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🎶 "When I'm Sixty-Four..." 🎶

I’m taking a break from politics today. Instead, I’ll mention that next month I will be 64 years old.


Something about a Beatles song comes to mind.

Not me, but I'm feeling like this a lot lately...

Yes, I will be 64. But it doesn’t bother me a bit. ‘Cause, like they say, age is only a number. A couple of mere digits. Hardly worth mentioning. Yes siree. You betcha. Just a number.

One hell of a big God damn number with all sorts of annoying sixes and fours involved which could jolly well bugger off someplace anytime they liked…

But only a number.


Oh, and I have a couple of ways of dealing with birthdays. For instance, I resolutely refer to myself as “middle aged.” That sounds so young and vibrant. Like 40, but with twice the rich, creamy goodness.

Sorta like Double Stuffed Oreos with a shorter shelf-life.


‘Course, to be middle aged at 64 I’d have to live to be 128.

But, I’m not going to think about that.

At least not while anyone’s watching.

In my more youthful and vigorous days. I'm on the right.

Besides, I’m not getting older. I’m just a little more pre-used.


And, oh, btw, here’s how I work the question of “Old.”

“Old” is whatever age we are right now, plus 29. So, for me, right now, “Old” is being 93. In the year 2050, it’ll be 122. In 2079, it’ll be 151.

And so until the heat death of the universe when we go drizzling down the drain with a big sucking sound into the great black hole of Sagittarius A* and I intend to be collecting social security right up to the end, so all you tax-cutting, Atlas Shrugging, fiscal responsibility types can go suck an egg. You betcha.


Actually, I’ve got no reason to complain. My health is good. My marriage is sound. Martha hasn’t yet attempted to poison me. Though, God knows why. And I haven’t yet *completely* alienated my son, daughter-in-law, and, adorable granddaughter. So all’s right with the world…


Damn it.

How did I get to be 64 without even once being asked to play the lead in a James Bond movie?

Ah well, I guess it’s true what they say. You *can* be just too good looking to succeed.

Attention Film Producers: I'm still available for casting.

Like I say, I have no reason to complain. Which doesn’t stop me. Or you either. So you can just stop being so smug about it.


Besides, I’ve begun to notice that some of the things my parents used to kvetch about are now starting to show up in …er…my kvetch-field as well.

Like …

My back goes out more often than I do.

I’m on a first name basis with a cardiologist.

My arches are falling faster than Rudy Giuliani’s approval rating.

Peeing is the one and only reason I might, possibly, be up after midnight.

My hair is thinner than a wet Kleenex in Cedar Fever Season.

Except in my ears. There, I got more fur than a mink farm on steroids.

I spend a lot of time trying to explain why a Dad Bod is secretly sexy.

And…well, just in general…I’ve got several other little things that are either failing to function, smelling bad, or puffing out like a Sopaipilla in a deep fat frier.

Thank you so farping much, Father Time and Mother Nature.

We shall never speak of this again...

Naturally, there are other things I could also mention, but I won’t ‘cause they’re really, Really, REALLY embarrassing.

And besides…

For stuff like that, English fails you. You have to use something like Yiddish or Italian. You know. A language that appreciates a really good kvetch.

Or, to put it another way, Sto a pezzi y’all.


Until next time…

Onward and Upward.


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