NOT over my dead body

My siblings and I were just asked to approve a bronze grave marker for our mother, who died last year. Most people probably think the submitted design is fine. I think the typography is ghastly!

1. Some "A" letters look too small.
2. Some seem to extend too low.
3. Some spacing between letters is too large.
4. There is no kerning.

I'm merely an amateur typographer but could have done a much better job.

I long ago decided on the inscription for my own grave stone ("OK, What's Next?") but now I think I'll have to do the actual design to be sure of competent typography.

Humans seldom hang around for more than a century but graves can last for millennia. They should be done right.

Today is my 70th birthday. Am I old yet?

I used to say that middle age lasts until they shovel dirt onto you. I can still say that, but with a bit less conviction. I do everything with a bit less conviction. Especially climbing stairs.

Last summer I went to a doc with an office sign that said "geriatric and adult care." I asked the receptionist how old one has to be to be considered geriatric. She said 50. Ouch.

I don't "feel old." But maybe that's because lots of my body parts have no feelings at all.

I certainly don't "think old." I have a 14-year-old brain imprisoned in a 70-year-old body. Maturity is overrated, and if I have not yet achieved it, I probably never will. My next stage of emotional development will likely be senility.

For most of her 90-plus years my mother was an active and brilliant lady. At the end she had terrible Alzheimer's. She didn't recognize her children, didn't read, speak or stand. She ate and slept. That's not much of a life.

At Mom's 90th birthday party her long-time physician and friend said that medical science can keep a body functioning long after the mind stops, but what's the point?

I had previously predicted that I'd die in 2035, at the "ripe old age" of 89. Now I wonder if I should revise my plan.

Within the past eight months I've been hospitalized twice. I've been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. My diabetes attacked a nerve that controls one of my eyes. I wear an eye patch to eliminate double vision. I have no feeling from the soles of my feet to half way up to my knees. The combination of loss of vision and loss of feeling makes walking wobbly, so I sometime use a cane. On different days different knees hurt. My hands hurt 97% of the time. My left foot, which theoretically has no feeling, often hurts a lot.

I've cut back on pizza consumption to twice a month, and ice cream to twice a week. I can spell the word "exercise."

Typing is tough because I often tap the wrong keys and forget and substitute words.

Within the past month or so a bunch of famous people died while in their 60s and 70s. That's scary.

Later today I'll drive to Firestone to get new brakes. The better brakes have a lifetime warranty. How long is that?

I'm going to have a surprise birthday party on Sunday. The party is not a surprise, but the birthday is. I thought I would've been killed before now by an overdose of brownies or by someone I pissed off.

I still enjoy life and will still do almost anything for a joke. I have no idea how much time I have left. I've started to dispose of my collections and acquire less, and cross items off my bucket list.

Today I will taste my first cup of coffee. I will probably never go to bed with a prostitute, bungee-jump from the George Washington Bridge nor give a bronsky to Sofia Vergara.

Maybe it's best to not empty my bucket list. It gives me something to look forward to just in case I get a second chance.

I'm not older than dirt but I am older than Trump

I expect that Donny will have a very subdued 70th birthday celebration on June 14th so his fans don't learn how friggin' old he is. Maybe he'll spray some extra yellow paint on his head to hide the gray.

My 70th birthday is planned to be on 4/15/16, and if I survive that long I'll have _two_ birthday parties. 

They'll be surprise parties because I'll be surprised to live that long. I expected to be killed about ten years ago by an overdose of brownies or by someone I pissed off.

Survival is the best revenge and I'm not embarrassed to show my gray hair. In fact, I'll add some gray hairs for the celebrations.

Where did it go?

A few minutes ago I wanted to type "Wendy's" but typed "Wednesday." Have I lost it? When did I lose it? Where did it go? What is it, anyway?

(Almost) anything for a joke

Wife Marilyn often complains that I have a reckless sense of humor and I “go too far.” She’s afraid that I’m going to get into trouble like Lenny Bruce and George Carlin did.

I think artistic expression outranks domestic tranquility. In my domicile, we have much more expression than tranquility.

Like Penn and Teller, Bart Simpson and the folks on the "Jackass" TV show, I’ll do almost anything for a joke -- even if the joke's on me.

Other people have occasionally described my humor as sick, tasteless or black humor. That’s because I can find humor in almost any situation, and that can make people uncomfortable.

I designed and wore the pee-pee shirt when I went to the hospital to be treated for a kidney stone a few years ago. It made people laugh. Laughter is the best medicine. Most people are too serious most of the time. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.

Because of diabetic damage to one of my eyes I've been wearing an eye patch since mid-February. I bought a couple of pirate shirts to enhance the experience. Little kids sometimes ask if I'm a real pirate. I smile and say "aaaarrrgh."

Being half-blind doesn't have to be completely unpleasant.

Maybe I won't make it to 2035. Oh shit. Please call Sofia.

The original and continuing premise of this blog was that I'd die in 2035, at the "ripe old age" of 89. Now I wonder if I should revise my plan.

Within the past eight months I've been hospitalized twice. I've been diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. My diabetes attacked a nerve that controls one of my eyes. I wear an eye patch to eliminate double vision. I have no feeling from the soles of my feet to half way up to my knees. The combination of loss of vision and loss of feeling makes walking wobbly, so I use a cane. On different days different knees hurt. My hands hurt 97% of the time. Arthritis, too, of course.

Years ago when our ancestors were gored to death by sabre-toothed tigers before they reached their 21st birthdays, there was little chance of developing our 21st century maladies. Now we have much more time to develop maladies, and there are many more ways to get killed. Cavemen had no nukes nor assault rifles.

In recent weeks I've heard of lots of people dying of "natural causes" at around age 75. And of course there are plane crashes, car crashes, tsunamis, pollution, food poisoning, terrorists and murderers.

In reality, unless we plan suicide, none of us know how much time we have left. There's an old Jewish blessing, "may you live until 120" ("Biz Hundret un Tsvantsig"). Living that long seems extremely unlikely in my case, but now even 89 seems unsure.
 
That really pisses me off. I have lots of stuff still on my bucket list, but maybe I should throw some out of the bucket.

My 70th birthday is scheduled for April 15th. I'd love to celebrate by giving a bronsky to Sofia Vergara. If that turns out to be the last thing I do, I'll die with a big smile on my face.