It’s hell gettin’ old ain’t it

The thirty year reunion for my High School is this year.  There’s a lot of chatter on Facebook amongst the alumni.  Many of them are now living out-of town and are organizing festivities for reunion weekend.  One woman (from out of town) was talking about how she’s going to go for a run across the BK bridge and get a few miles in.  She invited all who are willing to join her.  Now I won’t join her or the others, because I think running is stupid.

Actually, I don’t think that at all.  I would like to mix it up a little and go for the occasional run.  But whenever I try, I get some serious pain in my hip.  It only goes away after I stop running for a few days.  If I try to keep running through the pain, it gets bad enough that I can barely walk. It’s hell getting’ old, ain’t it.

I talked to my doctor about it and told him I thought that since riding never bothers my hip, I could just do that for exercise and forestall any hip replacement or anything.  He was cool with that.  Besides, he explained to me that running is dumb.  Hey.  He's the doctor.

Anyway, this woman from High school.  She’s all “Hey people.  Reunion run!  Who’s in?”  Then she starts calling certain people out.  “I know Bob wants to put bandaids on his nipples.  C’mon Bob.  Run with us!”  etc.

Some of the responses reminded me that all the kids I went to high school with have been aging all this time even though I haven’t seen them that much.  I am 48 and a half.  It makes me feel younger to say “and a half” because only children say that.

One guy responded with, “Run?  Are you kidding me?  I could barely get out of a car and walk to the bridge, let alone run.”

Then another guy (Jimmy) said, “It’s hell gettin’ old, ain’t it?”

No Farmer John.  It’s not “hell getting’ old”. On the contrary.  It might be one of the easiest things to do ever.  It involves virtually no action on your part.  All you have to do is sit there.  And before you know it.  Tada! You’re old. 

What’s tricky is not getting old.  Jack Lalanne simply refused to believe that getting old was necessary.  I think he actually believed that if he took care of himself correctly, he would not grow old and die.  And even though he paid the ultimate price for his folly, it’s hard to argue that his obsession with fitness didn’t play a part in his 96 relatively healthy years.

But I’m having a little fun here.  We know what Jimmy meant.  But it’s wrong.  It’s hell getting out of shape.  It takes a certain effort to get into or maintain fitness.  It is more important to stay fit as you age, because it is more difficult to get it back once lost.  Not impossible.  But certainly more work.  It’s like maintaining a speed vs. accelerating back up to speed after slowing down (accelerating is harder).

In many of the past incarnations of me getting into shape, I’d get to a point where I didn’t see improvement and quit.  I’m not going to do that anymore.  I was missing the point.  This year I realized that these fast bike riding mother fuckers I ride with can’t be getting faster year after year.  In other words, they are maintaining.  As previously mentioned, I am a slow learner.

So now, I plan to just get as good as I can and maintain as much of it for as long as possible.  I will say that I don’t believe an old body is suited to losing fitness and regaining as I’ve done over and over for the past 15 years.

It helps that I was never in top physical form when I was younger.  I know a lot of these guys from high school were active and see that they can’t do what they used to, so they throw in the towel.  Some of them have worn themselves down one way or another.  So I get that.

I was always suited more to endurance type of activities than others around me.  Luckily for my ego, I never much pushed myself to my limit so whatever I achieve these days usually surpasses what I did when I was younger.  Mostly.   

When I was a 19 year old smoker who never exercised, I once told a girl I could swim a lap of the pool at the YMCA (2 lengths) underwater.  Well I was really out of breath when I came up, but I actually ended up going 2 laps (4 lengths) without coming up for air. 

Last summer, I was in what I considered to be my best shape ever.  Jack and I went swimming quite a bit.  After a few weeks, I decided to see if I could get one length under water.  Nope.  Maybe half.  Part of that was my brain.  It’s better now than when I was 19.  Last summer, my brain said, “Hey, go on up and get a breath. You will positively love it!”  I wanted to continue, but I thought it unwise.  So I didn’t even make it one length. 

When I was 11, I made 1 length under water with jeans and a t-shirt on.  It was part of our swim lesson training and I was the youngest one in the class and I was showing off.

So there it is.  Proof to me that no matter how hard you work to maintain or even improve fitness, age becomes a limiter.

But the comment.  The one about “hell gettin’ old.”  It struck me.  Yes – I frequently make comments about my age.  Or Shim’s age because he is way, way older than me.  Like 2 years or something.  Which by my math, puts him over 50.  The magical “all down hill from here” age.  Go for a bike ride with Shim and he will repeatedly show you the true meaning of “over the hill”.

Rider one, struggling up some climb:  Shim’s over the hill.

Rider Two:  No shit.  But where is he?  Oh you mean literally.

I’ve heard everything really starts going bad at 50.  I heard it about 40 and 45 too.  I will hit 50 in about a year and a half and I completely expect to wake up on that day suddenly weak and completely out of shape.  I imagine, I’ll get on my bike and ride it painfully to the Trek store to trade it in for a recumbent or a comfort bike or maybe even one of those recumbent 3-wheel jobbies or something. 

When I talk about some of the things we do, people say “At your age?”  But that’s only because they’ve forgotten the most important thing.  That they would do well to eat some shit and then go ahead and die.

A couple of years ago, a friend of mine broke his ankle.  He was on his skateboard.  Well, I assume he wasn’t at the time of the break.  He posted photos of himself lying in serious pain at what looked like the bottom of a pool.  Thankfully, the pool was empty or he might have drowned.  Actually it was probably a skate park. 

Anyway, he’s about my age.  We went to high school together.  Reaction to his mishap was mixed.  Some people were obviously supportive and admired the fact that he was out there living life.   Others (who I think I might hate – I should look into the reason some time) suggested that he’s too old for that sort of thing. 

Umm.  Why?  Young people break their ankles, right?  So to make sure I’ve got the thinking here, after he broke his ankle, he was laid up for a while and couldn’t do much of anything.  He was injured.  People were saying he was too old to be active.  He needed to lie around and do nothing. 

Lying around doing nothing is for injured people.  Not old people.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some mall walking to do.

This Post May Suck, But You Know What Doesn't?

“I’ll tell you what,” Chris assured us, “You could buy a Hoover, but you’d be better off taking the money and throwing it out that window.”

At this point, Brian and I held our breaths and looked at each other.  I was trying to silently make Brian laugh out loud and he was returning the favor.  Chris (Brian will know his real name.  He’s just some guy I vaguely remember) was trying to sell us a vacuum cleaner. 

Actually, that’s not true.  He was just telling us about how great the vacuum cleaner was.  He was definitely not trying to sell it to us.  He swore.  The last thing he wanted to do was sell a vacuum cleaner.  That was not his job.  That was the vacuum cleaner’s job.  Oh and by the way, it wasn’t a “vacuum cleaner” he wasn’t trying to sell.  It was a Kirby!

Kirby is not just any old vacuum cleaner.  And Chris was not just any old vacuum cleaner salesman. It was his one and only true passion.  This was not one of those deals where the guy calls you up and offers to vacuum your whole house for free.  Neither Brian nor I had a house.  Or an apartment.  We each lived with our respective parents.  But the party was at Brian’s house.  Or rather, his parents’ house.  Every night.  That’s where all the kids hung out.  There was a rotating group of roughly 10 of us with the occasional visitor.  You never knew who was going to stop by.  It was like when Bob Hope used to just walk on to talk shows. 

But tonight it was just Brian, Chris the not vacuum cleaner not salesman, and me.

About 2 weeks before, Chris had been out of work.  Then he answered an ad to be a Kirby salesman.  His job was cold-calling people and volunteering to vacuum their whole house.

But now, he was off the clock.  My mom had a vacuum cleaner.  I had no use for one as far as I knew.  Brian was in roughly the same boat.  I had a car.  The year was about 1982.  My car was a 1972 Chevy Nova.  I had bought it from my dad for $300 with money I had made working at Wendy’s. 

“Do you have a car?” Chris had cleverly countered my objection that I had no use for a vacuum cleaner.    

“Yeah, but I don’t clean it or anything,” I lied.

Ignoring me, Chris persisted, not selling, mind you.  Teaching.  Removing the beam from my eye, as it were, “Well if you’ve ever tried to vacuum out your car with one of those shitty car wash vacuums, you know what a pain it is.  Plus, 25 cents for 3 minutes?  No thanks.”

“How much are these Kirby’s, by the way?” I asked for the third time.  Remember, we were just sitting around shooting the shit.  Just the regular evening chat. 

“A hell of a lot cheaper than 25 cents for 3 minutes, I can guarantee that,” Chris guaranteed.

Way way later on in the story, we did finally get to hear the price of the Kirby Vacuum cleaner.  But I’m not sure anybody has the time to wait so I’ll just tell you now. It was $1500.  But there appeared to be some wiggle room there.  Or maybe those were friend prices.  I don’t recall.

So of course neither Brian nor I had any interest in any vacuum cleaner of any kind.  We were just having fun pretending to take an interest.  That’s when Brian said, “I thought the best vacuum cleaners were made by Hoover.”

Chris almost choked and did a spit take or whatever.  “Hoover!  Are you kidding me?  Those things suck more than any vacuum cleaner ever made in the entire history of vacuum cleaner making!”

Brian was extremely satisfied with this response.  The spider had the fly.  And with a lame old joke too.  And while the spider carefully navigated the web to bind the fly, it continued to try to sell the spider a vacuum cleaner, because all analogies break down at some level.

“Are you going to sit here and tell me that Kirby’s don’t suck?”  Brian asked in all seriousness.

“Kirby is the only vacuum cleaner ever made that does not suck,” replied Chris.  Oblivious.

My turn, “You know, we have an old Kirby at Wendy’s.  I have to use it when I’m on dining room.  I hate that heavy old thing.  And oh yeah, it sucks pretty hard.  Of course we only use it after close.  During the day we just pull out the Bissell.  I'll tell you what.  That Bissell may be small and light, but it definitely doesn't suck. ”

At this point, Brian and I suddenly begin to panic.  I might have gone too far on that one.  The trick is to be as obvious as possible without letting the fly know what’s happening.  Whoever gives the joke away loses. 

“Listen Frank,” Chris says, “I don’t know anything about your Kirby at work, but it probably just needs a little maintenance – and with this price, the maintenance is free for life!”

Unbelievable.  That went completely by him.  “No, it’s kept maintained.  In fact, this lady who’s worked there since the place opened said the vacuum cleaner sucks as much now as it did when it was new.”

Shit.  I screwed that wording up.  Surely he’ll catch that one.

“Oh, I see what you guys are doing.  Very funny.  Hardy har har,” I lose.  I got too cocky, I guess.

Ok here’s what’s going on.  I’ve been busy the last couple of days and have nothing to say.  Around here, when you’ve got nothing to say, you talk about the weather.  But I hate talking about the weather.  Especially right now because the weather sucks so bad.  We all know it sucks so why talk about it?  That’s why I chose to talk about the Kirby vacuum cleaner.  

I am not a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman.  There is no such thing.  I am more of a delivery driver.  The Kirby sells itself.  I merely stand there and humbly collect the paltry $2000 from the people who insist on throwing money at me for knocking on their door to let them know that their future is standing majestically on the porch.  Its brilliant chrome base and handmade bluish plaid bag quietly waiting to take its place in your home.  And your heart.  Call me for an appointment.

Cats, Cradles and Shit.

So my Dad walked into a bar one time.  He walks up to the bartender, see, and the bartender, he says, “What’ll ya have, mister”.  So my dad, right?  He says to the bartender, “Got any grapes?”

Now this is where things get weird because my dad was just referencing an old joke he’d once heard.  He didn’t really want any grapes.  He was going to get around to ordering a beer in a minute.  He wasn’t going to order a “Movie beer.”   He was going to order a “Miller High Life.”  His beer of choice.  It was after all, “The Champagne of Beers.”  A movie beer is just known as “a beer”.  If you’re in a movie, and you say “Just give me a beer,” the bartender will set a glass of beer in front of you.  Movie bartenders are good that way.  They don’t need to know a specific brand. 

Anyway, what my dad couldn’t possibly have known was that the old joke he heard about the duck, the bartender and the grapes - Well, it was based on a true story.  It wasn’t an actual Duck, it was an employee of the Disneyworld Amusement Park.  The Bartender had run a little place outside of Orlando for many years.  It was a favorite hangout of most of the Characters from Disneyworld.  A place they could blow off a little steam. 

The actual story had started when Donald Duck (Dave) was giving Mickey Mouse (Peter) a bunch of crap about drinking his girly wine all the time.  The Duck wanted The Mouse to either drink a manly liquor drink, or in the very least, switch over to beer.

The Duck told The Mouse it was embarrassing when they were playing pool to see the long stem glass resting on the edge of the table.  Mickey countered with the fact that in Duck Costume, the way Dave’s tail feathers pointed up while he was taking a shot was far more ridiculous looking than a glass of wine. 

Finally, the Duck offered to make some wine for the mouse since he loved it so damn much.  “I mean, look at these huge webbed feet.  This’ll be the best effin’ wine you’ve ever had, Peter.  Hang on, let me see if the Bartender has any grapes …”

At that moment, they all had a good laugh and everything was alright between all the Disneyworld employees.  It was this camaraderie that helped propel Disneyworld to the world class amusement park status it now enjoys.

In fact, it became a running joke at the bar in Orlando.  Every night, the crew would walk in and play out the same old tired joke on the bartender.  Every night the off the clock Disney characters would laugh and laugh at the exasperated bartender.

Then came the threats.  Well, let me back up.  See, the bartender, Joey, had a little bit of a problem with his temper.  He always had.  He would have said about himself that he was really a fun-loving, happy-go-lucky kind of a guy.  He believed his true nature was one of tolerance and acceptance.  He figured the reason he had such a short fuse had less to do with some innate flaw and more to do with his upbringing. 

Once, when he was about 7 years old, Joey had heard his dad say that he was sick of the shabby old house they all lived in.  He said that everything in his life was so joyless and dull.  Even though the boy was routinely ignored by his father, Joey thought the world of his dad.  Dad was his hero.  The greatest man in the world. 

In reality, the father was only concerned with his own needs/desires.  He’d work his 40 or 50 hours and felt that was enough.  He didn’t need to spend time with his kid.  In his mind, providing financially was where his responsibility ended.    The boy longed to please his dad.  To be noticed by his dad.  To play “catch” with his dad, but it would never happen.  His dad, who had worked hard all day, had nothing left for his son once he got home.  If he ever did anything, it was go to the bar or the game or the track.  But never with little Joey.  Sniff.

That never stopped Joey from wanting to please the old man.  So one Saturday, while his father was “out with the fellas,” Joey decided to do something for his father.  Actually, he had planned this out for weeks.  He had saved enough money to do the greatest thing in the world. Now he had all he needed for the big surprise.  He could hardly sleep the night before.  Joey understood that his father’s dream of living in a nice new colorful place would not be realized anytime soon, if ever.  But Joey could at least add some color right here and now.  He had gone to an art store and bought some of the brightest tubes of paint he could find.

While he was hurriedly squeezing the last of the hot pink tube onto the dining room wall, he was experiencing his greatest joy in all of his 7 years.  This was a completely new feeling to him.  He had never committed an act of complete altruism, so the sensation was overwhelming.  Dad will be so happy with the new color in his life …

Wailing and beaten, a few minutes later in his room, Joey came to a conclusion that would alter the course of his life dramatically.  Faced at the young age with the realization of how such feelings of joy can, if ill-received, immediately turn to soul crushing pain.  He reasoned that it was better to never risk the pain.  He would never do anything for anyone ever again.

Down in the living room, Joey's father sat shaking his head at the mess his son had made of the already crummy house.  What had his son told him through the tears?  He was doing it for his dad?  He wanted to make him happy?  Then he looked at the destroyed walls and saw them from the point of view of a 7 year old.  It was now dad’s turn to cry.  The defeat he had learned at a young age came rushing back to him.  His own desire to please his father, and on it went …

As Joey’s father walked into Joey’s room, he detected the slight recoil of his little boy, afraid there would be more yelling.  But then Joey looked at his father and saw for the first time, a man.  Not a superhero.  A man who was hurt.  His father was crying.  “Son.  I understand what you did and why.   I am a fool to have not seen it.  You are a wonderful son and I am so proud of you.  Proud and sorry I couldn’t see it at first.  Thank you for what you did for me.  But yeah – we still have to clean it up.”

Joey was relieved by his father’s admission, but he was sticking by his earlier vow.  He would never again set himself up for that kind of pain.  He and his father embraced for the last time Joey could remember.  Joey’s world was now different.  With the revelation that his father was fallible, Joey was more frightened than ever before.

Yeah - As a matter of fact I do have some grapes - reaching under the counter, Joey sat a bowl of grapes in front of my dad.  My dad, though surprised, didn't want any grapes.  He continued with his joke, "You expecting a duck or something?"

At this, Joey turned white as a ghost and stepped backwards, slamming into the liquor bottles on the shelves behind him.  He could feel a cold sweat forming under his shirt, "How do you ..."

See, Joey didn't realize that a joke had been made of his time in Orlando, and certainly that it was such a popular joke that it had traveled farther away from Orlando than he had.  He had become so distraught over the situation at his place in Orlando, he had left everything, including his wife and young son, behind.  He wanted to start over somewhere new where nobody knew him.  He always said he left Florida so he no longer had to suffer from the Sour grapes his father had eaten.

"Who are you?" Joey asked my dad, still confused.

My dad answered, "What do you mean?  Just get me a Miller High Life please."

"I thought you wanted grapes," Joey said to my dad, pointing at the bowl on the bar.

"Oh yeah, thanks," said my dad, grabbing a handful and shoving them in his mouth.  After a couple of chews, he spit the grapes violently from his mouth.  There was something wrong.  He was getting dizzy.  His friends didn't know it, but Joey had poisoned the grapes.  They laughed hysterically at my dad as he stumbled out the door into the light.

My dad lived, but he never completely recovered from that incident.  I believe that's why my teeth are set on edge.

Hang on.  Abe wants to show me some art work he's created in the toy room ...

Madison, My Aim is True

When I was about 19 or 20, I spent a January in Madison Wisconsin.  I was going to be a comedian and my friend Jeff, who was going to the University, said I should go up there and do some comedy.  They had lots of comedy clubs and plenty of fun open mike nights I could go to and learn how to be funny.

I didn’t do much in the way of comedy while I was up there, but I learned a few important things about myself that I could take with me the rest of my life. 

One.   I was pretty good at darts.  I had no idea. 

Two.  Quarters.  I had a knack for quarters.  I won several quarters championships in Madison.  Strangely I could not really bounce the quarter into the glass that well.  I could drink a lot of light beer though.

Three.  I don’t really enjoy standing up in front of people trying to make them laugh.  I suppose if I went through the pain and trouble it would take to perfect the act, there might be some rewarding prize at the end.  But no.  When I started learning about computer programming, I found it way more interesting.  I like to solve puzzles.  I always have.  Writing code is often similar to solving logic puzzles.  At that time, around 1984 or so, Stand-up comedy was basically making observations about how dogs and cats differ. 

Here’s a transcript from my third performance in Madison, at the club called “The Four C’s” or “4 Seasons” or “for Seas.”  I was never sure:

“Hey ladies and germs, I just flew in from Omaha and boy, are my arms tired from carrying my luggage from baggage claim to the taxi.      So did you ever notice that dogs and cats are different?  What the fuck!”  (My act was pretty edgy) “Yeah, ok.  Anyone here from out of town?  Oh I guess the flashlight operator is from out of town.  No?  Oh yeah, the flashlight.  Well you folks have been great.  I’m going to go pursue a career in Computer programming now.” (Huge laugh).  “Goodnight everybody. Tip your servers and shit.”  (edgy)

So that wasn’t very fun.  My friend Jeff was a painfully honest critic with incredible instinct.  He gave me notes with each performance and the thing got somewhat better.  But still, it wasn’t really that fun for me.  I would usually slam 3 shots of tequila before going on the stage just to make the fear go away.  It worked.  I was never really nervous up there.  But I sensed there could be a problem with my method if I had any level of success.

Incidentally, when I went to college years later in pursuit of a degree in Computer Science, I had to take a speech class.  I was terrified.  I would not eat the night before a speech because my stomach was all knotted up with nerves.  I couldn’t eat until after the speech was over.  If I’d have thought back to the “comedy” days, I would have just taken some alcohol and been right as rain.  Cuervo Rain.

Hey – that reminds me.  Last spring I was on a little bike ride with Shim and Leah and PB (Patrick).  We were going up a hill and he (PB) was suffering.  He said “I’m in a spot of bother.”  I don’t know if I’ll ever come back from hearing that coming from a mouth that’s not Phil Leggett’s.  Hey – that reminds me.  Does anyone else think Phil Leggett sounds exactly like Eric Idle?  Me too.

Ok so yeah, Madison WI.  On the campus, where I was not a student, was The Student Center.  We had one of those at UNO too.  But this one served beer.  Well, if you were a student.  And you were 21.  Or you borrowed a Student I.D. from someone who had roughly the same color of hair as you and was 21.

So anyway, I borrowed James’ (one of Jeff's roommates)  I.D. and headed up to the Student center with my little notebook full of jokes, “Dogs and Cats Vol. IV”.  I figured I’d get a beer and try to notice funny things to tell people later. “The Student Center.  Am I right?”

While I was sitting there, I was absentmindedly watching these guys play darts.  I didn’t understand the game they were playing, but I knew I could throw darts way more accurately than they were.  They’d throw at some seemingly random spot on the board and then mark lines, x’s or o’s on the chalkboard.  Sometimes they’d write numbers next to these symbols.  Some sort of score or something.  I was completely stumped.

But you thought you could throw better than these guys?

I knew I could.  All through High school, I did not do my homework.  Until the second semester of my senior year, I did nothing.  I just turned in as little as possible, took the tests and failed a bunch of classes.  With my grades as low as they were, I was sent to my room every night to study.  I was really not allowed to leave my room until all of my homework was finished.  Which never happened.

So I’d spend about 2 or 3 hours every night throwing darts at the board in my room.  Every once in a while, I missed the board.  My dad would hear it and yell at me to stop playing darts and get to my homework.  So lesson learned.  Don’t miss the board.  I didn’t know any games.  I would just try to hit certain spots on the board.  I had seen the occasional world championship highlights on tv, and knew that those guys were better than me.

But I was better than these guys.  They had their own darts.  I mean – expensive darts.  I had darts at home too.  The same red and yellow darts that came with the board.  The flight and shaft was all one plastic piece.  These guys had fancy shiny narrow metal darts with aluminum shafts and some sort of thin plastic flights.  Very pro.

So I walked up and asked if they could explain the game to me.  Turns out, they were playing “Cricket”

After they explained it to me, I said I didn’t understand, but I thought I could hit the board pretty well if they could tell me what part to hit.  Well they thought this was pretty funny so I wrote it down in my notebook just in case.  There were 3 of them playing and they needed another guy to make teams, so the “best” said I should join them and I could be on his team since he was better than the other 2.  Oh yeah – and the losers bought the next round of beers.  I had just spent my last 2 bucks on my beer, so I said, “That works.”

Six games later (and a teammate switch) I had three empty pints and three full pints at the table.  Also, I understood how to play cricket.  Somebody suggested we play 301. I knew how to play 301.  It was in the instructions that came with the board I owned.  I verified that it was double-in/double-out and almost got my skinny little ass kicked.  They were all like, “I knew this guy was some kind of hustler.”  And I’m all, “Woah there.  301 was in the instructions to my dart board.  Cricket wasn’t.”  Big laughs all around.  More writing in the notebook.

Well, after that, I went up there every day to play darts with whoever was there.  That is where I developed my incredible tolerance for light beer and cultivated my skill at outlasting many opponents in a game of quarters.  I really had a difficult time getting the coin to drop into the glass.  But I was very thirsty, so.

After a particular quarters victory one night, I was walking the 14 blocks back to the house where I was staying.  I was very drunk.  I started to get really hot and sweaty.  I unbuttoned my coat.  Not enough.  I took my coat off and removed my sweatshirt.  Nope.  Still too warm.  I took my shirt off and put my coat back on, leaving it unbuttoned.  Perfect.  Feel the cool refreshing breeze blowing the sweat from my brow.  Mmm.  Oh yeah.  It was 27 below zero (Fahrenheit) in Madison WI that night.  When I woke up the next day and remembered that I had briefly considered laying down on the nice cool ground for a while to get some rest, I knew it was time to leave comedy, darts, beer and Wisconsin.  Except for the beer.  Well, and the darts.  

Never mind.  I didn’t learn anything.

When I got back to Omaha and did some comedy, I met Shim’s friend.  I don’t know if Shim’s friend was Pat Hazell or Craig Anton.  But I met them both, so.

The important thing is I mentioned Shim.  Sometimes I forget to do that.