A Sexagenarians Lament

I see by the old clock on the wall, that I like so many others of the boomer generation will soon be turning 60. I thought I might not want to wait until the last minute to say what I have to say for you never know what the future holds. It some times is frustrating to read the notable birthdays for the day and find that no one listed is older than you.

A person turning 60 this year will have spent his/her time on earth in 7 different decades. Once you reach 60 this year, you will have lived 720 months; 21900+ days (taking into account leap years); roughly 525, 600 hours; 31,536,00 or more minutes; and close to 2 trillion seconds. Sounds like the Government budget report. Math was never my premier subject and my calculations may be off, but I think you get the picture.

We have watched our children grow and some have been blessed with grandchildren, although I for one abhor the thought of dealing with another messy diaper. We have lived through wars and watched the economy peak and plummet. President have come and passed and man has walked the moon. We have run the gamut from the genesis of black and white TV to iPod; rotary to cellular phones; bigotry to racial harmony. The children of Woodstock with flowers in our hair chasing the Beatles and White Rabbits.

It is said that you are only as old as you feel. There are some mornings I would gladly trade my aching joints and weary bones to a younger person in exchange for a few hours more of precious sleep. I am the rule, not the exception. My tennis game is off. Blurry restaurant menus intimidate. Jay walking is much more of a challenge today than yesterday.

And Love; what of Love? Is it too late in life to pursue romance? Fireflies glow in search of a mate and seem to have no trouble with the approach. Have the complexities of daily toil dimmed our blinking lights ? Or are we troubled by the past? We once thought we were in love, but the niceties eventually vanish and the thoughts of the past finally subside. We were never in love. For to be over means it never was.

You’ll never find new oceans unless you risk losing sight of the shore. And you’ll never truly live without taking a risk. I think I can find time for another couple of trillion seconds.

A Grateful Nation...Cries

There are few instances in this life that have caused my eyes to well with tears and release those emotions which lay deep inside. A man who cries is often accused of being a lesser man. If that be the case, so be it. I’ll bear the blot on my character without shame or regret.

In the late 60’s I found myself as a member of the military and along with my regularly assigned chores, I was a member of a military honor team. We were becoming quite busy at the time. Unlike our counterparts on the “A” team, crisp and starched, playing on the fields of the National Cemeteries, we were the “B” team traveling throughout Tennessee, Kentucky and parts of No. Carolina to the small rural communities to pay homage to our brethren who paid the ultimate sacrifice. We never made the evening news like the “A” team, but the ceremony and the tribute to the fallen were matching.

Young men in uniform served as pallbearers carrying and escorting their comrade from the church or funeral home to the gravesite carrying along with them the secret thought that one day this might be their fate. The sounds of Taps echoed throughout the countryside. Seven young men with rifles pointed their weapons into the air and on command fired three times each. The flag of the United States was folded neatly into a triangle and presented to the next-of-kin. There are variations of the words spoken during the presentation, but a common premise stands true. “…on behalf of a grateful nation…”

By the end of the week or the beginning of the next this scene will have been played for the 4,000th time since the invasion of Iraq. Arguing the merits of the campaign no longer serve a useful purpose. We are mired in the quicksand of war and if there is a light at the end of the tunnel, it is only that of an oncoming train. The current administration will never relent and the successors will find themselves powerless to slow the runaway train.

“…on behalf of a grateful nation…” I can no longer hide the tears.

Political Sexpose

Just when we thought we were bogged down in that political mire we love to hate - the debates between Presidential candidates, the mud-slinging, the smoky backroom deals, election fraud - , we were treated to a tabloid tale of a sex scandal involving a well placed politician. No, not that seamy toe tapping in the men’s restroom stall at the airport kind, but one involving a common garden variety heterosexual who apparently had a penchant for high priced hookers. Extremely high priced hookers.

His Governorship of New York has been linked to a Federal investigation looking into an escort service. He allegedly paid a young lady $4300 for her services for four hours. That comes (no pun intended) to $1000 and some change per hour. Furthermore, it wasn’t his first quest as additional accounting of his bar bill determined that this stud had passed on $80,000 in payments for pleasure. That is a sizeable chunk of change and as the late great Harry Caray might say, “Holy Cow!!! That’s a lot of quarters.” And here I balked when Trixie raised the price of a lap dance to $40 even though she was open to negotiations and usually would opt in at $15, which was still way too much. But I digress.

I’m not one to begrudge any man or woman for that matter, lifestyle notwithstanding, from satisfying that intrinsic primal urge. What does irk me is the fact that some preach the self-righteous prattle and then betray our trust. TV Evangelists, clergy of all faiths, teachers and politicians, all fine upstanding members of the community, all supposed to have high moral fiber have constantly been brought to task when their affairs extended to public scrutiny. The Gov rode to his throne of power on the coat tails of reform promising to save his constituents from corruption and from themselves. Sorry, no one was saved.

He resigned today; a casualty of his own undoing . His family will share in the shame. He will not be the last for power consumes and instills that false sense of security that the powerful are beyond the reach of the powerless. Can’t wait to read the book.

Time Saved

I cursed that demented alarm this morning. Oh for that precious hour of much needed sleep. Another hour of my life whisked away. A dream goes unfinished. My aching body deprived of rest. The caustic effect of the wine yearns for release, but lingers on .

But the light of day burns bright into once was the deepness of the dark. The flora will soon spring to life. Hikes along a pathway of serenity , hand in hand, as the dusk settles. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Life casts away all limitations. The haves convert to nots, while the nots find splendor in simplicity.

An hour was not lost by the man-made movement of a timepiece. An hour was gained to take pleasure in the joys of the universe.

Snow Daze

I’m sure everyone has their own horror story to tell, if they had to venture out on this snowy day. I’ll share mine. To think that it was near 80 yesterday.

My daily commute to work takes approximately 30 minutes from the So. County area to a certain affluent West County suburb. I decided to leave a little early this morning to give myself time in the event the roads were slick. At 5:15 AM, the snow began falling at a steady pace and a gentle accumulation was evident. However as I headed north on the I-270 corridor, the pavement was merely wet and the drive to Chesterfield was no worse than if a light rain was coming down.

An uneventful morning at work, but suddenly the skies opened up dropping little pellets of a snow and sleet mix. The snow flakes increased in size and volume and within an hour everything was covered. At 11:00 AM I was dismissed and told to head for home. I didn’t realize at the time I faced the brunt of the storm.

The hills of Highway Forty (I-64) were alive, but not with the sound of music. More so with the sound of racing RPMs and spinning tires as the big rigs , 4x4s and itty bity cars all fought for that necessary traction. Some gave up hope and merely stopped sideways and formed an obstacle course. The ditches lining the roadway were filled with mangled metal hulks reminding all that speed was not the manner best utilized to get from Point A to Point B safely. Up ahead I could see that traffic was backing up and I was far from my normal exit. I went to the right seeking an alternate route.

Things were much better on 141 for awhile. I traveled at the brisk pace of 25 mph, but I could once again see those little red brake light lining up in the distance. Once again I was in the middle of a traffic jam. Large piles of snow had collected in the roadway. The police officers surely had their hands full. One ingenious officer stopped the approaching traffic, walked up to a privately owned truck equipped with a snow plow and effectively commandeered the vehicle having the driver plow a path for the oncoming traffic. I gratefully followed his lead.

I broke away from the pack. At the neck break speed of 20 mph, visibility is limited to no more than 100 feet. A white out condition. Like a fighter pilot, I try to keep my focus on the horizon. I nearly miss a curvature in the roadway. My wipers are iced over and no longer serve their intended purpose. I need to change them. Give them a new purpose. I have come so far, yet the warmth and safety of my home and that psychotic cat, who I found in a furry ball sleeping soundly in his bed when I finally did arrive, seemed all so distant.

Another roadblock looms ahead. I find an alternate route on I-44. I cautiously enter the highway and the traffic appears light. Maybe a stroke of good fortune has finally come my way. I am soon returned to reality as the highway signs advise that all exits at I-270 are closed. Lindbergh will be the next best bet, but a big rig refuses to permit a change of lanes. With all the courage I can muster, I gather speed and give him an “eat shit and die” smile as I finally make my move.

The remainder of the trip was humdrum compared to what I had been through. Slushy roads and a few 4x4s trying to show off. Elapsed time of travel: 2hr, 38 min. My hands had gripped the steering wheel for so long and with such tenacity, they were black. My foot hurts from riding the brake. My back is sore and a beer would be most welcome.

Each storm brings the same message from the spokesperson for the road crews. “We will be ready.” They never are. Not that they are grossly ill prepared, but you can’t fight Mother Nature when she decides to dump on us with such vengeance.

It is still snowing at this time. The scene is beautiful and has a much different meaning when viewed through a picture window rather than a windshield. It could almost be romantic.

A Double Standard

I remember that Christmas Eve when I attended Mass at St. Stan’s. Estimates put the size of the crowd at nearly 3,000 and with the tiny church bursting at the seams many late comers had to be ushered to the adjoining parish hall to celebrate via CCTV. Some were the curiosity seekers, while others were there to show solidarity with the little Polish parish and the new maverick priest who were now locked in a bitter power struggle with the Archbishop of St. Louis, Raymond Burke.

The cause of the struggle has been hashed and rehashed in the media and is of little importance today. The whole brouhaha has taken on a new central theme. Some of the faithful of the parish now seek the ouster of the rebel priest arguing that his teachings don’t conform to the principles of the Catholic church. This by the same people who solicited the aid of this renegade preacher. I can’t help to think : what hypocrisy.

This priest is definitely guilty of some sins in the eyes of the church and those with conservative views as to what their religion is all about. He has opened the doors of the church to those previously denied access. He has embraced those with alternative lifestyles and afforded these “sinners” the opportunity to receive the Sacraments of the church. He committed the big no-no of assisting in the ordination of two women to the priesthood. He distributes communion to divorcees. One might say that he has a very liberal viewpoint of what religion should be all about. Valid arguments for the church to give him the old heave-ho.

One of his more vehement opponents was once his staunchest proponent and herein lies the hypocrisy. One of the main tenets of the church is obedience to the bishop, whether or not you inwardly feel that he is right or wrong. So we now are faced with the line of reasoning that it is fine to disregard some teachings, but not others. Cafeteria Catholics is the term.

For those of you who don’t know me, I was once faced with this same dilemma. I was active in a Catholic ministry giving my time to promote the faith in rural areas, somewhat of a low scale missionary , praying with people and a tool for healing both physical and emotional infirmities. I volunteered in hospitals and my parish. But I looked around and had questions. How could I blindly obey some teachings that I thought were wrong? I couldn’t. Way too many rules and regulations that exclude some from seeking God until they got their head on straight. One morning on the way to work, I switched the channel on the radio from a Catholic station to a rock station.

In the coming days the process to formally defrock the priest will commence. St. Stan’s will once again be priest less. A search for a successor will be launched. Where will a priest be found who on one hand disputes the authority of the bishop and on the other hand complies with other teachings of the church? You can’t pick and choose your beliefs like you can choose your vegetables.

Sorry. No Change To Spare

We have a new Manager-in-Training at our establishment. A young guy with that take charge attitude and hell bent on making changes. Of course I’m quite a bit older than him and in fact started in this business years before his birth. I’m set in my ways, but always willing to work a compromise for the better of anything. But Saturday afternoon as I was leaving work, he called me aside for a moment “to bend my ear” as he put it.

Seems he heard a comment of mine earlier in the day and felt that it might have been inappropriate since it was directed towards a young female counterpart. Let me first say that the young lady knows all the words, knows how to use them, and frequently goes off on a tangent that might make a sailor blush. But now I was the bad guy receiving fatherly advice and the round about sexual harassment lecture. I assured him that the statement as I remembered was purely innocuous and that I was capable of bigger and better innuendos. I gave him my thanks for the guidance and bade him a great weekend.

Later that evening his words gave me cause to rethink my situation in life and I decided that possibly I do need to "make some changes" as REO says. Sunday morning I awoke at 5:00 AM instead of the usual 4:00AM. That’s a change. Deciding that I didn’t wish to await the advent of spring later in the month, I immediately proclaimed this day to be the first day of spring and a new dawning of my life. (Again) Windows and doors were thrown open. Cleaning commenced. Large trash bags of accumulated junk were readied for the dumpster. As I cautiously removed Styrofoam containers from the refrigerator, I wondered if I should have delayed the project until renting a Hazmat suit. Condiments were carefully examined for expiration dates. No time for smell or taste tests. An uncashed U.S. Government check from the I.R.S. in the form of a tax refund, circa 1968, was found. Photos found their way into goodtimes/badtimes piles. Later in the afternoon the bbq grill was sparked. Spring has definitely sprung. Thank you, Mr. Manager.

Thank you for reminding me of the lout I have become. Hello. My name is Dan and I’m a sexual harassor. Sure I enjoy engaging in an occasional smidgen of frolic and banter, but only with those who know me or have come to know my harmless prattle . I have the highest respect and regard for the female of the species and have often advocated on their behalf when they faced inequality or injustice. I open doors, car doors, helped them on and off with coats, brought flowers, sent flowers. I have ventured out into the night to deliver medications, repair electrical and plumbing problems and provide an ear and shoulder when necessary. Perhaps, my drawback is that I am quiet and shy ; far from the rugged Harley trash talking type that women must secretly desire. Maybe that is what I should change. Take on a wham, bam, thank you ma’am mind-set. No more Mister Nice Guy.

Then again, who is this piece of crap trying to change my life? So, fuck you Mr. Manager. I won’t change . I may be dull, but once you get to know me, never boring and at times quite clever. You’ll soon learn