Captain’s Log: Stardate 10514.2
With my 39th birthday just a few months ahead marking my foray into the last of my 30’s, I never really considered myself old. I mean, I named a sailboat after a science fiction spaceship – how old can I be?

There I go confusing age with maturity again.

Nevertheless, my seemingly firm grasp at childhood was loosened significantly this past weekend at the Honda dealership in Mount Kisco -- an insulting moment that forces me to request that no member of the Enterprise crew, member of Starfleet or anyone else in the quadrant ever give them an ounce of business.

While looking at the Civic and Accord, the salesman came up to me and asked if I was buying a car for my son.

Now it could be said that he saw me drive up in my Xterra or that I looked so sophisticated that I didn’t look like I was the right fit for someone to be looking at an Accord or Civic.

No. I looked like someone old enough to have a son. A driving-age son.

Right now, you’re saying: Well, he is almost 39 and if he had a son when he was 21, then... Shut Up! Shut Up! Shut Up! I don’t want to hear it.

Helm, set a new course: Second star to the right and straight on until morning.