My Hero
Whenever you ask an old guy—henceforth men over 80—about longevity hopes or expectations, he’ll usually tell you something like “Oh, I’m just happy to make it to tomorrow.” Or, “I just take it a day at a time.” Or, “I’m ready anytime—I’ve had a good life.” I know they’re just loath to tempt the Fates with an optimistic prognosis but I don’t like listening to this crap. Therefore, my nomination for Man of the Year is my peripheral relative Ted (married to my Grandmother’s cousin), who occasionally calls to check in on the horses or just shoot the bull.
“How old are you now Ted,” I asked him the other day.
“I’m ninety-one!” he said, energetically. “And I’m going for the Big One!”
God bless you, Ted. And I bet you make it.
Racing Report
Cosmic Song runs on January 1 in the eighth race at Calder, a non winners of a race other than maiden or claiming at a mile and 70 yards. For an unlikely fourth time in a row, she gets the one hole, this time a benefit with the first turn coming up quickly after the start. She’s in against Lily’s Hope, second to Awesome Feather in the mile-and-a-sixteenth Florida Stallion Stakes, and Political Miss, winner of two races in three starts against cheaper horses. This is the distance Cosmic Song should excel at, so we’re optimistic.
Whatever Happened To Smiley Ipana?
Have you tried to buy any toothpaste lately (I certainly hope so)? What’s the deal with toothpaste? You used to be able to go in and get your little package of Colgate or Crest with no confusion and toddle on home. NOW you go in there and there’s FOUR HUNDRED different versions of Colgate and Crest and you can’t even find your very own beloved favorite kind because the boxes are so confusing. They’ve got WHITENING toothpastes (we don’t believe it), they’ve got toothpastes for sensitive teeth (what—now we’re hurting the teeth’s feelings?); they’ve got toothpastes that make your teeth dance and sing the theme from Bridge On The River Kwai. It’s too much. Where’s the Tea Party when you really need them? I want my Original Crest Number One Starter Kit back. Or there’ll be trouble!
California Screamin’
You’ve probably seen those images from California—mud and water crashing through the streets, sweeping up everything in front of them, burying cars, houses and what-have-you. Especially around Laguna Beach, where my old pal Jack Gordon hangs his hat. They didn’t get Jack, though. "We only got about two feet of water in our yard,” he said. “We’re not in a landslide zone.” A what? Gosh, I have to remember that next time I’m dealing with my realtor.
“If you don’t mind, kind sir, no need to show me anything in the landslide zone. Or the avalanche zone, either, for that matter. We’re OK with the earthquake zone, however, since it’s everywhere.”
Jack had bigger problems, anyway. His daughter had bought him oversized Boston Celtics slippers for Christmas and he was flopping around the house all day trying to avoid coming out of his slippers, lest the daughter be chagrined at her horrible error. An exemplary father, for sure. Jack, you do know they have exchange departments in the stores, right? Okay, then.
Meanwhile, Stuart Bentler, who gets in trouble every time he leaves Florida—and often when he stays here, too—was parked in LA traffic when a fearsome Alien Sleep Ray zapped him, knocking him unconscious and causing his now-unbraked little Saab to smush into a large delivery truck, rendering it almost inoperable. Stuart did manage to get the thing parked—an impressive feat in itself in LA—and continued on to his already scheduled appointment to (all together now) The Doctor, of all people. Neither he nor anyone else can figure out just what’s wrong with Stuart but he won’t be driving for awhile.
We suggest a course of LSD treatment.
Auld Lange Syne (which could be the theme song for our column)
As everybody knows, it’s time for New Year’s Resolutions. If you’ve got any good ones, let us know—we’re not proud. My first—and so far only—Resolution is to start practicing yoga. When you get back up from falling over laughing, I’ll tell you my reasons. Ready? OK. The main one is to stretch out those muscles. Stretching is great therapy, they tell me. And when you’re lifting weights three times a week, your muscles need to be stretched. I’m hoping this loosens up those aching back muscles and allows me to bend over and touch the floor with my fingertips. I’m about oh, say, a foot from the floor now, and yes, I know you and everybody else in the world can do better. That’s why I’m doing this, so as not to be Worst in the World. Siobhan, who has practiced yoga and is disgustingly lithe and supple, has advised that there will be other benefits. The yoga person will teach me to breathe, she says. Hmmn. Thought I had that one licked. And I will learn to meditate. From what I can gather about meditation, it sounds a lot like napping, so I’m all for that. Anyway, I tracked down a yoga lady named Marilyn and we start on January 4th. Marilyn advised me that she has worked with “older people”—I beg your pardon—and she can even teach “chair yoga” if called for. Oh, that sounds nice. Here’s poor old Uncle Kermit, who can barely walker himself across the room, loaded up and carried down to the yogi for some chair yoga. I picture a yoga parlor with lots of mattresses on the floor. Anyway, I’ll let you know how it goes.
Further Resolved
The most ubiquitous New Year’s Resolution is weight loss. Every year at this time, the gym is full of people who have decided to lose weight and shape up, the better to live as long as Ted. They thump around the place for a couple of months clogging up the treadmills, then suddenly disappear. Only a few make it to April, a pitiful few much longer. If this sounds like you and you regret your pathetic lack of will power, try some new tactics:
1. Make your exercise schedule a priority. Schedule doctors’ visits, haircuts, shopping, etc. on different days. If you absolutely have to be somewhere on an exercise day, fine, but keep it to a minimum. There are plenty of hours in the day for other activities.
2. Consider a gym. The people there are mostly just like you, nobody is going to laugh at you. You will even find comrades. If you pay a fee to the gym, you are more likely to go and exercise.
3. Find a partner to go with you. This way, you are less likely to blow it off—you’ve got a partner to explain to. Ideally, a husband, wife or close friend with whom you have some experience should be your choice.
And remember, no matter what else you could be doing during your gym hours, none of it will be as beneficial to you as what you are doing then.
Cops and Robbers
In a recent exciting episode, we described to you some of the thrilling confrontations that developed between the Brave Retailers of the Subterranean Circus and some of the less honorable segments of the general public. Some of these confrontations involved the Gainesville Police Department and if you think that we, like certain other hippie elements, are going to disparage these fine gentlemen, you are wrong. We had a great working relationship. It was, after all, the redoubtable A. W. Smith of Gainesville’s Finest who advised us after once responding to a shoplifter call, “Listen Bill—you’ll probably get a lot less of this if you just take them in the back and beat them up a little.”
Oh.
So we did. And word got around, I guess. We seemed to have less trouble than the other stores of our ilk. After closing, however, it was another kettle of fish. Despite an effective burglar alarm, installed after the demise of the Incredible Bonker, we had several breakins at night. Since I lived next door, of course, we had Quick Response. I kept a shotgun and a 45 in my bedroom and when the alarm went off I was there in a flash. Once, I caught a kid in one of the Silver City dressing rooms. He was only about 16. I dragged him out to my car, threw him into the front seat and started out for the police station, six blocks away. I drove along, holding him by the neck of his shirt but realizing the Quixotean probabilities of my task. He eventually pulled loose and limped off to a waiting bicycle. Okay, this would be fun.
I followed the kid, staying 1/2 inch behind his rear tire as he pedaled furiously down the streets. I had no false notions of catching him, just a desire to make him remember that crime does not pay when it involves the Subterranean Circus, so that he would take his criminal proclivities elsewhere in the future. We must have travelled at least a mile and a half before he peeled off, jumped a sidewalk and was gone, but probably with soiled underwear. “The Seed Of Crime Bears Bitter Fruit. The Shadow Knows.”
A Shot In The Dark
Another night, another alarm. I picked up my shotgun and responded, at first finding nothing. Walking around the north side of Silver City, however, I spied a large form through a window in front of the Circus. By the time I ran over there, he was halfway down the street. I fired the shotgun in the air. He stopped on a dime and came back. I realized that I had fired my one shell, however, and this guy was too big to hold onto. Dani Hughes was surveying the action from my front porch.
“Dani!” I yelled, “Go in and get my 45.” She looked at me quizzically. Wasn’t the shotgun enough? I nodded and she went in and got the chrome-plated pistol, which was scary just to look at. I made the miscreant kneel down in my driveway, stuck the 45 in my belt and held the empty (but how did he know?) shotgun on the guy. Eventually, the cops whizzed up, stopping half a block away. Uh oh—I didn’t recognize either of these guys, nor they me. Without a program, they probably couldn’t tell the bad guys from the good guys. So, just like on TV, they crouched down behind their car doors and aimed their guns my way.
“Point the shotgun in the air and discharge the shells!” one of them hollered. Rather than quibble about there being no shells left in the gun, I appeared to comply.
“Now place the gun on the ground!” You betcha.
The cops warily approached, not even noticing the gun in my waistband. After all, like Dani reasoned, who would need two? They almost went catatonic when they finally noticed that shiny silver thing in my belt, but we worked it out. They eventually deciphered who the crook was and took him off to jail. Almost. A few minutes later, they came rolling back. The driver got out and approached me as if relaying a confidence.
“This guy wants to file charges against you for firing a gun at him,” the cop said. I had, of course, neglected to mention this part of the adventure, knowing how police officials feel about “the reckless discharge of weapons.”
“He probably won’t get anywhere with that but it is an issue if you file charges.”
“And your solution for this is….” I asked him.
“Well, we could just take him out to the Interstate, dump him off and tell him next time we see him we charge him with a whole mess of stuff.”
A whole mess of stuff! “I like that idea,” I told him. And they were off, the cops without their undoubtedly onerous paper requirements and the hardened criminal without an overnight in the pokey. I had more important problems to consider. Where the hell were the rest of my shotgun shells?
Old College Magazine Joke (from 1966)
The defense attorney was bearing down hard:
“You say,” he sneered, “that the defendant came at you with a BOTTLE in his hand. But didn’t you earlier state that YOU had something in YOUR hand too?!?”
“Well, yes,” admitted the battered plaintiff, “….his wife. Charming, of course, but not much good in a fight.”
That’s all, folks….
