Patrick Kennedy   Patrick M. Kennedy (P Manvel Kennedy) has been a professional writer, editor, and graphic artist for over 30 years. He is the author of How to Have Fun with Retirement. He currently works from Boise, Idaho. In the past he has worked from Seattle, Indianapolis, and Las Vegas. He keeps busy because he knows it is important when writing or editing any material with a particular objective in mind, for either personal use or business goals, to present ideas with quality, clarity and accuracy. He can do that, and he does most of it himself, but he occasionally must call upon qualified associates for assistance. "My Resume shows me as an experienced professional writer and editor who specializes in the English language. With years of professional experience in the writing/editing/graphics field, I offer quality services to both individual and business clients, with prompt and accurate solutions designed to meet their needs, and online editing services and writing services for easy and quick results. www.abetterword.com The Aging Battle (The Immortality Dream) All Grown-up Now? Asset or Liability? Bad-Hair Days Collectors Deja Vu Driving (Haunting Habits Happen) Dressing Down Eating Smart The Enemies I Buy The 5th of July Help Wanted Hunting the Elusive Hobby Is FREE a Fixed Price – Or a Down Payment? I Got the Blues, sings Buddy Guy! (If you do, get over it) My Gastronomic Chemistry Set (The Battle for the Body) Oh No, Not Again! (Or: Brush the dust off that resume) A Second Heartbeat (Or a Cuddle Buddy) Seniors Hunting for That Hobby A Senior’s Rights Single Senior Show (Or: Dinner after the Wallflower Parade) When I’m Retired (The perfect plan for everyone) Yard Sales Inch by Inch Zen vs. Nap A Senior’s Rights Seniors have rights beyond normal life-bound limitations because they have earned them through the higher education of being here experiences, and they have the scars and darn wrinkles to prove it. There are so many rights for them beyond the Constitution which states: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” All men are created equal, yes, but that is just the basic idea, because seniors have improved that quality with age. Most are smarter than a baby and some smarter than a teenager. Seniors have singular aged and ripened rights; the right to be grumpy, cantankerous, bitchy, crabby, unreasonable and sometimes difficult. If they want to they have the right to be happy or unhappy depending upon the day or time of the day, content, jolly, slow pokey, and can place their cane, crutch or walker where they want to. They can wear any clothes if any at all, and forget names, even those of family members. They can avoid crosswalks and at a snail’s pace cross in the middle of the block; they can insist that handicap parking is one of those unalienable rights especially for them. Alexander Hamilton said it in 1775 “The sacred rights of mankind are not to be rummaged for, among old parchments, or musty records. They are written, as with a sun beam in the whole volume of human nature, by the hand of the divinity itself; and can never be erased or obscured by mortal power.” Now we know that Alex meant this to be directed at seniors. He was only about 22-years old then, but we know he had intelligence and foresight beyond his age. He must have meant that seniors were the sunbeam amongst the parchment and musty records. After all, there is an International human rights law and it is a system of laws, domestic, regional and international, designed to promote human rights. Those who violate these laws can probably be tried in the World Court. There ought to be a legal court seniors can go to and complain because their inalienable senior-citizen rights have been violated, or made fun of. Charges like ignoring their right to pay no attention to and physically shoo away greedy relatives, life-insurance salespeople because there is no guarantee to live evermore, funeral-plot salespeople because who wants to be reminded, the neighbor’s dogs and brats, pesky squirrels who eat the bird seed, and all the flies who are trying to eat them. Why are humans more important than seniors? Hubert H. Humphrey put it one way, “The right to be heard does not include the right to be taken seriously.” But, Hubert, this is serious stuff. And if all seniors could rise, they would rise up in rebellion, burn their AARP cards, and demand the right to be accepted just as they are and not be ignored or ridiculed. To be elderly is defined as being advanced in years; an aged member of society. The key to a senior’s, an elderly-person’s rights, is their duty and obligation to be humans with different quirks because of years of ingrained attitudes and physical qualities. Being quirky is just being a different type of human. It’s a right. Collectors Look around you. Do you need everything you see in your residence? Or are you a packrat collector of things you are going to leave to your grandchildren, who will probably just throw them away anyhow. Maybe you look around and call it a hobby, all those knick-knacks, 78 rpm records (remember those, where’s the turntable?) and yesterdays and months of newspapers and magazines that are irreplaceable memories of times past, and take up so much room you must watch the TV in the kitchen while eating over the sink. Think about it. It could even be said that collecting is in itself a crazy activity. Why would any rational person want to have a bunch of stamps sitting around that are never going to be of any use? Well, some who study human behavior speculate that collecting is a modern expression of our ancient instinct as hunter-gatherers, to hunt and gather and collect. Do you feel that old, or are you a throw-back retiree to the cave ages? Look around your place and decide. Some things you need to collect like cash, trash, the mail, and empty bottles and dirty dishes off the kitchen table, but maybe not belly-button lint from the ages, your youth until now. One person’s junk is another person’s treasure. You’ve heard it all before. Be careful how you define junk. Some say it is discarded things, or things regarded as worthless or causing clutter, or cheap and poorly made goods: or something to seriously think about, secondhand goods offered for sale. Have you been to a state or county or local street fair lately and seen the wares of collectors spread out on card tables? Have you been to a yard/garage sale lately? If you are a pack-rate hoarder of tons of junk in the attic, the basement or the garage, like toy trains, baseball cards or matchbox cars, fishing lures or old postcards, there are places where these items can be traded or sold. There are buyers out there. There are, for real, clubs and organizations that deal with many of these ‘treasures’ that mess up your home. There are almost as many collectors as there are things to collect. Why? People like to collect things. That, you see, is the real reason they collect stuff, because they love them. It matters not why, if they even know why, it makes little difference if these things are obsolete or ungainly or ugly, that they cost far too much and take up a ridiculous amount of space and serve absolutely no practical purpose whatsoever. In love, as in collecting, irrationality reigns supreme. If you are one of these types, properly organizing the stuff you call a collection has a definition. It’s called housekeeping, housework, or domestic science. After you have completed one of these chores, you have to find out what to do with your treasures. If you have some time on your hands there are collector’s sites on the web whose primary purpose is to provide free information for collecting clubs, collectors and the antiques, art and collectibles industry. For example, search for cigarette lighter collectors, or salt shaker collectors. You will be surprised. Of course there is the ever popular eBay site that has a bidding process where you can get rid of, or sell, your items. Or, you can organize your own, or a block group, yard sale. There are many out there just like you. Eating Smart I’ve spun a lot of miles under my vehicles in my days as I’ve traveled the country, and the most important question I ask myself after ‘How far is the next gas station?”, or “Where is the next restroom?” is, ‘What can I eat and still make time?” A fast-food drive-through eatery always looms alongside the highway, but is that smart and will my arteries harden before I get to my destination? Refolding maps is hard enough without deciding on what to eat while driving 70mph past the menu. On the more serious side, a colorful crop of graphs, charts and pyramids bloom and are printed on a regular basis that categorize and dramatize all the food qualities recognized by man. We should be familiar with these. It must be some kind of rule for prolonged existence. They have been cranked out by the government, as well as other health and profit conscience parties, to educate eaters on the benefits of eating correctly, thus living longer and more productive lives. (This is important to the government because it collects most of its taxes from living humans and to a flam-flam few other parties who collect profits from the same group.) Humans, referring to you and I, are the logical targets of this information bonanza because most of the other animal groups have their diet thoroughly and naturally figured out without by-the-numbers education. They munch through it on a daily basis. Giraffes chomp on treetops and lions gobble up giraffe meat. Dogs eat dry or canned food, and canned food eats…that’s another story. Big fish eat little fish. It’s a cliché as well as a fact. The animal kingdom has a regular diet program called a food chain that has evolved and been tested through the ages, and it works. Most are still alive and eating, reproducing on a regular basis and looking darn healthy. And to be perfectly clear, in this definition Taco Tommy’s just off the freeway is not considered a food chain. We know Eating Smart is the current mantra pounded from print, infomercials, PBS, and an occasional snake-oil salesperson that comes through each city, gathers a crowd, charges a fee, spouts some spiel, and tries to sell us a book. Does that mean eating Smart Food? What is Smart Food? Are we to eat Rhodes-Scholar rutabagas, or PhD peas, or morsels of IQ like iron or iodine spread over Quail or Quiche: So many decisions beyond the bacon-burger with cheese served at the quaint little drive-in along the highway. Eat to live longer is the complete notion, but isn’t that a given? If we stop eating, we die! Even a pretzel-poppin’ nincompoop knows that! It is a simple nutritional reality known since the Garden of Eden. Why was the first residence of man in a garden of smart food occupied and shared by the original snake-oil and apple salesman? It was a tempting taste of the future. But let us get back to that bacon-burger with cheese and stack it up against the Smart Food Guide Pyramid pushed by the government and its allies. First, we start from the bottom, the bread layer. The burger has that, twice…two buns…another on the top. It is recommended by the perfect-food pyramid and is packed with complex carbohydrates and essential vitamins, though it calls for whole wheat instead of white bread in the pyramid, it is close but not with the full nutritionists blessing. The next level up is the vegetable group. We can unquestionably confirm that the burger stacks up well against the pyramid in this layer: All those garden bits and pieces like onions, tomatoes, lettuce, pickles, ketchup, mustard, and maybe a gas-blasting jalapeno. What a potpourri of healthy stuff, i.e., smart food: A regular Garden of Eating. Meat and cheese overwhelmingly satisfy the next level of the pyramid. A quarter pound, or more, of ground meat, and a serving or two of American cheese, provides a daily supply of all the carnivorous protein, vitamins and nutrients needed by man’s body since menus were illustrated cave drawings of food on the run. Now holding to the pyramid pattern, neatly at the top of the perfect-pyramid burger is a serving or two of bacon. It contains a little meat burnt to the proper charcoal level, and a little oil (grease) to assure things run smooth. And also lurking at the top of the pyramid are the sweets and spices, because we know that any reputable burger bar has mixed in a hefty helping of sugar and salt in that special sauce used for added flavor. There it is. We can find smart food anywhere if we look hard enough with a vivid imagination. The conclusion we must come to is that a bacon-burger with cheese served through a window is in effect smart food, but the party pooper group of three-piece-suit nutritionists from the USDA recommend it as a dish only 2 or 3 times a month, not a day. Now that’s dumb. Who wants to endure a burger famine for 27 days a month? Anything sounds better than Rhodes-Scholar rutabagas, which any breathing human animal would probably eat only 2 or 3 times a year, and try finding a drive-through supply just off the freeway. Smart Food is a smart idea for people who have the time to investigate it, cook it, eat at a kitchen table, and write a book or tape a video, but should only be a life-surviving hobby for us, the animal kingdom group referred to as Homo sapiens. Hunting the Elusive Hobby Now I could be talking about hunting for the Old World falcon, an elegant bird of prey, or simply called a Hobby, but I’m not. These are elusive birds that dine on insects and small birds, and sometimes dragonflies, but I’m not. I am talking about my pursuit of an auxiliary activity, outside my regular occupation, that I can be engaged in for relaxation. While hunting for this perfect hobby, I, at times, felt like that dragonfly, because I had to flit from here to there to discover the ideal and most enjoyable way to use my spare time. My regular occupation these days of course is in the past tense, such as, I once was a worker bee, and so keeping my mind alert and my body fairly active are my only objectives. Hobbies I found come in many shapes, forms and activities, and to choose one I had to delve into a NASA sized research project. I discovered the list of options to be infinite and with all the properties of a can of worms. Some come under the category of keeping idle hands, the devils workshop, busy and creative. These would include for example: model building; painting in oil or water; carving in wood, stone or clay; needlepoint; jewelry making; and on and on. Others can be categorized under legs on the move because you have to walk, ride, dance, or tramp. This category combines physical health with mental health. Not an entirely bad idea. And another category would be keeping the brain waving and lively. This consists of activities like: collecting anything, playing chess, electronic games, cards (i.e., poker or canasta); genealogy; gambling; reading; and yes, even writing. As an ex-worker bee I have a creepy need to fill my idle time with activity. I can’t just sit around and listen to the rust build up around me. I get anxious, like I’m doing something wrong by having nothing to do. I think early in life I must have been bitten by the work-ethic wasp, and it has stuck. I finally understand the problem, and realize now I must find the perfect solution, a hobby—but where to start? The local hobby superstore was a bonanza of information and ideas. I strolled down the crisscrossing aisles and immediately my work synapses snapped signals to my pleasure genes hidden deep inside my libido. The aroma of glue and the small, slicing tools hanging on the racks brought visions of a cluttered workbench. I was in love with everything and I could envision my home beautified with the creations: Model airplanes flying from wires attached to the ceiling. Better yet, remote-controlled model airplanes screaming across the skies over the neighborhood schoolyard; boats floating in my bath tub and in the community pool, or just casually sailing across my fireplace mantle; or model cars from every age and every country covering every spare road and highway in my home. Wow! There’s not enough time to do it all, but I will try. Unfortunately the rules and boundaries of a home invaded my fantasy. We need the kitchen for cooking, the dining room for eating, the bedroom for sleeping and dressing, the bathroom for other stuff, and the living room for entertaining (although we may allow a little space for one or two models). That leaves the closets. There is also some room left in the basement and the attic. My planes crashed, my boats all sank, and the cars were stuck on a freeway someplace. My glue gummed up the kitchen sink and I suddenly had small-tool cuts on my fingers. I moved on to the next category of options which proved simpler. Dancing was immediately obliterated from the equation because I hadn’t danced since Chubby Checker asked me to do the Twist. Tramping the woods and camping seemed like a pleasant pastime, but it is mostly done on weekends, when it doesn’t rain, which is mostly in the summer and in the mountains, a far drive away. What about the rest of the year, and week. Now walking is easy, but I do that anyhow, and I don’t consider it a hobby, but a necessity. Gardening is good, and I’ll leave it at that. Running is just walking faster. I don’t want to do that. Bike riding is another subject and one I can wrap my legs around. I’ve noticed bikes being ridden everywhere, by every one of every age, and I’m part of the ‘everyone’ species. City, country, day, night, fast, slow, stop for ice cream or chase the sunset, an extension of walking, only with wheels: It has it all. With 24 speeds, a crash helmet, water bottle, a neat little pack on the back rack, and riding gloves like an Indy racecar driver, it all sounds great. I moved this hobby to the top of my list—especially after visiting the local bike shop and seeing all the models and colors and accessories. I should be in good enough shape; after all, I walk don’t I? I figured in fairness to the collection aficionados I shouldn’t dismiss this category altogether. There may be some fun here, and definitely another method for passing the time, as well as meeting people of similar interests. The other people element is an important secondary benefit of getting any hobby. Stamp or coin or comic book collecting, it seems to me, is something that should have begun in childhood and build itself into a passion, sort of like gambling, but I can’t see that happening overnight. Collecting dolls eliminates about half of us. Although collecting action figure dolls eliminates the better half. Antiques are nice. Collecting old cars is something I could really get into, but my garage is too small: About as small as my budget. My choice was obvious. I would have to combine two or more hobbies into one. Some options were immediately out. I couldn’t bring together candle making and knot tying; or jewelry making and collecting action-hero toys (well, maybe not); Stamp collecting and bowling don’t seem to fit within my personality profile; and dodge ball and acting my age would never be a good mix … although I’d like to try dodge ball, just once. I thought bike riding and collecting something could be combined; throw in traveling and/or camping, take a few notes for writing, and a hobby could emerge. Reviewing the combinations is endless and could be a hobby in itself, but is best left to each individual’s quirks. But Watch Out, if a medium-sized falcon mistakes you for lunch. You’re hunting the wrong hobby. Bad-Hair Days Most of us want the high-quality kind of luck that brings a random chance for prosperity and good fortune. It just takes one lucky day in a lifetime to be someone else. Some people have it, but most of us don't. I have bad-hair days, we all do, and I believe in all justice we should do something about it, because some of us have them most days of the year. You know who you are and I don't mean those with frightening combovers, split ends whipping you on the back like a cat o'nine tails, or frizzy curls undomesticated and maddening. I mean that for many of us who pat the decades on the shoulder as they pass us by believe good fortune has been left outside in someone else's sunshine - while it rains all over us inside. "It's just one of those days", has become a daily mantra. We are the victims of Murphy's Law. It is a fact and not just an old saying, "If anything can go wrong, it will." There should be some kind of cosmic balance to this phenomenon. I'm of the notion that there are so many of us on this side of the scale that we have normal-hair days, and those on the sunshine side are freaks of nature. While THEY win the lottery or are four steps ahead when the truck barreling down the street hits the mud puddle near the curb, we lose and get splashed. That's the odds-in-your-favor existence that's always left to glow under someone else's sun. But, like I said, we should do something about it, and I don't think a march on Washington DC would do the trick; besides most of us don't have the extra change for airfare anyhow. And I don't think we should duplicate the actions I read about one woman. She received a bad haircut at her local salon: This is a bad-hair day in the real sense of the word. The next day she came back with a pistol, demanded her $100 back, shot up the beauticians car, and went down the street to another salon to have her hair repaired. My guess, she probably is will be spending a lot of bad-hair days in the gray-bar hotel. There is quite a variety of old sayings that try to smooth ruffled feathers (hair). "We have to play the hand we're dealt." "It all evens out in the end." And my favorite, "What goes around comes around." What the heck does that mean? Does it mean on days when I feel like a dog chasing its own tail, I'm OK? Does it mean that someday I will catch it? Then what? Will I find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow or just another good saying? These are all nice feel-good sayings that function as pacifiers, but only work about as long as it takes to shoot up a beautician's car. I think we should ignore that disgruntled Irishman, Murphy, and follow the advice of another distinguished philosopher, Simon. Simon says, "If anything can wrong, and does, pay no attention to it and chalk it up to experience." I know there are some of us who play the same Lottery numbers every week, and the one week we forget to buy a ticket, they draw our numbers. Now that's a bona fide bad-hair day and hard to ignore after you've jumped up and down on the coffee table and created a piece of pulp art. But, all in all, it is a real character building experience - isn't it? Luck is all relative anyhow. If I win $100 at the local casino, I say "WOW!" If someone in the stratosphere of Mr. Gates or Trump wins the same prize, their reaction would probably be "That's nice, another drop in the bucket." These are both acts of good luck, so I guess luck is just in the eye of the beholder. Some of us see others gliding along through life like a silk butterfly in a slight breeze without a care in the world. Most of us feel like a caterpillar crawling along in the fast lane of a freeway. If we can only make it to the off ramp we may turn into a butterfly. "Hope springs eternal", I guess. All in all if bad-hair days build character, and that's what we like to tell ourselves, then most of us have positive qualities to spare; and I'm a candidate for sainthood. We've endured the worst of days and are now trying to enjoy the best of days. There's nothing we can do to change it now. I look back at the scrapes and scuffs, black eye, and a broken arm; a car accident or two; sickness here and there; the lost loves; the lost lotteries; the fact that Ed McMahon never delivered my million-dollar check; and the reality that I was born and grew up less than tall, and know I must take it all "with a grain of salt". I know I'll move on. I'll comb my hair every day, shampoo when I feel like it, get a haircut once a month, pretend my hair is good, and croon a little show tune, "Luck be a Lady tonight." Asset or Liability? When you dripped out of the shower this morning and looked into that steamy full-length mirror, were you looking at an asset, or a liability? A while back a friend and I were leaving the city dump and I asked the attendant at the scale, "What is the fee for dumping." She answered, "$20.55 per ton including tax." That meant, my friend quickly figured, it would only cost a little over $2.00 to leave your body here at the city dump instead of disturbing the soil someplace. That led to a conversation and exploration into the value of a human body, that is, the entire material or physical structure of the organism humans carry around every day. We found too many statistics and studies conducted to determine the chemical value of the human body. They range from the $.89 value we were taught in school, excluding of course the cost of extraction the elements, inflation and the fluctuating stock market for the price of chemicals, to a $4.50 value including the skin. Apparently a Japanese team meticulously measured the square area of the skin on a human body and determined it was between 14 and 18 square feet; depending upon the body size. They also determined using the approximate price of quality cowhide, about $.25 per square foot, the skin of the human body averaged out to be worth about $3.50. Now that means the other day when I was participating in one of my asset building activities, softball, and I scrapped my rear sliding into second, it cost me a several pennies off my asset. The question is: Did that negate the afternoon of asset building? But this is a mere pittance of the real value. New studies have found you can feel like 45 million bucks, instead of a million, on a good day. Replacement body parts are only a fraction of the value. A lung, heart or a kidney is worth only between 50 and 100 grand. The brain has no value, sometimes even an active one. But throwing in the DNA, antibodies, male sperm, female eggs (Here again women are worth more than men.), and especially the bone marrow, these elevate the value up into the comfort zone, that is if you believe insurance companies and hospitals. Put the items on E-bay and you will probably watch the value climb from the comfort zone to the stratosphere. There is only one drawback to the economic process of this evaluation: All prices are based on living tissue and I don't know how long I could sit still for having the DNA, or other things, extracted from my body, molecule by molecule. But getting back to earth, we had to determine whether the human body was worth more than a plug nickel other than to a chemist or surgeon. There are value scales other than the scientific. To fly your body from New York, NY to Melbourne, Australia and back, first class, makes your live body worth $16,906 to the airlines for taking up one seat on a 747. If you feel you have an economy type body, it is only worth $3,197 for a less comfortable seat. Being too close to the subject, we didn't venture to ask the cost of a departed body on the same trip. But to ride a bus it is only worth about a buck or so. To sit that same body in a VIP seat at the Broadway show, The Producers, for 2 hours and 40 minutes it will cost you $200 plus $40 service charge, whatever that is. Looking at all the figures we determined that our body-asset is like a small business. Any balance sheet, even for our body-asset, has expenses subtracted from the actual value. We figured haircuts, perms, manicures, body waxing, cosmetics, shaving, some visits to the dentist, and the like, were minor maintenance expenses that improve the package, but not the product. Plastic surgery, we figured, was in a neutral zone between body maintenance and mental maintenance. Doctor appointments and operations were major and necessary maintenance expenses to keep our asset an asset and not a total liability. Physically working out the body in one form of exercise or another was positively split between minor and major expenses; looking good on the outside, and feeling good on the inside … with a dash of mental maintenance thrown in. What to eat? What to eat? This is a totally different subject and deserving of a full examination. But in a nutshell, and by the way nuts are good for you and your cholesterol level, if you follow every recommended diet and believe every scientific study, you'll wither your asset away from the confusion. How to exercise? That's another profit making decision to be studied in your spare time, and a personal preference. The bottom line comes down to the fact that the body reflected in the steamy mirror is our primary asset and it must be taken care of while we haul it around. Eat correctly and exercise smartly and we have a long-term asset; don't and we have a short term liability. Sooner or later, you know, we will be asked to quit carrying it around and exchange it for a no-maintenance Casper the Friendly Ghost type body that won't be reflected in the mirror. In the meantime, watch your asset. . My Gastronomic Chemistry Set (The Battle for the Body) Analyzing the components of my meals using my gastronomic chemistry set is essential for concocting a wall of defense against the assault on my health or a longer lifespan. Being a senior citizen and wanting to graduate to being a wise old person is a constant challenge that makes it necessary to carefully pick and choose my poisons. This full-time battle against all odds involves not only the woeful time spent at the table, but also the pre-research and calculation processes I must perform to decide what and when to eat; and if it is good or bad for me, what it will cure, what it will prevent, and what body part will fall off or be added by its consumption. I prepare oatmeal for breakfast because it is a heart-healthy fiber that supports my body's fight against BAD cholesterol; not because the glob in the bowl is a mouth-watering delicacy. I use non-fat milk because it is what it says it is, and instead of sugar I use honey, since it is rich in antioxidants that prevent cancer and adds a golden color to the glob. I remember when I ate honey just because it tasted good. I add a few blueberries or raisins to the glob, if I have any; they also help fight the BAD cholesterol. Salmon also helps the heart but I just can't see it on my oatmeal this early in the day. I sprinkle a quarter teaspoon of cinnamon on it, more decorative color, to improve the glucose metabolism that keeps my body from being taken prisoner by diabetes 2. I do all these things because I was told to do so by my supporting army of published nutritionists, and I add a glass of orange juice since it contains everything good, including the sun, as does any fresh fruit. It also lowers blood pressure. Eating has become a full-time struggle to protect myself against the invasion of bad things. Now I'm not an expert, and I'm not a member of the accumulation of experienced researchers and nutritionists who rally around to protect my body, if I were I'd have to write a book to qualify, but I do bring a lifetime of eating experience to the table. Lately I've had the paranoid feeling that everything I consume is a life threatening plot against my longevity. Believe me, this isn't half as much fun as downing hash browns, ham or bacon or sausage, and eggs with buttered toast. Many days I've been tempted to sacrifice a few hours of the unknown future for a single meal of joy; and some days the temptation wins. But don't tell anyone in my army. There are so many convoluting, contradicting, and proven studies and marketing statements that it's hard to boil them down to fit into an ideal, yet non-intrusive, nutritional lifestyle. Let's take 'Cool … Clear … Water'. I've always been told to drink eight 8oz. glasses of water per day. Recently that has been revealed as a myth, probably started by well diggers, because we only lose about 1 liter of water a day through sweat and bodily processes; about four glasses. What is the world coming to? If nutritionists can't figure out water, how can I believe them about steak? That raises the questions: How much to drink, when, and what? By the time I feel really thirsty, they say, I'm already dehydrated. Bottled water doesn't contain enough fluoride to prevent cavities in children (not my problem anymore), and some tap water may contain health-harming bacteria or parasites. A filtration system under the sink that performs reverse osmosis (RO) is a great answer while I'm at home, but a better answer would be a RO built into my body so I can drink from a public fountain or out of the river. There's a $1,000,000 idea. The scariest part of the day: What's for lunch? Here my gastronomic chemistry set is used to analyze the rations I'm about to eat, and choose what I will not eat. Hot dogs and the usual processed meats I use for sandwiches, besides being fattening, contain preservatives, additives, and other chemicals used for processing including toxic nitrates and nitrites, or chemicals that are formed during processing, and can pull the trigger against my nervous system. They are snipers in the body also knocking off elements sensitive to insulin, and thus provide another chance of being taken prisoner by Diabetes 2. Soup is good, home cooked is better and some canned are OK, but there are so many flavors and recipes that thorough research is involved to avoid fats and retain nutrients. Eating fast food is a notoriously and highly publicized bad-bad no-no exposed for a multitude of chemical outlaws. A salad bar never fails the fast food test unless it is loaded with pepperoni and sausage from the pizza bar or covered with chocolate syrup from the desert bar. Dinner can be one hope in this siege against my body surrounded by an army of destructive elements. That is if I avoid: red meat and pork, which poke red flags along the colon; pizza, which has more artery hardening fat than a cheeseburger; potatoes are good, but with butter or gravy are fattening; pasta carries a guarantee to make love-handle bulges on my sides; chicken and turkey sans fatty skin are OK if not deep fried or smothered in a fattening cream sauce. Fish is great and filled with the impressive sounding element Omega-3 fatty acids that are good for all things heart related. Fresh vegetables steamed or slightly boiled are good chemicals but taste like vegetables that are steamed or boiled. No butter again. Fresh vegetable salads are the best if tainted with vinegar and olive oil. Dessert is OK if it's non-fat, non-sugar, non-white flour, and served with the perfect taste and texture of cardboard or Plaster of Paris. Dark chocolate contains those helpful antioxidants. What can I say about Jell-O? My gastronomic chemistry set, as you may see, is merely a lifetime of knowledge I've collected over the years in my fight for life. After a while it becomes a habit to me, and should be for you, sort of like breathing … and that's not a bad idea either. Deja Vu Driving (Haunting Habits Happen) There are times when I really must do things different than I did for so many years. But things happen. Recently my Chevy took over my life and dictated my destination. Have you ever had that happen? I was heading home from an insignificant event, coupon shopping at a supermarket down the road, when it happened. I wanted to make a left at the next light to shop at another market that had wonderful savings on vitamins and tissues: A cheap price and it was the last day of the sale. My car ignored the left and continued on until it turned right into my driveway. I'd missed the turn, missed the sale, and didn't realize it until I started taking bags out of the back seat. What happened? I scratched my head, which I know solves all my problems, and realized that that was the route I drove home every workday for years. My Chevy was on auto-mode into that old routine. It drove home on its own. Like a faithful horse it had that feeling it had been here before and out of habit followed the beaten path. Some call it sort of an eerie Déjà vu phenomenon. I call it a habit not broken. My Chevy just didn't know any better. Notice, I don't blame my memory, I blame the whole thing on the car. I also blame the Déjà vu God of Order in Life who is as overpowering and as intrusive as cheap cologne. I'm all for order. It can be a good thing sometimes, like if I'm looking for matched sox in the dresser drawer, but enough is enough. For example, I finally realized a while back that I no longer must set an alarm because of the habitual pattern and many years of waking up at 6am; I still do, no matter how hard I try to sleep in. It's a routine I can't break. I eat lunch at the same time every day, hungry or not. The remote appears in my hand and TV news goes on the same time every evening. The experience of being controlled by the Déjà vu God of Order in Life is usually accompanied by a compelling sense of familiarity (read boredom) and also a sense of eeriness or strangeness. This I know from personal practice. I found through research that the previous experience is most frequently attributed to a dream, although in my case there is a firm sense that the experience genuinely happened in the past. My work history proves this last point. The only thing missing is my cubicle and desk. I don't want to be here. You know what I mean? I also found that these haunting habits aren't just created through work-related patterns; they can spring from any repetitive action. A friend of mine owned a cat for years and each evening before bedtime brought it in from the wilds of the back yard to sleep in the warm house. After the cat jumped through its ninth life cycle by unsuccessfully challenging a wild raccoon, my friend still hopefully ambled to the door before bedtime, opened it, and looked around. 'Just checking for burglars,' she would justify. In the corner of the kitchen there still sat the lonely clean food bowl and a sand box. Visual habits, a place for everything and everything in its place, are just as hard to break. I still trip over the ottoman that was there before the invention of the recliner. Then there is the haunting habit that never happens. Another friend spent work days in a bank data-processing department. Her job was to put out the fire if a system or cash machine crashed. She anxiously waited but never broke into an intense work mode unless reacting to a crisis; then she went into full throttle speed to solve the problem. Since retiring she is still anxiously waiting, and waiting, but not reacting because the problems aren't there: A habit not happening. Is this good or bad? All habits are not as bad as smoking: Like brushing my teeth; washing my hands after a workout at the gym; and eating soup with a spoon and not a fork. But I want to have that soup for lunch at 2:00 and maybe drive to a market too far. Better yet, drive around the city until I'm lost then find my way home. The opposite of haunting habits, I find, must be memorable adventures. A light bulb lit up over my head. Small sojourns into the world of the unknown around the city are what will make this retirement thing a little easier to cope with. Big adventures like trips to Maui and New Orleans are nice, and costly, but the little book store or small café across town once in a while can make the day: The road unknown and the parkway to somewhere else suddenly became inviting. It will take me a while to retrain my Chevy to seek the unfamiliar, but once I brush the Déjà vu voodoo dust off its steering wheel and take charge again, good things will happen. They've happened before haven't they? Help Wanted Hat in hand, I must carry out the most multi-faceted and degrading action-reaction performance devised for humans since the beginning of the Industrial Age: A job interview. The unexpected is always expected. Humility is the strongest asset to bring to the table. I know that. I must be pleasant and have a silk suit and tie on my tongue with a button-down brain cluttered with pearly smiles and polished pleases. The interview process, usually, in the past, in my case, unfortunately, after the interviewer, typically a fresh very-young graduate in Human Resources from Matchbook Trade School, after glancing halfheartedly at my resume, seems to consist of two questions: Why do you want this job? And, can you find the door? My gray hair trips me up every time. While waiting – sweating – in the waiting room before this interview, dwarfed by youth, vitality, and the latest fashionable outfits, reality hits me in the face like the bottom side of a frying pan. It must be a weighty enough task for a young person to apply for a job or plan a career in these days of high-speed mutation: but what about me, a senior and proven useful individual? I just want a meager supplemental income to keep the corporate collectors from my door while at the same time doing something with my idle time. I squirm in my folding chair and feel like a no-nonsense tennis shoe at the Governor’s Ball as the tasseled loafers pass me by. I remember what President Clinton so eloquently orated to an audience a few years ago, “By the time our young people reach your age, they will be working jobs that haven’t been invented yet.” Great! I see a lot of young people around me who have fingered through the yellow pages shopping for the Acme Trade School so they can master those yet-to-be invented jobs, or have applied at a local community college and asked, “Can you enroll me in all the classes for a job that doesn’t exist right now, but will pay me those ‘big bucks’ twenty years from now. And by the way, I’ll take my $1500 tax credit in cash.” They are at least smart enough to know that whatever they learn today will be obsolete tomorrow because technology is moving too fast. I feel their distress. I didn’t know the Pres was also talking about me. What about me? I’m available, a neat dresser, experienced, and actively in the job hunt, but I’ve found, though, the openings for a trained and proven professional range from Superstore Greeter to Café Swamper. I guess they have determined any old person can shake a hand or swing a mop or drive a delivery van. If all else fails I can always resort back to delivering the morning newspaper like I did when I was 10 years old. Despite all I continue the game. Two dailies thumping my door: Opportunity knocking? Wonderful! Men Wanted. Man Wanted For. Circle and call. Circle and call. I do the expected newspaper routine. “Not today, sorry! All filled up today, call again tomorrow or after you reincarnate as a younger version and own a bigger car.” I can’t demand. My resume and applications are probably stashed in file drawers all over town between chopped olive sandwiches and Mercy Missy Napkins. Because I have a young sounding voice I finally land this interview. Looking around I begin to wonder if this is actually an interview, or maybe I was invited as an example of what could be if they don’t play the interview game by the inflexible rules. My folding chair squeaks from the squirming. Our great nation has fabricated a Great Society by blending all the melting-pot of newcomers, and has created some wonderful children so-far: The Beat Generation of Zen.; The Age of Aquarius or Where are we?; The Boomer’s Generation of Now; The X-Generation of Whatever; And they all boil down to the Skip Generation: Us, the cream at the top of the pot. The 500 skeptically intelligent and superficially compassionate people we’ve elected to rent homes in Washington D. C., and who qualified for their jobs by passing a political opinion poll in the comics section, are no help. They throw around a lot of words to get votes. We haven’t been defined yet. Our jobs haven’t been invented yet; they haven’t trickled down yet, because we don’t need work, they say, we’re not expected to work, they believe. We’ve been skipped. A pleasant voice finally sings in demonic harmony through the room calling my name. I rise and a recent-undergraduate young lady beckons me to follow her through the gates of hell, the interview room. As I follow her, pleas echoes through my mind, ‘Please don’t ask me my age. I’ll have to lie, and then I’ll have to explain how I could be in the Army and Grade School at the same time. Don’t ask me my favorite song or singer because that certainly will date me as a Civil War Veteran’. In the cubicle I am the perfect interviewee. My tie is straight, I’ve swallowed my gum, my cell phone is turned off, I’ve laid out the correct resume (out of four I’ve had to concoct depending upon my experience as related to the prospective job), and I answer all her questions while looking directly into her eyes and avoid the trap, the distracting movie posters hung on the walls. Then: “Thank you for coming in. We’ll call you when we have an opening you qualify for.” “…But?” Zen vs. Nap A glazed donut smothered with a dark chocolate and garnished with a rainbow of sprinkles vs. a sugarless/non-raisin bran muffin: Like asking me to choose between riding on a trike with a square front tire or in a stretch Limo with a complimentary bar. Since exchanging my occupation machine routine for a serene state of eternal retreat, I've had to make so many new choices between happiness and health … 'one leads to the other' I've been told … but to me they're like animate forks in the road through life that interweave around each other. One leads to the other and they mirror each other just like a couple married for countless years. How do I best treat my body and mind to become a healthier and yet happier person? I asked my inner self who at the time was busy reading the TV schedule. Meditation, of course, or Zen as some people refer to it, is a subject often linked to the state of true happiness (I guess as opposed to ordinary happiness being a small fib). Zen meditation refers to a condition in which the body is consciously relaxed and the mind is allowed to become calm and focused: 'Continuous and profound contemplation or musing on a subject or series of subjects of a deep or abstruse nature'. This could easily describe my state just before I take my afternoon Nap on the couch. Do toes count as subjects of abstruse nature? A Nap, as you are aware, is 'a sleep for a brief period, often during the day … to doze': and it also has another meaning; 'to pour or put a sauce or gravy over a cooked dish'. I could easily be a cooked dish when I vegetate on the couch during my afternoon siesta, but not for this purpose of pursuing happiness in the psychic sense. I believe for me the Nap option is closer to the phenomenon of meditation. Both these approaches to true happiness, Zen and Nap, position the mind (and body) in a relaxed state in order to become calm and focused. If I tell my friends I take a short Zen period every afternoon, would I be far from the truth? And I would appear to be a deep person since I am seeking happiness using a universal, trendy, contemplative method. Besides, Naps aren't that far from true happiness. I have free-flowing happy dreams in old style Technicolor; although mostly in slow motion and vivid flashbacks these days, and unfortunately I must I sit in the senior discount seats. Breakfast is another and the first genuine challenge in the choices between happiness and health during the day (besides pushing or not pushing the snooze button on the alarm). There's that bran muffin again. Add a bowl of oatmeal and black coffee and I have a breakfast as exciting as a one-horse race: How about ham or sausage or bacon, eggs, hash browns and toast. I hover over this platter of happiness at least once a week at Ma's Café on the corner of cholesterol and glucose. I have to admit this weekly weakness trashes the health aspects of happiness but raises the joy-of-life happiness to a temporary level of ecstasy. I've found, since being allowed to make my own decisions and not wedged into a rut, seemingly commonplace everyday choices can be earthshakingly important options in the quest for a healthy and happy life (WOW! is that a mouthful of gingersnap words), such as to walk or to drive (depends on the weather); cola or diet soda; (with or without spirits); regular or decaf; a few laps on the treadmill or a session of Tai Chi. Now Tai Chi is my game at my speed … slow, fluid and gentle, and can be practiced outdoors, if I don't mind looking like a fool. It's a physical meditation I'm told. I've seen some neighbors practice it down the street in the park (it must be practice because it never looks completely refined). They say it can help with everything from blood pressure to increased bone density to lowering stress. That's a lot for an exercise that imitates a stork stuck in the mud. They claim it gives them a better perspective of their life challenges and problems; and I can say that would be an indisputable fact each time they lose their balance and fall to the ground flat on their back. Everything looks up from down there. But I return to the original question: How do I best treat my body to become a healthier and yet happier person? And my fence-walking answer is simple … chocolate flavored bran donuts with raisins and sugarless sprinkles. Seniors Hunting for That Hobby As a senior citizen I have a creepy need to fill my idle time with activity. I can’t just sit around and listen to the rust build up around me. I get anxious, like I’m doing something wrong by having nothing to do. I think early in life I must have been bitten by the work-ethic wasp, and it has stuck. I finally understand the problem, and realize now I must hunt for the perfect solution, a hobby—but where to start? Now I could be talking about hunting for the Old World falcon, an elegant bird of prey, or simply called a Hobby, but I’m not. These are elusive birds that dine on insects and small birds, and sometimes dragonflies, but I’m not. I am talking about the pursuit of an auxiliary activity, outside my regular occupation, that I can be engaged in for relaxation. While hunting for this perfect hobby, I, at times, feel like that dragonfly, because I have to flit from here to there to discover the ideal and most enjoyable way to use my spare time. My regular occupation these days of course is in the past tense, such as, I once was a worker bee, and so keeping my mind alert and my body fairly active are my only objectives. Hobbies come in many shapes, forms and activities, and to choose one I must delve into a NASA sized research project. I discover the list of options to be infinite and with all the properties of a can of worms. Some come under the category of keeping idle hands, the devils workshop, busy and creative. These would include for example: model building; painting in oil or water; carving in wood, stone or clay; needlepoint; jewelry making; and on and on. Others can be categorized under legs on the move because you have to walk, ride, dance, or tramp. This category combines physical health with mental health. Not an entirely bad idea. And another category would be keeping the brain waving and lively. This consists of activities like: collecting anything, playing chess, electronic games, cards (i.e., poker or canasta); genealogy; gambling; reading; and yes, even writing. The local hobby superstore was a bonanza of information and ideas. I strolled down the crisscrossing aisles and immediately my work synapses snapped signals to my pleasure genes hidden deep inside my libido. The aroma of glue and the small, slicing tools hanging on the racks brought visions of a cluttered workbench. I was in love with everything and I could envision my home beautified with the creations: Model airplanes flying from wires attached to the ceiling. Better yet, remote-controlled model airplanes screaming across the skies over the neighborhood schoolyard; boats floating in my bath tub and in the community pool, or just casually sailing across my fireplace mantle; or model cars from every age and every country covering every spare road and highway in my home. Wow! There’s not enough time to do it all, but I will try. Unfortunately the rules and boundaries of a home invaded my fantasy. We need the kitchen for cooking, the dining room for eating, the bedroom for sleeping and dressing, the bathroom for other stuff, and the living room for entertaining (although we may allow a little space for one or two models). That leaves the closets. There is also some room left in the basement and the attic. My planes crashed, my boats all sank, and the cars were stuck on a freeway someplace. My glue gummed up the kitchen sink and I suddenly had small-tool cuts on my fingers. I moved on to the next category of options which proved simpler. Dancing was immediately obliterated from the equation because I hadn’t danced since Chubby Checker asked me to do the Twist. Tramping the woods and camping seemed like a pleasant pastime, but it is mostly done on weekends, when it doesn’t rain, which is mostly in the summer and in the mountains, a far drive away. What about the rest of the year, and week. Now walking is easy, but I do that anyhow, and I don’t consider it a hobby, but a necessity. Gardening is good, and I’ll leave it at that. Running is just walking faster. I don’t want to do that. Bike riding is another subject and one I can wrap my legs around. I’ve noticed bikes being ridden everywhere, by every one of every age, and I’m part of the ‘everyone’ species. City, country, day, night, fast, slow, stop for ice cream or chase the sunset, an extension of walking, only with wheels: It has it all. With 24 speeds, a crash helmet, water bottle, a neat little pack on the back rack, and riding gloves like an Indy racecar driver, it all sounds great. I moved this hobby to the top of my list—especially after visiting the local bike shop and seeing all the models and colors and accessories. I should be in good enough shape; after all, I walk don’t I? I figured in fairness to the collection aficionados I shouldn’t dismiss this category altogether. There may be some fun here, and definitely another method for passing the time, as well as meeting people of similar interests. The other people element is an important secondary benefit of getting any hobby. Stamp or coin or comic book collecting, it seems to me, is something that should have begun in childhood and build itself into a passion, sort of like gambling, but I can’t see that happening overnight. Collecting dolls eliminates about half of us. Although collecting action figure dolls eliminates the better half. Antiques are nice. Collecting old cars is something I could really get into, but my garage is too small: About as small as my budget. My choice was obvious. I would have to combine two or more hobbies into one. Some options were immediately out. I couldn’t bring together candle making and knot tying; or jewelry making and collecting action-hero toys (well, maybe not); Stamp collecting and bowling don’t seem to fit within my personality profile; and dodge ball and acting my age would never be a good mix … although I’d like to try dodge ball, just once. I thought bike riding and collecting something could be combined; throw in traveling and/or camping, take a few notes for writing, and a hobby could emerge. Reviewing the combinations is endless and could be a hobby in itself, but is best left to each individual’s quirks. But Watch Out, if a medium-sized falcon mistakes you for lunch. You’re hunting the wrong hobby. When I’m Retired (The perfect plan for everyone) When I'm a retired cranky-old-man Boomer I will brag I have the perfect plan all laid out. All the things and wings of happiness are spread out before me like a wet blanket over a bed of roses. My years of experience in life’s games and the practice sessions have made it easy to see my future. When I’m retired I'll live with and off my children and bring them the great joy they gave me when I was their parent. To repay for all experiences I've taken from each daughter and son, I’ll decorate their walls with indelible pens and scuff up the floors with my hiking boots on, and run in and out without closing the door, including the refrigerator. Break lots of dishes and drop apple cores on the floor. And whenever they yell at me, I'll hang my head and pout … things like that … just like I remember. When I’m retired I’ll drive if I want to, even if they try to sneak the eye chart further away, or lower the driver’s seat in my car so I can’t see over the steering wheel. I’ll know it, and they won’t fool me. I’ll know that I’ve gotten old, no secret, probably because I had two by-pass surgeries, a hip replacement and new knees, fought prostate cancer, and diabetes. I'll likely be half blind, won’t be able hear anything quieter than a power-mower engine, take a bunch of different medications that make me dizzy, winded, and subject to blackouts. Have bouts with dementia, have poor circulation, hardly can feel my hands and feet anymore, and won’t be able to remember my birthday let alone if I'm 35 or 92. I’ll probably have lost all my friends. “But ... Thank heavens; I will still have my driver's license and can go to other places to avoid my troubles and meet new friends!” When I’m retired I’ll keep in shape, not like now, but in which shape I haven’t decided, yet. I’ll walk for 30 minutes every day, whenever I feel like it, or remember it. I’ll stretch what muscles I have left. I’ll turn wrinkled, gray and smaller like everyone else, and the doctor will tell me that lie, just like he does now, “You're in terrific shape. There's nothing wrong with you. Why, you might live forever; you have the body of a 35-year-old.” Pretty good for someone as old as me, huh? He’s been telling me that same lie all this time and I haven’t aged a bit. “Gosh! What a good doctor he is to get me this far along, and in this shape,” I will say, “and still at a young age. I know he’s good, because he’s still alive.” I will think. When I’m retired I’ll have no peer pressure, or even pee pressure, because at seven I always peed like a horse, at eight I pooped like a cow, so the problem will be, I know, and I hope, I don’t sleep past nine. Maybe one of my fellow peers will call me to see if I’m asleep yet. But I won’t be alone, because I’ll know, like everyone, that everything that works will hurt, and what doesn't hurt, won’t work. I’ll be able to buckle my own belt every time I need to, but won’t be able to unbuckle my knees to stand up to do it. My supply of brain parts and pieces will finally be down to a manageable size, not so loaded up with trivia from the job, and filled with dreams of running and jumping. “I’ll have to excuse myself a little more often then than now.” When I’m retired I’ll drink with the same moderation as I always have. I’ve also learned the hard way that lying doesn’t pay, unless I’m in a bar talking about the night before, or talking to my mate the next morning about how much I had to drink … and with whom. I still must do that. But, back to drinking, I’ll quit the hand-over-fist-fast marathon drinking practices I had in my younger days, and taper back to left-hand then right- hand then left-hand to slow me down. I’ll have parties but the neighbors won’t even know it … because, like I’ve said, I’ll have lost a few friends, and the ones I will still have will probably be as quiet as hospital patients. “I will miss my two-fisted friends with motorcycles who will be replaced; I’m sure, by white-knuckled power-chair riders of the open range/hallway.” When I’m retired I’ll have sex once in a while, sometimes, as often as I can, or whenever I feel like it, or at least once. I will still have an eye for the opposite sex. I will know the good from the bad; the maybe from the not-sure; the desperate from those like me; and the don’t-give-a-darn from who-cares-with-who-anyhow characters I use to hang out with. But when it comes right down to it I probably won’t miss sex, physically impossible speaking, as much as I’d miss a lost hearing aid or a pair of glasses. Dreams will be a wonderful replacement for reality, in many cases ... I think. “Sex is so over rated, over rated, over rated, well anyhow, only semi-important.” When I’m retired I’ll tell jokes like Henny Youngman with the machine gun attack style of a Jack Benny. I’ll make fun of the young and middle aged because they are so open to all the stupid things they do. Just like us. I hope politics and political parties are still around … what fun I’ll have. I’d try standup comedy, but then, I don’t know if I will be able to. By then, computers will be piles of junk and ESP will be in and I’ll be able to tell jokes without moving my lips, or without anyone knowing it. They’ll all be laughing on the inside. I can see it now, a whole room full of gray, blank, red-eyed faces staring back at me knowing I’m nuts for what I’d just said, ESPd, to them. “What a thrill, I can hardly wait to try it. I practiced it last week and it works.” When I’m retired I’ll take up bowling because I won’t have to walk as far as when golfing … just three steps at a time. And the ball will be larger and easier to control … and not lose. There will be a roof to stop the rain and blistering sun which might further crust layer my skin. There will be a gallery of friends and fans to cheer when I finally lift and roll the ball … and knock down a few pins. Pretty young people will bring me beers to my table instead of having to knock back a swig from a flask under the eyes of Mother Nature on the golf course or the softball field. And who will care what my final score will be, as long as I finish the game’s all ten frames. “When I retire I’ll be happy to play the game.” When I’m retired I’ll be my own cook. I’ll probably have to after having alienated all those people in my life who ticked me off and won’t live with me. Besides, cooking for one will be easier … and the menu will be simpler … I’m told: Cereal with milk, cinnamon, and fruit in the morning; Soup and crackers for lunch; a TV dinner for supper. What’s so different about that? And the dirty dishes will be so much easier to keep up on. “I’ll even keep a supply of paper plates and cups, and eat over the sink, to keep things neat.” When I’m retired there are certain things I won’t have to worry about anymore … like dressing and being fashionable … who cares … the clothes I have now likely won’t wear out, and the fashion police will quit following me around on my last day on the job, I’m sure. I’ll get lower prices on theater tickets, senior meals at the restaurant, and even special auto insurance rates. Speed won’t matter because I will have time to spare and plenty of time to get anywhere. I’ve learned everything I can the hard way, so now I can learn things the easy way … if there is such a way. My eyes and ears won’t get much worse, and technology will only get better. ‘Maybe I will’ and ‘maybe I won’t’ will be my standard answer to things I may or may not want to do. When I’m retired, life won’t be so bad, if I don’t forget where I put this plan. I Got the Blues, sings Buddy Guy! (If you do, get over it) Blues are a relative thing. No, we don’t mean you are mourning your Mom, Dad, Bro or Sis, or any other character along your bloodline. No, we mean your woman has left; your dog died; the car is stuck in the mud; and the utility has turned off your electricity, blues. We’re talking about dark, deep blues with tinges or halos of purples and crimson flashing in the back of your brain. The strings of the electric guitar between your ears are bending and screaming and crying real tears. The sax in your gut is spewing moans and groans of pity me, pity poor me, the low-down victim of all that is bad and worse. You know how it goes … I’ve disappeared … invisible … I’m aging … I’m old. My friends can’t see me as I walk by and say hello. My enemies burn my image with their eyes. People I don’t know glare at me like I was a resurrection of the devil. I am no one, nobody, non-existent, a person non-grata and the bottom of all shoes. “I usta be somebody!” Damn Right I got the blues. Damn-Sam-Blam-Bam Blues with accompanying steam of cooked egos and smoke from the trash I leave behind me. I got torn-jean, black-eyed, mussed hair and hole in the boot, last gasp blues. I’m down, I’m out, and I’m the trash after my last how’s-it-going-old-man birthday party. Heaven is no help for these blues. I’m so down; it’s too far for anyone in that spiritual sky to take notice of my cry. And I’m wailing. I’m jailing. I’m hailing a cab to take me to nearest elevator down to my soul for introspection. My soul is a blue tar pit. My soul is as blue as the boysenberry smudges on my brain. Down here, inside myself, I disappeared to find my life. I walked behind the exit door and entered a world of the expectations. I saw the lights of a powerful blue neon sign blinking the message, ‘Poor You, You Poor Man, Poor-Poor Blue Old Man,’ following me to the next street into the future. Blues are everywhere, and you can’t escape it. You can’t shake the tail it has attached to your hind end, a tail called TIME. You must live with it and make it part of your every-day life. Blues are part and parcel of every body, just like arms, legs, eyes, ears, and all the remaining hairs on your head. That’s it; get over it! Seniors are always crying about the past they can’t relive. It’s gone, times past, the life of a younger person, not you, now, in this stage of your life, that is, senior in retirement … for Gosh Sakes … a Boomer! The Future is your next step, next thought, next dream. You have no choice in the matter. Have a dream; make a plan; list things you want to do; list things you haven’t done but always wanted to do; consult a fortune teller; whatever it takes to get the process started. What process you may ask yourself? Living from now on is the process. You can go to the ocean and take that long, last swim, or swim toward that palm tree in the Tropics. This is the better choice. The blues, after all, is a natural phenomenon in the process of aging. “Life is ours to be spent, not to be saved,” said D.H. Lawrence. You must spend your remaining years as if they were gold coins … only on the best items with the most value. You know what they are. You know what you want to do, but have always hesitated. There are so many ways to improve and several things you can accomplish to make this the time of your life, actually, the time of your life, and not the blues of your life. So many plans you haven’t thought of, but others have. It is an economic or intellectual crisis for some, and the same opportunity for others. There is a potpourri of protection you can do and build around yourself to make this happen. Two things are essential; you must have friends and finances forever, or at a minimum, as long as necessary: Having no friends and no money is really depressing. We all know there are other things that are more important as time flies by. Like … the alleviation of an enduring pain; sex after such a long time; a wrinkle cream that really works; solid 8-hours of sleep; a healthy bowel movement; and maybe even truth in advertising. But we can’t have it all. Agreed, these are small things, but they add up to happiness from now on. After all, as Ben Franklin said, “The Constitution only guarantees the American people the right to pursue happiness. You have to catch it yourself.” I guess he’s saying you can’t sit around and wait for the time of your life to land on your shoulder … you have to go for it and shake those old-timer blues and dark shadows of doubt. Now! Dressing Down And I was positive I knew what I looked like in the mirror all these years. But, to say it wildly, the other oxford dropped when someone asked, "Do you know what you look like in those clothes? Are you comfortable? It's a barbeque, man. Loosen up!" I had to admit I'd ventured out on very few shopping expeditions for new rags since I embarked on my finer life of leisure. I began to feel like an eight ball at a beach ball party. Someone then suggested I wear a brighter and more colorful shirt for a photo shoot. I can catch a hint. I figured I'd better examine my closet and I found it looked like a typical day in the Pacific Northwest; a dull assortment of grays, blacks, whites and occasional shades of blue…my dress-up clothes for many years that served me perfectly well in the cubicle world. The only traces of a rainbow in my closet were the neckties, which I pledged I would never knot to my neck again; at least I knew that much about casual wear. A light bulb lit up in my brain, wearing my old work clothes as party clothes wasn't socially acceptable and a major fashion modification was in order. After that degrading comment about my casual rags I scrutinized the attire of my friends at the party (men only, because women always have two or three floors of wardrobe to choose from at any department store, even work clothes, while men's clothes are strung along racks between the tools and the shoes), and I deduced that casual clothes for men materialize in three fundamental styles: The golfer motif, which depicts the impression that the displayer of this costume is arriving at or coming from the 18th or 19th hole; Hawaiian-loud designed attire says vacation is my game and I've been around and I don't want you to forget it; or then there's the racetrack bookie garb that falls between an imitation of Cary Grant and the used finery purchased from a pawn shop. Believe me; any combination of two of these styles creates chaos in the GQ world. I decided it was time to dress down and I ventured into unknown territory to shop for my new rags; I wandered the streets of the city rather than the aisles of the clotheshorse arcade. I stumbled on a store that specialized in sneakers where just about any creature from the animal kingdom or any barometric condition on the weather map could encase my feet: choosing from the basic activities of walking, running, cross training, basketball, skateboarding, casual or courting. Being a single guy I opted for the latter; it seemed like an all-purpose shoe with a sort-of-flat sole and a conservative gray color … hard to kick the habit. Working my way up the torso new pants was my next objective. I remember when jeans were simply called blue jeans and had the little watch pocket in the front and a leather label on the back under the belt. Now they are called denims, Levi's®, Wranglers®, and an assortment of cowboy (girl) descriptive action adjectives and fashion designer dialog. They carry descriptive styles like boot cut, pre-shrunk, cargo, carpenter, relaxed, easy fit, form fit, loose fit, straight leg (What? As opposed to a broken leg?), patch pocket, paint splatter, boomer (now if that means baby boomer, they might fit me), and adult cut; baggies were out because they dropped below my love handles. I had to make a fundamental style decision, that is, do I want to look like an adult type or a preshrunk-relaxed-easy fit type of casual person? I assumed the obvious and bought the adult style, which I quickly splattered with paint and dragged behind my SUV a few miles to make them look in style. Of course, there are alternative choices such as casual slacks, khakis, cords, and wash and wears, but I decided to hold off on buying those until I lose my extra weight at the gym. I was beginning to get into this fashion-plate mood and decided to venture up the body parts and cover my middle-aged spread around the bread basket. Since I live in warm territory, and because the color of my jeans and sneakers were close in color to my work clothes, I decided on a clashing rainbow collection of polo, golf, tennis, and sport shirts; long and short sleeve; pocket and non-pocket; with or without a moose, alligator, brand name and golf club embroidered on the chest; multi-colored and plain; and one size larger than usual to cover all the good-time meals I'd eaten in my previous life. Hats are a mood thing and my mood is usually not to wear one, unless it's raining too hard or the sun is shining too bright. I could hold off on jackets and sweats until the weather cooled to room temperature. There, it was done; I'd bit the bullet and shopped till I dropped. I selected a set of sporty clothes that I'll wear to the next barbeque. It's a different approach than the three styles I'd observed on others. I looked into the mirror again and recognized that I'm now a retired teenager: Next, a pony tail, tattoo, and pierced ear. A Second Heartbeat (Or a Cuddle Buddy) A crony recently advised me that I needed another heartbeat. I immediately threw my hand to my chest hoping for another … and again another after that. 'But the doctor says I'm in great shape', I gasped. 'Not a transplant, idiot,' he put in plain words, 'a second heartbeat, a companion.' Because I am a single senior and tired of eating TV dinners and take-out food my mind immediately flashed brilliant colors of Las Vegas ladies and gala parties, but I knew with all that going on I may need a third or fourth heartbeat to keep up the pace. 'A pet,' he clarified, 'a second heartbeat, a cuddle buddy, someone to talk to rather than your impassive walls.' My walls do just hang their and hold up the pictures and doorways. My friend probably had a point. I had to give it some sober thought … and thorough research … so I started analyzing my way through the animal kingdom … starting with the most common heartbeats …dogs and cats. For the most part dogs seem to be slow on the uptake, but loveable and active, and they come in a variety of sizes and colors. I figured size related directly to food consumption and dumption (if there is such a word to tolerably describe the process of following an animal down the street with a plastic bag in hand), and color related to shedding to match the carpet. Cats are too mysterious and I am positive each one stares at me with the intention of trying to possess my human soul. That scares me. I have enough trouble keeping my soul pointed in the right direction without it being attached to a cat. But cats do have a lot of fun and are fun to watch, from a distance. They run around the neighborhood, unleashed, and chase birds and an array of imaginary wildlife they eyeball from an ancestral crouch. But cats and dogs are old hat and everyone has one, I figured, so a visit to a local pet store might reveal a menagerie of other heartbeats. Birds are colorful, small and easy to maintain and can chirp or chatter or sing. Canaries are small and sociable, as long as you don't touch them (sounds like some people I know), and can live up to 25 years. 'Wait a minute,' I worried, 'I may have to include the canary in my will.' Macaws are beautiful, but large and they can live to the age of 50 … another inheritor to my vast estate of packrat artifacts. And a plain old parrot, if taught to sing O Solo Mio like Enrico Caruso, will be a real pain in the brain in no time. Besides, where do you put a birdcage in a SUV while traveling across country? Do snakes have heartbeat … a heart? Does a fish have a personality? When is the last time you had the opportunity to cuddle and pet a rat, or even escort one down the street on a leash? I was told a fancy rat, I supposed as opposed to a Cinderella-before-the-Ball rat, is an ideal pet for the ages 8 and up with adult supervision. (Being over 8 I didn't know who I could ask to supervise me in my pet play time.) They grow up to 10-inches long with up to an 8-inch tail. My O' My! That's a foot-and-a half of rodent fun and maybe I could escort mine on a leash down the street - if I want to lose all my neighbors as friends and be attacked by cats … and 'you should have two rats', I was told, 'they are smart and can learn tricks …but they have large front teeth and need something to chew on.' Between the tangled leashes and my gnawed finger stumps, I passed on the rat(s) as a second heartbeat. Then there is the reptile family of pets. There is a variety of reptiles beyond the slithery snake group. How about a Crocodile Greco, a Panther Chameleon, a Blue-tongued Skink, or an Argentine Horned Pac Man Frog? All are genuine animals and not Sci-Fi creatures. And you know what? These pets eat live insects and worms that also must be fed nutrients before they are fed to the second heartbeat. I passed again. While considering the second heartbeat I also reflected on some of the secondary responsibilities. Cleaning up after any second heartbeat will be an olfactory challenge no matter what the source: Cats are not clean animals - have you cleaned out a cat box lately? Little doggie-poop baggies are just disgusting. Stained and dirty newspaper bottoms and littered water that must be changed, and sweeping the floor of a reptile cage littered with insect carcasses could be downright memorable. There are a few other outlandish things to consider, such as, a decent burial for my second heartbeat in a Pet Cemetery; before that Veterinarian expenses; related to that I recently read that I may have to send my second heartbeat to be consulted by a member of the IAABC (International Association of Animal Behavior Consultants). I saw a sign in a pet shop I was browsing that advertised 'Have your pet's photo taken with Santa'. Come On! But the one I read written on a bathroom wall made me feel a little queasy, 'Keep our city clean. Eat your dog!" There you have it, and as a man of strict indecision and sticking to it, I decided my friend was right and decided on two second heartbeats to keep me in high spirits: a spaniel puppy and a wirehair kitten. The Aging Battle (The Immortality Dream) The anti-aging, age-defying, longevity, staying young, never aging, and the most extreme, the never-ever dying goals in life, have spawned industries that create solutions and concoctions that materialize in the form of lotions, oils, skin creams, growth hormones, mud baths, secret herbs, nutritional supplements, and laser beams, etc. They are short-term answers to the age-old problem of a longer life. Last year, 2004, Americans spent $20 billion on various anti-aging products. To this date there is absolutely no scientific proof that any commercially available product will stop time or reverse aging, no matter how many lobbyists the pharmaceutical companies put in Washington; of course optimistically, anything can still happen in this scientific age. Let us examine the core of the aging problem. There is only one legitimate, workable counter-attack in the battle against this process: Stop all the intimidating sweeping hands on clocks and rip the calendar numbers off the walls. Ignore everything and anything that announces the date or time such as newspapers, TV and the Town Crier. Mainly, don't celebrate birthdays. Age is the duration of time one has existed. And after all, aging is in actuality the passing of time, isn't it? That steady arrow that silently moves in an undisturbed motion invisibly passing in front of our eyes through life on ball-bearing castors. It's the movement of the planets and tides, hopeful buds popping from the earth in the spring and tree leaves drying in the autumn like weathered skin. It is the organic process of growing older and showing effects of increasing age. 'No time, no aging,' it's as easy as that. Unless science can stop time we have a problem. If Juan Ponce de León had discovered the Fountain of Youth in Florida in about 1513, we wouldn't have to worry. If we each had a portrait similar to the Dorian Gray picture that cracked, wrinkled and aged for us, we wouldn't have to worry. A sip of the elixir of life potion and the resulting immortality would be fun. But, NOT! It's a fact and historical consensus proves it: Without a doubt 9999 out of every 10,000 humans unsuccessfully inhibit the aging process. And that lonely 1 in 10,000, it is rumored, manages to beat the process and shows up as a same-old rehashed politician. The odds are against all of us: We either pass to the other side or become a politician. As has been acknowledged, after all, aging is the organic process of growing older and showing the effects of increasing age; graying, wrinkling, sagging, and shrinking. But there are some positive qualities to aging, like acquiring desirable qualities by being left undisturbed for some time, you know, like good bourbon or tasty cheese or becoming a ripe banana or pomegranate. Maturing, as some people look at it, is the process of developing an entity until it reaches perfection. Somebody forgot to define perfection in the eternal human life process. It can be anything in the eyes of the beholder in this twilight zone between being and not. The immortality dream can take on many concepts when mixed with personal and debatable reality. "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light," said Dylan Thomas. "Time to turn back and descend the stair, with a bald spot in the middle of my hair--," said T. S. Eliot. These are observations on facing the phenomena of life and aging. "Look younger," says every beauty magazine on the drugstore rack: This is nothing but sales gibberish. Unfortunately, eternal youth can not be found in a bottle or a jar, or even in a poem, but is a myth perpetuated by the anti-aging agents of profit. But, anything can happen. Becoming a robot is one way to attain perfection and beat aging, but how can someone walk in high heels or sneakers with those club feet. The touchy-feely part of life is discombobulated. Wigs, weaves, plugs, dyes, skin grafts, wrinkle removers and plastic surgery don't make anyone younger but can make anyone feel younger; and they come close to the ultimate answer: robotic renovation - that is, becoming a mechanical device that sometimes resembles a human and is capable of performing a variety of often complex human tasks on command or by being programmed in advance. I've seen some individuals who feel plastic is fantastic and believe they will never die because they can never decompose. But being a robot, or wanna-be robot, leaves out the option of tasting that fine bourbon and cheese, or eating a banana. But again, something may eventually happen because we believe time is eternal, hope is not lost; maybe the scientific community of anti-aging gurus can clone time's eternal properties into the human DNA. Oh No, Not Again! (Or: Brush the dust off that resume) We all are aware that the economy is in such a muddle that a fight has broken out between Rocky-Mountain-sized bar graphs and unfit-for-human-consumption pie charts; we just may have to invent a tears broom to sweep up after all the sobbing. Or maybe, the answer can be, we concoct an environment where we forget all these worries and spats and live in cabins, caves and tents; and hunt and fish and plant things for survival. Whoops, we just came from that living milieu in the 1800s. Or the other option, we boomers may have to continue working until we see that bright light, instead of being retired, laid back, and basking in the sun … like we’re suppose to. You mean, get a job? Oh no, not again? Been there! Done that! You know how it goes. You did it after high school, and maybe college. Hat in hand, you carried out the most multi-faceted and degrading action-reaction performance devised for humans since the beginning of the Industrial Age: A job interview. The unexpected was always expected. Humility was the strongest asset you had to bring to the table. You know that. You had to be pleasant and have a silk suit and tie on your tongue with a button-down brain cluttered with pearly smiles and polished pleases. Do you want to; have to; do that again. Just remember what Ogden Nash said when applying for a job, “People who work sitting down get paid more than people who work standing up.” The interview process, usually, from past experiences, unfortunately, will go the same way. The interviewer, typically a fresh very-young graduate in Human Resources from a Matchbook Trade School, after glancing halfheartedly at your resume, seems to base the decision on two questions: Why the heck do you want this job? And, can you find the door without tripping? Your gray hair trips you up every time. You want to say, ‘Because my nest egg is growing smaller, or the nest is growing bigger, I don’t know which. But I need some more income to pay the pharmacist and grocer … let alone the gasser upper. If you are already retired, you have to consider the unthinkable. You may have to brush the dust off that resume. If you are thinking about retirement soon, you may have to have second, maybe third, thoughts. Of course, you can follow the advice of Edgar Bergen, who was no dummy (through the mouth of, Charlie McCarthy, who is a dummy) said, “Hard work never killed anybody, but why take a chance?” Just say No! Do you recall what President Clinton so eloquently orated to an audience a few years ago, “By the time our young people reach your age, they will be working jobs that haven’t been invented yet.” Great! He forgot to say ‘when young people reach retirement age, those jobs won’t be available, or invented, yet.’ “What about me?” you will think. “I’m available, a neat dresser, experienced, and actively in the job hunt.” But you will find that the openings for a trained and proven professional range from Superstore Greeter, to Café Swamper or Bus Boy (man, lady). They have pre-determined that any ol’ person can shake a hand or swing a mop or drive a delivery van. If all else fails you can always resort back to delivering the morning newspaper like you did when you were 10 years old. Many seniors do it these days. Check it out some morning. Of course, work, instead of retirement, can eliminate all those menacing and boring things you’ve had to do with your spare time: like taking long walks and improving the golf game; sleeping in as long as you want to; wasting all that time deciding whether you want watch a movie on TV or listen to some cool jazz on the stereo; preparing a nice lunch instead of a jammed sandwich with a soda; and even the time you spend in a totally semi-Zen, relaxed muscle state of bliss as you lie back in the lounge chair and count the holes in the ceiling tiles. You’ll see, going back to work isn’t all bad. You won’t miss these things; especially crunching the numbers at the end of each month. And remember the up side; you will be meeting all those people on the job you used to hate, even a boss. Maybe you can get even. All Grown-up Now? We know the definition of a teenager: that is, we human creatures who put up with all the trials and tribulations, the invasion of an acne army and moaning growing pains, between the ages of 13 to 19. We know a baby is a small human in diapers with an insatiable appetite, and a tweener is somebody between a baby and a teenager; 'too young for this' and 'too old for that'. And it is assumed an adult is anyone with enough cumulative heartbeats to legally purchase and drink liquor, smoke cigarettes and gamble, be qualified to vote (if they want to), sign a contract, and do generally anything to enhance or defame the human image. But when are we officially considered a grown-up? You know; someone who is full-sized, full-fledged, fully developed both mentally and physically and qualified for an enhanced lifestyle. Is that retirement? Is retirement the natural passage between adulthood and grownup hood? There are so many things they didn't tell us when we were handed a birth certificate and declared to be a human, and this is one of those transparent smudges in life we cross with no instructions or even a amusement-park-type map for directions. Maybe people must qualify to be a grown-up: A mental test must be passed or anyone can claim this status of nobility. To be really qualified I bet there are questions like: Do you know who Rosie the Riveter is and the Yankee Clipper? Do Pearl Harbor and Air Raid Sirens shatter your memories? And to be a little less qualified I bet there are questions like: Can you define 'I like Ike', Rock Around the Clock, Ozzie and Harriet, and the Brooklyn Dodgers? Do you remember dancing the Twist or the Bunny Hop in Pegger pants, or pedal pushers, and a turned up collar, and for some of us, with our greasy hair shining under the revolving mirrored globe hanging from the gymnasium ceiling, while listening to music on the Hi-fi? The physical qualifications are easier to ascertain. If your well-weathered face doesn't qualify for the cover of Elle or GQ magazine, you're in. Now you might be able to run a marathon race, but more than likely if your bones ache going from the front door to the car, you're in. If you believe gravity is the worst element in all of nature's wonders, and the southern environment sunshine is the best, you're in. If you purchase canned food and you quit purchasing food in jars because you can no longer open the lids with your hands, you're in. Social qualifications take on the traits of a Bill hop-scotching through Congress. What being grown-up is to one person is different to the next person. (You see, lobbyists have already taken a nibble out of the process.) Responsibility seems to loom as a defining guideline for grown-ups: Learning to take responsibility and consequences for your actions. Learning to treat people as you would like to be treated yourself. When you realize the entire world does not revolve around you and that it will go on tomorrow, with or without you, you are now socially a grown-up. Come On! Is this grownup hood or the Boy Scouts? Then other critical questions arise: Is anyone ever completely grown-up? Does everyone really want to be a grown-up? Do we have to go through all this trouble? Can we be grown-up and still be an adult and have the energy and attitude of a teenager? Maybe just being a plain old adult is better. If I admit to being a grown-up, will somebody fix the bathroom mirror that makes me look like my grownup father? Single Senior Show (Or: Dinner after the Wallflower Parade) Eating fine food in a quality restaurant is a dream for all citizens who have worked a lifetime for it. So occasionally I have the urge to enjoy a quality meal while indulging a setting with tablecloths, linen napkins, and silver not plastic tableware, please. Eating it alone is the nightmare. You see, I know what it’s like to be the focus of attention as I cross a dining room like a wallflower parade with a of string of toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe, trailing me like a bridal train, and people gawking at me, or worse, averting their eyes so they don’t display any impression of an I-know-him glance. That’s what I feel like, sometimes. I’m a single senior, and this lightning strikes me whenever I participate in a social occasion of any kind. The most uncomfortable event, and probably the most frequent, is at a stylish restaurant. It inescapably begins when I approach my first adversary, the hostess, with mild apprehension, because the first embarrassment typically is manifested when I say, “One for dinner, non-smoking, please.” “Only one?” she asks. “Yes, Please.” Then the exaggerated yanking of one menu from the rack, and a full body twist, “This way, please,” and the show begins. I know the spotlight is on me and I can feel the buzzing of gnats as they surround me, attracted by the nervous sweat rolling down my brow and back. Every eye in the place is directed at me, I’m sure. ‘Please get me to my table as quickly as you can,’ I silently plead with the hostess from the paranoid caverns of my mind. Then, after weaving around every table so I have been fully displayed, I arrive at my table. “A table for six, don’t you have anything smaller?” I appeal to the hostess. “This is all we have, unless you want to take a table in the bar?” They always ask that. They always want singles to be with other singles in the bar, drinking, so maybe we, some day, will be couples and can become a full-table bigger-tip customer. “No, thank you, this will be fine.” I want to explain to her that all bars smell like dirty ashtrays and carpets soaked with spilt cocktails, and that truly spoils the taste of the fine dinner I am about to pay a good hunk of change for. “OK. Your waiter will be, Smiley, and will be right with you.” “Thank you.” Now the second embarrassing adversarial event takes place. Smiley’s ally, Busboy Bill, charges the table and meticulously, with the grandiose flair of a Las Vegas magician, salvages the clean place settings of the five friends and family who obviously must have snubbed my dinner invitation. One, two, three, etc., the napkins, silverware, water glasses and placemats are scooped up and paraded across the room to the little nook in the corner where waiters and busboys congregate to plan my social demise. It happens. It must. These degrading rituals can’t be an accident. It has to be a social behavior created by generations of service workers, or taught in Restaurant 101. Who knows? “Can I bring you something to drink?” asks Smiley. “Just coffee.” “Just coffee?” “With cream, please.” “Nothing from the bar?” There it is again: the bar. “No thank you.” From that time on the dinner goes just fine, except the eternity between when I’ve ordered the meal, and the point when the meal arrives. What to do? In a small diner or café I usually whip out the daily paper or a paperback and read it while sipping my coffee. Here? No way. It would be like waving a red banner, Lonely Person! Lonely Person! During the meal, the eating part of it, after it parades in dish by dish, I get the usual courtesy drop-bys from Smiley, “More Coffee?” “Everything OK?” “Will there be anything else?” And invariably on each of these occasional visits, my mouth is full of food and I must either nod my head or spray a mouthful of it across the table if I say “More coffee, please”. They must also instruct waiters and waitresses how to do this with faultless timing at Restaurant 101. This is where universal sign language enters. I point at the cup and nod, yes … or no. After the meal is complete I need, must obtain, the check so I can calculate the amount of a tip and escape out the front door. Smiley walks past me with 6 desserts somehow attached to all hands and arms and strides a beeline for a family at another large table. I move my plate away from me to signal that I am done. Smiley brings a pot of coffee … to another table: I need coffee, too. I don’t get it. I place my napkin atop the fragments of food I’ve left on the plate and nudge it to the edge of the table … and wait. Busboy Bill is more attentive and captures the plate, silver, cup, saucer, and water glass, and remaining are a couple of peas I’d accidentally brushed off my plate. They somehow have become plugged into an electrical outlet and develop strobe-light characteristics, which are attracting the critical eyes of everyone in the area. Smiley passes again. I try a casual wave. Once. Twice. Then I realize I must make a dash for it. I put enough cash and a proportionate amount of gratuity, undeserved I must say, on the table and attempt to sneak out around the happy diners, past the hostess, and toward the front door, hoping all the time I don’t get stopped and accused of an act of Dine and Dash. And again, all the time, of course, dragging the same toilet paper train behind me that I dragged in. I must keep, it so I can display it at my next stop, the theater, alone. Is FREE a Fixed Price – Or a Down Payment? Offers for FREE goods and services are being delivered daily to my mail box and sent to me by e-mail, overwhelming me on TV, and falling like snowflakes from my magazines. As a frugal individual I pay attention to saving a buck or two. If I accept as true these offers, I may never have to spend another penny, on anything. But what is FREE to me? I’m not imprisoned or shackled, and I’m not under the control of another’s will, except by my Better Half, of course, who imposes house arrest, so set me free mostly doesn’t apply here … I hope. That only leaves the option that someone is going be a kind spirit and give me something at no cost, no money that is, complimentary, gratis … I hope. For example, the other day a standard 4x6 pre-addressed postcard fell from a magazine and floated to my floor like a graceful and disarming dove. After it alit from its flight, the blazing red letters rose from the card like a ruthless hawk and cried FREE. I had to inspect the details of such a blazon command. 10 issues of the magazine FREE for the mere action of ordering a subscription for 30 issues at a low cost of $29 plus change. At the low per-issue rate the card advertised, it was just like getting 10 issues for FREE. I believe it was more like a down payment. Some deal, huh? Maybe the same company would sell me 10 acres in Manhattan and give me one for free. Fat Chance! On TV the telemarketer rambles his spiel, “A FREE bottle of magic liquid cleaner… just buy one bottle and we will send you a second one FREE … and we’ll throw in two FREE bottles of shoe dye, the color of your choice, a FREE sponge on a stick, two all-purpose rags, and an entry form that entitles you to enter a contest that offers a FREE trip to Orlando as first prize. And if you order now, the telemarketer continues, for each future order you will receive 2 bottles for the price of 1 … for life” WOW, I cry out, all this for just purchasing one 20 oz. bottle of supernatural cleaner for the dirt-low price of $10 plus change. Now I no longer wonder why they immediately fill the TV screen with flashing phone numbers, replicas of credit cards, and attractive dusting housewives; because the announcer is definitely and uncontrollably laughing up his sleeve off camera after the pitch. Now another scam (excuse me, offer) that is closely related to the magazine offer is the book-club offer printed on an attractive brochure personally addressed and slipped into my mailbox: First book, FREE; second book, FREE, third book, FREE (WOW!); fourth book at the Regular Price plus Shipping and Handling (OOPS!). All this for just signing up for a years supply of other and more books that I may or may not order or want. FREE in this case is definitely a down payment on my future reading activities and an iron clad guarantee of less space in my bookshelf. I like to imagine I’m just as frugal with my bookshelf space as I am with my cash … but I really believe I fall short of both. Now in most cases Shipping charges I can see and understand. The product has to get from there to me, somehow, but Handling charges are a mystery. Does this mean they wear clean or latex gloves during the packing process? Does this charge guarantee the product will not be dented, torn, wrinkled or maimed, and the order will be complete, correct and properly addressed? I doubt it. I believe this handling charge is how they handle the lost profit on the FREE part of the offer. I’ve seen some Shipping and Handling charges range from 6 to 30 bucks, depending upon how fast I want their FREE product, when in fact postage glued to a brown envelop would be sufficient for delivery. Go figure! Some things are really and truly FREE … excluding the obvious, air. E-mail offers of FREE newsletters are a windfall for the penny pinchers like me. I just sign up for the weekly/monthly/daily e-mail delivery to my inbox of a newsletter explaining the values of modern poetry and its effect on the environmental extinction of concrete libraries, and the filling in of mud flats in Nevada, or something along that order of madness. The neat thing is the newsletter will also offer bargains on everything. That’s all. But to sign up I have to fill out 3 web pages of personal information: likes and dislikes, shopping habits, income level, sex, etc., and recommend my friends. Hmmmm! No outlay of cash for me, so it must be FREE, and since I now loiter in semi-retirement I have oodles of time on my hands to read every word of every offer generated and sent to me in my personalized and valuable FREE newsletter. Is this a fixed price, or a down payment? Some other things are FREE: Samples of products delivered to my home by a charming, bright-eyed, gray-haired lady; Catalogs, for obvious reasons, are FREE; CDs with multi-purpose programs to install on my computer are FREE (but SAFE?); Kittens are FREE if I want to take one home; Coins are FREE if I want to stand on a street corner with a cup in my hand; FREE tips; FREE hand up; and FREE peanuts or popcorn at the bar where I will contemplate and categorize all the FREEEEEE stuff in the world. But here is some FREE advice; the most important and generally FREE item is my will or self control. I can or can not, will or will not, or must or must not, fall for FREE offers from even the most attractive offerer person. The Enemies I Buy I, as a red-blooded and very experience human being, have always had the self-belief that I was smarter than a toaster. I know the younger generation with all their gizmos and thingamabobs could fry me in a one-on-one contest of technology trivia. But I always thought my discount-store inventory of appliances was a safe haven. I know it’s a hard choice between saving money, and saving sanity. But things happen. This morning I was rudely attacked from the blind side by a blood-curdling scream that interrupted my canoe ride through a softly tinted forest on a serene stream. My nighttime dream world had been shattered like a cheap mirror. My first reaction was self-defense. I grabbed the pillows and crushed them to the sides of my head, for self-protection, to muffle the eventual mushing of my brain by those ultra-violent sound waves. It took a few seconds to clear the fog and readjust my wits so I could analyze how I’d been thrown from my serene stream into the front row of an acid rock concert in hell. My second reaction, an automatic motor function, was to open my eyes, blink, then adjust to the daylight and investigate to see if the room was spinning around me or me around it. My third reaction was descriptive, ‘Dagnabit!’ If you haven’t figured it out, my first enemy of the day was a whirly little electronic black-blazer-butler Made-In-China hammer located somewhere inside my newly purchased inexpensive snooze-alarm-radio clock. My fourth reaction was to moan, ‘why is it screeching, and how do I turn it off.’ I hadn’t turned the alarm on in the first place the night before. I can sleep in these days. That’s what I’ve worked for. I must have placed one of the ten or dozen knobs and switches in the wrong position. I don’t punch a clock anymore, but this time I did. To fix this little box of horrors before the next morning, I set each switch in the desired position, just like the multi-language instructional pamphlet suggested, secured them into position with a lump of Scotch Tape, and said a little prayer to Thomas Edison, who I’m sure, is the God of electronics. The coffee pot is a mostly harmless, but a sometimes sneaky, enemy. I ran water into the coffee pot, placed a new clean white filter into the little basket with the magical hole at the bottom, measured in the proper ratio of coffee grounds per cup of water, poured in the exact amount of water, anticipating a little extra boost to help me forget the morning’s dashed dreams, closed it all up, and pushed the brew button. I could hear the babbling and singing of the coffee maker. About once a week, or so, it’s an accepted disaster, one of the sides of the nice new white paper filter will collapse and allow pure, unsaturated, gritty bits of ground coffee to pass through the magic hole and into the pot. And So! The first cup I pour in that morning looks like a mud puddle in a freshly turned garden plot with dirt floating around the edges like baby bugs. Again, I have three choices of defense to act out here: First, I could yell Dagnabit! Which I already know solves nothing; Second, I know lumps of Scotch Tape won’t work in this situation, so I can either repeat the steps above for a new pot; or Third, I can give ground (no pun intended) to the enemy and attempt to dab up the grit from the suspicious liquid with the corner of a paper towel. Next time, I muttered, I’ll remember to inspect the filter like my Army Captain used to scrutinize my footlocker. In the meantime, the new toaster, the one with the unpretentious knob that assigns Light to the left, and Dark to the right, and neither means anything anyhow, smoked like a three-alarm fire in the corner of the kitchen cabinet, contentedly and warmly creating black tiles of bread. Enough said! I won’t get into the color of the butter as I took up the challenge and tried to spread it with non-crumbling agility across the flat sides of the tiles. This enemy is easy to defeat, but may take a whole loaf of bread. Starting from the left I toasted slices of bread until the exact color mix of $700-dollar-an-ounce gold and charcoal was attained. Then, with a dab of enamel paint (nail polish will do) I marked the spot for perfect toast … just in case someone turns the knob. Toast quality is personal choice and not an exact science. The bowl of oatmeal gruel in the microwave had just bubbled and exploded. This enemy is a subtle sniper. The muted hum of the electromagnetic waves rattled my breakfast into an edible temperature zone and lulled me into a sense of false security. The muted crack of an explosion rocked the morning air like a sniper’s gunshot. I’d overlooked the warning sign: Cover All Food. The inside of the zap contraption looked like my enemy had layered stucco on the walls with a paint gun filled with my gray matter. I’ve forgotten to put a cover over the bowl. Never do that. Just a paper plate over the top is easy, and disposable. My enemy started to resemble me. Warning here, Juicers are armed land mines if the lid is taken off too soon, unless you want to wear a shirt with an orange spatter pattern. I think this remedy is obvious. These lessons are disturbing for someone like me who is trying to be a non-morning person and sleep in, relax, read, etc. My enemies are lurking in every doodad convenience gadget I buy at the discount store. It’s part of the deal and clearly printed within the barcode I can’t read, also on the label I can’t remove from my appliance without a blowtorch or strong acid. I’ve found, just because these appliances are cheap and have been designed with all the friendly colors and curves, it doesn’t make them friendly, or trustworthy. Well then, if you can’t beat them, join them. I’ve learned to fix and work around all these appliance attacks, and pass the information along to friends. It has built for me the reputation as the Appliance Guy: There are many enemy appliances lurking out there, this is just a sampling. I don’t make much money, but free coffee and lunch in exchange for that small appliance repair or hint can be an entertaining hobby, and if you get good at it, you can make lots of friends. Yard Sales Inch by Inch Finally, the apples of our eye have moved on to clutter up their own homes, and we may now think about moving to smaller and cleaner abodes, or southern and warmer climates. It’s the natural order of life. And this without a doubt means a yard sale, to clear out the clutter, must be considered. As enterprising senior citizens with the genes of a pack rat, we must scatter treasures atop folding tables and across lawns to grudgingly part with precious icons from our materialistic histories. But first, we should examine this commercial experience so we can understand it, and possibly make it a constructive and profitable event. We need a plan that will be meticulously crafted and followed, and probably just as meticulously abandoned. There are several areas to be scrutinized before setting up this scavenger boutique, and a little of my hesitant advice may help. Advertising Fun: Hanging the letter-size posters everywhere is a requirement before any yard sale. What to say? Junk Sale sounds too trashy. Closet Clutter Sale reeks of desperation. Good Stuff For Sale sounds too iffy. Pre-used Trash Sale is too honest, and too negative, and definitely not very inviting, and Pre-loved Trash Sale…sounds too cute. Keep it simple stupid and just call it a Yard Sale. A map and an address must be included on the poster. Bright-red arrows painted on cardboard and tacked on telephone poles at the nearest busy street are a big help. Just make sure the wind can’t blow them upside down. Also, an A-frame sign on the curb in front of the house can stop any potential customer. A chain across the road isn’t necessary. Get the apple of your eye to help with this if you must. Money: Pennies on the dollar is a fair swap for your time and material while planning for your less-than-cluttered future, and is a straightforward and obvious motivation for a Yard Sale. And what to charge for items? It’s a give-and-take situation and the master business plan of all Yard Sales is to barter. How much change should be on hand? How about accepting checks? Take them on trust or not? Since it is all junk anyway, if the check doesn’t clear there still is a positive transaction because the customer has carted away another unwanted, unused item that took up space in the garage or attic. Physical Layout of the Sale: How do you post the prices on the items: Big, small, or none at all? Everything listed as OBO (or best offer)? Or should there be a secret price list that only you know about and can reference? How many display tables do you have? Need? Should you put mats down on your beautifully manicured lawn so it won’t look like a cow pasture the next day? Should you open the garage door and put stuff in there? All these are legitimate multiple-choice questions with so many answers they can’t be listed here. The Inventory: Rule One – Everything goes since you are moving out of town. Rule Two – Everything worthless goes. Some have suggested that all the items should be cleaned and polished: Another option is to leave all that clean-up labor to the buyer. That’s part of their fun. Besides, when I buy things, I always want to clean off all their germs and replace them with mine. It gives the item more of a personal touch. The Customers: Some early arrivers are looking for that unnoticed antique article of artwork they can snap up for a few pennies and a belittling snicker. Remember that a sale is a sale and anyhow, you never would have known the value of that old needlepoint anyhow. The bargain hunters, the wheeler-dealers, the price whittlers, the I-want-something-for-nothing shoppers will make your day. They bring the real spirit of a Greek Market. The best solution is to participate in the game and negotiate to make the sale a win-win result. It just feels good to bicker with a person one-on-one instead of handing a bar-coded plastic artifact to the clerk at the local discount store. The real shoppers are the young couples setting up a new household, and the teenagers who have finally been booted from their homes by their parents: Like you possibly just did. These are the real customers. They have a limited vocabulary and a limited bankroll, but also have an empty house or apartment to furnish, thus about half of everything you display is needed. Pre-Pre-Planning: If you’ve really thought ahead to the unmentionable, that is, the reality that some items might not be on the Yard Sale shoppers’ list, you have already called an organized charity to pick up the remaining items, and then found out, My God, even the most desperate charitable organizations refuse to pick up some of the items! And then you also found out, of all things, that these organizations specialize, or have a list of items they do and do not take. You must call two or three of them. It’s Over: After the Yard Sale is over, there are going to be plenty of items left over that even the most addicted Yard Sale shopper couldn’t purchase. The reality is, the dust gathering process has restarted with a vigorous flamboyance enhanced by the parting potential customers spinning their tires in the dirt driveway. And a further reality is revealed, as the sun sets, that all this time, unknown to you, all your precious icons of personal materialistic history are just dust magnets attracting all the particles from the cosmos. You probably will have to move them to the dust magnet headquarters, which is called the dump. The 5th of July Yes, the 4th is Wham Bam Bang and Sizzle Independence Day and it is packed to the horizon with picnics, parades and band concerts all over the place; with decorations of red, white, and blue stuck to everything. But the 5th is the first day of the next 364 where the practice of freedom is really celebrated. A day to mull over what went before, and what will be from now on; sort of like a day playing country-store checkers after a day of an international chess competition. The fire crackers have cracked and the rocket red glare is no longer in the air where the odor of burnt sulfur hangs around like an irritable family member. The ground is carpeted with paper confetti scattered by the fireworks and parades. But remember, the 5th is also the birthday of P. T. Barnum, the self-proclaimed prince of humbug; the day the Salvation Army was formed; the Secret Service was started on this day; and in 1946 the first bikini was worn in public. I don’t know if any of these events have a connection, but if so, let’s celebrate again! And some of us do. This day-after day has always had a special meaning to those in the slower lane. The 4th of July conveniently this year falls on a Monday and provides another glorious three-day weekend. But those of us in a not-working-every-day phase of life say, “Who cares?” Mondays disappeared from the calendar a long time ago. We no longer have to suffer through Blue Mondays because it was the first visible benefit after the last day of work. A favorite question on Monday morning in the elevator use to be, ‘is it Friday yet?’ And the normal response was, ‘the third best day of the week, after Saturday and Sunday.’ Many of us in the past took the 5th off of work solely to gently recuperate from the 4th. The 5th inescapably suffers as it is the day after the giant rotating backyard BBQs, this year your house and next year someone else’s, with all the trimmings, all the friends and neighbors, and all the merriment mess. The day after everyone has contributed their favorite casserole, salad, snack and dip, or a suspicious glob of something in the middle of a platter surrounded by a concoction even more puzzling. Some bring their favorite meat or fish to smoke and broil in the open air barbeques, and everyone tries to top everyone else in the taste department; which makes for a wonderful feast. Many even drag in their own portable barbeques and lawn chairs so there’ll never be a shortage of hot-coal surfaces or cool-comfortable seats under the trees. Ice chests brimmed with cooled beverages and tasty snacks are lugged in and spread to convenient spots around the back yard; and even in the house for those odd bodies who desire to dodge the sun’s rays. Following the afternoon and early evening filled with food and beverages, as usual, a short parade is organized to march to and then re-gather at the high-ground point in a nearby park. The fireworks show begins at the edge of darkness and provides a spectacle full of oooh and aaah highlights, and concludes with the eye and ear shattering flurry of fire in the sky. The day is done for most of the partiers after that, especially those with kids, but some retreat back to the house and backyard. A few of the beverages hadn’t been tapped, the kids are gone, and a poker game seems to break out in the kitchen. Conversations and cards are dealt and replayed, and rehashed and reshuffled; food is eaten until the platters are clean; and one-by-one the players retire to the living room as the game diminishes down to a couple of winners. And the celebration of the 5th of July begins a slow crawl to life. “Remember when … Remember where we used to … Remember the time … Do you know … Can you recall … Do you think we’ll ever?” The warm radiance of the slight beverage buzz, or it could be the ambiance of old friends recalling memories, fills the room along with the morning sun and the flies seeking leftovers. Old friends who hadn’t gathered for a while, for some of them a year, take the weight off their feet and relax in a comfort zone built by years of experiences together, and slow down. The distractions of the present are left at the door like dirty boots. Someone always brings up the issue of those who aren’t here this year. So-and-so has made a break for it and escaped south to warmer weather and the stories of “I wish I could …” and ‘Maybe I’ll …” begin to be fictionalized and exaggerated. Another soul mate has passed to the other side since last year and a rousing toast of beer bottles clang in a ring around the group, and an equaling rousing round of memorial stories bend the ears. “Remember the time when we all hopped that freight car and …” and on and on the conversations spin, like a great habit: A déjà vu day that really has happened before and will happen again. Yes, the 4th ignited the roasting fire, but the 5th maintains the warmth of the celebration. It is one of those rare days, year after year, when old friends gather and randomly reminisce. It is an annual day-after day, sort of like the 26th of December and the 2nd of January and the Tuesdays after Labor and Memorial Days. ©2008, Patrick Kennedy *    *    * Man arrives as a novice at each age of his life. - Nicolas Chamfort Contact Us | Disclaimer | Privacy Statement Menstuff® Directory Menstuff® is a registered trademark of Gordon Clay ©1996-2010, Gordon Clay