Display by Label: Age

My hands are dry and cracked and bruised. When I bend the index finger of my right hand, sometimes the knuckle splits and bleeds. I think this is the way my hands should be. They are more interesting this way. They remind me that they've done things. And that they have purpose. And during morning walks, I sometimes keep my gloves in my pocket and wrap the leash around my bare hand and let my skin go numb in the bitter air to help the process along.

Right now, Honey is asleep beside me. Sometimes she barks at the things in her dreams. I wonder what these things are, and if they have names like "Daddy" and "Kong," or if her dreams are filled with monsters and ominous knocks on doors and garage doors opening. When Honey's not asleep, she's frighteningly awake. And when it's cold, she prays to a god called "The Space-Heater." She says one Hail Mary and three Our Fathers. She also farts.

My chest burns from Sambuca intake. Then it subsides. Then I wait. And I swallow again. And it burns some more. Sometimes, on a Saturday night, this is the cycle of things.

There is usually a call I do not want to make. Usually, I make it anyway.

Last week, C gave me two of the best birthday presents I've ever received. I watched one of them Friday night and it made me glad to be alive. I will listen to WNYC through the other present this week. And it will be good. Pretty much as good as it gets.

I used to figure life was something I was working towards. That it was full of good intention and determination and grand purpose. The thing about that—the thing about believing in a life's purpose—is you have to accept the fact that maybe it already happened. And you missed it.

When I go to sleep, I hope that I will dream. Usually, I do not. When I do, the dreams are usually bad. I'm thankful anyway.

I'm never too sure what a particular day will bring. But I'm always quite sure it won't bring anything resembling wonder, or awe, or any other thing I used to feel before thirty. Maybe I've forgotten how to be a kid. Maybe I need to stop making friends with the people on the radio. Or maybe I just spend too much time looking at my hands.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Age  Chewing  TheLine 

When I told Honey I had posted a video of her carrying that paper across the street, she was like, "Oh, Christ, Dad. What's next, then? Talking about how it seems only yesterday I was this big or carrying around my lost baby teeth to show the neighbors?"

I thumbed the premolar in my pocket. "Of course not!" I said.

The weird part wasn't that Honey, you know ... spoke. It was that she spoke with an English accent. It wasn't exactly a proper, "Received English" kind of English, but it wasn't quite an East End of London, Cockney type of thing, either. It reminded me of the Beatles. She had a sort of nasal thing going on. Like John.

"Is that Scouse?" I asked her.

"'Tis. What of it?"

"Where did you pick that up?"

"It's a long story ..."

Apparently, even though Honey's mom, a Pit Bull, was from North Jersey, her dad, a German Shepherd, Vizsla mix, came over from Liverpool on a cargo ship carrying boxes of Kongs. Honey had spent a few formative weeks with him before he left her and her mom alone under the wood deck of a rairoad house in Queens. Before he left, though, he had taught Honey her ABC's and implanted a bit of Merseyside in her speech.

Honey went on to tell me that she didn't like this trend of mine, posting photos of her. And now videos. She was worried this would all end in some sort of doggy blog.

"I know. I know. You're right. But the strange thing is I don't really care. I just don't get it. I've lost my perspective on this shit. I guess I'm feeling old," I explained. "I mean, listen to this: did you know that the baby on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind album is now 17 and is close to graduating high school?"

Honey just stared at me blankly.

"Sorry. I'll play it for you sometime. It's a terrible cliché to say this, but the album changed my life. Which probably isn't entirely accurate. It's more likely that my life was changing anyway, and that album just happened to serve as a soundtrack for it. And it's just weird. That baby ... is now a freakin' teenager. Which also makes me realize that Kurt Cobain died 14 years ago. And at some point after that we wound up with Techno. And I'm not sure which of those two things is more tragic."

"Jesus, Dad. Snap out of it, mate. Stop living in the past. Look, here's what I'm saying: You can write about me. Just tell people the real shit, man. You know ... what it's like for me out there on the streets. About my friend Riley who lives across the street and who's a lot of fun to play with and all, but you know—just between you and me—the bloke is a few short of a full bag of goodies, ain't he? Or those Daschunds, Oscar and Woody. Holy crap. Those two take the piss out of me every time we pass them on the street. Their constant name-calling. All I want to do is play and they're all making fun of my ears and asking when I'm going to grow into these feet and shit like that. I think I'll probably eat one of them one day when I'm bigger. Then there's that crazy Italian Greyhound, Lucus, who never says a thing, but looks like he's got all this pent-up sexual frustration, poor thing. You should talk about this shit, Dad. This is real bloody doggy drama, right here in the North Jersey burbs."

"I'll keep it in mind," I said. "You just concentrate on not pulling on your leash, and let me worry about the blog, okay?"

"Whatever," she said, and went back to a rawhide.

Adolescents.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Music  Ho_Hum  Honey  Age 

This past Christmas, during a group outing to the mall to put Christmas money to good use, C's mom wound up buying The Story So Far, a 2-CD "Best Of" compilation of Rod Stewart hits. My outward reaction to this purchase was cool, non-committal enthusiasm. Standard hipster stuff. She asked me what I thought. I said, "Yeah, good." I may have smiled. If others around me were watching, they would have gathered from my reaction that I was clearly far too cool to be listening to the likes of Rod Stewart, but at the same time they would have seen that I was considerate enough not to show my smug contempt for the CD to my Mother-in-Law, who I obviously respected and admired. Yeah, it's a lot to put into a reaction, but I think I pulled it off.

Inwardly, however, my reaction was: "Holy shit! You must buy that puppy RIGHT NOW, because if you don't, I will!" I knew I couldn't actually be caught carrying the CD to the counter myself, but I'd find a way to get that thing, even if it meant smuggling it out of the store in my pants. (And yes, I realize that there are several layers of disturbing to the act of putting a Rod Stewart CD down your pants.)

It's still not clear exactly how it happened, but somehow a few of the tracks from that compilation wound up in my iTunes library. It's almost as if, while nobody was looking, somebody feverishly opened the plastic wrapping on that purchase before any of the other CDs he (or she) had bought that day and ripped a few important gems to my computer. You know, stuff like Hot Legs, Maggie Mae, Da Ya Think I'm Sexy? and Some Guys Have All the Luck. Weird. I'm sure whoever it was had their reasons.

So now, whenever one of those songs pops up in my play-list, I tolerate it. I give it the courtesy of a listen. But it's not like I sing along or bob my head or dance a little in my chair ... or anything ridiculous like that. Sheesh. It's just music, people.

On a related note, I was listening to Wait, Wait Don't Tell Me this weekend—because nothing goes better with biscuits and eggs on a beautiful Sunday morning than a little Paula Poundstone snarkiness—and learned that '80s music is now being marketed by radio stations as "Oldies." Which means, brothers and sisters—because I feel this needs emphasis—that if you're approximately 32 years of age or over, the music of "your time," the stuff you may first remember listening to—Cyndi Lauper, Van Halen, Pat Benetar, Duran Duran, Chicago, Huey Lewis and the News—is now officially "Oldies" music.

And, of course, Rod Stewart falls into this category too ... but let's face it, he's been "Oldies" for some time now.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Age  Family  Music  Pop_Culture 

When I was a kid, I remember how adults always seemed so pleased when people thought they were younger than they actually were. It was strange conduct, and I would observe it and think: how stupid. Why would you want to be younger than you are? All I knew then was that six years old sucked because it meant there was a world of things I couldn't do yet. Older was always better. Ten, for instance, meant I would be bigger and could do more. Sixteen was even better because I could drive! And if I was thirty? Well, how cool would that be? Then I could surely do all the things I wanted, and some. Yes, thirty seemed mighty cool at age six. For that matter, so did twenty, or forty, or fifty. It was all the same, really: any age older than six. Older was always better. Older was positively fascinating.

Well, thirty has come and gone for me . . . two years past now . . . and you know what? Not all that fascinating.

And, just as I feared, I now find myself pleasantly surprised downright giddy when people think I'm still in my twenties. I observe this weird behavior in myself and I still think: how stupid. Only now I say it like this: how fucking stupid. And it is. I mean, if I'm already acting this way at 32, then in about ten more years, I'll be shopping for my first mid-life crisis car (a BMW) and telling cheesy jokes to girls half my age.

Shit. This isn't good. I mean, I've always said I couldn't wait until I got older so I could be a 'dirty old man.' But this is way too soon, man. Too soon. Dirty old men are 'cute' when they're 75. But they're called something altogether different when they're in their 30s and 40s. It's a word you tend to say right after the words, 'Get away!' and 'I'll call the cops!'

Anyway, something happened to me yesterday that got me thinking about all this. I was working out in the Red Room at the 17th and Rhode Island YMCA. Normally, at the time of day I work out, the Red Room is populated with people who are . . . well . . . I don't want to call them 'old' because, you know, who am I to throw stones, right? I'll just call them 'people who were born a little closer to . . . the time of Christ.' I think that sounds better doesn't it?

Anyway, I was in the Red Room and using the bench press machine and this kid was working out near me. I would put him at about 22, maybe 23. He walked over to me and said something, but I had a hard time hearing him because my iPod was set to 'blare.'

I removed the earbud from my left ear. "I'm sorry?" I said it amicably. I figured he probably was interested in using the machine I was on and wanted to 'work in' with me. I was a little put out by this, but I didn't want to appear so.

"Do you know . . . are these machines just for . . ." He lowered his voice. ". . . older people?"

I stared at him for a moment, not really understanding the question. Are . . . these . . . machines . . . for . . . I tried reconstructing the sentence to see if it made better sense in my head that way.

"You know because aside from you and me, everybody else is . . . "

Then all at once I caught his drift. He had noticed that the majority of people in the room were . . . old! And (this is the part I really like) since he figured me to be much closer to his age, he wanted to see if I knew what the fuck was up with all these old people, yo.

I laughed out loud, which I think might have made him a little self-conscious.

"Oh!" I said with a little too much delight in my voice. "No, no. It's cool." My point was clear: Never mind these freakish ancients, my fellow twenty-something friend. You and I can hang here no problem. Our kind is welcome in these parts. It lifts their spirits to have us around.

Here was a guy who didn't know that, later that night, I would pop two Aleve before going to bed. That sometimes I have a hard time orchestrating trickier movements, like standing up from a chair. That I use various and sundry ointments. That my hair is beginning to fall out of my head at an alarming rate . . . and (even more alarming) sprout out of my back with a sort of glib alacrity.

Nope he didn't know all that. To him, I was just another twenty-something in a room full of 'older people.' There's still hope for me, yet. For another couple of years, anyway.

link to this | comments (6) | File:  Health  Chewing  Age 

Applying ointments and conditioners of various kinds has become an integral part of my day. These ritualistic treatments, which help to allay my many and varied 'conditions,' contribute to my growing sense of my own mortality, as well as the less morbid - yet still very real - sense that life will never quite be the same for me now that I've reached thirty. Oh, come on, you're saying. Get over it. You're only thirty you moron. You're being melodramatic. Maybe so. I have been known to endulge in melodrama time and again. Maybe it's true that I've only reached the smooth, dry outer sand on the beach of middle age, but I can feel the wet stuff calling me closer. Don't we all?

So back to my ointments. Where do I begin? Oh, let's start with my head. That's by far the most complicated spot. First of all, I have a very itchy scalp. 'Psoriasis?' you ask. Probably. 'Flakes?' you inquire. You bet. Basically if I go more than a day and a half without washing my hair, my scalp will itch uncontrollably. And so much in the way of flakes will fall out of my head you'd think it's a wonder that I had any scalp left at all. At times, in certain climates, I have reached near manic levels of itch, have awakened in a sweat, dreaming about the burn. It's a constant part of my being, this itchy head of mine. So most of my ointments have to do with either correcting it or alleviating the symptoms. I have T-Gel Shampoo, Stubburn Itch Formula with a healthy 5-percent Coal Tar Extract. Oh sweet, soothing coal tar. Then there is the T-Gel Conditioner, with . . . my light, my savior . . . Salicyclic Acid . . . 2 percent. As if this were not enough, I also occassionally douse my head with a special Salicylic Acid leave-in formula before going to bed at night. It leaves my hair slightly wet, but feeling clean, and during the night my scalp is rejuvenated, reborn. Not unlike a baptism. I've often wondered if the whole Salicylic Acid drug is actually addictive. Perhaps the whole reason my head itches at all anymore is because it's jonesing for a fix.

So staying with the head, but moving on to a different topic - hair loss. Yes, it runs in my family, on my mom's side. If I take no action, I will probably have a nice bald top in the next 5 to 10 years, much like many of my cousins, and my uncle. I've decided to mount an early defense against this inevitable terror by dropping Minoxidil on my scalp each morning and night. Many of you probably know Minoxidil by it's more common brand name: Rogaine. Ah yes, I have ventured into the unforgiving exercise of desperately trying to preserve my youth. For now, it only amounts to fighting hair loss. In 20 to 30 years I will move on to much tougher campaigns: erectile dysfunction, for instance, maybe even dimentia. (Right now, I'm proud to say, blood flow in my lower extremities is doing alright, though I'm not so sure about up top.) So I will continue with the Minoxidil for a while and see if it helps cut back on the clumps of hair in my bathtub drain that make it look as though I cough up a hairball as a routine part of each shower.

Okay. Enough with the head. Time to move on to my back. (Oh, did I mention that the less hair I grow on my head, the more grows on my back. I know, I know. This is damn sexy stuff, right? Are you turned on yet?) The thing about my back is . . . well, I have the back of a 60-year-old. And it's been this way since I was sixteen. Lately, it's been bugging me quite a bit more than it has over the last 4 years since my surgery. It's hard to remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. I pop various pain and anti-inflammatory pills each night - stuff for arthritis and joint pain. It gets me through, but just barely. Basically, I get about 6 hours sleep before the tightness in my back becomes so unbearable that it forces me out of bed. All this at age 30 - I've got so much to look forward to! Anyway, my newest ointment is made by Bayor, the people who make the aspirin, only it's an analgesic rub. Smells divine, this stuff, and makes our whole apartment reek like some kind of sick menthol orgy.

Now I admit, I'm painting a pretty bleak picture here, and it really isn't that bad. I mean, things could be worse. Moreover, I haven't actually delved into anything weird. For instance, I noticed a guy at the gym the other night rubbing vaseline all over his body before dressing. What use this could possibly have, aside from making him feel like a greased pig (and maybe that's the point, after all) is beyond me. But it made me feel better about my comparatively conservative use of ointments. (Actually, I do admit to once smearing vaseline on my scalp to see if it had an effect on the itch. It only served to make my hair very greasy.)

link to this | comments (1) | File:  Health  Age