More About Big Beautiful Things

It was a master stroke of BS to call a crap-bag of laws a big, beautiful thing (BBT) so it got me thinking of other BBTs, not to be confused with BLTs. The list is subjective, biased, and often fictional so if you have a complaint, stuff it in your big, beautiful arse.

And there is the first BBT: Irish/Welsh/Scottish movie dialogue. Not having been to any of those areas, I can’t confirm they talk the same in their natural settings as they do in movies, but they have a wonderfully melodic way of ambling around a thought, not expressing it directly, and yet putting more meaning into it than a shorter, succinct sentence. The Gift of The Blarney Stone? Google it. I dare you, you fecking shite. And watch The Snatch, a 2000 Brad Pitt movie with the most enjoyable, unintelligible English dialogue ever. BBT! Ooh, closed captioning, another BBT!

Shopping on a budget? You should be. Several stores in my area say they want my business but only one meets my budgetary, hours of operation, and proximity requirements. No, I won’t say who it is. I visited one of the stores on my “too high a price list” the other day, however, and was pleasantly surprised, twice. First, they had a yellow tag on muffins in the bread aisle. That usually means “BOGO”, or Buy one Get One free. BBT! Without putting on my glasses I grabbed two packages and headed for the self-checkout. Sadly, even with my glasses and 9-digit membership/phone number the machine still tried to charge for two, instead of one. It is an age-old grocery trick: leave the yellow tags on AFTER the sales end and see what happens at check-out. Some people pay the regular price rather than make a scene. As the steam rose in my brain a sweet, older lady approached to see if I was about to faint. Before I could sputter my anger, she said this: “Oh, honey. Those are buy one get TWO free. You need to ring up three and the price of two will be credited.”: What? WHAT!!!? She did it manually while I ran for a third package. When I returned, wow, another BBT!

As a senior, enough small things go wrong on a daily basis so when things go right, we are surprised into thinking they are BBTs. They’re not but here are a few examples of lesser, aspirational BBTs nonetheless. After the second hip surgery last month a walker became my constant companion for several weeks, along with an accessory I call “Reacher”. For the last two weeks I’ve dropped things on purpose just to enjoy the use of Reacher. My name is Robert and I am an addict.

Senior eyesight seems to get better and then get worse and then get better and then get worse…but it always gets better the day of my AMD shots**. It’s a BBT to see me ace those eye charts as a 73-year-old. Maybe one of the nurses will be impressed and ask me out…

My old (both old and former) girlfriend has reached “perfunctory response status” in regard to my texts and updates. Perfunctoriness (sic) leads to humorous responses. My text said some medical tests were positive but one was bad and needs more testing. Her response was “Good news!” BBT? I’ll accept the judge’s ruling.

Recent conversations have been about how many voices there are in our heads. It’s a BBT thing because I know, now, mine is not the only skull inhabited by more than just a Big Beautiful Brain. Or is it Ai speaking?  And how could I forget Thurber’s character, Walter Mitty? Or the movie “Inside Out”? Crap. I need to remember remembering is the first thing to go.

And then there is the Air Fryer. A YUGE*** BBT. As a man who loves to cook and hates to clean, my $24 Air Fryer from Walmart has raised the gastronomic level of life. Men living alone, pay attention: grilled cheese, day old chicken, two day old pizza, left-over hamburgers and hot dogs from July 4th, toast, and more, all done to perfection with minimal clean up, no butter, no saggy microwave structure, a wonderfully crisp, like new

I went away for a few moments. Don’t ask, just go get an Air Fryer.

** Do not google this procedure if you have a weak stomach. It happens to people like me every three months.

*** Thanks, Donald, for the new word. BBT!

Expectations? Don’t Bother.

In thinking about happiness and well-being, and after years of observation and self-testing, my conclusion is we are our own worst enemies. We get in the way of happiness by not seeing it when it’s there and by not pursuing it when it isn’t. The sentence sounds odd so take a moment to think about it…

I’ve been a New York Yankee fan since 1960. Sixty-two years. When you are a sports fan, you get to live the highs and lows of the teams’ results. Championship years and cellar-dwelling years, it’s all a package. Happy when the World Series ends in victory, banners raised, and sad in years they don’t make the Series, and the season is over with a whimper. It’s easy to see when happiness comes and when it doesn’t. They win, we’re happy. They lose, we’re not. Is there anything we can do about it? No, especially when we are a small child listening to every play on the radio. You actually experience happiness and despair, clearly defined and unavoidable. Damn Yankees.

So what does that have to do with anything? It’s easy to live with the happiness thrust upon you by your team winning, but what about the unhappiness of losing? Ah, there’s always next year. In baseball, the following spring brings hope for a better year, a hope for seasonal happiness, a hope for the World Series Ring. For a sports fan hope becomes an expectation. Before any new games are played, we do not hope the Yankees will be better, we assume to know the Yankees will be better, we expect it. And when the Yankees lose, we are unhappy because an expectation not realized makes us unhappy.

And there it is in black and white: expectations are the cause of unhappiness. The measured and regulated nature of sports makes it obvious, including the annual renewal of “expectation” no matter what happened last year. A common fan’s announcement after an unhappy, expectation-denying season is “never again will I root for them”, a vow only kept until next season begins with a new hope/expectation.

But the damage expectations do to our lives is harder to see in real life. Why are some of us unhappy? Something in life didn’t go as planned, didn’t happen as we expected it to happen, and there is no choice but to feel unhappy about it. Marriage doesn’t meet our expectations, we divorce. Friends don’t meet our expectations, we dump them. Even in our dining habits, if a restaurant doesn’t meet our expectations we unhappily decide not to dine there again. We expect a diet to work? Potential unhappiness. We expect to get a job? Meet the girl of our dreams? Become an influencer? Be like Taylor?

But it is not the action or inaction making us unhappy. Unhappiness comes from the destruction of expectation and how we process that destruction.

You want to be happy? Don’t expect anything. Ever. At all. Enjoy the terrible meal. Enjoy the Yankees losing. Enjoy your girlfriend dumping you. At least be ambivalent, but don’t be unhappy. And you can expand the process into your philosophy of life: don’t expect happiness and you won’t be unhappy when you’re not happy…?

A little hyperbole helps make a point until it veers off into absurdity. Hm. If you expect to understand what makes you happy and you never do, you’ll always be unhappy? Or happy you understand you’ll never be happy?

That’s it. You got it. Want to be happy? Just be happy. Let things be what they are. Do your best, but don’t expect it to be better than anyone else’s expectation, especially if it really is better.

Final example and possible escape from this mess: A young female student sits behind a young male in class. She constantly complains to him about not meeting the “right” guy. It takes her the entire school year to see her expectation of the right guy is wrong and the guy in front of her is The Right Guy. They fall in love and marry, something neither of them expected, though the guy did hope. (Don’t think too hard about this one. It’s a true story but a poor example.)

I took a shot of tart cherry juice to clear my head for the final, really final thought. Hope is one thing, but expectation is another, different thing. Find the hope all around you and you’ll find happiness anytime you want it. Let hope fester into an expectation, you lose control.

Keep hope alive. You can do it.

PS Hope this sloppiness helped someone…I expect to hear about it, too.

Benign Bemusements

After years of complaining about drivers’ inability to understand and use a well-known and researched free life-saving safety device, blinkers, it is time for empathy, time to walk a mile in their shoes. This past Monday, the 13-mile, mainly four-lane highway drive from my home to the Fitness Center at Turning Stone was the time and place. I intended to drive the entire route without ever touching the turn signal arm. It is a drive of very few turns so…and it was performed at 4:30 AM so there were few witnesses…and victims…but…

The first 12 miles were glorious: the sheer audacity and freedom was intoxicating. I changed lanes on a whim. I made my one right turn onto the highway with total abandon and when the two lanes narrowed to one, I shifted over with a youthful, carefree exuberance. That joy filled my soul and I lost myself in it until in anticipation of a left turn into the parking garage, my now-unattended brain fired the nerve(s?) of my left arm. The left hand fell off the steering wheel, my eyes dropped to watch, and the left-hand fingers descended perfectly onto the turn signal lever. Could I catch myself in time to prevent disaster or was I doomed to repeat the past? Would the turn signal lever be strong enough to resist? Would it count if the light bulb was burned out and never flashed? Is Trump ruining the entire world?

I’ll try, again, on the way home.

Speaking of Trump, is it strange he decimates social, educational, medical, and scientific services in the name of “balancing the budget” and then spends billions on immigration deportations, domestic military policing, and parades? The American Public is (are?) the idiot(s) for allowing this to happen, and by electing him in the first place. Will we do anything about it?

Immigration reform is needed, but if we assume 1 in a 10,000 Americans is a criminal, it’s safe to assume 1 in 10,000 immigrants is a criminal, right? So we are deporting them all? Indiscriminately? Court cases alone will cost billions. It is a classic case of mismanagement made sadder by the hurt it is causing innocents. And is a perfect example of baby and bathwater. It is proof we need experienced professionals running our government who understand nuance or at least are willing to learn. HHS Chief RFK firing all 17 members of an advisory board to the CDC? He don’t need no stinkin’ advice.

Political doublespeak and the attendant physical contortions are not unique to the Republican Party, or to this day and age. Democrats are participants, too, as well as being quick learners. But I just watched Republican Representative Loeren Boebert in a US House hearing perfectly detail the causes, actions, and repercussions involved in an “insurrection”. Finally, I said to myself, someone on the Republican side sees it. Finally. But she was talking about Los Angeles. Find it on you tube and watch. It is the perfect example of political…umm…selective memory? Ignorance? Oblivion? She was innocently outraged, positive about all facts, and sure anyone who didn’t agree with her was stupid, unpatriotic, and un-American. Plus, she was shrill, one of her unique skills.  Unfortunately, I cannot remember a Democrat display so completely tone-deaf and absurd, but there probably is one, someplace. It is what politicians do and we reward them for it. Let’s vote them all out next time. All new for the future.

There are so many odd, sad, funny thoughts and things happening to us old people. This post was supposed to be about those things. But Ai is ruining everything, including my brain. Politics is an ear worm, now. Anyone know a cure? Maybe if politicians stopped being stupid and self-serving…?

See? Funny things.

Change…Who Needs It…

In youth, change is not only welcomed but anticipated. Hoped for. Longed for. Can’t wait to get to 16 and drive, 18 and graduate, 21 and drink, meet someone, marry, raise kids, find a job. Slowly getting older is “change” too, but going from 35 years to 45 years was nothing but math, the addition of ten to 35. I admit to feeling smarter and wiser as the yearly number went up, but never was there a desire to stop it, slow it down, or deny it until…

If only…recent years, probably starting around 65, there’s been a desire for time to stop advancing, to at least slow down, let things settle. Don’t make me face something new every year. Don’t let things change. In any of the last ten years if you had offered to make time stop and existence be what it is at that moment be that way forever, I’m your huckleberry. (RIP, Val.)

From a peace of mind consideration, it is pointless to think that way…consciously. But it is the way the mind works subconsciously, below the daily humdrum of existence. The Big Beautiful Brain (BBB) does not want to age–or maybe BBB just doesn’t want us to know we are aging–until there’s nothing we can do about it, anymore. The statement implies maybe there is something we can do about it but—again—it is a falsehood our conniving, gray-mattered BBB uses to make the approaching end more palatable.

Ugh. Why is this mental masturbation happening tonight? These thoughts have been around the frontal lobe of BBB since the dawn of time with rationality leading to the conclusion, since nothing can be done, acceptance is the best practice.

But Sly Stone died recently. Sly and the Family Stone were a companion heartbeat from the 1960s and 70s. When the wonderful world of Youtube was discovered 50 years later, Sly’s music was one of the first “old friends” I looked for, right after Jackson Browne. Sly’s performing exuberance and powerful funkiness struck a chord in a very young man and was added to the cohort of musical heroes like Steppenwolf, The Isley Brothers, Bob Dylan, James Taylor, Jackson, Joanie, Cream, Jimi, Cat Mother and The All-Night News Boys, all of which are still “crankin” on Youtube. Go ahead, look. Monaural sounds played at 11 on a speaker whose dial numbers only went to ten 50 years ago, have been “remastered” and are now beyond stereo when listened to with ear buds so perfect and personal every instrument, “track”, flourish, chords, and comments can pour into the ears at anytime, anyplace.

The point? It’s hard to avoid contemplating life’s changes when music constantly reminds you of how things never stay the same. When listening to Sly and others today, it is the 50-year yesterday that is heard, and the 50-year yesterday life is relived however briefly. Any senior worth his Medicare Card will tell you reminiscing seldom leads to happiness in older people.

Ah, but…is change really that bad? Maybe. If we don’t pay attention to everything, it’s easy to see how we can think the only change in old age is bad change. We see death of friends, medical calamities, loss of vision, loss of vertical jumping ability, pharmaceutical protocols never imagined, skin texture changes, urination increases…

Okay. Took a break after trying to list bad changes in older life. It got depressing so I found Sly’s “Dance To The Music” on Youtube and listened at full volume without bothering my neighbors. Gosh, I love modern music delivery…a welcome, blessed change from the 70s.

Maybe change isn’t so bad…

(10 minutes later, after “Every Day People”) We have to embrace change and wonder at it since we really have no choice. If we rein in our rambunctious BBBs, we should be able to convince ourselves we will be able to listen to Sly and The Family Stone live, in heaven, if things go well.

Happiness? Meh…

Happiness. Bah, humbug; Ai says: “Happiness is a complex and multifaceted concept with no single, universally accepted definition.” After listening to algorithmic crap for 5 minutes the Ai voice settled on a conclusion: “it’s a mental state where positive feelings outweigh negative feelings.” There’s an algorithm you can run for yourself. Get a piece of paper, make a T Chart (also called a “graphic organizer”, “two column chart” or “Pros and Cons”). List all your positive feelings under the Pro side and all your negative feelings under the Con side, then add them up, subtract for the difference, and find out your mental state at that very moment. Remember, if the Pros outnumber the Cons you are happy, no matter how you feel. Trust the process.

You wonder where “happy” came from? According to Ai it derived from the Middle English word “hap” which meant “good luck” and through the years the word meant something that HAPPENED (or could happen) to you not what you felt about the happening. (e.g. Winning the lottery is “hap” and how you feel about winning the lottery is “happy”.) There is no known reason or excuse how happy came to mean a feeling of being fortunate instead of the actual act of being fortunate. Fortunately for you I wasted my time looking this up so you can sit and feel fortunate you didn’t have to do it. Put that on your Pro side.

Much like all the different “theres(sic)” there are, happiness is often misused and even misunderstood. If you feel happy you read my post, for example, does that make you happy all day? For a second? For ten minutes? Ai is, again, no help. Happiness can be: “a momentary, specific emotion like the joy you feel when something good happens.” Or it can be “a broader, more enduring sense of well-being.” Ai does not offer a judgment on well-being-joy being better or worse than momentary-joy when contemplating if you’re happy or not. Thanks for nothing. But if you have to contemplate if you’re happy, logic says you must not be, and if contemplating makes you happy, do NOT look down at your navel…unless it’s an outie.

When collegiate philosophical course requirements conflicted with the happy-go-lucky (Yikes.)  lifestyle of a young man, I retreated to an area lacking external stimuli. The hopeful plan was quiet reflection and meditation would lead to a clearer understanding of why what I liked to do to be happy might not be what what I should do to find everlasting happiness and peace. It took 52 hours for the mental fog to part, revealing nothing more than the need for external stimuli.

What saved that particular young man from perpetual Naval Contemplation while looking for “life’s:answers” about happiness was contemporary literature. In James Thurbers’ “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” and collected works, he noted the need for humor and a “Sense of wonder” when understanding happiness. Wonder? Yes. Remember how you felt when you first saw Niagara Falls. Or the Cathedrals of Europe. Wasn’t the wonder, first, that made you happy? For some specific NY sports people, imagine how you’ll feel when the Buffalo Bills (for non Bills fans, insert your favorite team,) finally win the Super Bowl. There will be a dizzying sense of happiness, but isn’t it the result of wonder? They finally did it! Wonderful. Some would say the Bills not winning the Super Bowl is humorous, as well, but let’s not get Western New York angry.

As usual, the post has wandered off to the side of the metaphorical trail, but one last visit with Mark Twain ( a HUMORIST!) might help with Happiness: “There is only one happiness in this life, to love and be loved.” Significantly, he adds: “To get the full value of joy, you must have someone to divide it with.” Not much humor in either statement, but happiness? We all know what he means…

So happiness can be like your first love: you’ll know it when you feel it.

And if it never happens? The only answer to “never” is an incommunicative death, which is what waits for us all.

But there’s hope. Be patient and recognize it. Happiness will follow.

Can’t close without a thought from (honorary) Dr. Steven Wright. “Yesterday I was a dog. Today I’m a dog. Tomorrow I’ll probably still be a dog.” Take 5 minutes to think before you wonder what it has to do with happiness and why it’s The End.

PS John Lennon’s song “Happiness is a Warm Gun” has nothing to do with this post. Maybe later…

Random Ramblings of No Regard***

Bad news followed by good news on the medical front these past 30 days. Went from possible colon cancer after failed Cologuard test and subsequent “polypy”(sic) colonoscopy, to happy, clear pathology report 30 days after the whole mess started. I’ll never get those days back.

Then a routine dentist appointment yielded a “bump” in the sinus area above the teeth. Referral to a specialist had me waiting a week, but then 3d-imaging and sinus x-rays had the specialist wondering “Why are you here?”, a saying much more evocative than the “di rigor” (It’s Italian. Google it. Expand your linguistic horizon.) “you’re okay”, especially if you’ve already googled “sinus lump” and its strange, dangerous possibilities. Oh, it was the root end of my tooth. Normal bump. I mean, it should have been, but I’m not a dentist, so…Both false alarms had threatened the June 18th removal of the last defective hip. The final removal of the last of arthritis is on schedule. Until some more of the Big A visits. So the Big C and the Big A will only need watching after June. Discussions with like-wise afflicted cohorts have helped make the decision if anything else happens, no more treatments. Let it be.

The Trump-Musk feud is fun to watch until you consider how serious the issues are for all of us. Commenting on either is unnecessary but I will make this statement: Watch out for Big Tech. Specifically, our data in the hands of Big Tech. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, etc. never delete records. There is a current conspiracy buzzing around a company called Palantir and what it plans to do with all the data “collected by DOGE” when DOGE went into the IRS, Social Security, and other government agency’s data banks, and “handed” the data to third parties like Palantir. They will know everything, so says the conspiracy.

And Ai WILL end the world as we know it. You can see Ai and its devil offspring, algorithms, being used already to torment us in Customer Service and Financial Services. When was the last time you called your credit union, bank, or credit card company’s “customer service” number and got a live, human being, even after the phone tree?** As an Aging Man, I’ve noticed the algorithms are even better at aggravation than real people, and getting an apartment, car loan, home, loan at age 73, by myself, is nearly impossible. Ai even makes it impossible to get a person to explain why. So get ready,

And if Ai puts a lot of people out of work, what will they do?  So glad I’ve aged out of that particular worry.

Reason has revealed I am the cause of the unusually terrible weather upstate NY has suffered since my return. Unprecented weather with tornadoes and a once-in-a-50-year snowfall winter “seemed” to have followed me here. My bad. But I will not assume any contribution to how bad NY sports teams are. We’re talking Championships, now, not regular season. The Bill’s fan motto is now “win one in my lifetime” which is really a question, not a hope. The Yankees had won at least one World Series in every decade of their existence. My moving probably coast them the 2010s, but the 2020  failures are their own. Jets. Ha. Orangemen? Eh. Giants? Nooooo. Knicks? Ugh and ughier(sic). Nothing really is expected of the Nets, but the Rangers last Cup win was over 30 years ago with the last appearance in the Cup finals 10 years and counting. This can’t be all my fault. The Bill’s were good but not good enough when I lived here and have resumed being The Big Tease in NY sports.. For my son-in-law’s sake the Bills better answer that motto question…and soon. And not in the negative…again…

Mets were purposely omitted: they stole Soto, so…

This post went the way of life these days. Medical questions being dismissed or answered and treated allows the mind to randomly ramble and wonder about…

S%*$. I missed Nap time.

** And when you do, do they do anything but repeat what the algorithm says?

*** Selected this title because Ai says it is “terribly clunky and redundant.” It made my day.

Death as an Equation

Several past posts have been about The D Word, but this post will be more objective, less emotional, almost dry, in discussing the impact of Death.

In youth, there was lots of death (sic). Pets died, farm animals died, insects got squashed, and fish got caught…and eaten. Very few of those deaths were looked at as Death (sic). Insects don’t deserve to live, anyway, and pets, well, pets came and went. Many dogs and cats wandered off the farm never to be seen again. Often, we’d find bones in the farm fields but never made any connection. At least the adults said there wasn’t any. The only emotional loss on the farm was when we shipped a favorite calf or piglet to the slaughterhouse, and as young’uns we didn’t actually knew what it meant at the time.

The facts of life don’t take long to be revealed, however, and around the eighth grade an emotion surfaced in talking about Death. What happened to Uncle Carl was defined as “passing”, per mom. It was her brother and a favorite uncle. He smoked cigarettes from packs rolled up in his tee shirt sleeves, drank, used hair product, and liked to lean on the hood of his convertible. In the 1950s and 60. He visited the farm regularly and called me “Sport”. When he stopped coming, it was weeks before I asked mom. She set me and my brother on the couch and announced “Carl won’t be coming anymore”, and as we kids pondered what we did wrong she added, “He has passed on.”

Death made itself known eventually, and we had some disagreements, but I came to understand and accepted it which was easy since my death was so far away. An early and now long-gone girlfriend said I was a great comfort at funerals. As a big, strong, quiet man woman liked to cry on me, no matter their age.

Now, an approaching Death needs to be an arbitrary factor in equations and discussions about End of Life. Input all known variables and solve for X. The word death meant nothing to the young mind and now means nothing to the old mind. In fact, Death, now, is simply the next event, the next inevitable stage of Life. Some of those were turning 13, turning 16, kissing a girl (thanks Cousin Debbie), buying beer, college, marriage, kids, marriage again, marriage again (Yes, sadly, not a typo), grandkids, and retirement. These were most of the major events looked forward to and anticipated. The first beer, by the way, was so bad, how could anyone drink it?

But beer might help with Death, if you think about it. I love beer, now, so maybe, after death…?

Naw. The equation aspect of death is a result of living. When someone near my age dies, and when someone older than me dies, there are two different equations: How much longer than the former have I lived, and do I have as much time left, as the latter. I’ve mentioned before, the age of Death and how it had to be determined for End of Life Financial Planning. Mine is 84, the age mom died. Dad died at 51, so…

The Death Equation became harder to solve when The Calamities hit. They skewed the values of certain parts of the formula, at one point even suggested a final solution, variables be damned. In sharing my experiences with friends/cohorts in my age group, it seems we all suffer something, eventually, and don’t know what to do about it. Sharing experiences has a warning implied, and several cohorts have learned of a new calamity thanks to the exposing of someone else’s old one. I learned about my new calamity, one I never would have suspected, from the reported trials of a friend in Florida.

Another friend has a better description of the equation: we are all old cars. Any car lover worth his clicking torque wrench knows there comes a time when it doesn’t make any sense to repair an old car. You fix one thing, and something else fails. Just let it go.

A recent afternoon text back and forth with a friend whose PSA is over 4 was about the worst calamity to get in old age. My choice: Cognitive Impairment (CI). Cancer, Arthritis, AMD, none seem as bad as CI. But later, as I thought about all this, I asked myself: what if I had Ci, would I not have Death to think about?

No one knows. Or at least has ever mentioned anything.

Maybe I’ll look up that Psychic I dated in the 70s…as long as she doesn’t mention marriage, again…

Pets and Grief…maybe

I can sunbathe from my second-floor balcony. I have not had a pet in over 14 months.

You may take a few minutes to try in–your own mind–to make a nice, human story from those two statements.

Okay. Times up. When sunbathing, I am not afraid to show my aging body but aware there may be some weak stomachs if too much skin is made available for public viewing. Fortunately, the sun shines into my apartment from the balcony at certain times of the day so there is a way to be secretly nudish (sic), appreciate the sun, and ensure innocent eyes don’t suffer retinal damage: keeping my balcony door open.

Sidebar: For the thirteen months I’ve inhabited a second-floor loft in Rome, NY, not one bug has been noticed at, near, or in my apartment. They do not even bang against the large windows or get caught in the screens, even when the windows are open and allow a beautifully breezy flow of clear, clean, upstate NY air. It is welcome relief from the south where bugs are frequently co-habitants and often big enough to be paying rent. An open window in the south is an invitation for a collection of creatures wondering if they can enter, and they often do, somehow. And in shifts with night-time arthropods arriving after the daytime hexapods retire after a long day. The arachnids (spiders) were welcomed, however, and their full webs were applauded each morning, until one decided–without invitation–to be a house pet. And one morning there was a praying mantis trying to unlock my car door, True story, he/she was huge.

So. One beautiful, unexpected spring day while sunbathing with the balcony door open and my physical form hidden from prying eyes (you know who you are!), it was with little fanfare and–certainly no invitation–that a big, fat fly buzzed into the apartment, zooming right over my astonished head and off into the very bowels of the previously insect free living space. You all know how they buzz, letting you know they are there, somewhere you can’t find them. Somewhere they are secretly doing what they do. Flies. Annoying little basta%$#s.

He/She/It was fat and fast, buzzing and zooming all over, but never back through the conveniently open balcony door. I chased It with a book, a broom, a towel, and eventually sat, exhausted, in the chair after an hour of high-level, video-game pursuit.

And it landed in my lap. I struck my lap hard with the palm of my hand as It flitted away, back to the kitchen area. It was during the ensuing respite from humiliation and physical exertion that I ruminated on the fact my solitary existence in the apartment was often a cause for loneliness as my dog, Charlie, and cat Maxine, were left behind in North Carolina, The Calamities making me unfit to be the animals’ parents until such time as chasing after them was a possibility. (But I could still type a long sentence.) Missed were the big, brown, loving eyes, of Charlie and the baleful stare of Maxine as she struggled with how to do away with me and still get fed. Like most pet owners, what is missed the most is talking with them. Just knowing they are there.

Long story short, I adopted the big, fat, uninvited fly as my new pet. I decided he was a male, but did not do any research to corroborate the fact. How would one do that, anyway? (google: do flies have sex.) Naming him was easy: Jeff, after Jeff Goldblum, the actor in the 1986 science fiction classic film “The Fly”. Technically, Mr. Goldblum’s first name is Jeffrey, so Jeffrey became my new pet. Not only did I talk to Jeffrey but I’m sure he talked back, in his own way. For example, he frequently joined me in the bathroom when I did my ablutions, keeping a discreet distance while resting in the tub, waiting. We played together, too, chasing each other around the apartment. Google the song “My Best Friend” by Harry Nillsson for an example of how close a man and his fly can become.

Sadly, when this story was told to local human friends, they all said the same thing: “Don’t ever tell anyone else this story.”

So here it is, in its mostly true form.

Epilogue: Our friendship lasted several warm, spring days, but when it got cooler things changed. Jeffrey was indifferent, lackadaisical and didn’t want to play anymore. One afternoon upon returning from an appointment, my opening of the apartment door revealed Jeffrey on his back on my kitchen counter, all six legs pointing to the ceiling. Even in the end he was considerate, dying in plain sight and easily brushed into the garbage. He’d given me the best of his 15-30 days on this earth. Oddly, the same friends who warned me about telling this story upbraided me for unceremoniously disposing of him. Was I supposed to give Jeffrey a funeral?

He was just a fly.

An Open Letter to Old Fuddie Duddies, you know who you are…

As my life has progressed, so has my knowledge and use of modern technology. It doesn’t mean I’m keeping up, just not far behind. You can imagine my surprise when old friends and new friends huff and puff about using new technology. This post will be about modern stuff young people know already, and have probably moved on from, so if you’re tech savvy (any age), don’t read any farther. You’ll be bored.

Computers, laptops and cell phones entered my life in the early 80’s and 90’s and most of my cohorts are reasonably up to a slow speed with them. Reasonably. Many still use checks and check books and balance their accounts every month. I’ve given up arguing, debating, and teaching the merits of on-line banking, bill paying, and account maintenance. It isn’t that the ship has sailed, it never even got out of the dock. If you are my age and wondering what the hell I’m talking about, ask a grandchild. Or someone else’s grandchild. Don’t bother me. Benefits? See your account activity every day, not 30 days later when your statement posts and you sit down with your calculator, check book, and mailed, printed statement. Balancing or reconciling a checkbook, monthly, is an avoidable, self-inflicted torture–by the way–some seem to enjoy…so there is that aspect to consider.

Bonus sidebar: How many of you old couples still use two (or more) checkbooks for one account? A man once told he had three: one for him, one for her, and one for the “house” to keep track. Beside the possible S and M angle (google it), maybe those monthly account balancings (sic) helped keep them together? Again, don’t ask a man thrice divorced and recently dumped.

          In 1960 when kids like you know who wanted to get a local baseball game together, we called a house phone. If someone answered, gold! As long as it wasn’t answered by a teen-aged girl waiting for a certain boy to call. If no one answered, you kept trying. Imagine getting 10 kids together for a game (we only used half the field). I cannot remember when answering machines came out, but I do remember getting my first cell phone in the mid-90’s about 5 years after a good friend got a car phone. Even then most calls still went to a “House Phone”. Car phones didn’t last long but then the cells hit and we all had them. Now calls went to the person holding the phone, still never certain of the message getting through but at least progress. Then, voice mail, group phone calls, etc.

          The next big leap was texting. Most old people are still confused about all the phones can do, but texting should be easy. It is a combination of mailing, calling, emailing and smoke signaling, all of which can be used for effective communication: effortlessly thanking distant relatives, asking out a possible mate, and getting 10 old men together for whatever it is ten old men could do. Not only does the sender get control of the message (I sent it to you hours ago. Must be glitch.) the receiver does, too. (I didn’t get your text. Must be a glitch.) Imagine both excuses happening on the same text. It’s possible. Maybe everybody’s not happy, but at least they aren’t mad. Some tried, right? Why can’t old people see how great this form of communication is? And learn to use it? Oh, and you can send a text, any time, like when you want to tell someone something but don’t want to talk with them. Early morning, around 3am is the best time for that particular text. They won’t be up for a phone call, and the text might wake them up, a bonus. Genius.

          The best modern technology to keep up with is music. I’ve spoken before of the records, 8-tracks, cassettes, and CD’s of the past, and how ear buds have revolutionized the way we can hear music as loud as we want without upsetting uptight neighbors. For anyone reading this older than me, I just found—online–and listened to a 1943 live recording of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” by The Andrews Sisters. The miracle of modern technology isn’t just the access to centuries of music, but the quality of the music, as well. A past post mentioned Jackson Browne and how the vinyl, monaural records of the past have been “digitalized” (read: fixed) and everything can be heard, now, not just the singer and lead guitar. As a single man living alone with slight disabilities, my indoor activities are often accompanied by a soundtrack no one else can hear…or complain about. Try Led Zeppelin’s “When the Levee Breaks” at 11 on your stereo, then add ear buds. Write back to me about who was happier, you or the people in your vicinity. Of, course, they might be Zep fans, so, be ready to share, or explain. Learn to text, old people. Please.

          Yes, I should be listening to “The Great Courses of Mankind”. FYI: I’ve penciled them in for my next hip replacement when I won’t be able to dance for a month.

Not Again…

If you are a regular reader you know about The Calamities, and that a new calamity may be added to the list, soon. A colonoscopy revealed the potential for a new Big C, but until the biopsy comes back, let’s focus on the fun things in life.

After the completion of the anal butt scanning, the perpetrators handed me a form to sign. “I’ll sign anything,” I said, still high from the anesthesia. My daughter read it to me later. It was an innocuous list of things to be careful about post-colonoscopy, like don’t drive, and be ready for slight dizziness when standing up. The last item on the list?  “Do not sign any legal documents” until full recovery.

My move from a tennis hotbed in Durham, NC, to Rome, NY, thirteen months ago caused a sharp decline in tennis participation. Aside from The Calamities, my sudden (and complete) dearth of tennis capacity is because there is no one in Rome who plays tennis. No one. Anywhere. Except in the operating room at my colonoscopy. The anesthesiologist plays! Silver lining, much? It’s only been 24 hours, but he hasn’t called. Maybe he didn’t like me…

Turning Stone Resort and Casino (TS) is my favorite fitness center. After exercising old bones and muscles, I’ll toddle down to the gaming floor or sidle over to The Emerald, the 24-hour restaurant, or do both. Fitness starts at 6am and all other activities follow…perfect timing. Last week I vowed to never gamble again as a string of bad luck wiped all my winnings and plus, stupidly, $10 from my savings. But the bad news of yesterday’s colonoscopy inspired me to risk another $10 this morning. It is the “yin and yang”** of life: bad luck yesterday, good luck today, right? Complementary forces in the Universe. Great winnings were expected.

The house quickly and efficiently took my $10 so it was off to the usual omelet and potatoes breakfast at The Emeralds, where good luck finally revealed itself. They make home fries with onions (Why does anyone do that?), so for years at Emeralds my potato side was French fries. Not bad for the rest of the day, but home fries or hash browns are de rigueur** for morning ingurgitation**. But today, this very morning, a waitress with a heart of gold and probably some power over the cook, had them make onion-less home fries for my dining pleasure. Yang is back, baby!

The Yankees lost to the Mets and…stop. Doesn’t belong here.

Lesson learned? On the drive home this morning, a sadly inept driver hogged the smooth inner, passing lane of the four-lane highway. As I began to pass the idiot on the rough, trucked-up outer lane, he slowed, and turned left, exiting the highway. Whoever was driving did not get the benefit of my screaming face and extended middle digit.  Lesson: things aren’t always what they seem so don’t overreact. Keep your wits about you. After further internal discussion, though, the facial and digital displays were judged situationally(sic) appropriate as the driver did not use their blinker. A lesson for all of us.

The morning’s weather deserved cursing, too, as a cold rain sifted down through the clouds during the morning drive to TS. With the darkness and 50-degree temperature, it was the kind of cold that seeps into old bones. A well-thought-out lamentation, followed by a sufficiently remorseful prayer failed to affect any climate change. But hours later, as my car exited the TS parking garage, the rising sun fought through the clouds with just enough success to showcase the intense, budding, beautiful greenery of upstate NY. Yin and Yang, again.

Okay. My mind is back in balance. Yin and Yang. Que sera, sera. Let it be. An important thing to remember in times like these is how good life has been. No calamity should ever make you forget.

**google it. Fun stuff.