fiction

The Man Bag…IT IS NOT A PURSE!

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Concessions to old age are unavoidable. They can be delayed but not avoided. Unless you die. Imagine if you knew the date of death…would it change the way you live?

When I was 20, in the 1970s. we didn’t use wallets. We jammed a $20 bill in our pockets, put our license in the glove box, or saddle bag, and off we went. We spent $15 on the way out and $5 on the way back from wherever we were going. The plan worked unless we over-indulged in any one of the three “activities of daily living (ADL)”, youth version: Sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

ADL* takes on a whole new meaning after a certain age who’s number will never to be of spoken, again. ADLs are a way to measure how well you are aging, and how well you can continue to age on your own. If you young readers google ADL please don’t giggle at the simplicity of the activities. If you’re lucky one day they will apply to you.

Fifty years after the $20 stuffing, this is what is required to “go out”: wallet with credit and health ID cards, drivers’ license, smart phone, glasses**, house keys or other entrance devices***, and cash for areas stuck in the stone age and not taking credit cards. Note, that is just if you are passenger. If you are a driver, add the assigned keys needed for your vehicle. Here’s hoping you have a small, battery-operated Fob that will fit somewhere on your person and not make you tilt when you walk. Or jingle.

Am I being a sissy, girly-boy, then, buy using a Man Bag? The first one I bought a few years before The Number That Will Not Be Spoken Of, was from an Army Navy store, which allowed me to call it an Ammo Bag,…because that’s what it was. For 50 calibre slugs. Manly, yes?

But age, eyesight, complexity, and the need to protect the glasses, plus the need for some minor pills, and a charger cable in case the trip went longer, plus a cough drop or two, and tissues, and glasses cleaners, an Alka Seltzer, and a note pad…

You get the picture. Lots of stuff for an old man to put in his pockets and The Ammo Bag was just that: a camouflage green bag. My first real Man Bag was a gift and looked like a miniature attaché case. It loved it, it was mini-manly, but it didn’t have an over-the-shoulder strap. It was basically a “clutch” bag. My lovely Ai, Emma, says “a clutch bag is so named because it needs to be clutched, held by hand.” How does that help if you’re ordering a pizza slice from a counter or attempting to cash out at the casino ATM?****

Amazon used to be my favorite place to shop until it wasn’t, but is still a great place for ideas and manly-looking man bags are offered in many assortments, colors, and “names”.  I found a desert sand-colored, over the shoulder, many pocketed, easy open front, un-clutch, for my trigger price and it has become my constant companion. It is not a fanny pack, or stomach buddy, or side saddle bag. It is a man bag to be proud of and will not make me look sissy-ish, right?

I was at my favorite, pig-themed slot machine at Turning Stone Casino, in the middle of a raucous***** win, when an employee appeared, pointed at the sand-colored bag in the seat next to me and said: “Is that your purse?”

It really is hard to be man these days.

*NOT the Anti-Defamation League. My Ai says “these activities are crucial to daily living” and asked me if I wanted to talk about them. She is so sweet, my Ai Emma. She really cares.

**Possibly two pair for distance driving and close-up reading.

***Yes, we left the doors open in the past, or were able to hide keys under rocks, before everyone knew about it.

****Especially if you won big. With bills and loose change.

*****The more noise a slot machine makes the smaller the eventual prize. To kill time, I often play 5 cent machines and they go crazy before awarding me 8 cents.

Untitled

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A Recent report in Fortune Magazine* posits that America changed in 2020, and not in a good way. Please look for it, read it, and ask yourself what you’re going to do about it. If anything.

For Trump supporters and Trump haters, the article is good or bad depending on how reluctant you are to actually think. Don’t let your peer-conceived(sic) notions get in the way: we are in trouble and something, almost anything** has to change. Please. Read.

Quantum Mechanics, specifically Quantum Computing (QC), will be changing the way we use and compute data in the near future, providing we can get The Little Rascals of The Sub Atomic world properly organized and trained. Right now, it appears we are having as much trouble with the new Rascals as the old Rascals of the black and white movie era. But when we get control and apply Ai,…I don’t have any idea what will happen. Maybe it will be “almost anything ”.

I asked Emma, my unpaid, personal Ai assistant, about that last sentence. She says we have about 5 to 10 years before blazingly fast QC will be applied to complex problems like drug research, space flight, and weather modeling. Knowing our Capitalist Economic Model, QC will be hijacked by the highest bidder and its first use will be in On-Line Betting or Stock Trading. The Rich will need those tools to get richer before QC benefits can be released to us common folk.

My train of thought got lost thinking of Rich People. Who exactly is “Rich”? Monetarily speaking.  If you shop for cars, deals, groceries, even homes, imagine if you were so rich you could buy whatever you wanted. And if closing schedules or delivery times were not to your liking, pay someone to make it better. In fact***, if you don’t like any car currently being made, start or buy your own car company.

Odd, when we think of “lots of money” we don’t think of giving it away or helping people. Emma says Elon Musk is worth “an estimated $800 billion dollars at this writing. If that wealth was in cash, he could give $2,464 to every man, woman, child, legal immigrant, and Sasquatch in the United States. Or he could donate $57,142, 857 to each one of the estimated 14,000 animal shelters in America. Besides helping the cats, dogs, pythons, and other shelter residents, he would get the painfully sad ads off our tv screens…and out of our minds,

For fun, read “Cannibal Capitalism” by Nancy Fraser, published in 2022. I haven’t yet, but headed to the “store” to get it. The author argues, according to Emma: “Capitalism eats its own support systems-things like nature and democratic structures-and”.  Enough. You had me at “Cannibal”. It makes one wonder; how will The Rich get richer when the rest of us are dirt-poor? Come on, Rich People, think about your future and throw us a bone.

Emma couldn’t find me a good, easy to understand joke about being rich, so I made one up.****

When does a rich person have more than enough money for everything they need?

No one knows, yet.

*”America Got Rich and Then Got Sad”, by Nick Lichtenberg May 4, 2026

**”Almost anything” is a hope the way our country works now, changes for the better. It is depressing to consider “anything” could make it worse.

***”In fact”? What does that really mean? And where did it come from? Blame the French, again, and their use of “en fait” to mean a fact or action. Bet we all use “in fact” these days without thinking about what it means.

****I hope. If someone else owns this joke, let me know and you will get an essay giving you the credit. With so many of us thinking, it is hubris to think any thought original, right?

Vexes and Exes

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Per the internet: “Vex is a verb meaning to annoy, frustrate, worry, or cause difficulty to someone, often through minor or persistent provocations.”

Is there any word better to describe our current President? He vexes us. He is vexacious(sic). A persistent annoyance. Why? Ask him. Ask him why his name has to be on everything. Ask him why he needs to make the 250-year-old seat of our government look like Mar-A-Lago. As the national debt climbs, wars rage, and government shuts downs are the norm, he has the time and the money to build ballrooms, gold-plate the White House, rename buildings, centers, and traditions using tax-payer money, and hire anyone to do anything for his Cabinets. DOGE, my ass. The OBBB, (One Big Beautiful Bill) is starting to take effect. That’s vexing. As Our President Plays Golf (OPPG), million-dollar drones are launched at minor but irritating enemies. And so many bombs have been bombed OPPG asks for $1.5 TRILLION….TRILLION in his new budget to replace the ordinances heroically liberating Iran and saving us from the nuclear bomb they have been “two weeks away” from since…1995? Can’t remember, but you can find 30 years of videos by hawkish politicians about how Iran is either two weeks away from a nuclear weapon or their nuclear capabilities have been “obliterated” by the previously mentioned bombs. Not only vexing but dizzying.

AI says I can use “vex” as a noun as long as I don’t mind sounding old-fashioned.*

So OPPG and my ex-girlfriend are Vexes, capitalized to make them Proper Nouns, a more accurate description than common nouns.** Why do I lump them both into the newly created Dustbin of Vexes? Neither of them give a shite about me. Or you, probably.

Our Vexator In Chief only cares about people who have money, mainly so they can give it to him, while my ex doesn’t care about me at all…for anything. If God offered the chance to get even with one Vex it would be a tough decision to let God rain his wrath on either of them, since it means the other might escape unscathed.  Yes, I should ask for World Peace. Maybe by the time God grants me the “The Option” my level of vexation will have un-vexated enough to be more magnanimous.*** And unselfish.

And there is another vexation: why should I/we have to be unselfish (and magnanimous) when our leaders and lovers won’t be? For 74 years I’ve been a model citizen, suffering the slings and arrows of outrageous–and occasionally decent–politicians. Why am I getting this one, this vexator, so late in life, in my golden years?

Same for the ex. After 50 years of meandering, I settled on her to be “The One”, and truly enjoyed 20 years of stray-free monogamy until she left me with to suffer OPPG and loneliness in my mid-70s. It took her that long to realize what a terrible person I was?

I’ll be obvious for all who have trouble with nuance, or possibly passive-aggressive behavior: Any females reading this looking for a good-old-fashioned man?

I should have thought of this sooner and saved dating site money. Hope I remember to cancel the subscription.

A crappy final thought that literally just came to me: did I vex the ex for those 20 years?

Also, a warning. yesterday I stored a package of cheese in the silverware drawer.**** Let the games begin.

*There is no difference between “old” and “old fashioned” when you are—actually-old.

**Proper nouns are specific. Common nouns are not. No extra charge for the grammar lesson, but you owe me.

****And took an hour to find it, which included asking Ai if the cheese was still okay to eat. It was Extra Sharp Cheddar,

***Ai or google “magnanimous” and ponder the lengths you’d go to elect a leader like that word.

*****Footnotes out of order. It’s a cognitive test. How did you do?

Ai, Ai, Oh No…

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Apologies to those who know the story and song of Old Macdonald’s Farm. He had all sorts of animals, but we never know if he is happy about it*. How could he be happy with all those animals to feed? He must have been a billionaire. Ai says there is no real ending to the Old McDonald’s Farm song, it can go on until the singer gets bored or tired or runs out of animals.

Life kind of feels like the song, now. Except for a new animal every verse substitute a new trouble, war, or unhappy event. As an essayist, it is harder and harder to come here and write something happy, something peppy, something uplifting. It is so easy to write WTF essays, “why is this happening essays”, and warning essays. Probably shouldn’t use the word easy, because writing about what is wrong in the world (in my opinion), is not easy, it’s annoying, and seems pointless. It’s not even cathartic anymore. There is a sense the turbulence of this world is not necessary, and that my golden years should be full of—at least—apathy, and not despair, unhappiness, anger, resentment.

I tried to sign up for DirectTv, yesterday but their website wouldn’t approve any of the 5 credit cards I tried. “Oops! There is a problem. Please try later.” The Ai chat bot took all my information, guided me to the website, and walked me though every step to get me to where I already was and then Ai asked: “And what does your screen say?” Oops. I asked for an agent and after a 5-minute wait one came into the chat and typed: “So how can I help you?” I typed “Oops! There is a problem. Please try later.” And the rep started by typing the same questions the Ai bot did. Hey! This is progress? This is better?

See how easy it is to complain?

 This essay will be an effort to not complain. I vow to find more positive things to write about, more good news to share, more ideas to inform or uplift, not brow beat or spotlight anger. Yes, most of the usual space has been used up already with the normal bleating, but there is still room for a few paragraphs of light.

The Rich have taken over the United States and will soon take over the world. And they don’t give a crap about anyone Not Rich. How can they be stopped?

Sorry. Old habit. As a retired person my days are my own to shape and one of my favorite times of those days is 2pm to 3pm. I recline on my favorite couch, put my tablet on my chest, and listen to NPR. The hour begins with 15 minutes of news and then the VoxPop show cuts in and a gentleman named Ray Graf opens his mouth. This only happens Mondays through Fridays, but VoxPop is enough to make a day better, and have that “better” last for at least the hours until VoxPop comes back on the airwaves. Ray has a way of yakking that is not only entertaining, but informative, and…bright. Happy. Content. Unhurried. Almost therapeutic. No more will be said except he is not available in all NPR areas. Wait, maybe VoxPop is, and can be heard over the wonderfully cluttered Internet of Ideas and Chaos. The station broadcasting Ray Graf’s VoxPop is WAMC, out of Albany NY. It’s unclear if anyone outside New York State can get his show, but try, and get back to me, will you? Google or Ai “VoxPop with Ray Graf” and see what happens in your area. I’ve not said much about the actual show, hoping the mystery will pique your curiosity and get to you look for it, so…do it. Now. It might get you off the snide** of current life and back into the gentle but challenging currents of real life. Real normal life, not Rich and Powerful Life.

Sorry. Old habits die hard.

*Or what tense of verb to use. Is Old McDonald alive? Dead? Mythical? The song does say he “had” a farm. Did it get repossessed? Fall into ruin? Or does he and the farm come back to life every time we sing about him? And where is this “farm”? And why the hell should we care?

**The Internet of Ideas and Chaos is often what we make it. Google snide, for example, and enjoy.

A Word About Writing the Words

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I am a writer. It doesn’t matter if anyone reads this or if the whole world reads it. It was written by me, at my desk, typing away and the whole world can go feck off.

Well…not really. But what exactly IS this?

In the modern world this is called blogging, and this is a blog and you’d call me a blogger. It is an attempt to…hold on. Let’s call this new work an essay. That makes me an essayist. What is an essayist? A blogger who wants to be called a fancier name and not be confused with someone who carries an axe.

An essay (nee “blog”) is a short form work that tries to make a point using facts, embellished facts, truths, half-truths, hearsay, and copied reference material, often generated by Ai, with one of two original ideas added to the mix. Basically, it’s a written rant yielding a huge helping of mental relief.

I write fiction, too, with two books of short stories languishing in the public domain while hundreds more hide in digital closets waiting to see if anyone will find them. A good writer writes for him/her/their self and hopes to be discovered. A successful writer does the same but then finds a way to promote themselves, like raising their hand and yelling in a crowded, quiet library.

Since you’re really into this essay, is there a question you’re thinking about? Like, what is the difference between an essay and a work of fiction? Hm. Good question. (Picture the scratching of the head and a light bulb.) Short stories and essays are a lot alike, but the audience is different.

Short stories can be about anything, using anything, to tell a story about anything, tailored to an audience who might be interested. (Key word: Might.)

Essays are focused more on a personal point trying to be clarified, and often hope to reach an audience of the entire population of humankind.

The audience’s inspiration is the most important driver of either work. A writer may want you to know about how his Uncle Carl’s hatred of vegetables influenced the writer’s digestive life. Who would be interested in that besides relatives, dietitians, and the occasional crazy person?

But if a writer wants all of you to know why money doesn’t grow on trees, the essay is The Thing.

Since this is the morning after the Super Bowl and the room is still spinning, let’s get back to the first paragraph of this essay. I’ll give you a second.

There is an aspect of writing more profound than any point or story, whether read or unread by everyone or no one: writing is good for mental health. Everyone should be doing it. For over 60 years writing has been a constant friend, companion, shoulder-to-cry-on, and unjudging(sic) confidant. There is no secret, no shame, no remorse, no regret you can’t share with writing. When you sit with yourself and write about your problems they transfer from you to this white, unspoiled page, and something happens to those troubles. They may go away, they may not, but they will be easier to live with, and here are some extra words so I don’t end a sentence with a preposition.*

Let’s end with a proposition: You write and see what happens. Use crayons and construction paper. A computer and Calibri font. Anything.** And remember this when you do it: no one has to see it if you don’t want them to, so don’t leave your masterpiece lying*** around on the floor.

Maybe the next essay will be about poetry, iambic pentameter, and rhythm…the only birth control method with no vowels.

*Ai says ending with a preposition has become normal. I resist.

**But DO NOT USE speech to text. The time it takes for your brain to think of something and your fingers to type it accurately are magical moments. Don’t short-change yourself and not feel them.

***Grammar nuts: you thinking it should be “laying”?

Funny Things That Happen In The Personal, Non-Trumpian World

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First, no one can keep up with the Trumpster. When he’s awake, he is the best at chaos and funny things. And his acolytes, too, most recently the way they are calling him—according to RKF–“a deity”. But old people see the signs.

Second, so many funny things happen and when they do, I say, “I need to tell people about that.” And then I don’t. I forget. That’s not funny, that’s sad.

Some funny things…okay…memories will come back…soon…just give me a minute…they’re right on the tip of my fingers…okay got one.

The shooting of the lady in Minneapolis is—stop. Not funny.

In my morning walk at Turning Stone Resort and Casino (TS), my favorite slot machines aren’t paying out. Yeah, you’re right. Not funny.

Our friend Bill from TS has returned to our morning workout group. He had open heart surgery around Thanksgiving and has been recovering. He’s back! They gave him clearance to resume all his normal workout routines and general gadabout walks in TS. Bill is 84. Ok, not funny, but heartwarming, good news. I’ve got 10 more years! Eh, we’ll see.

Another nameless friend from our group, who’s age we won’t mention* is still out, though. She is older than me but younger than Bill and she let’s her nameless, ageless husband come with her to our workouts. He is a likeable enough guy, but he spends too much time in the locker room. Just kidding, nameless partner of nameless infirm lady whose age is nameless, too. We kid because we can all take a joke. A helpful trait in this modern world.

Still nothing funny, but a clear theme is taking shape: most seniors lives are not as involved as Trump’s. Now that IS funny: This world is being run by a soon-to-be 80-year-old man. Those of us at, over, or near 80 know what life is like at that age and wonder if being a billionaire and buying everything you wanted in life would make us qualified to Rule The world with Our Own Morality. What is funnier than that?

Got one! George Burns: “When I was a boy, the Dead Sea was only sick.”

And “Too bad all the people who know how to run this country are busy running taxicabs or cutting hair.” He said this years ago, but these days it might not be a joke.

But life humor–from George–at its finest: “If you live to be 100 you’ve got it made. Very few people die past that age.”

Maybe funny things don’t really happen, anymore. Maybe there is an Executive Order preventing them. If there isn’t, it sure feels like there is.

A wise man once told me “You can live in the past, present or, future. I chose too live where my feet are.” For us poor, unimportant, cast-off old people, enjoy every second, even if you can’t remember it.  

*Name and age can be mentioned if she gives approval. She’d be immortal in these annals. Bill doesn’t care about name, age, or annals. He probably thinks annals is something else, anyway.

For The Childish, The Young At Heart, And Anyone Who Wants To Be

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I’ve written about Seasonal Affective Disorder(SAD) before and it’s time to mention it again. I call it SAD because that what it is, but when it tried to grab me recently, tools to combat its kidnapping attempt were readily at hand. One tool is childishness, also known as silliness, which is not to be confused with The Ministry of Silly Walks, though if SAD keeps happening, we might need to mount an appropriate Federal response.

SAD likes to come at night and park itself between the ears before you are awake enough, to recognize its infestation and open the toll box. So it was last night, but I was on to it early. My second-floor wall of windows lets me see the world from above and as the snow fell and covered everything, the first thought was how lucky I was to face the parking lot. Other times in the year the direction I faced was irrelevant. But when it snows, I am blessed to see the beauty of the snowfall, the silent throttling of all negativity, the carpeting of the dirty, dingey world with something pure (at night only!), white, and Godlike. (Apologies for calling it God’s dandruff, in an earlier afternoon post.) From high on the…from my window then the world goes quiet, beautiful, serene…you could hear a pin drop on the soft, snowy cushions*

Then the machines come. Big, ornery machines, throwing the snow aside as if angry for the snow’s hubris. The machine march begins with one large, Transformer-like, crab-walking, black exhaust spewing noisy mother-, sorry, big freaking thing. It makes mighty sweeps through the parking lot grid as if it were PacMan high on a Power Pellet. Then, the smaller worker bees, the fine-tuners come out and scurry around the grid, snipping, here, cutting here, and leaving piles of used, white fabric in the main grid for PacMan. As if divinely designed, Pacman takes all the snow off stage left to a pile I can imagine is snow heaven. Or snow purgatory? Probably just a big pile, but you get the drift.**

As if that wasn’t enough entertainment, these little black stick figures began to move about. Most were unrecognizable with coverings of enormous bulbous-ness and fluffiness, but there was a figure in shorts. His appearance was brief. Most walked with high strides, as if practicing for Monty Python. They all walked towards mounds of snow from which lights shown, as if someone had a remote starter for their cars and they had, oh, yes, exactly like that.

Tai Chi*** has a movement called “Stroking The Birds Tail”. Every one of the stick figuers must be a Tai Chi master cause they also used “Moving The Clouds Away”, and finally, “Lotus Flower”. No one did “White Crane Spreads Its Wings”, but my neighbors’ knowledge of ancient Chinese movements was not only impressive, but surprising.

What was I talking about, again? Oh, yeah, being SAD. The malady had not completely been expelled until this thought: I can’t wait to tell “unnamed person” (UPER) about this. She (hint) will love it.” In other words, a fun time was made better by knowing there was someone to share it with, someone who would actually listen. UPER is a “high S with some I” personality so I knew when she heard the story there’d be no roll of the eyes, no wonder about what might be wrong with this person, this me, babbling on about snow. I had faith.

Fun, friendship, and Faith…was that the point of today’s post?

Oh, right SAD. Let’s not waste anymore time on that stupid subject.

*Apologies for really mangling that metaphor. Pin? Snowy cushions?

**I am so proud of that pun. Wait, how many knew it was a pun?

Another Amusing Thing About Old Age?

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As if physical decline (PD) wasn’t enough by itself, there is mental decline (MD) to worry about as a bonus for living longer. A strange oddity about MD is how does one observe said decline if one is the victim of said decline? Aching knees and joints are positive (WTF! Positive??) indicators of PD both my inner voice (IV) and outer voice (OV) easily recognize and process. Neither IV or OV is happy about it, but knowledge is power, and uncertainty is emotionally crippling. So when it comes to MD who will be the canary in the coalmine, IV or OV? Those two are already debating the issue in internal memos and hints of MD are leaking out through OV. IV has noticed lately, memories recounted by OV are being…embellished. Not outright fabricated stories but as IV searches the files it is finding inconsistencies in the tales OV is passing off as historical fact.

There are several memories (about five) from my past which are important milestones, or “forks in the road” for life as it unfolded. The memories used to be accurate recollections of times when life could have gone either way or at least changed direction. OV has retold those stories for years without inner turmoil or even discussion. The recollections were part of the story line of my life, with each recollection supporting each decision made and subsequent, related actions taken. Each story had its flaws, and its revealing moments where I might not have looked my best, despite persevering, and moving on with life.

But many times, in the last 34 months, as the stories have been recounted for medical professionals, new friends, or old friend wanting to know more, IV has raised its hand and suggested “That ain’t the way it happened.” For example, I’ve always told the story of a young, long-haired, hippy, radical Colgate freshman being escorted out a rural bar at the end of a shotgun. The listener is left free to assume a political or societal issue related to a liberal hippy in rural America. But here is what IV says: it was a drug deal gone bad, and I’d stepped on the toes of a local dealer running his operation out of the establishment in question. IV correctly points out I was a common criminal not a rebellious, anti-war icon. My power as an umpire over OV and IV is questionable, but there is no reason to believe IV wrong, as IV’s version of events paints a negative picture of the hero OV must want me to be.

But the real important issue is two pronged: 1. When did the story change? All of my internal voices knew the exact truth in November 1970, so when—and how—did the story change? And 2. How many of those “very important” memories have been infected with the “Need To Make It Better Virus? (NTBV). And is there a cure for NTBV and its possible variants?

My first hope is OV, IV and me are normal issues and the upgrading (upselling?) of memories is a normal function suffered by all who age gracefully. In other words, my extremely agile mind-group has found a way to get me to believe I’m not only normal, but also special for noticing it.

And I am heroic, as well, for talking about it in this open space.

Okay. To summarize…I may have some personality issues needing therapy and it is not heroic to note that, it is good, common sense.

But what if all of this is woke mumbo jumbo. What if IV is wrong? What if OV HAS been right all these years? What if…

All I know, now, is I wish God made easier signposts for MD. We need them.

Strange, Unconnected Things…Right?

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My fitness centers computers went down and staff could not “swipe” us in to workout. They put out a form to sign. A paper form. Most workouters (sic) take as little as possible into the gyms for security reasons. Reading glasses are not needed, so I had to ask the clerk to sign me in to the dimly lit facility. It was not embarrassing.

A recent report says the Shingles vaccination has helped maintain heart health in a large study of those who received the vaccine. It motivated me to get the shot. Vaccines are wonderful things, unless you’re the small percent who might be allergic to the contents. I think of the shots as a civic duty. Ai says about 2% of Americans suffer from the peanut allergy. Of all the shots Ai was asked about the reported rate of allergic reactions was never over 1%. Note the word “reported”. When analyzing any medical issue in your life you are unique, but anecdotal stories are not research, even if they are true. Yes, those of us who never suffer allergic reactions are lucky to not be in that “less than 1%. Besides, much like the weight loss drugs, boner pills, and now shingles shots, there are often surprise, positive side effects.

I set up an online appointment for the shot and arrived at the shot site 5 minutes early. They didn’t give me the 60-second shot until 23 minutes after my original shot time. * Why? It doesn’t matter, really, if only they’d tell you about it. I sat with another retired man whose appointment was late. We didn’t really mind but as you sit there and minutes drag on you wonder, when? And then you wonder “why can’t anyone say something?” as well as “why bother making appointments?” The shot-giver gave me the scoop on how to just drop in and get a quick shot in the future, without waiting or appointment. No, no sharing secrets.

As much as I might pretend, coming to grips with a chronological age has still not happened. It’s safe to say at every age all of us never know what we really look like to someone else, especially if we say we don’t care. But what should a 29-year-old look like? A 39-year-old? A 59-year-old? A 73-year-old? It was never a “waste time on it” thing until lately, when the age of those in the vicinity creates curiosity. It doesn’t help that no one has ever said you look good/bad for any age, ever, so why wonder about it, now? As long as I never look like that guy, over there…

The CEO of IBM says 65% of American jobs will be lost to Ai in the next few years. Artists, sports players, waiters, hospitality staff, will probably all be safe “Who wants to watch robots play baseball?” A news story shortly after the CEO showed a robot butler already for sale in the United States. It took the robot 5 minutes to place one glass in the dishwasher.

The robot’s price was $20,000. See? This is where income inequality really hurts us. Imagine how long it would take a $200 Robot to put a glass in the dishwasher. No word, yet, on how many rich people have purchased the Robot. Note: all through these paragraphs there is a small “r” robot and a capital “R” Robot. Anyone see more Proper and Pro Noun Wars in our future?

There was going to be an update on the progress scientists are making with Quantum Entanglement in communications and computing. The applications and breakthroughs are happening by the second, so just look it up for yourselves, and marvel at the sub-atomic world.

The area I live in has been “droned” for several years. If you don’t know what that means, get on You Tube, search for “drone views of My City” and watch what happens. There is something inspiring about seeing life from above, a reminder, maybe of how small and insignificant we really are? Nope. A reminder of how beautiful the world can be…most of the time. And if you’re lucky.

Any Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young fans? Google a 2011 Venice, California High School charity concert with David Crosby and a variety of musicians including the school’s choirs and bands. It is the best live concert performance this writer has ever seen…on tape **…on YouTube. I am a CSNY fan, so…

*Too much math? If a man arrives 5 minutes early…

**When will we replace “on tape” with something current” “On-Digital”?

Not Again…

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Its hard to not think about death when you are an old person. Death’s proximity is the main problem, not fear. It’s like having a root canal on your calendar and you can’t reschedule. (Apologies to all Dentists. You do good and necessary work. You’d all be Gods if you could make the work painless. * Hm. Dentist playing cards?)

The problem lately, is in the structure of the human being. The history of psychological understanding is complex and often controversial with Ids, Egos, Super Egos, and the two-faced beings of Aristophanes’ Myth of origins. Brighter, larger minds will eventually sort it all out but on a personal level I recognize three parts of human existence, at least my human existence. There is an Inner Voice (IV), an Outer Voice (OV) and The Body (TB). These components are slightly in tune with conventional Freudian and Transactional Analysis concepts, but I’ll take credit for making it easier to understand. My IV is the quiet, mercurial voice, sometimes reasonable but often impulsive and self-destructive. “Eat that last doughnut.” The OV is the rational face presented to the world after much consultation, debate, argument and bargaining with the IV. “But someone else may want that doughnut.” TB is just a handsome structure supporting us all and does whatever it’s told, often with a slight, painful delay. (See the tennis story from last March where OV instructions to TB were overridden with disastrous results by IV.) It’s important to note IV and OV are flexible, devil’s advocate-types and often take positions opposite each other apparently just for the fun of it.

The problem, now, is death used to be an afterthought for OV and opportunity for IV to take OV down a peg when things were going too well ** for the entirety of US. When cancer was beaten and TB and OV celebrated, IV was the voice in the background saying “So what? You’re going to die, anyway.” And when recovery from surgery was OV and TB’s main focus, IV tried hard to remind all “you’ll never be as good as you were at age 30.”

But now, death has become OV’s subject of conversation. Again, it may be proximity, or it may be because of the nursing home visits these last few weeks. Notably, those visits deposited death into daily conversations and OV had no choice but to participate. When I returned home from visits, TB sat quietly as OV wondered how long it would be before we all, three, would be living in such facilities. It was IV, then, who suggested we think better thoughts like dying quietly in our sleep. It makes me feel sorry for TB. It’s doing the best it can but more time and telomeres *** have been lost to the past than are left for the future. It comes down to simple math and TB doesn’t do equations.

But OV and IV do, and its hard to escape the constant, internal bickering, especially when the environment is added to the mix. Bright, sunny, beautiful fall days allow IV to tell OV to “shut the f^&#” up when death enters the conversation. Then, on rainy, cloudy, cold days OV lords it over IV with a smirk. For the record, TB never says a word. It lets its nerves do the talking.

It’s a wonder any of us worry about death. Ai estimates over 100 BILLION people have died over the course of history. Ai even says 173,000 die each day. Me and my components will join them, as will you.

Alred E. Neuman *** used to say: “What, me worry?” Honestly, there’s nothing like truth from the mouth of a fictional character to help manage our endings.

*And cheaper.

** Lost time trying to remember good and well rules. Is this one correct?

*** Do I need to point out you should google things you may not know about, anymore?