The 59th Year

There really isn't anything too awful special about someone's 59th year. No pre-determined landmarks, just a signpost or two. Some are fortunate enough to be able to officially retire in a year and half I suppose. Unlike the 17th year, the year we turn 16 and climb behind the wheel solo for the first time, the 59th year is rather mundane. Turning 58 doesn't really mean much in the scheme of things...unless you choose it to be special.

For me, the simple fact that I will celebrate this birthday above ground is quite consequential. I try not forget that, along with all the other things and people I am fortunate to have surrounding me.

Tonight, Loretta and I will go out to dinner at a popular, local Italian restaurant (not the O.G.!). We will be going compliments of two new found friends who also happen to be my employers.

Yesterday, another new found friend surprised me with a birthday present...a new electric guitar. I sold my old guitar last year because I wasn't playing it, a decision that became regretful as I missed the diversion it provided me.

A couple of weeks ago, Loretta bought me a new "smart" cell phone, something that has made my new endeavor much easier to manage.

I spoke to my cheerful Mom, Betty, via that new cell phone last night. We always wax nostalgic around my birthday, me being her first born. "Geeze", she often says, "If my son is that old...how old does that make me!" And then we laugh together. I usually retort with, "If I'd known I was going to get this old, I would have taken much better care of myself!" And then we laugh some more.

My best friend, Bob, calls me several times a week. I'm sure I will hear from him today as well, "Ya' feel older?", he might say as I answer the phone. Or maybe, "Man, you're an old fart!" Then I remind him that he is nine months older than me, and we laugh...and trade a few more old man jokes.

So, I choose to make my 59th year on this earth the best it can be...by savoring the good and calmly dealing with the bad. As I pledged on New Year's Day...to try to do anything better this year than last.

There will be a date, probably sometime in May, that will most likely come and go without much fanfare. That will signal the beginning of my 60th year of life. But, since that date also coincides with my parents wedding anniversary, I just may tip a glass or two to that red-letter day!

Joe DiMaggio...where have you gone?

With a San Joaquin Valley winter blowing just outside the window on this dark, early morning, maybe it's time for a few random thoughts...

I don't know about you, but I've kind of had enough news about the presidential race. This whole Hillary/Obama squabble has gone overboard. Now they both look more like grade schoolers on the playground, trading insults and throwing parts of their lunches at each other. I suppose it will always be that way in the political arena, some years are just worse than others.

The Heath Ledger thing. A sad state of affairs, especially for his family. Even though everyone is claiming it wasn't suicide, who knew he was so depressed? I guess I'll never understand the celebrity depression epidemic. Unfortunately, I am quite familiar with the disease. Too bad his epitaph will include playing the role of The Joker in the new Batman movie.

I tried to watch The Number 23 last night (for the third time). Didn't make it through to the end again...fell asleep. I'll try again some other time, it's on cable now.

I'm getting burned out on watching Andrew Zimmern scarf down Bizarre Foods. The manner in which is chomps and savors immense worms, goat brains, gastropods, and other food items found under rocks or destined for the garbage is getting tedious to watch. Even Bourdain ventures into that cuisine much too often. What's wrong with normal food? Are they simply bored of the mundane? The answer is "Yes". And it makes for sensational television we cannot turn our eyes from. Kind of like a car accident on the side of the road. I just wish Simmern would stop saying, "That's absolutely fabulous!" through a mouthful of crickets or potato bugs!

Did you know the Number One most popular beer in Canada is Coors Light? Number Two is Bud Light. Those facts were the most disturbing things I discovered when in Toronto a few weeks ago. And Canadians are a beer-drinking bunch, but not so much their own brews evidently.

I have never enjoyed January...December neither for that matter. I lost my fascination for the holiday season long ago. My birthday is in January (tomorrow, the 26th). And that date has lost its luster for me as well. No one wants to get older after the age of 25. I remember my mid-20's as being when I had the most self-confidence as well as the most self-doubt...in equal amounts I think, a very ambiguous time in my life. It was kind of like Autumn, not really Summer anymore, not quite Winter. The Equinox of my life. Sure, there have been many moments of joy and satisfaction since I was 25. But I just don't want to get any older. The old man in the mirror just ain't what he used to be. I must keep reminding myself that there is nothing I can about the passing of time. I must keep trying to be little better as each day and year goes by. My 59th year starts tomorrow...maybe it will be my best yet!

Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio?

remissitude

Actually, the word that comes to mind is remiss, showing neglect or inattention. From the Latin, remissus, from past participle of remiterre, to send back, relax.

e.g., "Skippy, it appears you have been remiss in taking care of your aquarium, indicated by the motionless fish carcasses floating near the surface".

e.g., "You lazy, thoughtless S.O.B. How could be so remiss as to not write anything in your blog for almost a week?"

True. I have exhibited much remissitude of late. In blog writing, phone calls to relatives, emails to same relatives and friends...I have been remiss.

The lame truth of it is, not much time or brain processing space left over for such activities.

The new pub/restaurant is almost complete, staff training begins in two weeks. Hiring and pre-training begins in the next few days. Most everything has been built, installed, painted, wall-papered, glued, hammered, and screwed in. Only a few details remain (100 or so) including plugging in the equipment, lighting the burners, uncorking the valves, and cleaning off the rest of the sawdust, metal shavings, and dirt. Literally tons of restaurant "smallwares", pots, pans, silverware, spatulas, plates, glasses, cups, and doo-dads are due to arrive this week...all needing to be unpacked, washed, and mis-en-placed. After that daunting task...we only need await the arrival of cases and cases of chicken breasts, burger patties, steaks, produce, soft drink mix, kegs and kegs of beer, bottles of alcohol, and margarita mix. It's almost time to start "playing restaurant" for real.

Bear with me, my blogmotic remissitude is inexcusable. I promise to do better. Photos of the above project in its splendiferous completed form forthcoming. If I haven't been institutionalized first, that is. In that case, I still may be able to blog a bit, as I have become very adept at typing with my feet.

We'll be firkin open soon!

So, I'm a smartass. And, that's a good thing, how?

An exchange between myself and my mother, circa 1963...

Me: So, why can't we join a nudist camp?

Mom: Well, we just don't do those kinds of things.

Me: What kinds of things do we do? This family is so boring.

Mom: Watch your mouth or I'll tell your Dad when he comes home!

Me: Billy's parents do that sort of thing. He says they run around naked in the house and by the pool all the time.

Mom: Fine. Someday, we'll all go to a nudist camp.

Me: Can we start practicing today...like around the house?

Mom: Don't be a smartass!

When you're a 13 year old San Fernando Valley kid smack dab in the middle of puberty...you're also a smartass...that's a given. Evidently, living in the San Fernando Valley is not a prerequisite for such adolescent recalcitrant behavior. Being 13 years old is! In the male homo sapien, this type of personality defect may last, and quite often does last, well into the 80's...and possibly beyond life itself. Male amoebas may possess a basic cynicism that only female amoebas can decipher, thus making this trait completely genetic and evolutionary. Except for the fact that amoebas are hermaphrodites (I think), this behavior may not be gender specific in early lifeforms. Anyway...

So why is being a smartass at age 13 such a liability, when being a smartass at age 57 considered an asset? Well, maybe not as much of an asset as it is part of one's "personality". Let's face it, some folks have made quite a handsome living from the spouting of copious amounts of sarcasm, cynicism, and irreverent critical rhetoric. They have succeeded in capitalizing on being smartasses.

I was recently told that one of the reasons I was chosen for an employment position was due, at least in part, to the fact that I was a smartass. And that this "smartassitude" was detected through reading my blogs. Apparently this trait (or personality defect) I possess has proven to be an asset...finally.

So with that in mind, I raise my glass to smartasses everywhere. And hereby decree the word "smartassitude" be submitted to the Oxford or the Webster dictionary folks as an official damn word!

smartassitude - smart-ass-ih-tood - A complex mental state involving beliefs, feelings, values, and dispositions to act in certain ways as to exhibit sarcasm, cynicism, and an overall shitty and sometimes negative outlook on life. e.g. We hired the sonofabitch because of his smartassitude on life. He's a fucking crackup...at times...and will fit in with our culture.

To all 13 year old smartasses out there: Be patient. Someday you'll be appreciated!

Reality Sucks

On a recent T.V. commercial during playoff weekend, (in a commercial for something I don't recall) Colts quarterback Peyton Manning delivered the most apros pro quote for anyone hoping for those so-called "rock hard abs".

"You know...let's face it. If you're not under 23 years old or a professional football player, those "rock hard abs" you're hoping for...probably not gonna happen! I would suggest you just buy bigger shirts."

Now that's reality for the New Year!

Minutia

A recent exchange between myself and a clerk at Target...

Me: Excuse me...but can you tell me where the pots to piss in are?

Clerk: (blank stare and long pause) I'm not sure exactly what you're looking for.

Me: Well...I'd like to know if you carry pots to piss in. I don't seem to have one any longer.

Clerk: Try Aisle 37...that's where the bathroom stuff is.

Me: Why thank you, my good man!

Miscellany

Did you know that if you lay a cat on its side on a linoleum floor and spin it around in circles several times, when you're done spinning it...your Dad will kick your ass?

Recently seen on an employment application I was going over (under Past Employer): Waitress at O'Brain's Bar & Girll. Hmmm...on which pile should I place this one?

You know you're getting old and fat when after tying your shoes you need a few toques off the old oxygen tank.

What's green and red and goes around in circles real fast? A frog in a blender.

Seritonin inhibitors...don't start your day without them.

Anyone remember this one? Milk...milk...lemonade...around the corner fudge is made?

The other day I asked a driver getting out of his car in a parking lot, "Do you know how to drive?" His answer, "How do you think I got here, jackass?"

What do you mean smoking pot makes you stupid? I quit smoking it, didn't I?

You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes...you just might get what she needs.

If there really is reincarnation. I would like to come back as a dog. Except for that butt smelling thing, could we talk about that? Oh, and that snacking out of the kitty litter box thing. And, that sleeping on a flea-infested blanket in the garage thing. And the no-thumbs thing. Come to think of it...I'd rather come back as a cat. If things aren't too good, I can just run away to the neighbor's house. Except for that spinning on the linoleum floor thing.