It’s the New Year, a time for reassessment, resolve and renewal, or as much of it as we can muster wearing these retro bodies. As the man looking down from the Middle Octogenaria water tower once said, it’s a little scary up here. And lonely. Don’t bother calling an old friend, though, he probably got swept away in the Grim Reaper’s last gallop through town…better not to know. Oh, and the high school just emailed---looks like your 68th class reunion has been scrapped due to a lack of enthusiasm among the trio of alumni.
Make no mistake, there’s still plenty to be grateful for. The wife remains spunky and your dog still loves you as long as the treats keep coming. You can still walk a brisk mile every morning in a cheerful neighborhood where Democrats are not burned at the stake. A new doctor moved in just down the road and you’ve purchased her services, so now you’ve got a captive audience to listen to your litany of health complaints, real and imagined. The tab is a little inconvenient but it’s way cheaper than talking to a shrink.
With the new president in office, health costs have spiraled through the roof. Heck, real Viagra on sale is a flabbergasting $60 a pill---some folks are going to have to decide whether to fornicate or eat. Not to bring up a delicate subject, but the funeral industry has just about priced itself out of business. Now everybody who dies goes to the fryer and has a “Celebration of Life” where all their old pals tell nice lies about them before disposing of their ashes upstairs, downstairs and in my lady’s chamber. Heck, we have a bunch of dead guys out here in our yard, mixed in with the horses. It might be a good idea to tell people where you want to end up in your will, otherwise it could get ugly.
Speaking of post-demise, Allen Morgan, one of our buddies now gone, currently resides in one of those popular new no-frills graves on Payne’s Prairie, though not by choice. A gentleman by his bearing and a neatnik by choice, Mr. Morgan would consider his current surroundings to be unkempt and downright gnarly. Allen was never a tree-hugger or one with nature. When we went to visit his sparse remains we could swear we heard him plead, “Hey, get me out of here! Dump me at the racetrack or just outside some hooker bar.” We’d do it, too, but we can’t be sure exactly what’s Allen and what’s not.
Don’t get the idea we’re complaining, we’d just as soon avoid The Divine Comedy and hang around listening to the fiddlers play. The rare reviews from folks who finally made it to the last station on the line aren’t encouraging. There’s no there there, no rib joints, no high-school cheerleaders, no banjos. Some say it’s like Phoenix without the air-conditioning. So we’re hanging around until Gary Borse shows up in a long white gown with his interstellar allies and sweeps us off to Proxima Centauri, where the air is pure, the skies are an electric blue and John Edward Prine is playing at the Interplanetary Saloon. Skoal!
Who Was That Masked Man?
I have always liked face masks. Perhaps it was the early influence of The Lone Ranger, who galloped into my life each week on radio to the zippity-doo-dah strains of the William Tell Overture. The Lone Ranger’s mask was a product of necessity, hiding from the evil Cavendish Gang the fact that one Texas Ranger survived their massacre. If anybody foolishly tried to remove that mask from the LR’s face, he instantly turned them into silly putty.
In homage to the Lone Ranger, I nagged my mother to get me my own LR suit, replete with mask and hat from the annual Spiegel Catalogue. I wore it to school one day as a first grader and the second-grade bully Eddie Melluci came over and told me to take it off or he would. I had no illusions about being tougher than Eddie Melluci but I knew how critical it was to the Lone Ranger to keep his mask on, so I grabbed Eddie’s arm and threw him over my back. No one watching was more surprised about this amazing feat than I was, unless it was Melluci. He got up and drifted off while me and my posse pretended to ride off on our horses slapping our legs. The Lone Ranger rides again!
I was fortunate enough to make four pilgrimages in a row to Mardi Gras back in the late 1960s. For a mask-lover, Mardi Gras is the ultimate shrine. Arabs trek to Mecca, baseball fans to Cooperstown and masquers to New Orleans, where the masks are ornate, spectacular and everywhere. When Mardi Gras began, masks were popular because they allowed wearers to escape society and class restraints. A carnival-goer could be anyone they wanted to be and mingle with the higher or lower classes. All MG float riders are required to wear masks in keeping with the mystery and tradition and many of the Krewes never reveal who their kings and queens are.
Halloween is another opportunity to play the fool, the fiend or the fairy. You can be Darth Vader or Mister Rogers, a wicked witch or a werewolf, Richard Nixon or Donald Trump (bring your spittle-resistant mask). The roots of Halloween masks can be traced back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, celebrated over 2000 years ago in regions that are now Ireland, England, Scotland and northern France. During Samhain, it was believed that the worlds of the living and dead overlapped, allowing spirits to roam the earth. To ward off those spirits or appease them, the Celts would wear masks and costumes made from animal heads and skins. These disguises served a dual purpose: to protect the wearer from being recognized by malevolent spirits and to connect with the supernatural world. Looking for fun and feeling groovy.
There are fewer appropriate masking occasions, of course, for mask enthusiasts of a certain age, particularly celebrants in the throes of Octogenarianism. Nonetheless, my clever wife found yet one final excuse for donning the false veil, and though I asked for simpler gifts for my 85th birthday, she came up with the little-known (and terribly expensive) Omnilux face-saving wonder mask. It’s faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive and able to leap tall buildings at a single bound. And that’s just for starters. As an added bonus, you can scare the devil out of the mailman.
Saving Face
Omnilux Men is a home-use wearable LED-light therapy device that produces a cool, narrow band of light which helps reduce the appearance of aging skin, sun spots and other scary stuff that terrifies little kids and potential suitors. It consists of a flexible silicone device that contains light-emitting diodes and a controller. The LEDs generate the light. The device is worn on the face and held in place by adjustable Velcro straps that allow the mask to contour to the skin.
The controller turns the LEDs on and off and controls power to the mask. The device emits light energy in the red and near infra-red (NIR) region of the light spectrum and is intended to treat the skin through a non-thermal mechanism called photobiomodulation. Omnilux stimulates collagen production by encouraging fibroblasts to produce more collagen and elastin, which improves skin tone and texture and promotes a more youthful, radiant appearance. The mask is best used 3 to 5 days a week for ten minutes a day and is easy as pie to utilize. If used properly and it doesn’t blow up or stick permanently to your face, the Omnilux is clinically proven to reduce fine lines and wrinkles, reduce the appearance of pigmentation and redness, promote healthier younger-looking skin and set you strutting. Your money back if the ladies don’t come streaming to your door wanting to pinch your cheeks. It’s worth the price just to turn it on the first time and be instantly transported to the sun. You’ve heard the expression, blinded by the light? This is what they were talking about.
I’ve started my masking therapy already and I have high hopes, high apple pie in the sky hopes. Could be I come out looking like James Dean in Giant or Marlon Brando in The Wild One. But what if it turns out like The Picture of Dorian Gray, where you get several years of good looks then suddenly turn into Steve Bannon or Kash Patel or (shudder) the Trumpster, himself? Ah well, life is a crapshoot. Plunk my magic twanger, Froggy, I’m in for a dime, in for a dollar.
New Year’s Resolutions
When you’re old as dirt, the first resolution every year is to cleverly negotiate the 365 days until next year. Beyond that, everything is gravy. There are two schools of thought on any other resolutions. The first is, I got this far doing what I’m doing, why stop now? This thought is popular among smokers, drinkers and Demolition Derby drivers, who believe strongly in Luck. These people are usually proponents of the Age Is Just A Number philosophy, people who have never seen a balloon filling up with water until it bursts. Abuse the balloon, the balloon abuses you.
The second school of thought is to sit yourself in the Alamo, hire the Belgravian Army for protection and eat only organic food grown in your own garden. Keep a physician on the grounds and have self-sealing bubble wrap available at all times. Never dance or play rugby. Eschew all political partisanship, hot yoga sessions and the menage a trois, unless it seems irresistibly promising and the participants promise to use face masks.
The best resolution is somewhere in between, a reasonable promise to maintain health, wealth and welfare, to stay off the roof but not the stepladder, to donate your handgun to the Salvation Army but hold onto your shotgun, to avoid having sex at The Villages but not at Assisted Living, to hike with a pair of walking sticks, avoid parking in front of bars or backwards at the Gatorade Museum, use chiropractors only in dire emergencies, and never for your spindly neck.
Yeah, we know…life’s no longer a beach, but it’s the only game in town. And as you’ve learned over the years, the bigger the game, the costlier the ticket. This time, for the biggest game of all, your money’s no good here, Bub. The ticket is paid for with aching backs and balky knees, fragile ribs and atrial fib, sleep apnea and COPD, not to mention the ever-lovin’ never-leavin’ Memory Dissipation Blues. Too high a price to pay? Next bus to Oblivion leaves at two o’clock.
Mixed in with all the requisite resolutions, of course, there should be at least one that makes your heart jump. Everybody needs something to look forward to, even if it’s just a herbal enema. There are exceptional places to experience all over the country where all you have to do is sit back, light one up and enjoy the view. If you’re agile and ambitious, find a scenic loop trail and take a walk in the woods. If you’re still crazy after all these years, pick up a dangerous woman in a dive bar (or be a dangerous woman in a dive bar). And remember, in some cases advanced age is an asset. You can actually do it in the road, there’s not a policeman on Earth who really wants to handcuff a naked couple over 70.
Alright then, fellow geezers, let’s get going! It’s the New Year, you’re alive and time’s-a-wastin’. Gas up the woody, take a whiff on me and stomp down on the accelerator. Every little thing is gonna be alright!
That’s not all, folks….
bill.killeen,094@gmail.com
