When I'm 64 10/08/21

You know the Beatles’ ditty. This writer happens to be 68, but there are no song titles about that particular age. So we went with 6'4. And what does that have to do with the price of sliced bread, you ask. Actually, nothing. And everything. Because when you reach your 60’s, you can say it’s the new 40, but you’re only kidding yourself. It’s the New 60 (see how we cleverly threw that plug in?). You still play golf, but it’s in a cart. Okay, you might walk and carry occasionally, but only for 9 holes, not 18. Gone are the pickup touch football games, slow-pitch softball leagues, full-court basketball and road races. Now it’s a nice hike or walk. And that’s more than fine. But this week we focused on two activities that time is starting to infringe on (and yeah, I know I ended the sentence with a preposition, but you know what Churchill said about that rule? He said, “That is precisely the type of poppycock up with which I shall not put.”) I wish I could say it as well as Winston, but I’ll just stick to ending the occasional sentence with a preposition (from). See, I’ll even do it if it makes no damn sense.

At any rate the two activities we presented were 1) a trip to the county fair and 2) eating at the diner. Now everything being equal, we would have run the county fair in the heat of the summer, but this is when they happened to fit into our crowded calendars, so forgive our lack of timeliness. The County Fair is ripe with lots of fun activities, funnel cakes, Corndogs, Skee-ball and of course the rides. I have a couple of stories about the rides. The first one revolves around the time I went with a friend to Six Flags. He took his two sons who were around 7 and 10 years old and I took my daughter who was 11. Truth is, we’re both scared of things like loop-de-loop roller coasters and elevator drops. So while my friend and I encountered these scary rides, his two boys said, “Let’s go,” while my daughter was unsure. So I did the brave thing and hid behind her. I said to my friend, you go with the boys while I stay with Ali (my daughter). I mean I had no choice, did I? But secretly I told her “I’m glad you didn’t go. These things scare the hell out of me.” The other story was during a summer between college years. I went on a double date with my cousin and her serious boyfriend (who was also my roommate) and this girl I had just met. We went to a Chinese restaurant and then to Playland, a small deco amusement park in Westchester County, New York. Well the combination of egg rolls, moo shu pork and a swaying Ferris Wheel didn’t sit so well with yours truly, as a wave of nausea took hold. All I could think of was, please hold it in until we get down. Somehow I managed to do that and ran over to the bushes immediately after the seat bar was lifted. Just like Al, I tossed my cookies, as the saying goes, but this time my “cookies” happened to be the aforementioned egg rolls and moo shu. Maybe there was a fortune cookie in there somewhere so I could literally say I tossed my cookies, but it was not a great way to impress a girl on a first date. Suffice it to say that the amusement park is one area where we get less enjoyment the older we get.

Which brings us to another situation that does not improve with age. Hypochondria. I mean, do you listen to some of the discussions we all have when we go to dinner with similarly-aged friends? “Oh, my knee is killing me. I don’t think I can walk with you tomorrow.” Oy (for our Jewish friends, and me), my acid reflux is killing me, can you please serve it without the red pepper flakes.” Or, this is the absolute truth, my wife and I ate with very close friends of ours last weekend and when I remarked that the guy looked like he lost weight, he immediately replied, “It’s probably a deadly stomach disease.” So there you have it. In this case we had the guys show concern about a mysterious new black spot on Al’s arm. If you haven’t already read the comics, I won’t spoil it by telling you what the spot actually was.. John and I went back and forth several times about whether it was too gross to have him eat the “spot” after he scratches it off his arm. Lest you think we’re too prudish, the only reason he didn’t pop it in his mouth is because we ran out of frames. And there you have it, the sturm and drang of a cartoonist’s life. To eat or not to eat, that is the question.

And that is it for this week, we’ve got a couple new ones for you next week. Have a great weekend.

Andy and John