The other day, Siobhan asked me what I wanted for my eighty-sixth birthday in November. I thought about it for a minute and said, “How about 20 more years of good health?”
“It has to be something I can get from Amazon,” she advised. Oh. “Do they still have the original Fudgsicles?”
She says they actually do, but I’ve heard that one before. Try to find an original Members Only jacket like the one Betsy Harper bought me forty years ago or a fine Toker II, or a car—any car-- with a cassette player that will utilize the 150 tapes I still have in my garage. They tried to repay us with the iPod, then they killed that and gave us nothing. And they say old people are grumpy. Just give us our stuff back and we’ll go quietly.
I’m hoping Captain Trumpy of the Horse Marines sends a delegation to Cuba with a peace offer--you get your oil shipments, we get our 1950s cars back. There are people in Havana who are actually in possession of 1955 Ford Thunderbirds, if you can believe it, and the poor automobiles are not being treated properly at all. A friend of mine just back from there said he saw a T-Bird on the Malecon which was painted a vile aquamarine, a grave infraction of the Marquis of Queensbury rules. I’m not here to cause no trouble, I’m just here to do the Octogenarian Shuffle, but I don’t believe we can let outrages like this stand, so I have volunteered to be among the first flight of fake Jehovah’s Witnesses to land on the Cuban beaches and terrorize the motley defenders. I wouldn’t mind part of my booty being one of those cute little ‘55 Chevy Bel Airs in baby blue for my sweetie-pie, either.
Pondering Oblivion
They say that age is just a number, which is fine if it’s 62 or even 75. When you become 86, it’s like the Japanese Air Force screaming into Pearl Harbor. Bombs to the left of me, strafing to the right, stuck in the middle with few.
Just for fun, try calling the Rick Steves tour arrangers in Edmond, Washington and asking about a brisk jaunt through Paris. They have the thankless job of getting a couple dozen folks together who won’t bog one another down. When agent Mirabel heard my age, she began heavily emphasizing there would be lots of walking. “Up and down, frontwards and backwards, all around the town. And hills will be involved. How do you feel about hills, Mr. Bill?”
“I eat hills for lunch, Mirabel. Did you ever hear of San Francisco? They got hills to die for. I run up and down ‘em and then I cross the Golden Gate Bridge for a chaser. What else y’got?” Mirabel put me on the list but I have a sneaking suspicion she added an asterisk.
Good thing I’m not involved in the dating scenario. Imagine filling out one of those profiles and writing in “Age 86.” The ladies would toss you straight onto the burn pile. “This guy will be in the hospital before lunch, Mabel. And that photo he put in there looks suspiciously like Pierce Brosnan.”
People automatically assume 86-year-olds are incapable of sex, which isn’t necessarily so, although they might have to take precautions. No, not those precautions. Things like having enough gas in the car to get to the emergency room. This, of course, necessitates “appointment sex,” so spontaneity is out the window. “Don’t be getting frisky, George, I wrote it right down here in my appointment book—Tuesday at 6 p.m., and not a minute sooner.”
All of which is remindful of the old college humor magazine joke about Henry and Henrietta. The regulars in the poolroom were discussing how often they got it on with their wives and girlfriends and one of them noticed that Henry, whose wife was a notorious iceberg, was smiling. “What have you got to smile about, Henry, you said your wife only gives it to you one night a year?” “That’s right,” said Henry, “but tonight’s the night!”
Paint It Black
Thankfully, the old fashioned funeral is on the decline. Nothing is more uncomfortable than to hear some anonymous priest or minister bloviate over the fine qualities of that rascal Uncle Joe, who had six wives, voted the straight Republican ticket and shot a few bullets into his neighbor’s kitchen whenever he got into the Mountain Dew.
There are few things on Earth as much fun as standing over an open grave at the cemetery in subzero temperatures as the tears freeze on the poor widow’s cheekbones and some cretin with a bagpipe plays A Whiter Shade of Pale. Then everyone retires to the fancy reception hall for prosciutto and burrata cheese, checking their watches to make sure they don’t miss the start of the ballgame.
Some people have delusions of grandeur about their post-death ceremonies, leaving detailed request lists. Aretha Franklin asked for a fleet of 100 pink Cadillacs to parade the route, and four glamorous outfit changes for her open-casket viewings. Imagine being part of that pit crew? Hunter Thompson, always a showoff, demanded his ashes be blasted from a cannon atop a 150-foot tower. Tupac Shakur had his ashes mixed with marijuana, the better to smoke him with, my dear.
My sweet little sister Kathy asked me once what song I wanted played at my ceremony. “Take Me Out To The Ballgame,” I told her. “What would you like?” If my first choice isn’t available, I suppose I could live with Another One Bites The Dust. If they have a little extra money, however, I’d really like somebody to hire the Fralinger String (Mummers) Band to march around the crematorium playing Happy Days Are Here Again on their banjos and saxophones. Nobody has a bad day when the Fralingers are in town, even the dead guy. If we’re being honest here, I’ve always had a hidden desire to captain one of these groups, sauntering from side to side of the street in my outrageous costume hyping up the onlookers. I think it might be like that in Heaven. No matter what the nuns say.
Heroes Of The Breed
1. Okay, he wasn’t an octogenarian, but Duke “The Hammer” Davis 78, of Alta, Iowa gets an excuse slip from the office since he was blind when he bowled a perfect 300 game. “I wasn’t nervous,” Davis told CBS News. “I just thought, ‘Good Lord, let me throw three more good balls,” so I guess I got some help.”
2. Sister Madonna Buder, aka “the Iron Nun,” owns the current world record for oldest woman to finish an Ironman Triathlon, which she obtained at age 86 by finishing the Subaru Ironman Canada test of endurance. The Ironman competition involves completing in one day a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride and a 26.2 mile run. Buder has competed in 45 of these contests.
3. Dorothy Custer, 104, is a bit of an adrenaline junkie. After several years of base jumping off 500-foot bridges and the like, Dot took to the skies with the goal of becoming the world’s oldest skydiver ever. She tandem-somersaulted head-first out of the plane and performed a fearless forward roll before free-falling back to the ground. “Couldn’t have gone better,” she said. “Now get me a stiff drink.”
4. George Corones only resumed swimming at age 80 after a long career in medicine. Corones competed at the 2012 World championships in Italy, with top-three performances in various 90-94 age group events and in 2013 smashed two world records in 95-99 freestyle events in Australia. But George was just getting warmed up. In Queensland on February 28, 2018, Corones swam 50 meters in 56.12 seconds, breaking the previous record for 100-104-year-olds by 35 seconds. Three days later, he set the world record 100 meter mark at 2:24.21 at the same meet. Asked what he would do next, the amazing Mr. Corones said, “Only one thing is left. I’m going to Disneyland!”
The Old Philosopher Rambles….
So here comes that big lug in the clown suit and flappy shoes, walking straight toward me with a giant smile on his face. It’s Mr. 86, and he has big plans for me. “Thought I’d come and pick you up,” he says, “the assisted living place is too far to walk. Besides, you’re already a few years late.”
I look at the poor bastard with sympathy. “You’re still working on commission, right? Too old for Walmart, too young for dominoes in the park. I hate to give you the bad news but I’m going to Paris next week to sashay down the Champs Elysees and dance at the Moulin Rouge.”
Mr. 86 falls back in horror, his hands over his face. “WHAT?? But consider the awful possibilities! You’ll be thousands of miles from your doctors. The food is too rich. Do you know how much it costs to ship a body back home?”
I see the future with rose-colored glasses. If the plane goes down in the middle of the Atlantic, well, it’s not like I tossed away the best years of my life. If the hills in Montmartre are too steep, there’s always the funicular. If I become ill, I have a $384 insurance police that guarantees everything but replacement parts. If I fall in love with a young Frenchwoman, well, Siobhan will whip out her two-shot Derringer and send me off to oblivion, no fuss, no muss. What’s the downside? Okay, the plane could be hijacked and taken to Memphis, but outside of that?
Polish up the Arc de Triomphe! Throw some glitter on that Eiffel Tower! Ring the bells at Notre Dame! Billy’s flying your way and he won’t take non for an answer!
That’s all, folks….
