Are we sloppy, you and I? Have all Americans become loaded with junk in their homes? Is it us, or does everyone do this? Do Canadians and Mexicans have clutter? Do the English have as many keepsakes? Do the French keep old clothes the way we do? Do Russians hold onto cups and containers? (Empty vodka bottles don’t count.)

It’s difficult to imagine cavemen and women keeping mementos in side caves or having a life full of cartons they brought when they moved but will never open. At least part of the reason for this is that it was long before the invention of the garage, a room which, as we all know, has very little to do with cars and everything to do with clutter, an impossible amount and category of things we will never use or look at.

It can’t be a coincidence that the words “garage” and “garbage” have only one different letter. (In fact, that “b” was probably moved into “garage” when Dr. Johnson moved into his first house.)

I’m very neat about personal habits, and so is my wife, but sadly, we’re both sloppy, cluttered people. (She’s much, much worse than me, though, and if she has a different opinion, she can start her own blog.)

But I’ll tell you what, I am sitting now in my office downstairs, and believe me, the main drop off room at Good Will is neater than this. I tell myself it’s mostly books, and you can’t throw out books, but that’s baloney. There are a lot of books here, yes, but ninety percent of the things stacked around me are not books, but “stuff”, the stuff we save and don’t throw out, the stuff we’ll never look at, the stuff that grows like mold. (At least mold is hidden.)

Uh-oh, wait. My wife just walked by with a drink and the dog through my office into hers, and I thought, for once, she was going to lean over my shoulder to read what I’m writing and would see that crack about her being sloppier than me. I would’ve denied it and claimed it was a letter from one of you. (By the way, if we all ever meet someday, please don’t tell her I occassionally make snide, little remarks. You and I know I’m exaggerating and kidding, but she’ll get mad, and then I’ll have to come live with you, and move all my clutter with me, and your clutter and mine will kill us both and take over your house and pretend to be us. Hey, that might make a good story, like “The Matrix.”)

Why do we all do this? Did our ancestors have clutter? Did Martha Washington ever insist that George just clean out his workshop the way he promised? Did pioneer families load useless things into those wagons? It’s difficult to imagine they had room in sod houses for useless items.

Are we just shatteringly more inefficient and sloppier than anyone in history, or I am just being too hard on us all? I have photos I’ll never put in books (and should), a cigar box without cigars, two guitars, a cello, five briefcases I can’t bring myself to throw out, a LOT of books that haven’t moved in years or ever (Somehow I just don’t think I’m going to be getting to Pliny, the Elder) plaques and small souvenirs from parts in things. (For a long time I used to ask for the nameplates from the desks of characters, you know, “Dean So-and-so” or “Detective Something-or-other”, and that’s actually some cool stuff that reminds me of things.)

Or, at least, it would remind me of those things IF I EVER LOOKED AT THEM.

But I don’t. Do you? Is all of this somehow a defense against robbers, the thought that, “If they can get through all the Norman Rockwell calendars and stacks of faxes, they deserve what they find.”

One of these days… One of these days I’ll get to all this stuff and organize it. Isn’t that what we tell ourselves? Well, no sense worrying about it, I suppose. The “one of these days” that will probably come first is when we keel over, and then all the junk won’t matter and will just pass down to our loved ones. Unless…

You don’t think there’s giant cluttered garage in heaven, do you? (Uh-oh. If there is, it might not be heaven.)

REMEMBER: IF YOU WALKED OUT OF BED TODAY AND COULD MAKE IT TO THE BATHROOM WITHOUT TRIPPING ON OLD SPORTS JERSEYS FROM YOUR UNCLE’S HIGH SCHOOL DAYS THAT YOU’RE NEVER GOING TO WEAR… FOLKS, THE GAME MAY BE OVER, BUT WE’D NEVER KNOW, BECAUSE THE CLOCKS ARE BLOCKED BY OUR JUNK.