Up betimes this morning and, as is my custom, took good and faithful dog, Max, across to the far side of the park across the street for his morning constitutional (which translates as my message to him which is “Have a poop, damn it!”
It was a balmy evening last night and as I reached the far side of the park – a reasonable distance from my home – I espied the vestiges of last night’s festivities by the younger tads of the community in the form of a dozen or more discarded beer cans.
“Stupid littering little bastards,” I muttered in the most benevolent internal tones I could muster.
What the hell is wrong with them? So I wondered as I wandered through their alcoholic war zone. When I was young and more foolish than I am today, when we went to an isolated spot to get a snootful, puke on our shoes, vainly hope to get laid – somehow – someday, – we were not so affluent that we didn’t retrieve our empties so that we could collect the deposit on them. Spoiled young turds, I blame the parents and the schools, much as I always do.
I’m normally a benevolent, tolerant and I daresay even a gentle soul in the eyes of all that know me, but there are times I have moments of pique. Indeed there are even times in which I feel curmudgeonly and out-of-sync with my times. At moments I long for a gentler and simpler time, like maybe the ‘90s. I’m talking about the 1890s when people dressed properly; women had cinched-waists and bountiful bosoms spilling over the top. Alas, it was also a time of atrocious dentistry, less-than-pleasing plumbing options, and a life-expectancy of about 27 years for those who were fortunate enough to not to have been killed for the ‘greater glory of Empire’ in some dumbfuck colonial war or, on the distaff side, to have not succumbed to the rigors of childbirth due to the filthy paws of doctors who always felt a chap could easily marry again so what’s the problem?
Anyway, in that regard, I read an article this morning that outlined just some of the signs that even if the reaper isn’t around an immediate corner, the days are beginning to dwindle down to a precious few. Here are just a few signs that dotage beckons:
– Your ears get longer: In the first place, huh? And secondarily I didn’t measure my ears when I was young (I obviously should have) so I cannot make a point of comparison.
– Falling asleep in front of the TV: If they broadcast something other than brain-dead crap and pap I wouldn’t. It’s not my fault.
– – Feeling stiff: In spots I’d rather not, and not as often where I’d like to.
– Losing hair: Got as much as I had when I was 18, and also have it in spots I didn’t have it at 18.
– Hating noisy pubs: Don’t go to pubs much any more but I find almost all public venues are much too loud.
– Thinking teachers, cops and doctors look ridiculously young: Well, they have a point. I noticed that my doctor’s voice changed last year.
– Not knowing any songs in the Top 10: Not knowing any songs in the Top 100 in my case because none are worth knowing except for offerings by the sadly late Amy Winehouse and aged veterans like the Stones.
– Allowing yourself a mid-afternoon nap: My ‘boy’ doctor says that’s a healthy thing to do, so who am I to quibble.
– Shocked by racy music videos: That would mean I’d have to watch music videos. Are there racy ones? Must check that out in the name of science.
– Wearing corduroy trousers: I will never get that old.
– Develop an inability to understand the function of a turn signal: Not me, but every other old fart on the road, it seems.
There are others (such as putting gratuitous photos of babes in an otherwise respectable and scientific blog), but this offers a pastiche of signs of which I think virtually none apply to me other than my recognition that Helen Mirren is one of the hottest babes to come down the pike in recent years. I will, in that regard, make an exception for Christina Hendricks (Mad Men) mainly because she is so deliciously retro and reminds me of all the females that once caused sleepless nights. Maybe they still do.