possible.

A mere ten years ago, I was still on the cutting edge of computer "stuff."  I was familiar with the latest versions of all the best software packages, I could impress my boss by fixing minor connectivity problems around the office.  I could even put together a decent PC from its component parts.

And look at me now ... spending three hours figuring out how to upload a lousy Sistine Chapel graphic!  It's tragic, really.

On the other hand, it's a bit liberating, too.  The way things are going, in a few years I'll be able to get all the tech assistance I need by just standing around a Circuit City looking dazed and confused.

When I think about it, in fact, why the hell should I bother learning every new tech trick that comes out?  It's not like I'm trying to romance Bill Gates.  I wanna be to technology what my wife is to auto mechanics: helpless.  When the car breaks, she's not the one out there lying on the cold ground getting a faceful of dirt and grease while trying to wrangle off a rusted muffler clamp!  She's inside, drinking tea and thinking how nice it is to be mechanically inept!

From now on, that's me, baby!  I hereby declare myself "upgrade resistant."  I will not learn Vista.  I will not set up my own wireless router.  I will hire some kid from the neighborhood to do all that for me from now on.

I'm old, dammit!  Older than dirt.  And I'm going to start enjoying it.