life

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

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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…

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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.

Older Life Tips. Not OLD, Older…

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Life doesn’t get easier with age. Here are some thoughts.

My eyesight is great, even with Age-Related Macular Degeneration (AMD). AMD slowly robs your central vision…if left untreated. Get an “Ainsler Grid”, or simple sheet of lined graph paper, and tape either one to your refrigerator door. Look at it often, one eye at a time, and if any of the lines get wavy, get to an Ophthalmologist as soon as possible. An optometrist might be able to diagnose your AMD but he/she couldn’t treat it, so get to an OPHTHALMOLOGIST. If the word is too long, google “Retina Specialists” in your area. Of note, learn the difference in eye medical professionals.

Vision is great but not young. I suffer from the standard old age loss of “elasticity” in over 70-year-old eyeballs and need help with fine print. Like the smaller and smaller instructions on Tyson chicken about how to cook it. Or how to take prescriptions. You can buy “reader” glasses almost anywhere or pay your optometrist (sic, learn) for a fancy pair but if you’re like the rest of us who use them only for reading, you’ll need several pair (I have 10) spread around the house and car. They get lost, often, as if they have legs. Most often they’re lost on our heads. Since you need so many pairs, you don’t want to pay a high price for them. Dollar Stores have “trees” and trees of $1 readers in any magnification you need. They are just small magnifying glasses. The dollar store models really should not be called glasses because they are made of plastic. They work perfectly if you don’t scratch them, and if you do, buy another bunch. Like 10? My eyes were getting a little fuzzy, one time, and it made me wonder if my eyes were getting worse. Maybe a higher magnification? Thankfully, I was smart enough to see it was the plastic lenses getting “foggy”, not my eyes. A moist wipe didn’t clear them up, so I planned a dollar store trip to get cleaner, new ones. Google it! Yes, I did and after dropping all my foggy plastic glasses into warm water with a little dish soap, wiping with a paper towel, and letting them dry,—voila!–my eyesight returned to normal. Sadly, I was both pleased with myself, but angry it took ten years, and google, to learn how to clean “plastics”. Hope this one helps someone.

Try to remember the world is getting less and less interested in you and what you have to say. It shouldn’t need to be mentioned, here, but…life has passed us by. Get over it. If you pay too much attention to car and beer commercials, you’ll get depressed. For comfort, enjoy the prescription drug commercials: they are meant for us and young people with problems. But do not think the drug companies care about you, they want money. And, yes, young people do have problems but don’t “help” them by pointing it out…unless they ask and even then, be careful

Recent conversations with younger and older people have reminded me of how complex, diverse, exciting, and possibly fulfilling our old lives have been . If you feel bad about being passed by and rejected by modern society, close the blinds, turn off all electronic devices, and revisit your past. If we can remember our pasts, every one of us achieved something, saved something, earned something, did something, or otherwise enjoyed the heck out of our lives in those long-ago years. Celebrate it all. Blow your horn. But to yourself. Write it down, Record it with video or voice. Besides the self-therapy aspect of letting it out, imagine how much everyone else will miss you when they read about your life and what you’ve done, what you’ve accomplished, what you have survived.

And that’s a good place to end: The End. If you reached a certain age, especially if you’ve made it longer than the average life expectancy or lived longer than your parents: Woo Hoo! Champagne for all.

But let the kids pay for it. And don’t drink too much.

Soccer? Is it Futbol?

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Is there anyone in America who can explain soccer to me? In less time than a Cricket match?

Soccer is the most popular sport in the world according to “The World Atlas”, with about 3.5 billion fans. Where do you think baseball and American football are in the rankings?

Cricket is in second place with 2.5 billion, followed by Hockey, Tennis, Volleyball, TABLE Tennis, and finally Basketball at number 7 and Baseball at number 8. Rugby and Golf round out the top ten WORLD Sports.  Haven’t found real Football, yet.

Don’t quibble about who The World Atlas is and how they might know these facts. What intrigues me is the constant effort by Soccer to penetrate the United States sports scene. We do not have Cricket leagues that I know of, do we? Any of your office friends play cricket? Talk about Cricket? Is there a relationship between Cricket and the “sounds of Crickets”? Are there Cricket pools? Holy crap. Do NOT google “how long does an average Cricket match last?” A Test Match can last 5 days! Are there food trucks?

Screw Cricket and let’s get back to Soccer. I played a type of soccer in the third grade in the 1960s. Our teachers put up some orange cones, threw a round ball into the middle of the square the cones made, and watched us run around. Then they blew a whistle, and we all went back to our readin’, riting’, and rithmatic. (sic)

I see later versions of this game in a park lately, it being recognizable by the glom of children all running in a group in whatever way the ball bounced. They looked like a school of sardines.

But thanks to “Ted Lasso”, I’ve tried to learn more. I’m also a closet fan of The World Cup (TWC), an event, presumably, where countries field National Teams every four years and play an Olympic style Tournament. TWC began in 1930 and has been played every four years, since, excepting the WWII war years of 1942 and 1946. And every pizza parlor I’ve ever been in has at least one picture of an Italian team that won a TWC, if not all four teams.

AI says there are 193 countries in the world today. Wikipedia says over 211 teams are “eligible” to play in TWC. Interesting numbers needing an entirely different post and explanation.

As I understand it, “QUALIFYING” for TWC is an event all its own, with the world broken up into “6 Continental Zones” where matches are played with the winners moving on to different “stages”. The zones have mostly normal names like Europe, Africa, Asia, South America, but there is also a zone named “Oceania**”. By the time the fateful year rolls around, (currently 2026), 32 teams are left standing to compete for TWC.

I have to stop. Every fact I learn about soccer and TWC, leads to more questions. Qualifying rules, for example, are different from the rules used to play the games in the TWC final “stages”. Why?

          Enough. I’m a fan, and not knowing what the hell is happening is part of the allure of the game. So is the noise I hear when I find a foreign soccer match on TV. It appears all soccer fans are nuts. And noisy. After 125 years of competition. What is the secret to soccer’s massive, long-lasting, fanatical popularity? Outside the United States, that is?

          Sadly, I’m leaving this discussion worse off than when I began. There is still no answer to why some matches are “Friendlies” and others are called “Caps”. Or why there is no accurate, running clock. Soccer matches aren’t over when the clock on the screen runs out, they’re over when the guy running around the field, who never touches the ball, says it is over. Why do they KEEP playing during “stoppage time”?

          Ted Lasso had trouble understanding the soccer leagues where the Champions are the losers from the Premier League or something…And if a talented actor like Jason Sudeikis can’t understand it, what hope is there for me?

          One thing for sure, it will never be called Futbol in my house.

**Think of every small island in the Pacific Ocean: they are all in “Oceania”.

Funny and True Stories from Daily Life

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I was sitting at my favorite money-taking slot machine on the gambling floor of the local casino when this conversation between two nearby strangers happened.

Him: “You come here often?” (Said hopefully, but also shyly.) Her: “Yes. I like these machines.” (Said without hesitation.) Him: “Ever go to Vernon Downs?” (A different gambling place about 5 miles away.) Her: “No.” Him: “Oh. The machines pay better.” Her: “I know! I won a $100 there last week.”

My local Mcdonald’s drive thru voice instructed me to “please pull up to the second pick up window” after placing my order. When I turned the corner there was one unmarked window, one window marked “Pick-up 1”, and the window I went to, marked “Pick-up 2”. I waited until there was an arm waving in my rear view mirror calling me back to “Pick-up 1”. I reversed back to “Pick-up 1” and was told “people go to the other window (Pick-up 2) all the time.” The speaker looked about 13 years old. Me: “Why don’t you instruct customers to go to Pick-up 1?” 13 year old: “That’s a great idea.”

A week later I was back for the really good 2 for 1 breakfast sandwich deal and was told by a familiar voice to “Please pull around to the second pick-up window.”

This next one isn’t funny, it falls under the “Just My Luck” heading. Complicated story, so hang in there. On April 1st my Primary Care Physician (PCP) discussed a colonoscopy. My last butt invasion was in 2021, four years ago and the result was great with a recommendation to have another anus probe “in seven years.” (A great timeline for an over 70 male.) But radiation treatments and chemo in 2023 wreaked havoc on my digestion so as a compromise PCP and I settled on a ColoGuard test…just to see if anything was going wrong, cheaply and easily. On April 14th ( In case you missed it thirteen days later!} someone from the PCP’s office called to schedule a “colonoscopy.” I referred them to PCP’s notes about the Cologuard. On April 15th the Cologuard test kit arrived, but I waited until Monday, April 21 to do the stinky deed** and send it back. On April 22, I found a research study from the University of California at San Francisco claiming “CAT scans and other radiation in the area of the pelvis” might be causing new and different cancers in current cancer patients already being treated for cancers in the “pelvic region.” (Whew.) As a Prostate Cancer patient in 2023, radiation was used in diagnosing and treating cancer in the prostate area which is adjacent to the pelvic area. Very adjacent.

If you’re still with me, here is the ending: On Friday night, April 25 the “Positive” (sounds good, right?) Cologuard test results were emailed to me and said this: “you have a higher than average chance of having advanced precancerous polyps or colon cancer.” Easy to understand, yes? But then, this: “It is not the same as a cancer diagnoses.” Oy.

A safety sign in the pool at the fitness center is loaded with “Pleases”. For example, “If someone is drowning, please call 911.” And if someone is in distress, please call 800-xxx-xxxx.” The last admonition is the best: “DO NOT SWIM ALONE”. (It may take a second to get this one. Please don’t worry, that’s normal.)

There’s more, but it’s nap time. At least I didn’t mention Tr—

** Cologuard sends you a nice set of plastic utensils so you can accurately poop directly into a small popcorn container, add some magic juice, seal it up “tight”, and ship it overnight to their lab. I sent them an email asking how I did, shipping-wise, but no response. Maybe it leaked all over and the “positive” result is their way of getting even…hopefully….Maybe?

Personal Things. Look Away, if you can

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Older friends have been lamenting being older. Whenever I’m around these conversations…well…

But you can’t change life simply by ignoring it. It is true we change as we age. And especially if we want the impossible: to be left alone and never grow old.

Sadly, the only solution is to not be around “older friends.”

But younger friends…well…

This past Easter was spent with family around the table. Not one was within 20 years of my age. Conversations swirled around things and ideas I’d either never heard of or heard of over 50 years ago. The constant juxtaposition was astounding. It created a hole in the fabric of conversational time where my contributions appeared irrelevant, meaningless, unimportant, and so, unspoken. It was as if there was nothing to offer.

But…so what?

As a young man I never thought I was the center of the universe, but I did matter. Life progressed, things happened, and then life started to wind down. As the “winding down” happened, life was adjusted, tweaked, re-defined, but in small increments. It was healthy, like eating broccoli in small bites. Anywhere the body was, the body adjusted and found ways to exist with some measure of happiness. Purpose, fate, bad luck, God, none of it was ever questioned for a purpose or an expected explanation. The main reason for the acceptance of change was there was lots more time to live, lots more to accept, lots more to adjust to…years more opportunity for hope and improvement.

So, imagine the surprise when you suddenly realize there is no longer “lots more time to live”.

This isn’t about death. For us as young people, death is a far-off rumor with an import never understood until you can figuratively see the whites of its eyes, and the realization it is inevitable takes a little of the sting out of the realization it might be here. And we hope it’s happening is a peaceful event.

But…does it sound like fun wondering if Age-Related Macular Degeneration (AMD) will eventually make you blind and unable to curse the Yankees? Or if a small muscle in the anus (the sphincter) will stop working and make diapers a part of your old age fashion? Is “dribbling” in your future? (Look it up, but for the “non-sports” definition.) Will the bad kind of plaque (Oxford’s good definition: “an ornamental tablet, fixed to a wall in commemoration of a person or event.”) render all these worries moot? Cognitive impairment: a blessing in disguise? Who knew? Even worse, under a certain age who ever thought about it?

Death, then, is not feared as much as slowly, incrementally, dying.

As young people we may have accepted the inevitability of death, but did anything or anyone ever prepare us for the inevitability of “dying”, losing parts of ourselves as if on some sinister, sad, stupid schedule? And without “lots more time to live”?

Give me death when it’s my time but please, fate, stop chipping away at life. I’ll die in peace, without complaint, if God will let me, but if there are other plans, that “schedule”…I’d rather not know.

Crap. That means avoiding old folks who want to talk about it.

Eh. I can live with it. At least until the damn beta-amyloid builds up.**

** Hope you researched the correct “plaque”.

Trump! A little…

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It’s been a while since Trump soiled this spot. I’ve learned to ignore his frantic actions and words, but there is one last thing to say. Or add: he is the most insecure politician, ever. God knows why, but he needs unfettered affirmation from the press, his fans, and the American citizens. Ass kissing is a better description. Thank God, for Fox News personnel. But lately, wow, it’s gone to a new level. In his first term he made a mistake and put people in place smarter than him. He learned and now the only requirement to become a Trump Administration official is how plump you can pucker your lips to kiss his “224” pound butt. And he has physically surrounded himself with gold knick-knacks borrowed from his unlimited supply of shiny bits and bobs probably filling every corner of Mar A Lago. This particular activity should put to rest his “blue collar, working man” appeal. The saddest part is the loss of teamwork. Past presidents may have had some “yes men and women”, but those presidents had enough faith in themselves to listen to others…and learn. Think of the manager of a baseball team not wanting anyone on his team who was a better player than the manager. That’s the Trump Team, these days. If Trump were truly a genius (or a good baseball player), it might work, but he isn’t. The question of the century: how long is it going to take America to see the Emperor has no clothes? (If you are young and wondering “what the heck?” Google it.)

Eh, the Trump part went a little longer, sorry. But…America better wake up and wake up soon. Again, sorry.

I’m contemplating living arrangements…for the rest of my life. The Calamities of 2023 had me wondering if I’d ever see 2025, but, now, all is well. Back to as “near normal” as any 73-year-old cancer survivor can be. My North Carolina home, if I haven’t mentioned it, was sold by my ex-girlfriend last fall as I, in NY, pondered how much longer I might live. She took all the money and the pets and fled to California, out of reach.

So. I’ll be 73 in 2 months, homeless**, alone, and making a decision which would be so much fun if I were in my 40’s. Or 50’s. Anything but 70’s. A small bank account gives me enough flexibility to be free and make any choice…as long as it fits the budget.

North Carolina calls with its temperate weather and many friends willing to put up with me. Florida beckons, as well, with communities loaded with potential new friends. And I have always loved California. For one thing, it is a big enough state for two exes. New York is attempting to sway me, too, with a 60-degree sunny day today, not knowing I have already discovered the weather forecast and snow will be in the air later this week. In Mid-April. NY you never had a chance.

The saddest part is the lack of a partner. There is a point in even a loner/misanthrope’s life where the utility of a loving life partner makes sense. Someone to get the sliver out of the bottom of your foot. Someone to complain to who knows you’re not really complaining. It’s possible to find another, but it will take time to rebuild the rich history the dance of life rewards long-partners with, and there might not be enough time. Odd, but even as a young person there was never a “guarantee” of “enough time”, a thought never even considered in decades past. As young people, we never doubted there would be enough. Now, that time is a blessing, appreciated.

Life Partner? I was just interrupted by a text message. In reading it, the other messages on my text log were at my fingertips. Almost all were from medical personnel or offices. It looked so sad. Looks like the only people who message me are the ones who get paid…

Ah, it’s not that bad. As noted, it is a beautiful spring day. Driving to my work-out this morning, I even complained about “side-face glare” from the sun. It was inescapable. As if it knew every angle to get around visors, sunglasses, body parts, and car-body frames. After inventing new swear words and cursing the low-horizon, hydrogen-burning, retina-searing, center of our universe, the humor hit: hating winter but complaining about side face glare.

Isn’t life wonderful?

**Sorry for the clunky phrasing. I am not without a place to live, I am with out a home: my own, owned, truly mine, home. I rent. Using a hyphen (home-less) might have made more of a mess. Hyphens always do, those little bastards.

Death? Again? Noooo….

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I’m having lots of trouble sleeping. You? The mind races with thoughts about SAD, Trump, America, Social Security, Medicare, apartments, homes, health, and an ex-girlfriend whose hurtful actions can’t be forgiven

At age 73, shouldn’t another word be on that list?

As my mind raced last night that word popped into my head: Death. Wide awake and ruminating away about everything except…death (small d, this time, see the difference?).

The realization mortality was not part of my late night consternation festival kind of made me happy. Maybe, pleased with myself is a better description. Death is a constant companion in old age. When the news reports an actor’s death at 69, or the retired sports star’s life ends at 72, one can not help but think he, me, is lucky to be able to hear the news. Going to bed isn’t accompanied by the hope of waking up alive, but it is a subtext, especially if dying in your sleep is your preferred method of reaching the afterlife.

Sidebar: All morning a thought from last night has been escaping me. An important thought, I thought, but obviously not important enough for me to get out of bed and write it down. In the above paragraph it revealed itself, so I’ll share, plus many thanks to my slowing brain for not deleting the idea and making me work for it. The thought: When you die in your sleep, do you know you’re dying? Or is death just an eternal extension of sleep? Imagine being shot or stabbed, or suffering from a mortal illness. You spend at least a few moments knowing it is the end, don’t you? You may even spend minutes, hours, or days getting ready for the final breath…wishing things were different.

After reading the sidebar, it appears Death/death did enter nighttime, cranial ramblings, albeit, in a Dr. Steven Wright kind of way.

Of course, the whole point of this essay is how funny the mind works so this writing can be accepted as cogent.

Okay, I agree with myself except for the fact “cogent” refers to a well-stated “argument or case, one that is clear, logical and convincing.” So says the Oxford people. But I just read back through this jumble and can’t see anywhere a “case” or “argument” has been made.  For or against anything. Does that make the entire exercise pointless?

Let’s go with a “yes”, because an answer makes a case, makes an argument, and my inability to focus and write an essay sensible and informative suddenly becomes indisputable. I knock over your King.

With a re-read and hindsight, this gibberish fits the style of our modern news, anyway. I’m topical!

And relevant.

The real villain is SAD. “Seasonal Affective Disorder” is a real thing. A long, never-ending winter in Upstate New York is the cause. It’s been over 20 years since my life was “snowed under” by weather that saps the soul, steals the “joie de vive”, and makes an Independent Liberal long for Florida.

It won’t happen again.

Somethings I Wonder About….

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Why on God’s green earth aren’t there more days like the ones in late March or early April when the sun comes out, the sky is blue, the weather warm, and the world is full of promise? God KNOWS, we could use them. Italics mine and on purpose. The squeaky wheel gets greased.

My weekly surrender of $5 to the insidious, flinty one-armed-bandits at Turning Stone Resort and Casino didn’t work out the way Casino management planned, this morning. I put my $5 bill in the slot, played my 40 cent bet,…and the machine exploded! When the dust cleared and sirens stopped, I’d won a total of $9.50. I cashed out my $14.50 and went to breakfast at Emerald in the casino. It didn’t ruin my morning, but the price of the NY Cheese and 3 Egg Omelet was no longer last week’s $12. It is now $15.12 cents with tax. Yes, I tipped well and the day is still the best one of the year…so far. A related, no-criticizing question: when will the price of eggs go down?

It is apparent the body is affected by weather, and as noted in the first paragraph, this morning is a good morning. The 72 going on 73 year old aches and pains accepted daily as a fact of life overslept this morning. They didn’t show up for work. It is always wonderful when days like this happen. Knock on wood so it lasts all day.

As a young man I chased a romantic ideal probably consistent with most young man. The result was several close calls but nothing like The Ideal. And, as with most young men, the “ideal” changed through the years so what I might like to find now, in a partner bears no resemblance to the younger hope. Please note we are not talking simply physical ideals. It was an early lesson learned that packaging is only part of the person. Do women learn the same lesson? Anyway, the thing generating wonder, here, is the thought of how many of the young who fell short of the young Ideal, would be perfect for the new, older Ideal. To put it another way: did the quest for an ideal at 20 lead me to pass by the one who would have been ideal at 72? The first thought is yes, and it makes me want to apologize to certain females. Sadly, some might not be alive. If a second thought surfaces, I’ll let you know.

There was a beautiful, little movie on TV yesterday called “77 Chances”. DirectTV has replaced YouTube TV as my main TV content provider and I was checking out the channels. My water glass needed filling while passing a “Christian” themed station, and the movie hooked me before I could change the channel. Look it up. It’s about “point of view”, mainly, and the movie made me a little happier for the time spent with it. No guns. No Ninjas. No heroes. Just people. Of note, if it matters, it is low budget, in a good way.

And that leads into the concept of heroes and the modern, American male/hero. I’ve said so often the MAGA movement is about insecurity, and we see it every day with the whining and blaming and spite suddenly integral parts of our governmental discourse. Long story shortened: there are many heroes on TV these days who are not insecure, who can take criticism without firing a shot, and who never lose confidence in doing what is right instead of just talking about it. John Wick. Longmire. Raylan Givens.  Edward Horniman. Colter Shaw. Heroes with empathy, not insecurity. Not sure about the actors, but kudos to the writers and actors for stylish, intelligent, charismatic, likable action figures.

Nap time…perchance to dream…

A Few of the Many Things I Don’t Understand

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Why do things fall from my hands so easily? It was much easier to pick them up when I was younger, so why didn’t they fall, then?

With a population of 340 million people, why do 77 million voters keep saying they “represent all of America”? Don’t the other 263 million people matter?

Where DOES time go? I’ve never heard anyone answer.

Could there be more than one “soulmate” in someone’s life? Follow up question (FUQ): How could a man get married a THIRD time without learning his lesson after the second?

Why does a person who does something stupid work so hard to deny it? FUQ (Yes, I know what it sounds like. Stop giggling.): Is it because they are stupid?

Why do we elect popular people for Prom King and President? FUQ: Are females just not popular? Are smart, intelligent, experienced candidates persona non grata? Like the television show, “Survivor”, are they too much of a threat?

A baseball player for “the other New York Team” will make $51 million dollars per year to play baseball. Is it a coincidence it is same amount as the entire annual budget for the city in Upstate NY where I live? Definite FUQ up: Could the player adopt the city and support us?

When someone says, “be cool”, do they have a specific temperature in mind? FUQ: Be “chill”? I’ve never been able to agree on temperature with anyone I ever lived with so…

Why do conservatives whine so much about “Main Stream” and “Legacy Media”? Isn’t Fox News Legacy Media? Fox is definitely “main stream”. Okay, Fox is lame. FUQ: Do Fox viewers know Fox was designed to be biased. On purpose. To counter other bias. Another FUQ: Do two wrong bias’ make a right? Do they offset? Should we be watching the cartoon network for news?

Why are sports teams so insensitive? March Madness is here. I predict two teams will fight like cats and dogs during a hard-fought, entertaining, exhausting game and when it’s over,…hate each other. In the old days (OD), in the YMCA gyms, we fought like cats and dogs and then went out for beers. Ah, the OD.

When did money take over the world? At least the American world. There are more ways to make money without making anything, now. They call it passive income. In the OD if you couldn’t shoe a horse, sew up as wound, or kill another man before he killed you, you were out of luck. Now, if you put some horse-shoeing income in a tax-deferred account, invest it in ETF’s, and sell high and buy low…huh. Maybe that is productive work.

Why does the body fall apart, wither, and die? FUQ: Is there any way to guarantee our mind won’t leave us before the body does?

Sorry about those two…

Why do all the people in old photographs look so unhappy? Was it their nature or the inconvenience of having to stay immobile long enough for the film to work?

Life must have been hard in the real OD. Thinking of how hard it would be, for example, to wipe your butt with a Montgomery Ward Catalogue page. Or a leaf. Maybe they never went to the bathroom. Ken Burns could make a documentary about defecation and urination. FUQ: How many people have died over the course of history?

Enough. It’s sad to write about some things…