One day, I woke up and I was thirty years old.  Actually, I was thirty-one.  I was in denial and had decided to repeat age the thirty another year, but that’s beside the point.  I woke one morning and laid in bed for a long while staring at the ceiling.  I thought about what the twenty-one-year-old Wes envisioned he’d be at age thirty.  You know, super important things; supermodel girlfriend, Lamborghini Countach, infinity pool, all that good stuff.  Yeah, none of that stuff was under my roof.  What I did have was a lot of things most people would say amount to a good life – a lovely home, a stubborn dog, and a good job. More importantly, what I had were a few things I’d learned along the way.  A few things I’d gained from my experiences.  Things the twenty-year-old me would have looked down his nose upon thirty-one-year-old me.  Some things my parents might lovingly equate to a “hard head and a soft behind.”  A few things I seem to learn over and over again.  Going forward, I will chronicle them here under the category Barneslogy – a few things I’ve picked up along the way.  Or as Biggie might say,  “A step-by-step booklet for you to get your game on track, not your wig pushed back.”