Life's a bitch, and then you die.

Today would have been my parents' 70th anniversary.

They were two extremely intelligent people (both attended high schools for the "gifted" in NYC), active and productive -- but degenerated to become like helpless infants.

"Buddy," my father, died on 7/21/09 at age 87. He had a very full life and finally decided to shut down while in a nursing home. He enjoyed singing old songs to the staff, and grinned while doing a dump into his diaper. Pop eventually stopped wearing his glasses and hearing aid and asked my mother to hire a hit man for him.

Rita, my mother, is 91 and has severe dementia.

She's in a nursing home and doesn't know she should be celebrating, sometimes doesn't recognize her children, and seldom says more than "NO!" -- even when she means yes.

When she was more lucid (even a few months ago), she sometimes articulately described hallucinations, such as my father climbed out of his grave and married another woman. Often she substituted words and it obviously pained her when she was inarticulate. Sometimes she'd use a vague term, like "device" instead of "seat belt." Other times the substitution made no sense, like "marshmallow" for "checkbook."

A while ago we noticed that she had exchanged eyeglasses with another resident of the home. Neither woman noticed. More recently she lost a lens from her glasses -- but the lens was from in front of her blind eye. She no longer reads, so the glasses were put away.

Yesterday, bro Marshall and I were at mom's nursing home to discuss final plans. No feeding tube, no heroic measures, just keep her as comfortable as possible.

She shares a room with a slightly older old lady. They have two TVs in the room, a few feet apart. Sometimes they silently display two different programs, but neither woman seems to notice or complain. It's electric wallpaper.

My mother had a powerful brain, but her body suffered greatly over the years.

She's had various body parts replaced, and even had a broken neck. She fell from her bed (or maybe her wheel chair) a few months ago and broke a leg. She has not been able to stand up for several years. In school, mom won an award for penmanship. She knit, crocheted and made ceramic objects. Now she can't hold a fork or spoon, or release her grip from a handkerchief without assistance.

(OK, time for a humorous interlude: mom once broke a toe by kicking Marshall in the ass.)

At mom's 90th birthday party, her long-time doctor, Mark Schwartz, said, "modern medicine can keep people alive long after the parts wear out, but there's no quality of life."

I'm scheduled to become 68 years old in two months. I am not looking forward to 88.

Damn summer!

It's 4:20 a.m. I've been awake since at least 1:24. It's dark out and I don't hear any birds chirping. It seems like just a few days ago at this time that the sun was shining and there was an avian concert outside my window. 

Winter is coming. I'm both pissed and relieved. This summer, like most summers, has been extremely frustrating, even annoying. Many things on my to-do-list remain undone. I want summer to go away.

One particularly annoying item remains on my annual list. My mind sees my body asleep in a chair outside a cabin on the shore of a lake in Adirondack State Park. Brubeck's "Blue Rondo a la Turk" is playing, but not too loud. A breeze is tickling my face. Blue sky, blue water, my dog and a canoe are waiting for me to wake up.

Maybe next summer. Maybe next life. 

------

photo from iStockPhoto. 

Forgive and forget, or ignore and move on?

We've all heard the phrase "forgive and forget." I seldom forget, and if I remember, I seldom forgive.

At a high school reunion about 25 years ago, I was approached by another man.

Years earlier, when his hair was darker and greasier, "Rick" was known as "Daddy Demon." He was probably one of just two Jewish juvenile delinquents in New Haven.

Rick smiled, said “Hi, howya been?” and he raised his right hand to shake mine.
I kept my right hand at my side.

I reminded Rick that in the fall of 1958, when we were both in the seventh grade, on the way home from school, he and a couple of other 12-year-old hoods ambushed me for no discernible reason. Rick poked holes in both of my bicycle tires and then he snuffed out a cigarette on my head. 

A few months later, Rick’s posse held me down on the ground with my mouth forced open so they could spit into it. Later on, one of them stabbed me in the pool at our country club.

I did not shake Rick’s hand.

I did tell Rick to go fuck himself.

I still remembered a lot. 

Fast-forward to a few days ago. Rick wanted to join an online group that I administer. My initial reaction was to ignore him -- a polite way of saying "go fuck yourself" again.

I thought about my decision. I've held a grudge against an evil, sadistic bully for 55 years, the vast majority of my life, and now he wanted -- or needed -- something from me. 

Unlike that day in 1958, I now had power over him. I was in a position to show the mercy that he and his posse did not show. 

I clearly did not forget what they did, and cannot forgive it -- but I can choose to ignore it. 

Maybe Rick on Social Security is not the same person that the pre-teen Rick was.

I've done a few crappy things in my life ('tho I was never a bully) and I'd like my transgressions to be ignored.

So, I let Rick into the group.

If I meet him again, maybe I'll be willing to shake his hand. I probably won't tell him to go fuck himself. I'd probably like to have a conversation with him. I'd like to know what diabolical influences turned him into Daddy Demon, and how he outgrew the demon.

Maybe by being nice to a former nemesis, I outgrew a demon of my own.

I definitely feel better now.

I may have lost "it" -- but didn't lose it.

On Thursday I prepared to take the train from CT to NYC for Book Expo America. I thought I put my cellphone and two bars of Bonomo Turkish Taffy in my shoulder bag.

When I got on the train, I wanted to call home and tell my wife I had made the train, but could not find the phone. I went through the bag over and over again and finally gave up, assuming I had never put the stuff in the bag.

At the show I was not able to communicate properly with wife or office. There apparently are no pay phones at Javits Center. I was able to borrow cellphones and stay in touch minimally. 

When I got back to CT I scoured the car and house. I inspected every likely and unlikely place. I called AT&T to determine whether anyone had used my missing phone. No one had.

A few minutes ago I heard the tell-tale notes of "Louie-Louie" -- my ring tone -- coming from the same shoulder bag I had schlepped to NY and back.

I started ransacking the bag for the umpteenth time and discovered a hidden compartment containing my phone and taffy. They made the round trip with me. If someone had tried to call me in NY, "Louie" would've helped me find the phone.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cec1JInytH0

BTW, I deliberately bought my Nokia Lumia 920 in red to make it hard to misplace. Earlier this year it was misplaced for a month.

Am I aging gracefully, or disgracefully?

I was at a publishing industry trade show in Manhattan today. I met and was talking to two smart, witty, attractive young ladies. If I was not happily married, I would have 'tried something.'

Somehow the topic of age came up. One of my companions guessed that I was 52. The other said 47.

When I revealed that I am really 67, they were amazed.

I am certainly not a prime specimen of American masculinity, but the reactions of these ladies gave me a good ego boost. Actually, when I see pictures of some of my contemporaries, and some of my wife's contemporaries, I think we're doing just fine.

I wonder if I dyed my gray beard brown or black, could I pass for 35? If I shaved it off, could I pass for 17?

Probably not. Oh well.

How old is too old? Who knows?

My mother (for many years an AMAZING woman) is 90 years old and has dementia.

She's in an assisted-living facility with a 'round-the-clock aide and we're trying to find her a bed in a nursing home. She can't stand, walk, read, make a phone call, feed herself, wipe her behind or say more than a few words (often the wrong words). She sits in her wheel chair clutching her pocketbook and a hanky, and her fingers have to be pried off the handle of the pocketbook because she can't un-bend her own fingers.

Until about six months ago, when she was able to say more than a few words, she said some ridiculous things.

She told of the three mechanics who were working in her bedroom and left through the back door (there were no mechanics and no back door), and that my father climbed out of his grave and married another woman, and insisted that her name was written on the ceiling above her bed. She also told me that a noisy family had moved into her guest room.

Last year she had a lot trouble finding "the right words," and was obviously extremely frustrated by her limitations. She used to have an amazing vocabulary, but started to substitute almost any noun for another one, or use a general term like "device" for "seatbelt" or "clock." Sometimes she'd mix baby-talk and substitution, like "toidy sheets " for "toilet paper."

Some sentences were complete mysteries. It took a long time to figure out that "produce" meant a "bank check."

Mom often answered the phone but held it upside-down and yelled and neglected to hang up. (A few years ago, when my father was fading away in a nursing home, he often tried to use the bed control to adjust the TV. One time he ejected himself from the bed.)

Those were the good old days.

Now Mom is mostly silent. She smiles a lot, watches (or stares at) television, listens to conversations intently, and has occasional moments of surprising lucidity. She'll fill in words from old songs and seems to be happy despite her limitations.

I guess that's all anyone wants at any age or stage.

Would I want to end up like her, or would I prefer to be euthanized? I don't know.

The dividing line between life and death is usually obvious. The line between a crappy life and a good-enough life my be hard for observers to discern.

Life was so much simpler when most cavemen were killed by wild beasts before they had a chance to get old and ill.

How long is a year?

I just realized that it's time to buy a 2013 appointment book. I've barely gotten to know my 2012 book, and it's almost used up.

When I was in high school, each 45-minute class seemed to last a hundred years. Now, years seem to have about five months, and are shrinking fast.

(Hmm. I said that in the last blog post. Is repetition a sign of getting old?)

How the heck did it get to be December?

Wasn't it summer just a few days ago? When I was in high school, each 45-minute class seemed to last a hundred years. Now, years seem to have about five months.

I figure I have 23 years left. I hope they won't seem like five years. I have a lot to do.

I can't take it with me, but I'm not ready to throw it out.

When I moved from an apartment to my first real house in 1977, I felt that for the first time in my life, I had enough storage space for all of my shit. Unfortunately, I failed to realize a basic fact of life: shit expands to fill the available space, and then it overflows.

The move to our second house in 2001 required FIVE MOVING VANS, plus about 70 trips in our own minivan, plus the disposal or recycling of about 50 CUBIC YARDS of crap, junk and trash.

• Shit is stuff with value that is mostly sentimental.
• Crap is stuff that can be eliminated with little debate or tears.
• Junk can be eliminated with no debate or tears.
• A collection is a bunch of junk which can be classified and displayed.
• Trash should have been thrown out, not stored for later debate.
• Garbage usually is disposed of promptly because it starts to stink.
• A husband's shit may be considered junk by a wife.
• And, vice versa.

One good way to classify stuff is by applying the 90-day rule (or one-year or five-year rule, or whatever time interval you select). If something has not been used in the last year (or other time interval), there's a good chance that it will not be used in the next year, and can be eliminated.

Unfortunately, if you have enough space, the 90-day rule can be easily extended to become a 30-year rule.

Our second house is huge. Most people think it's much too big for two people and a dog. It's not. A house can never be too big. Not even Buckingham Palace.

Well, we've been in this house for over 11 years. The house now contains a lot of both shit and crap (plus lots of stuff and things). The formerly cavernous attic is almost impenetrable. The three car garage has become storage space. It has about 10 cartons that have not yet been unpacked from the 2001 move. (A shelf in our laundry room has a carton containing a silver serving thing which was packed for a move in 1975 but never unpacked.) A guest room has no room for guests.

I know it's summer, but it's time for spring cleaning. It's always time for spring cleaning.

We have 14 huge bags which were supposed to go to Goodwill by the end of 2010. I hope they get there this year. They're supposed to go today. I'd rather write, go in the pool, watch TV, and try a new restaurant. I also should visit my mother. What the heck. Goodwill is open tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. 

I'm faced with a major decision.

I have a growing stack of early versions of my books which were marked up for corrections. I don't want anyone to read them, so I can't sell them or give them away. I can't throw them away, because destroying books is one of the few (or maybe the only) sin that I recognize.

Sometimes, when overcome with egomania, I have a vision that some future literary critic will analyze the stash and proclaim to the world, that "AHA! -- in version 3.68, Marcus changed a comma to a semicolon in the last sentence on page 254."

I realize that there is little likelihood that this will happen. But just in case, I'll keep the books. Besides, retention is better than sinning.

The next time I move, I want to go horizontal, feet first, in a black zipper bag, with a tag on a toe. I'll let the next generation decide what is valuable shit and what is mere crap or junk.

...

Am I losing my mind -- already?

My mother is nearly 90 years old. She was always super-smart. Like my father, she attended a high school for the "gifted," and she earned multiple college degrees.

In the last year or so, she's had trouble with conversations. Like many people -- even young adults -- she sometimes can't think of a word she wants to use.

My mother, however, instead of merely hesitating, sometimes substitutes words. She may use a general term instead of the specific -- like "fasten the apparatus" instead of "buckle the seatbelt." Or "I need a new thing for the thing" instead of "I need a new cushion for the wheelchair."

She sometimes merely substitutes a word that is the right part of speech, but makes no sense, like "produce" for "bank check" and "poster" for something I never figured out.

Other times -- actually pretty often -- her conversations are perfectly normal.

When she was younger, she read three or four books a week. She recently stopped reading. When she was in high school, she won an award for penmanship. Now she has trouble writing a check.

Although I am "just" 66 years old, I've lately been worried that I might develop my mother's condition.

I never learned how to type the "real" way, but about five years ago I degenerated from being the world’s fastest six-finger typist to a pretty-good two-finger typist. (I actually have ten fingers but I’ve never used them all for typing.)

Now I'm a terrible two-finger typist. I produce a lot of typos -- often pressing an adjacent key, like "v" instead of "c." I frequently hold down the shift key as I press the key to insert an apostrophe, and end up inserting a colon. I often type “i nthe” and “fro ma.” I now tap the Caps Lock key a lot by accident, the semicolon instead of the apostrophe, and the “Page Down” key instead of “delete.” I seldom produce an error-free sentence. [The first time I typed that sentence, I typed "arror," and then I corrected it to "errror."]

A more recent -- and much scarier -- sign of degeneration is that I sometimes substitute words at the keyboard, usually with the same initial letter, like "party" for "path." Sometimes I use the wrong letter sequence, like "nad," "hsould" or "writign."

TRhis is an uncorrected sample of my typign. Anr here is another sample senterncer, and some moer. Today is Sunday and I'll havelots of newsapers to read. I wnatto spend some time writing, readign and editing books, too; and neeed to vacuum the algae for mthe botto mof the pool.

This is really scary. Is it an early sign of dementia? Is part of my brain DEAD? Tomorrow I'm going to call my neurologist and maybe an occupational therapist.

(above) Aging Baby Boomer’s Low-Tech Secret Weapon: If you remove the Caps Lock key, you can’t tap it accidentally.

I think I'm running out of time to read my books.

I'm typing this in a room filled with books, in a house filled with books. A quick estimate indicates that I have about 400 linear feet of books (100 feet more than the length of a football field, with the books standing up, not lying in the grass).


With an average thickness of one inch, and 12 books per foot, those 400 feet mean that I have a frightening total of about 4,800 books. That can't compare with the Library of Congress's collection of several million books, but it's pretty good for an amateur bibliophile.


And that 4,800 doesn't include hundreds of other books on my iPad, Kindle Fire, desktop, laptop and smart phone, and on the UPS truck coming from Amazon. Or what I might pick up at Barnes & Noble this afternoon.


I'm what is called an avid reader. I'm also a collector. That can be fun --  or a dangerous combination.


I read everything. I read labels, cereal boxes, signs and even magazines that I should have no interest in (including one for tow truck operators, one for poultry farmers, one for appliance dealers and another one about air compressors).


When I was a young teenager I subscribed to about two dozen magazines -- everything there was about science, cars, cameras and electronics. They took up a lot of space. One summer I decided that instead of going to the beach club every day, I would devote three days each week to going through my collection. I'd cut out the interesting articles and file them for future reeference.


This was actually a problem, not a solution.


At the age of 14 I could not afford to buy a photocopier and therefore could not resolve the dilemma caused by pages with important articles on both sides -- but about different subjects that should go into separate folders.


But even worse was the depressing realization that the magazines were coming in faster than I could read, cut and file them. I stopped being a librarian and swam more.


And that brings me back to 2012.


I assume that I've read about half of my books. To make it simple, I'll assume I have about 2,500 p-books and e-books to go. According to my theory, I have about 23 years left. I acquire about 80 books a year. I read about 100 books a year. I'll assume that as I age my acquisition rate may diminish, and my reading speed may also diminish, However I'll probably have more time to read.


Although my College Board scores in "verbal" were much better than in math, my quick computation makes me think I'll die with about 2,400 unread books.


SHIT!


What should I do?


Should I read faster, live longer, stop buying, or get rid of a lot of books.


Sadly, none of the options seem likely.


(Top photo is from Fotolia.com)

Is living long really better than dying young?

Several times a month I come home and stand in front of my door and press the button on my car key and get pissed off because the house door doesn't open.

However, my mother (age 89) has recently realized why my late father doesn't visit her anymore. She said that Pop got out of his coffin and married someone else.

She also reported that three mechanics were working on the air conditioner in her bedroom and left through the back door -- which does not exist. She also thinks her name is written on the ceiling above her bed, and that a woman called her at 2 a.m. Tuesday and asked her to marry her. She told me that a family with three kids was living in her guest room and said that my brother and his wife were living under her coat.

Mom was an extremely bright, aware, articulate, active lady with a master's degree and almost a PhD. Now she can't stand up and gets too tired to talk.

I sure hope this is not a preview. Life was much simpler when our ancestors got gored by woolly mammoths or toasted and eaten by fire-breathing monsters -- at age 17.

What is it?

I started a brief conversation with my wife a few minutes ago and she asked me to wait a minute because the garbage disposer was running and she couldn't hear me.

When she turned it off I could not remember the subject of the conversation.

I'm not merely losing it -- sometimes I don't even know what "it" is.

Getting closer to the $$$

Another day older and another day closer to hitting the Soc-Sec jackpot. So far, being 66 is much better than being dead.

...

Counting down to my first Social Security payment

Will I still be alive on 5/17/12?

Will the Treasury still have money on 5/17?
At age 10, 20, 30, 40 or 50, being 66 seems disgusting and decrepit.

But actually being 66 is EXCITING. I feel like I've been stuffing quarters into a slot machine for half a century, and, finally, this month -- JACKPOT! Ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.

I had thought that my new wealth would become a slush fund for toys, travel, maybe a second house. Now I know it will pay bills. Damn.

Can I get Mitt to adopt me, or buy a ton of my books?

...

I hit 66 today. That's a good thing.

Today is my birthday. I made it to age 66. It's not a major accomplishment like winning a Nobel or Pulitzer. Lots of people have done it -- but lots of people have not.  I'm glad I did. Life is still good, or at least good enough.

I figure I have about 22 more birthdays to go. That's a sobering thought.

There are people alive now who did not have electric lights in their homes when they were kids, but now have iPads. I was one of the first kids in daBronx to have a television, and my current house is filled with the latest electronics. A flying car was at the New York Auto Show last week. I doubt that I'll ever own one, but I lived to see one. I wonder what I won't live long enough to see -- other than world peace, of course. Will I miss something important?

Today is not one of those milestone birthdays, like 10, 13, 18, 21, 35, 60 or 65. But, like Number One, it's one of the few ages that correspond to a famous American highway.

There was even a TV show named after the famous Route 66. People sang, "Get your kicks on Route Sixty-Six." Even the Stones sang it. The Beatles sang, "When I'm 64." Been there. Done that.

66 is two thirds of 666 -- the mark of the beast, the sign of the devil. That probably means more to Rick Santorum than it does to me.

There is one really good thing about being 66. If I can hang on for about 32 more days, and if the Department of the Treasury can also survive, I'll start receiving Social Security payments. That's even better than being old enough to run for president.

I feel like I've been in a casino, putting coins in a slot machine for 50 years, and finally, next month, KA-CHING, KA-CHING, KA-CHING!

Thanks to everyone who remembered my birthday. Please forgive me if I don't remember yours. I'm getting old.

...

Fuck football

Based on increased advertising for taco chips, TVs and frozen pizza, I think the Super Bowl game is today. I think one of the teams which will be playing is called the "Pats." I think they are based somewhere in New England (where I live).

If you paid me a billion dollars I could not name the city where the game will be played -- or the other team. I think it may be the New York Giants or San Francisco Giants or Indianapolis or Dallas Somethings. Or maybe Miami Something. Or Toronto?

Am I the only man in the country who doesn't know -- or care -- who's playing?

I can name exactly two football players: Joe Namath and Roosevelt Greer. I have eight flat-screen TVs in my house and none of them have ever been used to display a football game. I plan to keep it that way. After I die, I won't know or care what the TVs are used for.

...

When death can be productive

Deaths -- at least deaths of good people -- are undeniably sad. Even if the newly deceased suffered greatly, and might have caused suffering to family and friends, the death causes grieving, not just relief.

Despite the grief, some funeral procedures -- such as Irish wakes and New Orleans jazz funerals -- seem downright jubilant.

Many years ago, I attended the funeral of an elderly relative, and it was the first funeral I attended. After the religious service, the "mourners" gathered in a large room in the funeral home, and chatted as if they were at a cocktail party. There was little seriousness, and no tears, and I was shocked.

As I have gotten older, I have had to attend more funerals, and the behavior -- despite differences in religion, ethnicity and location -- has been the same.

A few days ago I attended the funeral of a woman who was about 95 years old. Her time, clearly, was up. She died in her sleep, with no suffering. There was a mass in a Catholic church followed by a service at a cemetery. These sessions, led by priests and with words added by family, were appropriately solemn. But afterwards, we went to a very nice restaurant, and it was PARTY TIME.

The mood was undeniably jovial. There was little "celebration of life" of the deceased, nor looking ahead to Heaven as touted by the priests.

Instead, it was a family reunion, and an occasion for people who were connected by the cadaver but had never met, to get to know each other.

At events like this, there are always comments like "How come we can get together at funerals, but never at happy times?"

That question made me think about a possible "purpose" of death.

Just as decaying flesh and vegetation fertilize the fields to feed a new generation of plants, animals and people, maybe the celebration after a human death leads to a renewal and reinvigoration of the human community, the coming together of friends, relatives and even strangers who would not be in the same place if someone had not died.

Maybe it's important and useful -- not frivolous and wasteful -- for some of the insurance money to pay for food and drink, and not just scholarships and medical research and new clothes, cars and homes.

Party on.


...










(photo from http://www.bestofneworleans.com/. Thanks.)

Winter shminter!

Today is the winter soltstice. It's said to be "the shortest day of the year." Actually, today is just as long as other days -- but there is less daylight time.
 
Starting tomorrow, we get about a minute or two more sunlight each day. It can be confusing, because we're just starting winter, but the extra sunlight will be warming up the planet.

Before long, the crocuses will be popping up, and then the '78 Fiat comes out of the garage and the cover comes off the pool.

As I kid, I hated November, because there was so little daylight for playing after school. That didn't matter in December, because of the focus on holidays.

This morning the temperature reached 57 here in Connecticut. I drove with my sun roof and windows open. I'm focusing on spring. Winter hasn't been much fun since around 1966.

...

The ultimate indignity

Years ago, when young nieces and nephews wanted to stay at our house, Marilyn and I established a simple rule: "If you want to sleep here, you have to learn how to wipe your own ass. We don't change diapers." (We have no children to practice on.)

The kids learned fast.

I am now nearly halfway into into my 66th year. Lately, as I've visited elderly friends and relatives who are on the downward slope of the bell curve, and are in nursing homes and wear diapers, I've contemplated my own inevitable decline.

If I ever become unable to wipe my own ass, and must display my private parts to strangers in order to obtain assistance for a very basic human function, will I have lost my humanity as well as my dignity? Will I be willing to go on? Is there living without wiping? I don't know.


(photo from http://www.1800recycling.com/)  

Old?

I'm awake. I'd like to go the office early. I can’t find my main set of keys. The keys may be locked in the office. I also lost a card from my camera yesterday. I think my car is still in the driveway. I think the driveway is still in front of the house. I think my brain is still in my head.