The first thing you notice is that people keep falling off the party bus. Family members, long time pals, ex-girlfriends, your favorite ballplayers and musicians. And for all kinds of reasons….annoying things like COPD, heart malfunctions, cancer of the gizzard, Alzheimer’s madness and the dreaded haunt of old people, “natural causes.” What the hell are natural causes, anyway? Does a tree fall on you? Are you swept away in a flood? No, I guess those would be termed “accidents.” A natural cause must be more like the critical failure of some body part which succumbs to age and starts a fatal domino effect which ends with Baker the Undertaker pulling up in your driveway.
Even if you’re feeling great, which is more doubtful by the day, you think about all those aging body parts inside you which could crumble and start the avalanche. I like to walk in the morning, then work out so I can monitor my body and get an early heads-up on any areas of concern. If my time is good and I’m not winded in the process, I can check off the heart and lung boxes. If I maintain a healthy BMI, keep my weight down and stay away from the Entenmann’s Poison Cakes counter, I can keep diabetes at bay. If I don’t let the Friday and Saturday New York Times crossword puzzles beat me, Mr. Alzheimer can’t get in the door. Siobhan won’t let me get up on ladders to sweep off the roof anymore, so the Reaper can’t use that old trick. And I’ve given up Thai Massage for awhile so there's no longer any chance my avid therapist can puncture my intestines while trying to relax my psoas muscles. Whew!
You think you’ve got it all covered and then you see causes of death like this; “Contact with powered lawnmower” (951 deaths in 15 years); “Caught, crushed, jammed or pinched in or between objects (1842 deaths); “Accidental suffocation and strangulation in bed” (whoa!---10,206 deaths); and your old buddy “Constipation” (2167 deaths). Egads!---get me to the Metamucil counter pronto. Nobody wants his obituary to read, “No shit, folks, Barney died of constipation.”
You turn on your TV to get away from it all and CNN has some hospitalized 35-year-old goober on there telling folks back at the trailer park he’s meeting his maker because he pooh-poohed that squirrelly Covid vaccine. So now we’ve added “Death due to stupid” to the roster. I consider myself lucky to have watched Hill Street Blues in my youth, where every Thursday night I witnessed Sergeant Phil Esterhaus come out and remind his people “Let’s be careful out there!” I’m probably alive today because I always paid attention to the wise words of Sergeant Phil and drove carefully, even under the influence of LSD.
I don’t know how much longer I’ve got. My cardiologist thinks I’ll make 90 and my astrological advisor says if I take the proper measures, the sky’s the limit. I’m staying good friends with Gary Borse, though, just in case. Gary’s in tight with some technically advanced extraterrestrials and at the first hint of congestive heart failure, I’m on the night train to Proxima Centauri for repairs. They operate on the barter system up there and you can get a new ticker with all the trimmings for 600 organic bananas. If you’ve ever been to our place, you know those bananas are ten feet high and risin’.
 |
| (Top) Bill heads west in his 1950 Cadillac Superior hearse in 1962; (Center) Killeen smacks FSU Smoke Signals Magazine editor Jim Preston with a delicious hair pie, 1964; (Bottom) Larry King interviews Bill and Lieuen Adkins on the Surfside 6 houseboat in Miami, 1965. |
The Old Philosopher Opines
What does an 81-year-old reprobate think about, you might wonder. Same stuff as you. You ponder what would’ve happened if you’d hooked up with Mary Beth LeBreque when you were twelve. You wonder why the Red Sox have had mediocre pitching for 75 years. You’re concerned about where to find a new dealer when Chuck the Dog Man dies. You hope your old pal Debbie Wynn outlasts you so someone connected can put in a good word when you show up at St. Peter’s Home For Wayward Boys.
Old people will tell you they don’t feel any different inside. What they mean is they still like to go to the beach but now they stay in the car. They have no trouble noticing that Mabel at the diner has terrific calves and a come-hither manner, but now they stay in the car. When they have a near miss in traffic, they yell at the offender just as loud but now they stay in the car. Inside, they’re just fine, it’s the outside that’s the problem.
Some of us Irish boys, however, have to be reminded of our age. A couple years ago at the Walmart, a big guy---about 35, 6-2 and 275 pounds---noticed some coffee on the floor and implied I was a sloppy drinker, a bold lie. I carefully took my glasses off, put them on the shelf next to the tomato paste and gave him a pretty good shove. He quickly socked me just below the nose and I got him smack on the cheekbone. By now, his wife was screaming bloody murder because the Walmart Floor Police had arrived and promised if these shenanigans continued we would all be banned for life. This is absolutely the last thing any redneck wife wants to hear and the terrified woman slammed her shopping cart into Big Roy in a fit of rage. “Did you hear what he SAID, you idiot?” she screamed, shortcircuiting the main event. I have to admit it was very unseemly behavior for a senior citizen, but there is also a bright side to it. Siobhan was very miffed at my conduct and now she won’t let me go to Walmart any more.
 |
| Bill with Marty Jourard down on the farm; yukking it up at the training track with Allen Morgan, both in 2014. |
Man With A Plan
They say one of the keys to survival is having something to look forward to. I look forward to massage days, football games, going on vacation with Siobhan. I look forward to the next Woody Allen movie. I look forward to finally seeing Paris when it sizzles. And it goes without saying, I look forward to The Great Event---the Last Tango In Gainesville on May 7 of 2022 with 2500 of my closest friends. Should auld acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind? The obvious answer is “are you kidding?"
The old gang is getting together for one last coup. Jeff Goldstein is getting his ticker in order. Wild Willy Thacker is moving to Gainesville to sharpen his vocal chords. Dave Melosh is chopping through the underbrush in search of blacklight posters. Cathy DeWitt is polishing up her tuner. Sherry Snyder is checking the airline schedules. Patti Walker is loading up on hair dye. Danny Levine is running five miles a day, albeit slowly. Michael Goettee is putting the final touches on his poster (until Bill calls again).
Obviously, there’s no time for depression, health reversals or dying. There are places to go, people to see, t-shirts to be attended to. The bonfires must be assembled, ignited and stoked. The Last Tango is building to a great crescendo of fire and light, an emotional H-Bomb, a time like no other. They say the key to survival is having something to look forward to. I think we’ve got that part of the wagon train under control.
 |
| Outside Yosemite N.P., 2021. |
Regrets, I’ve Had A Few….
….but then again, too few to mention.
When you’ve been around for 81 years, it’s natural to look back at some of the debris you’ve left in your wake. People you may have disappointed, mistakes which dammed the creek, opportunities which fell by the wayside. Many octogenarians look back in anger, I look back in amusement and acceptance. Nobody is born with a road map in his glove compartment, Life is a process of trial and error. You just hope the errors don’t involve charging grizzly bears, greedy divorce lawyers or tree-trimming accidents.
The best thing in Life is creativity, which comes in all sizes and colors. You don’t have to create a novel or a painting or a symphony….you can fashion a magnificent garden, perform magic with food, create plans to benefit the environment, find a cure for a dreadful disease. Everyone has a talent if only they’d take the time to discover it.
The second best thing in Life is Women. On the whole, they are just nicer then men….kinder, more considerate, nurturing, better with animals, more forgiving and less demanding. Also, they smell better. You need one of your very own. Even gay men know this and often have several in tow. I have had two wives who deserved better, but at least I figured it out. Of all the women I have been with in my life, I can’t think of a single one I haven’t benefited from knowing, even Sister Louise Clara. I’m not sure the reverse is true.
The third best thing in Life must be Friends. Real ones, the kind who show up when the boat is leaking, when the house is on fire or you’re getting ready to climb out on the ledge. You have to sort them out from the faux friends and mere “associates,” but it’s worth the effort. A true friend will put up his own hard cash to bail you out of jail without a second thought. A true friend will not try to sleep with your wife, even if she looks like Grace Kelly. A true friend will understand what you’re going through when your team blows a five-run lead in the ninth inning. By the way, while you’re trying to rustle up a few of these kinds of friends, it would be a good idea to learn to be one.
At one time or another, every oldster asks himself what he might do differently if he had it to do over. It’s only natural. But if you’re happy with where you wound up, the best answer is probably “nothing,” because every little turn in the road takes you to a different place and some of those destinations make inner-city Baltimore look like Carmel-By-The-Sea.
If you’ve made it to 80, you can’t really complain about your Fate. On a global level, only 1.6 percent of the population gets that far, let alone in fairly fine fettle. The small contingent which climbs that high can tell you a few stories about close calls. I fell from the highest tree in town as a kid and landed right on top of a telephone pole. I got a foot caught in some trash at the bottom of the Shawsheen River and went under twice before grasping a handy tree root. I turned my car (with a t-top roof) over in a rainstorm near Micanopy. I fiddled around for 19 hours in the midst of a heart attack and arrived at the hospital a mere 20 minutes before the Grim Reaper. Dumb luck. Some got it, some don’t. Somewhere along the line, I must have submitted my coupon.
 |
| With Siobhan at Yosemite in 2000; post-wedding hijinks in Valley of Fire, Nevada, 2016. |
What’s Next?
The good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, much of the same. Writing a 2000-word column once a week keeps your mind sharp. Walking a 15-minute mile every morning and lifting weights three days a week keeps the juices flowing and the bones from cracking (hopefully). And Lily Van Halen, my new massage therapist, swears getting in her infra-red paneled sauna will reinvigorate my cells, improve circulation, provide a better night’s sleep and make my skin the envy of all the girls in the neighborhood.
I have to hang around awhile to keep an eye on my sister, Alice (the Republican) who keeps trying to kill herself (accidentally). I have a couple of friends who still need one more boost over the hump. I’d like to go to Paris one of these days, and it better be soon, before the terrorists manage to blow the place up. My old pal, Gilbert Shelton lives there and he’s not getting any younger. I brightened up when I read last month the airline industry was on the verge of having planes which could get from New York to London in 3 hours. I sat back down when they told me the verge was 2029.
I’d like to believe in reincarnation, but it’s a little concerning. I wouldn’t want to resume my existence as a resident of Ghana, or worse. An old girlfriend, Claudine Laabs, told me that in a past life she was sure she was Cleopatra’s housecat. Have you seen what cats eat? And there’s that rat-catching business. No, thanks. What if you returned as the second coming of Donald Trump, only smarter. You’d be morally obligated to jump out the nearest window before the country was in tatters. If I had my druthers, I might return as the reincarnation of JFK. Dallas would no longer be a problem since Texas has seceded from the U.S.A. and Nixon would be coming back as Liberace. The first thing I’d do would be to run everybody out of Idaho and Montana and convert them into national parks. This would force the northern militias to flee into Washington state where Marty Jourard and a rag-tag band of armed minstrels would blast them to smithereens with a stunning rendition of “We Will Rock You” before they hit Spokane. After that, I'd start looking for the new Marilyn. She must be out there somewhere.
 |
| Resting after the 80th birthday party, 2020. |
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
