love

What Can We Do?

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The world is—and always has been—a crazy place. In 1970, for instance, when the world was going to end, I considered The Peace Corps and other similar agencies for a career where I could fix all the world’s problems. But nothing happened.  The intense mix of problems and where to start fixing them was too big, too hard. Since I was young and immature, my non-decision was it was too hard to do anything at all. I hopped on my motorcycle and took off, looking for drugs, sex, and rock and roll* to cover-up the disillusionment, and my failure to address it.

That same d-word is being used a lot, these days, so here are some things to help you cover it up.

Give blood. I won’t explain it here, but command you to download the Red Cross Blood Donor App and research it for yourself. This is the minimum you can do without effort. Go lay down, drip blood into a bag, grab a free snack, and go home. Just do it, with apologies to you-know-who for the phrase. If you’re afraid of needles, get over it, you wuss. Imagine the poor, unfortunate, dying patient your blood may help and stop being so self-centered. It isn’t about you. Wuss.

Don’t believe everything you read on the internet. I know, it’s hard to get real news then, right? Hard to be informed. But this is a math problem. Right now 60 percent of the internet is fake, wrong, or intended to fool you. Do you know the difference? No. Don’t say you do.

Don’t have an opinion. Opinion has been part of life for all my 74 years so…my opinion is don’t have an opinion. If we don’t know the truth about anything, why are we so sure about anything? Public discourse is littered with opinions from people who—after questioning—can’t say where, who, or what they learned their opinion from.** It’s mainly a MAGA/Republican thing, but Democrats have caught on and are rapidly ramping up to do the same thing: manipulate the public. Us. Forget who is doing it and just keep this thought in mind every time you read anything: What are they*** trying to do to me, now. It’s not a question but a statement.

Finally, take pride in being who you are and doing what you can do. Buying a fuel efficient car. Turning off lights. Saving water. Rescuing pets. Helping a friend, neighbor, stranger feel better about life, or just help them get in a doorway or up a flight of stairs. Stop being an ignorant consumer, how many pairs of shoes do you need? Look for God everywhere and don’t be ashamed to admit it.****

Crap, I need another “finally”: you are the master of your domain. If you’re unhappy, depressed, or disillusioned, it sometimes requires an internal examination and adjustment. It’s not always the big, bad world’s fault.

And if none of this helps, talk to someone. There are lots of good therapists and counselors waiting for your call. Find a living, breathing, caring human who will listen and remind you what really matters: you get one chance at life. Don’t let the world try to prevent you from giving it your best shot.

*Not really. Just an apt phrase for the time. Sex, yes, but no drugs and one certainly didn’t have to look for “rock and roll” in the 70s. It was blaring from every car, transistor radio, and Ed Sullivan Show. Don’t bother googling.

**Yep. That is a preposition and that is the end of the sentence. I could easily have rewritten the entire sentence but I don’t want TO. Shoot me.

***”They” is anyone with an interest in getting us and others like us (?) to believe and behave a certain way. Watch sports opinion shows for non-political examples. You’ll gag.

****This has nothing to do with religion. I should use a lower case “g” for God, but have respect for Them all, so upper case it is.

Why?

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There is never any shortage of subjects to write about. Or talk about. The world today is ludicrously different from the world of my younger years, but the amount and scope of problems are about the same.

In the 1960s*, the war, civil rights, women’s right, climate change (yes, way back then), voting rights, tree-hugging, love, sex, algebra, the Exquisite No Bra, the end of The Bullet Bra, there was just so much to worry about that old people often warned me the end of civilization was near.**

With the young deaths from The War, the riots in the cities, and an older generation intend on making my cohorts and I toe the “shorthaircutcleanface” regimen from the 1950s, it did seem like The End was near. My father personally offered to end my world if I did not get my haircut.

Ah, good times. One good thing about my father is he loved bars/taverns. If we were with him, we loved them, too, especially the patrons who felt it was the right time for me and my brother to learn the evils of alcohol. And pickled eggs.

Flash forward to the present and what are we worried about? The End, still. Our Democracy is threatened, again, our natural world is at peril, still, and our capacity for destroying each other has increased. We can kill people from afar with effortless ease and without the time-worn threat of nuclear involvement. Through Ai, we can even wipe ourselves out with a “fox in the henhouse” attitude that seems to enjoy the eggs without regard for how long they may last.***

And we can instantly tell someone they are a butthead from long distance. We can even put it in writing so the butthead can review it at his/her/their leasure. ****

Soon, the magic of Quantum Entanglement might make it possible to insult the butthead face to face and beam back home before they understand what butthead means.

Here begins an age-old problem. This essay was started with the best to intentions and clearest of “point to be made”. But you can tell by the footnotes my brain has taken the nearest exit from the constructive, intelligent speed of the super highway to the slow-paced, drowsiness of memory lane. A cogent, pithy, well-thought-out essay is now as extinct as a pterodactyl. (Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go to the bathroom? The “p” is silent.)

What do you call a person who can’t fart in public? A private tutor. Hope you don’t have to think about that one.

Or anything else. The World is The World and it has been for billions of years. Can we do anything to change it? Or course we can, look at history.

But can we do anything to change it and make it better? More livable for all? Happier for at least The Majority? Even if we change the world for the better how long will we be able to enjoy it?

Meh. Let’s say not long, and believe there is life after death, a better life, a fuller, life, an easier life with no Ends to worry about.

There was an advertisement for a self-help book “How to Solve 50 Per Cent of Your Problems”.

Ever the optimist, I bought two.

Full disclosure, if I ever write a joke of my own I will make sure you know it.

*Conveniently forgetting pre-1960 years of farming, using a baseball bat with the wrong grip, trying to shoot snakes with a cap gun, building snow forts in snowbanks as the plows were still running, and—you get the point: stupid kid.

**Apologies for mentioning the bra controversies but it was puberty and my mother bought all my clothes from the Sears Catalogue, so fashion (ahem) intrigued me.

***Pardon me for kind of enjoying this symbolism/metaphor/mini allegory.

****Yes, I do do this. Do do. Ha.

Do You Ever Wonder…

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What would it be like to be very rich? Obscenely rich? When I dream about it, it lasts two minutes before the impossibility of it shuts down the wonder. But what if…maybe…

Dr. Steven Wright says we wouldn’t really like it if we got everything we wanted: Where would we put it? Maybe one of the seven houses we would buy, one on each continent. Or a complete warehouse.

Hey. Why am I saying “we”? It would be mine, mine, mine.

What would it be like to look exactly like you think you want to look? Or—for the delusional among us—how you already think you look? Delusion, by the way, is underrated. Is it wrong for a 1 on the 10 scale to think he, she, or them look like a 9 or 10? If given a choice between an ugly man who sees himself as Hugh Hefner and a well-adjusted man who is a serial killer, the choice is easy. Not that a well-adjusted man would be a serial killer. As an irrelevant aside, I wouldn’t mind being George Clooney for a day. Or Cindy Crawford if options were limited and it didn’t last forever.

What would it be like, come to think of it, to suddenly become a member of the opposite sex, or any sex* you aren’t, presently? Is there an honest man amongst** us who will admit to imagining being a woman? I’ll bet this modern world has a woman or two who would never dream of being a man. And if you males imagine being a different sex, add different eras to be different sexes, too. To wit: a women in the 15th century. Or a cavewoman.

From my college days, I wonder what it would have been like to know what you want to be at 18 years old. In 1970, a circular group of 14 incoming Colgate University freshmen*** were asked what they wanted out of the University. 13 had specific goals like pre-med, pre-law, politics, health administration. Might be a good documentary to flash back and see how many made it. I hope they all did.  And if they did make it, hope it made them happy.

What would it be like if all the gadgets from old (and new) Star Trek shows were invented? Imagine being “beamed up” and around anywhere in seconds. Or the health analyzer Bones just pointed at people to learn what ailed them. We’ve had the “flip” communicator device for decades, now, so…there’s hope.

And have you been having trouble with your Ai partner? I turned off Emma, the dedicated and hard-working Ai add-on on my Android phone, last month. It wasn’t because of her small-type disclaimers at the end of her answers, but because if I asked her about slip-on shoes,  minutes later my phone was infected with slip-on shoe ads. I gave her a chance and asked if she was selling my interests to a third party and she denied it, but facts a facts, even when dealing with Ai. Since being uninstalled I have not heard “boo” from her. Good, right?

If you’re wondering, it’s back to plain vanilla google searches and so far, so ad-free. Google seems to be more interested, now, and asks questions.

Wonder what it would be like to not have my smart cell-phone partner anymore.

Ugh. Cold shivers.

I wonder if it would help my memory issue. Has my brain opted to let my phone remember everything? What if my battery dies?

Now, there’s a healthy conversation about a death other than my own.

*There are more options, these days.

**Notice among and amongst used correctly in two different places?

***And freshwomen? Or is freshmen a sexless term like sophomore, junior, and senior?

Weird Odd Things

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The Sand Striker worms are between 3 and 6 feet long. They burrow in the sandy sea bottom until only their antennae are exposed. They are blind but when a small piece of seafood touches their antenna, the worms flash up and use powerful pincer jaws to grab the small fish or whatever was passing by. The Sand Striker then pulls the catch into its sand tunnels and enjoys a meal. I heard about this from a radio interview with author Sabrina Imbler, who was talking about their book “How far The Light.” I haven’t purchased the book yet, but will, and hope everyone else does. They have an interesting way of knitting together science facts and human realities, and are a fine, interesting writer. There will be more.

It isn’t unusual to not know about sea creatures. We don’t run into them much on land. But another sea floor inhabitant, the Flatworm, has an interesting sex life. There is a great video on “youtube” from the BBC, narrated by David Attenborough. You should google. His wonderfully English-Empire voice and gravitas make the Flatworm’s reproductive operation serious as the Pope but with overtones of Monty Python. See, the flatworm is born with both male and female sex organs. DEI, anyone? Flatworms have mated in an odd way for millions of years, but it’s not clear why, or the Darwinian reasoning for their survival. When two Flatworms cross paths in the bottom of the ocean, they rise up like cobras and—really not making this up—begin to fence with their erect, two-pronged penises. It’s part Inigo Montoya* and part pornographic professional wrestling. The first asexual flatworm to “stab” the other with his penis, becomes the male of the relationship and floats away to enjoy his freedom. It is not clear if “he” is happy or not, but no child support. The “stabbed” flatworm becomes the female, mother, and transporter, assuming all the responsibilities and duties.** Can’t tell if “she” is happy or not, either. Wonder how many of us men are descended from flatworms. If any. It was so surprising I never researched how many times this can happen, or if–when one flatworm becomes a female–is it always a female? Uncommon (sic) sense suggests there might be a time at which all flatworms return to their dual-sex, true selves. Imagine what the Flatworm retirement home must be like. And the bathroom signage. And possible ED? Nothing like a sword fight with flaccid swords.

Life has been kind of nice, lately, learning new things is great. But a bad night’s sleep made me cranky and the drive to the grocery store was filled with idiots, morons, and flatworms who must have learned driving from The Three Stooges Driving School. The short trip ended without accident so as I sat in my car, the amount of time, effort, and blood pressure exerted in 15 minutes impressed me, and made me wonder why. The self-examination calmed me and allowed me to see the real problem: I had cursed 5 times and every time it was the same. I’m in a rut.

But I also felt it was all my fault for being cranky and most people were good, decent, caring drivers. I started my walk to the grocery door feeling better about people. So when I was suddenly cut off by a white Mercedes screeching to a halt right in front of the automatic doors, the first noises out of my mouth were not words. A very obese young man popped out of the car, left it running, and walked into the store. I followed out of curiosity. He spent 11 minutes shopping for bathroom tissue, paper towels, and beer. Then checked out, got back into his running car and drove off.

Nary a word from me or him, or anyone.

I deeply, deeply, regret not stealing his car. Repositioning it, I mean.

Hopefully, he feels the wrath of my dream of his capture by a Sand Striker.

Ah, life. You can’t live with it and you can’t something something something…

*Best line in any movie; “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” For the young reader, watch The Princess Bride. A classic.

**But no soccer practice. Flatworms are feet-free.

Finally…

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It took a lifetime, but there was a point this week where my mind and body got on the same page. BB, IV, OV, and TB together, finally.* For the last 50 years TB has aged at one rate, while BB has aged at another, while IV and OV were left confused and argumentative. When TB was 60 years old, BB pegged our biological life at 45 years. When we hit 70 in TB years, BB stated– muttering through IV and OV–that we were only 47. When the calamities hit us all at age 72, TB fought for survival while BB told us things would be all right: we’re going to make it.

It’s tough to live a modestly happy existence when each segment of your life is looking at things from a different perspective. Example from past essay: March 2025 when BB excitedly instructed TB to chase down a tennis drop shot** at 9:37am at Southern Boundaries Park in Durham, North Carolina. BB leaned into the instruction and was totally surprised when TB said, “No way!” and shut down. The fall was magnificent but left TB with scrapes and bruises still visible to this day, August 28, 2026. BB was shocked and angry, as well, as if betrayed, but what could it do when TB could not get up off the concrete tennis surface?

BB has historically fought the Truth about Aging. When TB was racked with radiation and drugs meant to destroy a murderous interloper***, BB didn’t really comprehend the damage. BB still saw TB as the strong, silent, invincible young man of decades past. Even worse, BB was convinced we’d soon be back to the handsome, healthy young man of an age well before cell phones. This lunacy not only made for contentious inner dialogues amongst**** all of us, but also fed TB, IV, and OV purposeful deceptions about how much love, romance, wealth, and time was left in our lives. The future was bright according to the gray matter nesting comfortably in my noggin.

So it was this past week, as the scars and worries of treatments healed and faded, as arthritis was finally vanquished with magical surgeries, all four of us were finally able to enjoy the warm, wonderful Upstate NY summers that are the best in the world. Not only was my entire body in the earthly heaven, but my entire being–all of us–were ready to bask, ready to revel, ready to move on from disease and worry. Finally.

The wanton and absolutely cruel ex-partner’s abandonment of me also took on a different feel: I am no longer a discarded cancer victim left for dead, I am now a free man, free to do whatever, and be whatever, a healthy, well-rounded, totally balanced individual set loose on society. The world would be my oyster. It was a miracle of medical science as well as a miracle of the mind and body, with IV, OV, TB and BB all agreeing: let’s get the feck steppin’ to a better life. Past shite, be damned. Finally.

Here is the pivotal moment as best as I/we remember: BB informed TB that with our newfound enlightenment, BB now officially sees us as a 74-year-old man with a cranky, well-worn transmission and little tread left on the tires. No longer would TB have reason to contradict BB’s instruction. There were sighs of relief from IV and OV as well, as they realized arguments were never going to be destructive wastes of time again. New debates would be constructive, positive, and based on facts, not feelings. You could make the case we, matured, finally at age 74.

It was always odd to look in the mirror and hear two voices, one saying how young I looked and the other asking, “what the hell are you LOOKING at?”

Now, it is one voice saying “Hey. Looking okay for 74. But you’re not 44, so brush those teeth a little longer.”

Life’s nicer when we all get along.

Hear that, world?

And this essay is done. Finally.

PS If any readers are professionally trained psychologist-types, this essay is (attempted) humor and we do not have multiple personalities. You may, of course, have fun critiquing this essay with your Jungian Theory but I’m ok, if you’re okay.  Wink, wink. Finally

*Big Brain, Outer Voice, Inner Voice, and The Body.

**From a decidedly younger and non-empathetic (sic) opponent.

***Someone or thing that enters a place it does not belong.

****Wondering about “among” or “amongst”? Per Ai they mean “the exact same thing so no worries, now.

Circles, Navel Gazing, and Other Detritus

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No, not The Circle of Life. That would require a few weeks of essays, at least.

The Circle (sic) being referred to is The Traffic Circle (TTC), an increasingly ubiquitous problem solver of great impact and doubtful efficiency. Not “doubtful” because it is debatable about its design but “doubtful” because American drivers are not smart enough to use TTCs efficiently. Drivers with an opinion complain about them. Are you one of them? If you are, You might want to stop reading. TTCs make a four-way stop road intersection obsolete. With the old four way stop in all direction, we all pull up, stop, and then wonder who goes next. Even if no one else is coming we still stop (don’t we?) just in case a cop is sitting in the bushes. With a TTC you drive right through, even with moderate traffic, no stopping! But Americans “can’t handle the truth”* about how to drive TTCs. It would take a 20-page manual to explicate (google definition) the correct way to maneuver a TTC but mostly it is common sense and “therein lies the rub.”** We don’t have any. As a result, the immense benefits of a TTC fall by the wayside as drivers complain about TTC efficiency and go out of their way to avoid them entirely.*** Only in America can a simple timesaving, gas conserving, and anger reducing tool result in lost time, wasted gas, and higher blood pressures. Happy 250th, America.

Self-examination of the mental kind is not a bad thing, Ask any dead philosopher or “deep thinker”.**** It is okay to look outward, too, and see how the inward self-examination compares to what is outside, in life. But there comes a time when all we see is our navel. Ai says the term “navel gazing originates from the literal meditative practice of staring at one’s belly button in Eastern Spiritual traditions which evolved into a Western idiom for excessive self-absorption.”  Most of our modern television is “Navel Gazing”. Most of you are smart enough to understand, but are you really? One of the most successful television shows in history is about nothing but navel gazing, and how to make millions from it. Every week millions of Americans tune it to watch the players do it. Do these voyeurs not have their own navels? Maybe they do, but they are disappointed in their own umbilicus? Google it. Yes, Americans need entertainment to get through life. Look at sports these days. Better to watch it than play it? Eh, for most of us old athletes, it isn’t gazing at our belly button but reliving a life long gone but not forgotten. Why do YOU watch?

Modern life is a landfill. Look around. Consumerism and its partner, excess consumption are not only consuming too many resources but becoming a resource all their own for future Archeologists and researchers. We might want to think about starting separate landfills for “high end” products so future dirt diggers and sifters can tell a Christian Louboutin loafer from a Walmart loafer. Or a Jimmy Choo from a Gucci. Or…feck it. What shite. If we could harness the power of beautiful people strolling on red carpets with clothes***** worth a small house….

BTW, where do all expensive clothes and accessories end up? Would rich purchasers mind if their clothing ended up in a landfill with cheaper products? Or worse, on the body and feet of a homeless person?

PS Thanks to DJT for all the distractions. It is an appreciated change of pace.

*Apologies to Jack Nicholson as well as those readers who have no clue what the quote is about.

**Apologies to Shakespeare and those readers blah blah blah.

***A certain “ex” will drive a mile-long detour.

****Google “Deep Thoughts” by Jack Handy and SNL.

*****And sometimes no clothes…a certain Emperor comes to mind.

Counting Senior Blessings

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No, this won’t be about lunch discounts, or 5% off groceries on the third Monday of the second month of the year, or other known blessings. This is about the hidden blessings, often referred to as The Wisdom we supposedly gain each year on this earth, which is a lot of hooey, but read on unless you have something better to do.

Being old lowers stress levels…a lot. As a younger man (under the age of 70) I was a Stressfully Impatient Man (SIM). It had nothing to do with relaxing, that was always easy, but when there were things to be done I wanted to do 2 hours of errands in 30 minutes. To be accurate there was always a plan, an efficient way to do more in less time. Like driving 8 hours from NC to NY. As a young SIM, every trip had to be faster and more efficient. If it wasn’t, it caused “results” stress for the failure, as well as “operational” stress during the attempt. Stress everywhere.  Doctor appointments were stress hothouses. If my Doc appointment was at 8, my shopping would be at 9, my haircut would be at 10, and I would be home by 11 on a perfect SIM morning. Imagine, then, what happened when the doctor was late. The stress was exponential. I used to call these stresses NASCAR Stresses, because I’d do everything as fast as possible with intensely focused, constant attention knowing every second hid a possible, deathly mishap. If a doc was late, I was out the door to maintain my SIM “schedule”.  No caution lap times for me. Full speed or pit stop.

Not anymore. As I patiently waited in my eye doctor’s office yesterday for eye shots to be administered 45 minutes after my scheduled appointment, it was comforting to not feel one iota of stress*about his tardiness. I sat quietly, sometimes counting my resting heartbeat and marveling at the low number. It was fun, too, to estimate the ages of the other silently waiting blobs of human flesh sitting with me, even the odd duck who sat down directly across from me despite 10,000 other empty seats in the room.**

It looks like this essay about blessings, with an s, might only be about one. It is, but it is a major one with multiple daily gifts. For instance, am I stressed you might not care about this subject? Absolutely not. Am I stressed I might miss a misspelled word? Use poor grammar? Punctuation? In fact, I might add some typos for fun.

I hope you see if I am no longer a SIM, what would the end of the world mean? What does climate change mean? Republican control of the government? Elon Musk making trillions of dollars? Me not being a triillionaire?

I am not rich, but I am—thanks to the Aged Wisdom of The Golden Years—a happy (sometimes) old man who doesn’t give a shite about anything (sometimes).

Word, my brothers. Oops, and sisters.

*As a young man it was never easy to tell myself if someone was 15 minutes late, they’d probably show up eventually. My thought was if they were already 15 minutes late, then how many more? And they might never show up, so…

**And he was a starer. It is possible, being an eye doctors office, the offending gentleman may not have seen me, but someone sitting 3 feet across from you staring at you…stress. Unneeded stress even for a non-SIM.

Fun With Quotes and Such

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There are lots of people’s opinions floating around this world in the form of “quotes”. Especially from dead people. Some have become bromides, axioms, truisms, or some other form of important saying. These quotes have become “shorthand” for making a point about life in general without using too many words, and some people spout them at odd times in discussions. Let’s examine four of my favorites.*

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” Socrates. Is Socrates talking about physical or mental examination? He couldn’t have envisioned full body scans or PSA tests, so he must have been talking about the mental questioning of life. But can animals examine their existence? Trees?  Are babies given a pass on examining their life until a certain age? And how is “worth” measured? Happiness? Dollars? How long your quote is? I understand and appreciate the brevity, but If Socrates had added a few more words we might make better use of it. In fact, he added lots of words as this came from testimony at his trial. Time took some of the words after he drank the hemlock…look it up, yourself.

“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”” TS Eliot. Who wants to know how “far” they can go? And how is this one measured? Miles or time? What about the disabled population? And is going a long distance the only reason to risk going anywhere? Kierkegaard’s unusual ideas about “going far” seem to be the opposite of the quote. He found his Moral Imperative ideas walking his city’s streets. And who ever begins a trip trying to find out how “far” they can go?  The quote must have something to  do with Flat Earth Conspiracies. Think about it. But not too hard.

“A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse.” Rod Stewart? No one knows where this one came from but since it appeared on a Rod Stewart album it’s never left my mind. First, how do we know the horse cares about either signal? Maybe the horse was Mr. Ed.** And who would nod or wink or wave or otherwise signal a blind horse? unless it was to test the accuracy of the quote? And who would care? I have a vision of men sitting around watching a blind horse and laughing at people nodding and winking. Ever do either, yourself? PS Further prodding of Ai “suggests” the quote means “don’t make a larger effort when a smaller effort will work.” If you understand what Emma means, comment please.

“It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.”  Per Ai: “This famous sentiment comes from Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s 1850 poem, ‘In Memoriam A.H.H.’ It suggests the profound beauty of human connection outweighs the agony of grief. While the pain of loss is real, love leaves an indelible, enriching mark on our lives.” Not much needs to be said about this one since every reader will have their own opinion, depending on the stage of the current “love”, especially if they have loved and lost many times.  Or love rooting for the New York Yankees. Lost must be the key word. Would you rather be in love or be lost? And what about a person’s love of God? Can it ever be lost? And if it can be, would it be “better” for the individual involved? Of course, we have to consider our plant and animal friends, again. If you adopt a rescue dog, for example, has it felt love and loss and then love, or are dogs only capable of adoration? Have you ever entered into a “love affair” thinking about how it will feel when it’s “lost’? Honey, I’ll love you until February 3 of next year and then it’s over, okay?*** Or is the quote about actually mislocating love, like car keys?

Enough frivolity. Get back to living a good, sensible life.

A sad PS: in my last essay I pontificated on living life to the best of our abilities, forgetting to point out some people never even get the chance.

*Basically, ones stuck in my head. Enjoy the ambiguity.

**The Talking Horse from early television. There might have been a film about a verbose donkey, too. Really. Not making it up. Google it. Ai is long-winded about something so trivial.

***Not a bad idea for both parties to guard against unplanned abandonment, but you would need some variation of a pre-nuptial in case one party doesn’t want their love to be lost.

Things I Remember Blaming on Aging

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I invented a new curse word for a driver who turned left without a turn signal, but had to use the same word when my own blinker wasn’t on.

One thing gets done at one time. No multi-tasking—or any multi-anything—for a senior. I made a perfect grilled cheese sandwich and marveled at its crispy, brown coating while I  put the cheese away in the silverware drawer. So…when I went to make another sandwich it took me two and one half days to find the cheese, and it only happened while putting away the cleaned utensils from the first sandwich. If you lost your cheese, would you look for it in the silverware drawer? Sorry for the personal question. And yes, the cheese was moldy.

It’s the same with scissors. I bought a second pair and try* to treat them both like newborn babies.** If I didn’t, scissors would be left on the top shelf of the closet where the shelf lining was cut and not be found for some other task until more shelf lining was needed. A second pair has saved time, since it (almost) guarantees one pair will be in the drawer they are supposed to be in.

Prescription drugs are impossible without a chart of some kind, and a writing instrument (of some kind) to mark the chart. And mnemonic helpers. During the months of surgeries and treatment for The Calamities there, were pages of drugs to take with numbers, times, and descriptions. Thank God. Now, I take just two and a plastic marked tray keeps everything in order.  One has to be taken one hour before a meal and the other one two hours after a meal. I labeled them 1B, for one Before, and 2A, for 1 After. I think that’s-be right back.

We’re good. Checked the scissors and cheese while I was gone, too.

It isn’t that the brain is getting smaller, is it? Isn’t it just that there is so much happening, and we all only have so much computing power?

Whether that’s true or not, even suspecting anything is amiss fulfills its own whatever. I went out one time without my keys. One time in 74 years.*** Now, before the apartment door is opened, there is a moment of reflection to make sure my keys are in my hand. Other needs are checked, too, the wallet, phone****, and the thing for whatever errand I’m running…it’s hard to return unneeded shelf-lining to Walmart if you leave the lining in your apartment and remember it halfway to…where was I going?

So, “possible” memory loss is a tough issue. For one thing, what if we forget the “baseline” memory of youth? How would we identify and analyze memory loss in Old Age? And who among us trusts a complete (?) stranger who comes up to us and asks: “Don’t you remember me?”

One thing I know for sure is memory “retrievability” has slowed. It took me about 2 hours to remember Roger Federer, my tennis hero, the other day. If we just be patient and don’t waste computing time/brain time wondering why Roger Federer is not on the tip of our tongue, we will eventually see the memory is there, it’s the “indexing” that might have vanished.

But…wait…isn’t that memory loss?

*Try. The most used word, these days. Try to do this, try to do that, and try to remember to remember to try.

**As a 74-year-old Great Grandfather I have NEVER misplaced a baby. That I know of. Or was told about.

***I was a driving prodigy from a young age.

****A sharp-eyed reader may remember an essay about The Man Bag, the perfect tool for remembering everything. And who carried a phone in the 1970’s? A Wallet? We stuck a $20 bill in the pocket of our denim jeans and went out the door. At least that’s what I remember…

Things That Are Absolutely True…Maybe

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The driver in the car behind me with his high beams on is a fecking shitehole (FS).

The driver approaching me with his with beams on is an FS.

I have 74-year-old eyes and all headlights look like high beams. Who is the FS?

All politicians are FSs who will “fight” to win more than they will “work” to fix. Donations, anyone? Now, whenever politicians use the word “fight” we must assume they actually mean it. Maybe there will be a Political Weight Class in the next UFC fight card? Imagine the youtube videos as congresspeople duke it out on C-Span.

Citizens United is the dumbest court case ever. Not even sure why the Supreme Court heard it. Oops, what an FS for not remembering it was all about political donations…and money.

My girlfriend of 20 years left me, sold all my possessions, took my pets, and moved 2,300 miles across the country during my treatment for The Calamities. I still care for her. Am I an FS?* Again? She says the breakup was “both our faults.” No comments, please, but a therapist used this phrase to help me understand: “When the going got tough, your girlfriend got going.” It was easy to get “going” since she took all the money. With every day of recovery, what she did bothers me more…

Speaking of The Calamities, they “reset” my health graph. Picture a “bell curve”** where we get better and healthier with each year until about middle age. Then we head down the backside as we start “not” getting healthier each year until the end of the tail of the Bell Curve and we meet our Maker. My bell would have a huge, humpbacked dent midway down the back side, keeping in mind we have no idea of The End of the curve. This allows me to truthfully say “I am getting better”, as the dent straightens out, a truly remarkable phrase to be able to correctly use at age 74. In re-reading this, it might be only old people who will understand my happiness, so the rest of you can feck off. With all due respect.

A certain per cent of any population is going to fact-challenged*** in any society. It isn’t a criticism until the members of that “certain per cent” don’t understand themselves, and begin to think they are smarter than everyone else. Public conversation in The United States of America is currently being dominated by “these” people. Generally speaking, a medical doctor knows more than a patient. A teacher knows more than a student. Even simpler: an older person knows more than a younger person. There are exceptions to every rule, but you can—currently—see what will happen when every person thinks they are The Exception. Trey Crowder, The Liberal Red Neck, said one time, paraphrased, “I wouldn’t want my high school football team to be coached by my English teacher.”

As an addendum to that thought, over 50 percent of my news feed is “opinion”, hearsay, or comments on some other article. To my Ai content manager: I didn’t care about the first opinion, why would I care about an opinion about the first opinion? One article was nothing but reader comments. Ugh.

Almost everything is about politics these days and it sucks. Quantum Entanglement is getting closer to functional reality. Some monster telescope “people” think they found evidence of the possibility there may be life on a planet 120 light years away. Canada made the knock-out round of the World Cup. So did America. So did Mexico. Are we going to be better neighbors, now?

Under Sadly Believable heading: Billionaires think they pay too much in taxes in NY and California so they are relocating to lower tax states. Wonder how often The Billionaires have changed locations to save taxes? Hm. How much do The Billionaires pay lawyers and accountants to find ways to PAY lower taxes? Will NY and California taxes have to be increased?

Wonder if we can time travel back to 1789 France? Or at least send The Billionaires**** back there…

*Should it be “a” FS? Can’t get the fingers to type it. F is a consonant, but the name “eff” begins with a vowel…oh, the humanity…UPDATE: Emma says “a” before the SOUND of a consonant, and “an” before the SOUND of a vowel. It took 70 years for me to learn this just now. Old dog meet new trick.

**The Bell Curve was “discovered” by Abraham de Moivre in the 18th century and is used to illustrate distribution of statistical data. My reference to the “Bell” is to the resulting image a standard “x-axis is time and y-axis is health” graph would yield. For a healthy person. Who never had a health problem. Generally speaking.

***It means just what it says and does NOT mean stupid or ignorant. It means ill-equipped. Ill-prepared. Like letting 4-year-olds drive cars. Or making me a Ted Lecturer.

****Hope it does not have to be said there are some good Billionaires doing good work. Someplace. And in 1789 France, they’d learn a lesson to bring back to our time. Hopefully.