Category: Funny Business

I can finally relate to a Beatles song.

Yep, if I were to listen to When I’m Sixty-Four (which I don’t plan to because, honestly, I think it’s god-awful) it’d hit pretty close to home as I celebrate my 64^th birthday today.

Well, “celebrate” is probably too strong a word. I’ll have a fun day with Mary (all days spent with Mary are fun), eat a couple of mini strawberry bundt cakes and then likely fall asleep while watching the Fiesta Bowl. I’ll be forgetting old acquaintances and never bringing them to mind long before the clock strikes 12.

Back in the day I’d stay up until midnight (and beyond) on New Year’s Eve, blowing kazoos and hooting and hollering, but time doesn’t need my conscious presence to change. Seeing a ball drop in Times Square isn’t nearly as important as allowing my head to drop on a cool, fluffy pillow. I call it “New Year’s Noddin’ Off Eve.”

So, what’s it like being 64? After having a few hours to process it, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s very much like being 63. My routine is basically the same.

I woke up, drank coffee, talked to Mary, commiserated with our animals, walked, and wrote. I was on a stretch where I was rambling roughly 10 miles per day, but we recently moved and have had a lot of distractions, so I’ve been topping out at the seven-mile mark the last few weeks. Still, not bad for a geezer.

Speaking of geezers, I think I’m in pretty good shape for someone my age. In fact, I’m in better physical condition now than I was 20 years ago.

I became a vegetarian in 2008, gave up cigarettes in 2010, don’t eat fried foods anymore and drink alcohol very rarely. I even weigh the same (155) that I did in high school. That’s a far cry from 44-year old me, who could often be spotted sucking on a lung dart while wolfing down a “Super Snack” and chasing it with a Tall Boy.

What’s a Super Snack, you ask? It’s a plate of barbecue flavored potato chips, dry roasted peanuts and pretzels smothered in squirt cheese and microwaved for 12 (not 11, not 13, but 12) seconds.

It sounds disgusting, but I loved it at the time.

Anyway, after years of smoking and eating garbage, I decided to change my lifestyle. I didn’t want to wind up sitting on the edge of my bed crying, nibbling a cold toaster pastry while adorned in only underwear and one sock. So, I cleaned up my act and got healthier.

Truth be told, 64-year old me could kick 44-year old me’s ass in a fight. (No worries of that happening, of course, because time travel has yet to be perfected and thus a temporal paradox is not possible).

Thing is, while I’m eligible for senior citizen discounts now and get called “sweetie” by servers at restaurants, I don’t think I act like I’m 64 – or how I once thought 64-year-olds were supposed to act.

When my dad was that age, I was 20 and 12 years younger than my closest sibling (I was one of those “Well, hell, Jean, that wasn’t supposed to happen” babies). Pop was a small, wiry man, and spent a lot of time plopped in his lounge chair puffing on unfiltered Lucky Strikes and slurping stale, black coffee. He didn’t listen to music and only watched TV when there was a baseball game on. Dude also had a wicked sense of humor.

I loved him dearly and miss him every day but, man, he seemed old. And I plan on spending my 64^th year much differently than he did.

For one thing, I don’t have a lounge chair … I perch on a futon.

I’ll never smoke again. The mere thought of lighting up a cigarette repulses me.

I have two cups of coffee (sweetened by monk fruit extract) in the morning, and no more.

And today I was on a brisk pre-dawn walk, put in my earbuds, and started things off by listening to The Hungry Wolf by X. Could never envision Pop be-bopping down the road with a boom box on his shoulder and saying, “Damn, Billy Zoom can shred it!”

And as for sports, I enjoy watching soccer more than anything else. If I’d ever seen Pop viewing a televised soccer match, I’d assume he was in a hostage situation. He showed up for my high school games but later told me, “I”m proud of you, son, but I had no idea what was going on out there … and didn’t want to learn.”

That said, there are days – and those days are increasing in number – when I most certainly “feel” 64.

Sometimes I’ll go to the gym and shoot baskets, and the next morning I ponder calling the fire department to come and use their hydraulic rescue tool to extract me from the bed.

My balance? It’s pretty much shot. I put on my pants while standing up, and in doing so I look like a drunk competing in a potato sack race. There’s lots of hopping and wobbling involved, and occasionally involuntary flatulence.

And during the course of any given day – without warning – one of my gears will slip. I’ll be walking along just fine and then suddenly it’ll feel like a muscle snapped. The result is an audible yelp followed by what appears to be some strange form of post-modern interpretive dance as I try to avert a face-plant.

My legs ache every night – although having two cats sleeping on them could be a factor.

And I can’t remember the last time I had uninterrupted slumber. I’m gonna have to get up and pee at least once – and usually twice. Or three times.

Otherwise, though, I try to take baseball legend Satchel Paige’s approach to getting on in years.

“Age is a question of mind over matter,” he supposedly said. “If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.”

So here I am, the subject of a bad Beatles song, starting on my journey to 65. I’m not as young as I once was, but that’s OK … I’m still kicking.

Instead of feeling old, I simply feel lucky.

And I need all the luck I can get when I’m trying to put my pants on.

Most of you are familiar with the Clement Clarke Moore poem A Visit from St. Nicholas, even though you might think it’s called ‘Twas the night before Christmas.

That made me realize that perhaps we really aren’t familiar with it at all.

And if that’s the case, then an annotated version of the poem is in order.

Luckily for you, I’ve decided to step up to the plate and perform this service myself. Below is the poem, with my annotations presented in italics.

I hope this provides you as well as your kith and kin great joy this holiday season.

You’re welcome …

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

We didn’t have pets, although we were planning on getting a shelter kitten after the holidays. We did have a slight rodent problem several months earlier but the kids smeared peanut butter on the neighbors’ side of the fence, and that seemed to take care of it.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

The kids had gotten hold of some of our edibles and ended up getting slightly high, resulting in their weird dreams. (We have a meeting with a social worker in January).

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Mom and me like to role play, so she put on a kerchief and pretended to be peasant woman who hoards pineapples while I donned a ball cap and became the “pizza delivery guy.” But then a loud noise interrupted our sexy time.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

I had eaten some bad sash earlier, and barfed.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,

Gave a luster of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,

You don’t see a lot of miniature caribou, although small sleighs aren’t that uncommon, especially in toy stores. The combination, though, was noteworthy to me.

With a little old driver so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment he must be St. Nick.

Actually, at first, I thought it might be former NASCAR champion Jeff Gordon, who was also lively and quick. He’s retired now, though, I think. I don’t really follow motorsports.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”

I had to look up coursers. It means “swift horses.” Not only are caribou not horses, but where the hell was Rudolph? This makes no sense.

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

So up to the housetop the coursers they flew

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too

Again, with the swift horses. Whatever, man … it just seems disrespectful to the caribou.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

You’d be surprised how much damage hooves can do to roofs. It’d be interesting to see how many insurance claims are filed right after Christmas. I’m gonna at least get an estimate.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

A guy wearing dirty fur and carrying a big sack of toys normally has a lot of explaining to do, especially when police are present.

His eyes — how they twinkled! his dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow;

He’d been day drinking – which is fine by me. I don’t judge.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.

Look, it’s a smoke-free home. I don’t want to be a dick, but you don’t just fire up a pipe in somebody else’s house.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

I wasn’t trying to body-shame him … it was just humorous to see a porky elf wearing dirty fur.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

Apparently, he had so much sinus pressure it allowed him to launch himself back up the chimney. Kinda gross, but I guess it works.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

Imagine a small duck exploding. Take away the blood and horror, and it’s kinda like what flying thistle down looks like.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

Ditto, guys.

Anyone who knows me knows I love my animals.

They’re not like family, they are family – and that being the case, I converse with them as I would a human member of my tribe.

“Steve, are you ready for breakfast?” I’ll ask our Chihuahua each morning.

When I do, he jumps from the bed, hits the floor running at full stride, and does a couple of twirls in front of his food bowl.

“Here you go, buddy,” I’ll say as I pour his dry food. “Now, let me go the fridge and get some wet food to mix in. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

By anthropomorphizing my critters, I feel as though we’re the same species and on the same wavelength.

But I wonder … do they do the same to us? They’d have to, right?

Bane, our gray cat, chatters incessantly. Unless he’s asleep, he’s “talking,” and many times he’s talking to me.

On my end, I’m hearing a series of chitters and chirps that make little sense, prompting me to say things like, “What’s the matter, Mr. B?” or, “Do you want daddy to pick you up and hold you?”

I’ll assume he does, and after he’s picked up and held, he’ll purr enthusiastically.

But … was that truly his request? Perhaps he was jabbering on about something else entirely.

“What bugs me,” he might’ve been saying in his native, sandpaper tongue, “is that Bruce Wayne faked his death in The Dark Knight Rises. Honestly, it just ruined the whole movie for me and really tarnished Batman’s legacy. And do you think after Alfred saw him and Selena at that café and realized he was still alive, Alfred reported the fraud to Jim Gordon? Hell, no. He just walked away smirking, like it was no big deal.”

And when I responded, all Bane heard was, “Blardy, blardy, blar, blar, blar.”

Still, I’m guessing he assumes I was agreeing with him (which I kinda do; Batman is a lot of things, but he ain’t no quitter).

Mr. B has also developed a habit of rousting me in the middle of the night with frantic warbling.

At first, I’d get up to check his food or water bowls, but usually they were mostly full. After several rude awakenings I discovered – much to my horror – that he was alerting me to the fact that he’d just left a prize in the litter box.

So, while originally I thought he was saying, “Dad, I need help” most likely his words were, “Better scoop, bag and take it to the dumpster, my man … I don’t want my fuzzy butt going anywhere near that evil.”

Thor, the ginger cat, is usually quiet but every now and then he’ll let loose with a series of thunderous meows.

No clue what he’s trying to communicate but I figure it’s along the lines of, “Duuuuude! Duuuuude! Duuuuude!”

Then again, it could be a simple case of Cat Tourette Syndrome.

Steve – as is the wont of all small dogs – loves to bark. And he barks a lot.

Squirrels, birds, outdoor cats, outdoor dogs, delivery drivers, feral children … he can unleash some of the most bloodcurdling sounds you can imagine. To me, it’s ear-piercing noise.

What he might be trying to convey, however, is “ASSHOLES! ASSHOLES! DAMN YOU ALL TO HELL!!!!”

But to his credit, he does have some barks that I think he knows I understand.

When he needs to go outside to pee and/or poop, he’ll trot to the door and release a quick, sharp bark.

I translate it to, “Dad, please take me out.”

In his dog dialect the direct quote is closer to, “Grab the leash, bitch, before I bite your butt.”

And at night if he, the female human and his kitty bros are already in the bedroom and I’m still on the futon in the den, he’ll stare at me with a pitiful look and yip twice.

I hear, “Please come to bed, dad.”

He’s saying, “Hit the sheets, assface, before I bite your butt.” (I just assume Steve curses and likes to bust my chops … he seems like the type).

Once in bed, he’ll look straight at his mom and make a series of grunts and growls as if trying to say, “I often think about biting the fleshiest part of the male human’s buttocks … I’m not sure why, I’m just compelled to do it.”

Obviously, my Beastie Boys don’t speak English, and I don’t speak Doglish or Catlish. It’d be kinda messed up if we did.

We communicate quite well, though, and have been able to build a pretty sweet world together. That makes me very, very happy.

Even if Steve wants to bite my butt.