Monday, January 25

HOLY COW! I’m seventy-five!

I know, I know—it’s inevitable if you don’t die early. In fact, I personally know several people who have achieved this ancient-ness. But when it actually happens, well it’s kinda surprising.

I have always been young. Been that way ever since I was a baby. Bio testing of my body shows that I am at least 15 years younger than I am
supposed to be. But even that is  retirement age. So why am I still vigorous enough to use a chainsaw, then stack the wood, then unstack it when it’s dry and split it to smithereens with an axe-like splitter? Or dig maybe 50 feet (15 meters) of ditch to divert rainwater off the dirt road. Took a whole hour. Without breaking a sweat, by the way.

There are advantages to aging. Medicare pays for my seeing a naturopath doctor on a regular basis to try and get a handle on the occasional mini-seizures I keep having. Nothing serious, but very annoying. I lose a whole 30 seconds out of my day whenever they happen. Oh wait—yesterday I got a letter saying that Medicare no longer applies; I will now have to pay $120 per visit. Oh, well. So much for Medicare.

My formerly staggering IQ seems to be diminishing. The fact that I
blew away the Stanford-Binet record in my high school, got the highest score ever (100%) on the Armed Forces Qualification Test when I joined the Navy (only one other person did that), nearly aced the SAT when I started college (which I didn’t complete, by the way), and got the only perfect score ever on the test given to everyone who applies for a job at any American Association of Advertising Agencies member—need I go on? I used to be one smart dude and it kinda hurts to have all that slipping away.

Oh by the way—just a few years ago I found out that when I was nineteen years old and one of two guys who hosted a Saturday night TV show on Channel 47 in Fresno, it was the highest-rated locally-produced show in Central California. I didn't know this at the time because if the boss had told me, I might have asked to be paid extra for it (I started working at the station in the production department when I was seventeen and starting college). My partner on the show was 22 years old and got paid a bottle of Jack Daniels bourbon before each show, which he sampled liberally, being susceptible to stage fright. Things were different in 1960 as you can see.

Oh well. As long as I remember to brush my teeth before going to bed I’ll probably be just fine. Oh wait—I just had a tooth removed (#9, the big one right up there in front) because it just flat died. It broke off at the gum line while being extracted, so surgery was required to dig out the root. Right now there are still a couple of stitches sticking out of my gum; the other three or so broke off yesterday and this morning (they’re organic and self-removing). Medicare didn't cover that, either.

I haven’t been regular in keeping the blog going, mainly because when I think of a good idea to write about, I'm away from the computer. When I get to the computer, I have forgotten most of what I wanted to say. It’s annoying because sometimes I come up with very good ideas to write about. Maybe I should carry a notepad. But I’d probably forget to have a pencil with me. Or keep it sharp even if I did.

Oh well. Happy birthday to me anyway.