“The memories of a man in his old age,” sang Pink Floyd, “are the deeds of a man in his prime.” I would aver that sometimes they’re the deeds, or the attitude, of a kid not even imagining manhood yet.
Archive for Ventually
Few phenomena of which I’m aware are capable of instilling as much will to live as the existence of a government which seems to want you to die.
A new book by Jonathan Rauch says that yes, mid-life crises are scary, but that they eventually go away. This might even be true; I know my life improved markedly from 50 to 60, before everything went to hell.
This started out as an attempt to be funny about suicide. Imagine how well that might have worked in the hands of someone with talent.
Then again, in this hard-time age, I’d be hard-pressed to assert that it ever was.
As an old man in his sixties, I can’t imagine life as a tween girl.
“I have to admit it’s getting better,” said Paul; “it’s getting better all the time.”
“Can’t get no worse,” John observed, sotto voce.
I think by now you know how I feel about it.
“Have you had this before?” the doctor asked, pretending to shuffle through the 800 or so pages of my file folder.
“I have,” I said.
“Well, you’ve got it again.”
If I’ve learned anything — and who says I have? — it’s that there are damned few things in life about which I don’t complain.
Whether this is a good thing or not is left as an exercise for the student.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial is a place like no other; no one who has seen it — around 300,000 visitors a year — has been unchanged by it.
Well, if I’d had any vestigial sibling rivalry tormenting me, it’s got to be gone now, along with all those siblings I used to have.
Exactly twice in my life, Easter and April Fools’ Day happened to coincide. The first time, I didn’t notice. This time, it’s different.
In my secondary-school days, I took one year of French, two years of Spanish, and three years of mostly ecclesiastical Latin. And I swear, I don’t understand women in any of them.
During recent spates of insomnia, I assumed that my circadian rhythms were totally out of whack. I am currently not quite so sleep-deprived, but this old body persists in traveling to the beat of a different drum.
“Was I wrong?” I have been known to ask myself. And more often than I’d like to admit, the answer is “Yes, you were.”
Everything I’ve seen says that this song came out in 2008:
Yet somehow, I get the feeling I’ve seen it all before.
In 2001, the NCAA introduced the play-in game to the Men’s Division I basketball tournament, in which two also-rans would compete for the 64th and last seed, 16th in whatever regional. Though there were now 65 teams involved, there was never an officially designated 65th seed, which is kind of a shame, since “65th seed” packs even more of a rhetorical wallop than “fifth wheel,” my accustomed location in the dating game.
And it’s not like it would hurt the NCAA tournament, which now involves 68 teams.
“I like big brains,” she said, “and I cannot lie.”
Sure you can’t, honey. Sure you can’t.
There’s nothing like the dead of winter to make you feel like you’ve already died. And this January, not even two-thirds over, has been more onerous than usual.
Would Elvis Presley have been as big a star if he’d been named David instead? I suspect he’d end up owning the name; you’d have “Dave” alongside Madonna and Cher and Oprah, and that guy Letterman would be going by his middle name (which is “Michael”). How Elvis Costello fits into this scenario is anyone’s guess.
That said, today Elvis has been gone almost as long as he was here in the first place, which prompts me to a few offhand musings about the King.
In which we attempt to write an article about blowjobs without actually using the term “blowjob.” In fact, we managed to do it without even using the word “penis.”
Did you think 2017 had to be an improvement over 2016? Yeah, so did I. What the hell was I thinking?
Just what in the pluperfect hell have you guys been doing? And why, exactly, should I care?
Normally I don’t notice things like this. But winter, even after you’ve had five dozen of them and more, is full of surprises.
Implausible as it may seem, once in a while the pessimist is wrong. And no one is more surprised by this phenomenon than I am.
The following program is brought to you by Vera, Chuck and Dave. Or maybe not. It might be too soon to tell.
Just to let you know, this has nothing whatever to do with earthquakes.