37 is the new 25… Really… No come on and trust me on that

I am 37, which is not the same as 37 was when our parents were 37, and it’s completely different than 37 was when our grandparents were 37. In the 1500s I would have been dead for years by now.

It probably didn’t help my parents that when they were 37, they had a teenaged son. And my grandparents, by 37, not only had teenaged kids but they had also lived through and fought in World War II. I, on the other hand, am single and childless, although I did endure a marriage and a divorce which felt like they were turning my hair gray.

So is it my imagination or do I and my 30-something peers look younger than our folks did?

And along those same lines, my parents, in their early 60s look great. My grandparents in their early 60s looked old and elderly. That isn’t just my memory, I have pictures. You should see what my grandmothers looked like when they were in their 50s. Sure my mother is a little more liberal with the hair coloring, and grandma fashions weren’t so hot in the 1970s, but there is something else going on here too.

20 years ago, if a person in their 60s was involved in a news story, we might call that person elderly. My newsroom has officially written a policy that elderly is late 70s, and only after we see what the person looked like.

I saw an ad earlier this week for an upcoming concert in town. Have any of you seen Bernadette Peters recently? Holy crap! She is hot. And according to her own webpage she is 60. Now, friends of mine have long known that I am smitten with Diane Sawyer, so I suppose this isn’t the first time an older woman has made my mouth drop open. But, Bernadette, wow!  She is so not even close to elderly.

But here’s my concern.  If I met her (go with my dream here) does my younger-than-her-generation’s-37 mean that I would appear to her to be 25?  Or, because she’s a 60-year-old who could pass for a 40-year-old, would she still think she’s close to my 25ish 37?  Or… well, you see my point (pretend you do).

And it’s time for my prescription drugs, the 5 pills I have to take every day for my variety of ailments.

I love my eternal youth.

iWrite

Time will tell whether this is a good thing or not, but I am now able to blog from my iPhone. No longer will I have to expend the energy required to pick up and turn on my laptop. Now, I need only to use my thumbs and 2 to 3 calories an hour.
The only thing better would be a personal stenographer who could follow me around, or even better, sit at my bedside and transcribe my blog, while also feeding me grapes and pouring wine into my mouth.
But I digress.

Radar Magazine (I’d make a link but that appears to be more than the iPhone can handle) is publishing it’s “Worst Colleges” list in it’s September issue. I got a sneak peak of it today and I recommend it simply because I believe in supporting people, writers and publications with a sense of humor.
The article makes fun of a college in my city, and that institution is outraged. At my workplace we wanted to do a story on the story and the reaction. This was before we read the article.
When we first heard about it, we were suprised. You see, no one told us it was HUMOR.
I contacted the Senior Editor in charge of the piece and explained the situation. He emailed me a copy of the article, but not before giving a statement in response to the college’s outrage.
For silly professional ethics I won’t reprint that statement here, but to paraphrase, it was basically “lighten the hell up and enjoy the joke.” That is not what people usually say when my station confronts them. I was beginning to think the college was worked up over nothing.
That was confirmed once we read the story. We laughed, a little at the absurdity, a little more by the amusing truths.
We got the joke and decided not to even bother with our story.
I do recommend the article though, especially if you have a friend from Cornell… even better if the friend is female. Any college review that includes the line “sweet release of death” is a winner.

What isn’t a winner is typing this much on a mini glass iPhone keyboard.
But I’m just too tired to roll over to the laptop on the far side of my bed.

By the way, thanks to the Radar Magazine people for being helpful, upfront, and not taking themselves too seriously today.

A Tip Of The Cowboy Hat

I remember the day so well, the day I realized my father was a genius.

We were driving in California and had just turned onto San Andreas Road.  He turned to me straight faced and asked if I knew why it was named San Andreas.

I didn’t.

“Because it’s made of ass-FAULT.”

Genius I tell you.

My mother looked at him with a look of comedy disaproval.  I, on the otherhand, knew that his brain worked differently, worked better.  With hardly any effort, little thought, no preparation he had come with with a clever, no, a perfect one-liner.

Genius.

Through the years I have tried to follow in his footsteps, and I do believe that I too have that special part of the brain, the one that takes random fragments of knowledge and language and places them together for no reason other than to make people laugh.

But it seems that appreciation for one-liner comedy genius is not found everywhere, in everyone.  A few weeks ago I was in Charlottesville with some friends, and we were driving around in a Jeep, looking for a parking spot.  The driver pulled up to the entrance of a building with the sign that said it was The Lewis and Clark Parking Lot.  I, of course, immediately pointed out that we might night be able to park there… because we weren’t in an Expedition. (Now, you are either rolling on the floor laughing your ass off, or you need the following explanation: Lewis and Clark led an Expedition.  An Expedition is also the name of a Ford vehicle.  We were in a Jeep.)

Unfortunately, the rest of the people in the Jeep either weren’t up to speed on their American history, the current line-up of Ford SUVs or they just didn’t get it.

I know, it’s no “ass-FAULT” but given the speed that it entered my brain, it was pretty good.

Tonight, however, I recognize someone else for his wit, his speed, his timing and delivery.

We were watching the 11:00 news, when a man who appeared to be from India delivered a soundbite.  He was also wearing a wide brimmed hat.

Without skipping a beat, M.D. said:

“Hmm, this guy’s a cowboy AND an Indian.”

Genius!

Dog Gone

Now that I have returned to the world of blogging it has occurred to me that I am not sure that I have anything interesting to write about. It’s not that my life is more boring that it used to be. I just am struggling for that inspiration… my muse.

It used to be that I would come home from work and take Cosmo out for a walk. We would stroll around town for a bit and something would come to me, a rant, a story, an incident, even an emotion. And on those occasions when nothing came to me, I would look at him and he would become the subject of that night’s blog. A 150 pound bull mastiff is always funny and interesting.

But, now Cosmo is gone, he has been gone for 10 months, and those walks with him are now just solo walks through the city at night. They are good for me, but, in the absence of inspiration, there are no funny stories about the solo walk.

And then there is Juliet. The cat. She is a great pet and as dog-like as a cat can be. She comes when I call her, she guards the apartment well (from mice, but still), and she plays fetch better than Cosmo ever did.

Yet she is a cat.

A single 37-year-old man can tell lots of stories about his giant dog. They’re manly tales, and they show that manly, slap-on-the-ass-during-a-sporting-event, cry-at-Brian’s-Song sensitive side.

Once that same 37-year-old starts writing about his cat… well, that’s when it’s time to get 5 more cats, a home-knit blanket and just resign.

So unless she does something… no, forget it.

I will just skip a day or two.

Sorry Juliet.

And He’s Back

“Gosh John,” I know you’re asking, “where have you been all of this time?”

Well, I will spare you the details. I’ve been here and there, doing this and that, dating one woman or another. And I have been busy.

Actually, it’s been more than that, I suppose. Last you heard from me I was wallowing in my sorrow over a woman, and honestly, it was making me annoyed, reading my whining. I can only imagine what the rest of you actually thought. So I stopped writing for a bit, and it was easy to get out of the habit.

I started today by going back and reading myself, because I am my favorite writer, which is good because I am also my most loyal reader. It is great how those things worked out. It was an exercise in inspiration, to get my juices flowing. In the process, I did a little editing and some post removal.

As I said, some of the “woe is me” entries bugged me, so they’re gone from the blog. They still exist, I don’t believe in destruction of writing or of photos. The past happened and we learn from it not by tearing up parts of it. Still, I don’t need to have them right in my face either.

So as you go back, trust me, your favorite posts are still there. The ones that were as exciting as a lethal cocktail are not.

You will thank me.

Oh… and I found a random thing I wrote after a concert a couple of months ago. Consider it a bonus.

Concert Review

R.E.M. At The Mann

These Days
Living Well Is The Best Revenge
What’s The Frequency, Kenneth
Wolves, Lower
Man-Sized Wreath
Turn You Inside Out
Imitation Of Life
Looking Down The Barrell
Ignoreland
Bad Day
Hollowman
Great Beyond
Houston
Electrolyte
Walk Unafraid
The One I Love
Find The River
Let Me In
Departure
Life and How To Live It
Orange Crush
I’m Gonna DJ
ENCORE
Supernatural Superserious
Losing My Religion
Begin The Begin (with Eddie Vedder)
Fall On Me
Man On The Moon

I saw my 6th R.E.M. concert Wednesday night. It was at the Mann and was the best R.E.M. show I’ve seen. Jumping to the encore… Eddie Vedder came out (Pearl Jam was in town for a concert later in the week) and sang Begin The Begin… and he rocked. Being the dork I am, I checked out his history with R.E.M. and he’s performed that song with them before. He looked like he was having a blast.

They played almost everything I would have requested… and a couple of times I caught myself sighing like a teenage girl.

Modest Mouse and The National opened. The National was good… it was fun to see them play with strings and a brass section. Modest Mouse was not as much fun… sort of felt like they were going through the motions. And they didn’t play the one song everyone knows: Float On.

The Greatest

We had to put Cosmo to sleep today.  His health declined dramatically over the past 72 hours.  Mary Beth hugged and kissed him goodbye, and then I held him and whispered my final words of praise as the doctor performed the procedure.

It ended quickly and peacefully.

I could write volumes filled with his stories.  They would be hysterical, heroic and heartbreaking.  Many have written such tales of their beloved animals.  Not to take away from their writing, but the fact is, coming up with those stories is like shooting fish in a barrel.

When you have a dog that you love, that loves you back, that dog is the greatest dog in the world.

Cosmo was our dog.  We loved him and he loved us back.  Because of that, he was the greatest dog in the world.  We wouldn’t trade those nine-and-a-half years for anything.  I don’t think he would have either.

Our animals are our family.  Cosmo grew from a ridiculous looking puppy, the size of a loaf of bread, to my friend, my protector, my food-scrap collector, and my crossword puzzle helper (I’d use his back as a table when he sat on the couch).

Cosmo’s cancer was unusual, in an unusual place, and it grew in an unusual way.  We donated his body to the hospital’s oncology research department.  If they can learn anything about the disease that took the greatest dog in the world away from us, perhaps your greatest dog in the world will be able to give you extra weeks or months of joy.

Even though he’s gone, he has given us more joy than we can use up in our lives.

That is the gift that the greatest dogs in the world give us all.

Who’s your daddy?

It’s clear that I’m not going to be a father myself anytime soon.

That’s why I have completely glommed on to my friend C’s pregnancy. She’s due any day now, and I am set bring that baby into this life.

If it happens here at work, I’ll boil the water and sterilize towels, all necessary things that I saw on an episode of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. Then after I perform the delivery, I’ll hold the newborn over my head and introduce it to the world. (I know the gender but C doesn’t want it known yet).

And if there is time to get her to the hospital, I’m ready for that too. There are several routes from here to there, and I’m listening to the traffic reports. I have a double-secret backup route too. I don’t want to tell her about it because it seems like it might be in the wrong direction, but trust me, it will get us there.

Of course, I am not going into this blindly. She is keeping me up to date on her condition. I know she’s three centimeters dilated. I also know how the doctor measured the dilation. Today she passed her mucus plug. I know that because I asked her.

I figure if I can talk to her about mucus plugs, then I am inner-circle enough to yell “Push! I can see the head! Ok, one more big push! Here it comes”

I also think the baby should be named after me, but she isn’t quite sold on that.

I Really Hope That’s Mayo

I have lived in my neighborhood for more than five years, and through that time I have been a regular customer at the local corner store. It’s a typical city store, with all of the essentials, more expensive than at the supermarket. Its convenience more than makes up for $6.00 Skippy.

It also has a deli counter, and a couple of times a week I’ll grab my lunch there, usually a simple ham on rye with a touch of mayonnaise.

But the sandwich maker hates me.

I don’t know why, but it’s clear he does. He’s a chatty guy who loves serving the ladies, and talks up a storm with the guys too. He’s a hip city dude with his finger on the pulse of what’s going on everywhere.

Except when it’s my turn to order.

His wide smile disappears, he taps his pencil impatiently, he looks like I’m asking him not to slice the ham, but to kill the pig and brine the meat.

Sometimes he puts mustard on instead of mayo, sometimes there’s no mayo at all.

Last week I caught him muttering while her put the meat on the bread. “He wants me to make a ham sandwich, making sandwiches, who does he think I am…”

I thought he was the sandwich man. I was wrong, he might be Jeffrey Dahmer.

There was a moment when I felt like he was going to grab my head and put my nose through the slicer.

And then when the next person ordered he was all charm again.

Real Conversations On The Street

I was walking Cosmo the Cancer Dog tonight for his evening tour when we came across two couples heading into a house.

The women took a long loving look at Cosmo.

One looked at me, holding his leash, on this street at 12:30 am and asked “Is that your dog?” The tone was the same she’d use if she’d seen him alone and lost.

“No,” I replied, “I took him from a stranger.”

“Oh… he’s so big. How did he get so big?”

Remember, he’s a bullmastiff. They’re all big.

“Fertilizer.”

“Wow, because they don’t usually get so big do they?”

“No, it took special chemicals to get him to grow like this. But he’s sweet, he just drools a lot.”

“Yeah, he’s just like the cat I had as a kid.”