life

              What To Do With Old Memories

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Years ago, when mom died, you all read about the 20 plastic totes of memories in the basement of her house. Pictures, articles, obituaries, birth announcements, first communions, wakes, and simple stuff like when the girls were photographed jumping rope in 1973 and the picture was printed in the paper. IN THE PAPER! In 1973! The old paper stuff feels important, historic, even if it is just two little girls and a rope on Embargo Street in Rome, NY…in 1973.*

The “Sorting of The Totes”, a family tradition since the Middle Ages**, resulted in mountains of memories and momentos being distributed to each totes’ primary focus. Each child, grandchild or miscellaneous stranger had their own tote. Mom made two for me, her favorite.  At the time of the distribution, we all probably did the same thing: took a quick look and put the tote(s) up on a shelf.

Eight years later, in 2024, in preparations to move to NY and recovery, both my totes were front and center in the back of the car. In April 2024, the totes were picked up, carried to the door of the apartment house, set down in the elevator to the second floor, picked up and carried into the apartment, and put on a closet shelf. For two years. I can’t remember the reason for recently pulling them down and going through them, but the event was mind-boggling. The totes are both a Pandora’s Box*** of—

Ai says opening Pandor’s Box “released all of the worlds’ sorrows: disease, old age, famine, jealousy, and death.” They came flowing out and spread all over the world. Mom’s totes aren’t like that, are they? Maybe. Looking at photos of people from The Past, with most being complete strangers, can cause sorrow, and most of the subjects of the photos and articles are dead, so, there’s that, too. Look how happy they were, how joyous, how young, and how invincible…jealousy? Envy? Relief? Foretelling future deaths? Even seeing my 3-year-old myself bundled up for an afternoon of roiling in the snow inspired the question of why we have to grow old, can’t we stay young, forever? Then there’s the journal mom kept when she visited Switzerland, lamenting the cold while admiring the beauty. Her words in her time, now in mine.

Bet you don’t know the end of the Pandora’s Box legend. I didn’t, until Ai recited the entire story. After “The Sorrows of The World” poured out and spread across the globe, there was one thing left in the box. Ai says it was trapped in the bottom, under everything else, and Pandora didn’t see it, at first: One last gift from the gods.

It was hope.

When you look at photos of generations of relatives and friends and strangers who are no longer on this plane of existence, when you see how bright and alive they were, you begin to wonder, to imagine how much of your life will be in a plastic tote, and how soon will it happen. The existential question is normal, human, and helped a great deal by the The Hope stuck in the box, but it is still a question.

Unlike the original sorrows flitting away into the world, what do I do, what do WE do with the totes and their contents?  The Memories. What happens if we burn them, throw them away, or cut them up? Does it affect those no longer here? Does it make them “more gone”?

Screw it. Lunchtime. Everything back in the totes and back to the shelf. Life will take care of them somehow, sometime. Sorry kids, it’s your problem, now.

            *Yes. Repeated for emphasis. Please get the point.

            **Not really. But it should be.

***Really a ceramic jar, but it was mistranslated early on and the mistake stuck for all of eternity. Read the entire legend, it is a “theodicy”, “an explanation of why there is evil, suffering, and death in a world that might otherwise be prefect.”

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.

Death Again, Sorry, At Least It’s Not Mine

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Aw, death.  It comes for thee, blah blah blah. Articles, movies, songs, pole dancers*, all die, so why we talking** about it, again? Haven’t we beat this subject to…death. Hm.

            There are deaths that seem natural and even poetic, almost hard to grieve over. The 84-year-old husband who dies days after his wife. The young, inspirational woman who loses a valiant, public battle with her cancer to raise awareness for the disease. The man who lay on top of his kids at a school shooting to save the kids’ lives.

Most of us, however, will die a normal, semi-private, wish-we-had-more-time death, hopefully with loved ones near, if not right there, at the moment it happens. Maybe we will have advanced notice or maybe we won’t. Meh, that’s life. Death, death. Or more accurately, that is life and death, or…let’s move on.

There are also the “surprising” deaths, like your favorite sports star dying in a plane crash. Or your co-worker dying in a car crash. Both lead to this statement: “I just saw (fill in any name) yesterday”, often with the added “(Name) looked great.”

As interesting as the many different ways death presents itself is, rather than list them all, we’ll talk about the one just learned today. It’s a situation probably only experienced by seniors, but you decide.

Bob Weir died. Anything? He mean anything to you? No? He didn’t to me, either…at first. I passed over the headline and moved on to more interesting and personal stuff in the news this morning. There was also breakfast, opening the blinds, bathroom duty, other tasks, and Bob Weir. To shorten a long story, it took about an hour for Bob Weir to work his way through the detritus of hoarded memory, shake off the dust, and explode into the front of my brain. I was never a Grateful Dead (Ironic?) Head. (You do know the Grateful Dead, right? If not, I’ll continue, anyway, and not mention the “g” word.) it was hard to be a living person in the 60 and 70s, though, and not know some of their songs and at least 3,438 of their rabid fans., The Dead Heads. My lack of even partial commitment to the rabid fandom was probably because The Grateful Dead’s best work was done live, in concerts…crowds that cost money. I hated crowds and hated spending money to be in them.

In 1972, The Dead cunningly put out a triple record live album, recorded in Europe. So, an American band defies current marketing rigor and puts out a THREE RECORD album of almost their entire Spring concert work in Europe. No hit singles. No influencers chirping about it. No late-night talk show publicity. Just BANG, here’s a three-record set of our best work. Deal with it. It was in 1973, in Mike’s parents’ attic, with speakers up to the eaves, no adults home, a dime bag on the coffee table, and four quarts of Boones Farm wine, when I finally learned the reason for the Dead Head Fan Club. And it happened with no crowd, no entry fee, since Mike bought both the album and “refreshments”, and no “Turn that shite down!” scream from the ground floor. It was heaven on earth. 

It didn’t make me turn all gooey or anything, and it never led to my purchase of anything the Dead did, but the music, the musicianship, and the time was extraordinary. And I learned band members names. We did the same show nearly every night for a month, until my friend’s parents came home and then…life. No more Dead for me. I never listened to any of those three records again. I married several times, had kids, never turned the volume of anything up over halfway, and got on with life, allowing the Month of The Dead to deposit itself into a long-term memory folder to be filed away alphabetically, presumably.

Until Bob Weir died.

Some long-term memories we don’t remember until a really, really hard jabbing*** with something pointy. Like death.

The Month of The Dead in 1973, is hereby officially remembered, recognized and celebrated as A Special Time in A Good Life, and is added to my google calendar so it won’t be forgotten, again. Thank you for dying Grateful Dead guitarist and founder, Bob Weir. We hardly knew you but will never forget you.

Amen.

            *Just checking to see if you’re actually reading.

            **Ai grammar police say this should be: “why ARE we talking”. Feck them.

            ***Ai: “make this wording more concise.” Me: Devour feculence, Ai.

Best Friend or Romance…Let’s Not Call The Whole Thing Off

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I am an older gentleman who has lost or misplaced many friends. Three best friends died before their times by accidents or disease, and one got swept away by the strong currents of a cult*. Others were lost to career moves, love, loss of love, family matters, and irreconcilable differences. Life had blessed me-at this stage of my life–with lots of “peripheral” friends but no Best Friend** (BF). Don’t view that as sad, and—in case you were wondering—I had nothing to do with the deaths. Stop watching Crime Shows.

It was age 50 when the rule only a male could be another male’s best friend went in the garbage bin with the Members Only jackets and loose-fitting jeans***. Females of our species as potential, non-sexual, long-time partners, possibly a best friend during the male’s mate-hunting prime? Um, no. Not in my life, anyway. If you don’t understand ponder the existence of blow-up dolls. Anatomically correct blow-up dolls. With names.

But at age 50 there was a life-partner change brought on by the miracle of the Right Person (RP) finally entering a location close enough to appear on my radar. With the excellent hindsight of 74 years, she originally entered as a love interest. She was smart, secure, independent and could care less about my problems, she had her own. As age helped the romantic fire flame out, there was enough in the embers to make staying together worthwhile and we were BFs (and occasionally more) for over 20 years, longer than anyone else. Male or female. BF or not.

And then she left.  

But now, the BF “hope” at this age is not limited to one half of the population, the potential pool is twice what it was at age 30.  Those who don’t urinate into a stainless steel trough at sporting events can now be considered for the exalted position BF.**** A true benefit of old age, and it comes at just the right time.

A new BF for this time in my life has been found. When you read about my UPer (Unidentified PERson), that is her. She needs to remain nameless. There may be some lingering criminal issues in other states she doesn’t deserve to get mixed-up in. Wonder if she has the same issue? The best thing about a BF is we can keep secrets…from each other. It’s a wonderful thing to have in your life. UPer: Thank you for the time investment, vulnerability, and the possibility of a “ride-or-die” loyalty. Long may we last.

            This post is written for all the males and females, senior males and females, lonely and looking for love. And romance. Look for something else. Look for friendship. Those other things may follow. And this applies to everyone. God really doesn’t care who you love as long as you love someone. Take a closer look at all your current relationships, peripheral acquaintances, and contacts. You might be missing something.

*It happened in 1978. He was a childhood friend and best man at my first wedding. His 24-inch by 24-inch self-portrait of how happy he was with Jesus was done in crayon and folded to letter size for mailing. Every year since the internet I’ve googled the return address. It still does not exist, even on google maps. Why not? And yes, I consider it might have been me he was getting away from, but he was running towards something, not away, so there’s hope for him. After nearly 50 years.

**It is assumed everyone knows the difference between friend and “best” friend? Per AI: “a best friend is usually defined by three main factors: vulnerability, time investment, and a ride-or-die loyalty”. But what does Ai know? It also says “friend” and “best friend” are often “interchangeable”. Nerd.

***Sleepwear, now, every chance I get. No, not pajamas…SLEEPWEAR. Public pajamas.

****There is no additional “F” for forever. Ever.

How Many Of Us Are There?

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My UPER (Unnamed PERson) sent me a wonderful link to a nice, well-spoken gentlemen who discussed an intellectual and psychological concept you see all the time in these postings: the fragmentation of our psyche, what makes up our personalities and determines our actions. My postings use an Inner Voice (IV) and Outer Voice (OV) to illustrate inner mental and emotional conflicts. Regular readers* have been exposed to the inner dialogue IV and OV love to have about my life, its situations, and actions. Sorry for exposing myself**. Discerning readers also note there is an un-designated umpire ruling over the IV and OV debates, an entity making rulings, taking decisive actions, and writing these posts. Does that entity have a name?

Our brains are wonderfully intricate and obtuse. Ai obtuse for its “second” definition. The brain is bombarded with data from all sides, angles, and forms. Sight, sound, touch, political debate, and unfunny humor, so how does it decide what data, what stimuli to respond to? No one knows for sure, but I posit our magnificent gray watermelons take it ALL in, like a security camera, and park the data someplace in case it’s needed. Imagine the size of that data file after 73 years.

Who or what needs that data? And how is it recovered? Is there an app? And is it different for all 8 billion people? In the world of psychology, from here on out called The Circus, theories and guesses and opinions, oh my, abound. See the Pixar movie “Inside Out”, for a light-hearted examination of mental life. The Circus is different from excellent, rigorous, verifiable scientific research into the structures and mechanisms of the brain, where opinions are irrelevant.

Under The Circus’s tent you’ll find many “models” of personality that are used to treat corresponding symptoms/diseases of the “brain”, diagnosed by applying an individual’s actions to the individual model being used in the examination. Some results are good, positive, results, some are not. Fixing a broken mind isn’t as easy as fixing a broken bone. Or removing a misfiring heart. The word isn’t used anymore, but how many of us if we are looked at using the “correct” model might be labeled “crazy”? Everyone knows Freud’s name, but does everyone know what he postulated about the human mind? Ai him and read it. Or the many others*** in The Circus trying valiantly to bring their big-top show into the halls of actual science, oftentimes including simple self-help concepts meant to wrangle the mind into what it should be, according to the model of the time. I’ve been exposed to a lot of the models and could call IV, OV, and The Unnamed Umpire ID, Ego, and Superego to make myself happier. Or use the bible solution and replace all bad thoughts and lies with God’s Word. Or renew any addiction that makes thinking about things easier. Simple, profound advice when trying to understand your brain and its actions is to use anything that works for you, doesn’t destroy you, costs little, and doesn’t harm anyone else. IV OV and The Umpire are screaming in my ear to suggest you use their model. Actually, OV and IV are debating loudly while The Umpire is telling them to shut the hell up, we’re trying to be helpful, here. Like any other family, it will work out. Or not.

A thing to remember and helps: in 100 years none of it will matter or be remembered. OV wanted 200 years, IV wanted 50, The Umpire compromised.

Funny, happy ending? The fingers did exactly what they were told.

*I use “regular” because “irregular” readers don’t care or don’t know.

**It just sounds funny to admit it in writing.

***Transactional Analysis. CBT, DBT, and ACT to name a few acronyms. Maybe we need as many treatments as there are individuals?

Pop Culture? Hm.

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What is “pop culture”? The term appears in news stories and televised shows about what is happening in the world. So…what is happening?

Pop Culture appears to be a subset of Consumerism, the bane of all moral life but the driving force of American Industry. If you need a definition of Consumerism, google or Ai it. My definition is biased and uninformative, seeing as how it paints the phenomenon in a slightly demented ochre.*  For instance, take a moment right now and look around you, in your closets, pantries, and garages. How much of what you see is really needed by you? Or anybody?

Old anti-everything radicals from the 1960s were against consumerism as a type of collateral side hustle, but it fit our narrative as a supporting argument: America didn’t care about the young men sent off to die In Viet Nam, a country that is now one of our biggest trading  partners, supplying Pop Culture and American Consumers with all the useless goods they need. It is a sad thought to think the posterity of the Viet Cong are now knitting garments for anyone who needs cheap underwear.

And there it is, one of the problems with Consumerism: as it advertises(sic) us into a buy buy buy mindset, the powers making all the money never tell us we aren’t buying American Made Products. They don’t hide it from us either…now. So where is the so-called defense of consumerism as a driver of the economy if non-Americans are depositing their American dollars in their own nations’ bank? Do we ship them Pop Culture as a fair trade? Is there a tariff, involved?

That thought just illuminated the purpose, goal, and joie de vivre of pop culture. In the old days, advertisers, hereafter called Admen**, sat around thinking of what useless product to manufacture that people would buy in huge enough quantities to make a huge enough profit. Some of their ideas? Hula Hoops. Frisbees. Pet Rocks. Cabbage Patch Kids.****

But in the new marketing days of Pop Culture, manufacturers can watch the internet, see what “pops” and then go make it to satisfy got-to-have-it consumers. The first product coming to mind is diamonds. They used to be A Girls Best Friend when the Admen were pushing them, Now, EVERY kiss begins with a diamond company whose name begins with K, and somewhere there is a young, impressionable something or other needing to get the kiss, so he/she/they buy one. Consumerism is the model for DEI.  Why limit your markets/suckers? Sell to everyone.  A more obvious product is the people involved in Pop Culture who build a “Brand” or following and then look for products and manufacturers to take advantage of how well “liked” the Brand has become. It appears females are very good at Brand Building. That cuts the number of Admen needed in our modern economic miracle of a country.  It’s poetic karma that old Admen aren’t needed anymore.

There isn’t really enough time to rant about Pop Culture and Consumerism in a short post. A proper rant needs a whole book. But…imagine if we all bought only what we needed? There is lots of collateral damage in an out-of-control consumer economy: homelessness for example, while rich people build houses large enough to house a battalion of Viet Cong.

Consumers’ benefit when we can easily get the things we need, like toilet paper. That’s good for all of us, especially if you find one of the many brands, styles, thicknesses, and patterns that works without tearing you a new one.*** Maybe we can tone down the influence that causes us to need a certain handbag, or sneaker, no matter what it costs. (See past post about Dynamic Model Pricing.)

Eh. Money has the Power, even Pop Culture bows to it, and it’s wrong to hope for a perfect economic system when we are so imperfect, ourselves. Do this next time you need to buy something, though, ask why you want it, first, and see what happens. Unless its toilet paper. Get that one fast.

Caveat: I, too, have stuff I don’t need. When I typed “imperfect”, It meant all of us.

And was it too subtle, talking about Pop Culture and toilet paper in the same post?

*Look that up for help understanding a sentence rife with “irony”.

**There were women in adverting in the Old Days. Guess what they did?

***What a terrible play on words.

****These products experience a life after their normal sales death: collectibles.

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?

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

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Yeah, it is. Was. And will be for at least two more days. Happy Feckin’ New Year.

There is no way to describe the feeling of an upstate New York Lake Effect Snow Bomb(NYLESB*). No way. But I have to try, it is the only thing to do to save sanity. I’ve videod NYLESB every mid-night because it is beautiful as the flakes dance and drift and fly over the parking lots and the cars, often sideways in the biting, cold wind. Then, I noticed every night has been the same for…a month, a year, forever? And how gray is gray, anyway? Each day is a pulsating, electric rainbow of gray, light gray, dark gray, medium gray. It’s making my hair gray, driving me to not care a f#$% about punctuation and spelling. Oh, nooooo.

A weather person on a local station did an outdoor report on the amount of snow falling during this latest assault. She was covered head to toe with fabric but her exposed cheeks were bright red. The male news anchor inside the studio said this when the outdoor reporter finished her report: “Thanks for that report, Hannah and remember, stuff like this builds character.” Mic drop.

I lived in upstate NY for my first 30 years and it was never like this. Or was it? Maybe this is just another way age effects and affects us? As a 30-year old, did character building influence my opinion and recording of past snow events? Was there ever a time when new snow meant get outside and play, or at least shovel the driveway? We used to burrow snow forts into the two-tiered snowbanks caused by the snowplows with the wings. Later in life there was a news story about kids getting killed when another passing snowplow buried them. So it goes, as a famous person said more than once.

Yeah, that makes sense: we can build character with any event if we are ignorant enough. Or naïve enough? Inexperienced? Stupid?

In looking at this through the distortion of a half-full glass, it is a great way to get an idea of how Arctic and Antarctic researchers must feel when they purposefully place themselves in either of this Earth’s frigid, frozen poles. Hey, more good news. Thanks to climate change they may not be frozen much longer…all that ice and snow is migrating to Upstate New York.

What’s the big deal? At least we’re alive, right?

As the whining continues, it should be pointed out I am nice and warm inside a swanky apartment building with heat, light, and a fitness center on the first floor. My front wall of windows allows me to turn The Chair to sit and watch the dropping of NYLESB’s snowflakus gigantis, levitating from The Chair only when I really, really want to, or when nature calls for a warmer activity in the throne room. There are some who may not be as lucky. It is a time to ponder the homeless, or the poor who cannot afford heat, or the cat who runs under cars in the parking lot. What happens to them? Can anything be done?

And there it is, dammit, character. Do I get credit for it or does Mother Nature? God? Is my character-building the result of free will, and would it have happened without the warm apartment?

No one gets credit until something gets done. Thinking of good character is not being a good character. When that snow stops, watch out, world, you’re gonna get fixed. (Yes, I was going to type something else.)

But right now, back to bed.

This piece is riddled with red and blue lines, warning the grammar and spelling police are awakening and preparing my arrest. Am I worried? If you don’t hear from me look under the big snowbank to the left of the building.

*This sounds a little “rainbowish”? Anyone offended?

Senior Hacks, Tips and Warnings For All

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Just in time for the holidays, here are some “things” to make senior—or any life—easier, safer, and better tasting.

If you are a male, have high pressure in your shower, have installed a flexible, adjustable showerhead, and you’re still flexible yourself, be very careful when the “High Pressure” nozzle is being used in a sensitive, below the belt area*. Painful, embarrassing consequences CAN be avoided with adequate forethought. It’s possible this applies to females, too. Comment, ladies, if it does.

A wonderfully adventurous and free spirited, brand new “high S with some I” female friend sent a pic of her enjoying axe throwing at a local establishment. We won’t talk about what she wore but it was holiday festive and skimpy. I expected chain mail or a flak jacket, possibly an entire suit of armor to cover every inch. As a veteran of The Dart Wars in Binghamton during the Middle Ages (the 1980s), I personally witnessed participants cut down—or rather pierced—in their prime by errant and unintelligent** darts, sometimes thrown from exterior locations near the open bar door. Imagination painted a scene where a drunken, ex-dart player fired off an axe round without aim. The axe place had sense enough to install netting to at least slow down any unexpected, misguided chopper, adze, or hatchet. As an added danger, picture an athletic young person admiring the smooth, arcing wood cutter rotating through the open air. Then add a couple pitchers of beer and the gambling mentality infecting all male (females, too?) activities, and axe’s are soon flying with Armageddonish  results. The tip if you go to one of these places? Make sure your health insurance is up to date***, try not to sign the liability waiver, and alert your lawyer he may be needed soon. Axe drop, for this subject.

Air fryers are “the bomb” for us single guys. Convenient fast and easy to clean. Warning: make sure to rinse completely after washing. Dawn soap does not go well with, well, anything. This warning is here because of the perforated platform used in the fryers. Rinse your holes!****

Last year, my first winter back in NY, I was disabled and in recovery from hip surgery so outside activity was limited. This year, I am free to move about the country, but the sniggles and tangles of winter are still revealing themselves. Black ice is a problem for all us but weather—lately–has conspired to leave water on apshalt, lower the temperature, then drop a small dusting of snow. Add this to the slope that leads downhill from my apartment building entrance to the parking lot, and crab-walking to my car, with baby steps, is necessary. Young people can fall and get up anytime. In fact, they often do it on purpose and call it exercise. A fall for an old person isn’t as much fun. The tip? Beware Mother Nature, she is out to get us. Don’t trust The B!$#&.

Related winter issue: If your car has a Weather-Tec type floor liner, make sure to empty it when the weather swings as widely as it has been. Getting in with slush and ice on a bad day is okay when the liner traps it, but then it thaws, the water is clear and you step in and get the bottom of your pants wet as if you peed all way down to your ankles. Not cool, MN.

There’s more but we ran out of room, so later, gator, and Happy Holidays! Peace.

*Originally, the sentence ended at “used”, but then I wondered if someone might not know the sensitive area being referred to, so I did the extra work. For those who needed the extra words: Here’s your sign. For those who don’t know what that means, google Bill Engvall. And if you don’t know how to google, that’s okay as long as you get your sign.

**Mentioned in case new Ai driven Smart Darts are out there. We were old school and guided our own, back in the day…and loved it.

***And will cover this type of “peril”, and insurance term for risk.

****For a bonus, holiday giggle, add this sentence to the first paragraph.

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.